First Christmas

A few months ago, the children decided that we should skip November altogether. Really there was no reason to acknowledge it, as nothing good came of it last year. So they started referring to November as our “first December.” I have to say, I was rather okay with the idea. I might have pointed out that it could cause some confusion at school, so it was decided that November could exist at school, just not at home.

As first December rapidly approached, my youngest had an idea, and began to make plans. She announced to us all, that since we would be having two Decembers, we would need to celebrate Christmas two times. However, for the first Christmas, everything you wanted to give to someone in the family had to be handmade. There were several times when she told us we were not allowed in the basement, as she was working on gifts for us. I honestly did not know what she was making, and I really didn’t think that the idea would last all the way to the end of November. (Seeing as I have children who never let go of an idea, I’m not really sure why I ever doubted she would see the plan through). When it was realized that the 25^th of our first December fell on a Monday, it was decided that in order for us to truly enjoy our first Christmas, we would celebrate the day after Thanksgiving. That way, they would not have to go to school on Christmas day.

On a side note, emotionally speaking, the week of Thanksgiving sucked. Last year during the holidays we were all still in a state of shock. Which allowed us to make it through the holidays in a rather numb condition. We made all the appropriate motions to make it through the holidays, but I can’t say that any of us clearly remember them. So it was more like this year was going to be our first Thanksgiving without Chris. We were all missing him in our own way, and everyone was out of sorts.

Fast forward to the morning before Thanksgiving . . . my youngest came upstairs and placed three boxes on the coffee table. I should add here, my middle one is the one who actually made the boxes. She took paper, and origami style folded the boxes for her sister to use to wrap gifts. Then the youngest added glitter and drawings to the boxes. My first thought, those are really cool looking, and I was amazed by the amount of time that had gone into making the boxes. My second thought, where in the world had the glitter come from? And as realization hit, oh, (bleep) she used the glitter in the basement. It’s never going to come out of the carpeting! Luckily, I only commented on the first thought.

With the bringing up of the boxes, it dawned on me quite clearly, that she had gone to a lot of trouble in wanting to make this first Christmas special, and I had made absolutely NOTHING. I should point out now that I am not a crafty person. These traits were handed down to my children from my Mom and Grandma, but skipped me. My crafts come from a point of waiting until the last possible moment, and hoping inspiration strikes. Luckily for me, I came across a felt craft kit for making Christmas ornaments, that I had purchased last Christmas for the children. Apparently I had never given it to them, as it was still sealed and on a shelf in a closet. I opened it hungrily for ideas. Thankfully I did see some ornaments that I assumed I could make, and then realized there was not enough felt to actually make them. A trip to the craft store was added to my list of errands to run before Thanksgiving, where I was able to pick up enough felt and ribbon for ten projects. I was leaving room for error.

This all being stated, I have to admit, that I did not actually begin making the Christmas tree ornaments until late Thanksgiving night. Thankfully I left room for error, as there were several false starts! After multiple hours of cutting felt, sewing, and I admit, some cursing (I loathe sewing), I finished three passable ornaments. They aren’t Pintrest worthy, but I liked the finished product. So I wrapped them in tissue paper, and placed them next to the boxes that were on the coffee table.

As it turns out, our first Christmas was celebrated in the afternoon. The youngest knew her brother and sister had not made anything. So she told them that a note to the family or to each other was okay too. It didn’t have to be an actual gift, and if we waited until the afternoon to celebrate, that would give them enough time to finish.  When it came time to celebrate, my youngest was the one to lead the event. We all sat down together on the couch and love seat. My youngest sat next to me with a shoebox on her lap. On the box, in bold letters she had written “DO NOT OPEN.” She decided that we should begin with handing out the boxes that had gifts in them. So we all opened up the boxes to find new bracelets made on a rainbow loom, and braided bookmarks she had made out of yarn. Being Mom, I actually received three bracelets, one with a charm. All of us immediately put on our new accessories. Then she said that the gifts that I had made could be opened.  Luckily, the children seemed pleased that they would have new ornaments to hang on the tree this year. She then told her brother and sister they could hand out the cards that they had made. Each had a picture they had drawn, and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

It was at the end that my youngest opened up the shoebox that she had told everyone else not to open. In it lay a stack of cards that she had written. It is quite apparent to me, that 7 year olds are much more observant and wiser than many give them credit for . . .

A card for her brother, who LOVES to read:

Baby girl, you, your brother, and your sister are definitely far more precious than anything in the world. 

And a card for me:

Baby girl, you are right, it is hard, but we aren't going to let grief win. 

One year ago

A year ago today was Chris’s funeral. The children and I had to say a final good-bye. Our family and friends were there to support us, and to have their chance to say good-bye as well. The week leading up to the funeral was daunting to say the least. It was made smoother with the support of family and friends that arrived. Some came with food. Others came with hugs. All arrived with love. It was an overwhelming experience.

While planning the funeral, I did consult with the children on what they wanted to happen. I had to realize that the funeral was for all of us. Although they were only 12, 10, and 6, it was important to know their thoughts and feelings on how best to say good-bye to Daddy. It was during one of our conversations, that the 10 year old said she wanted to read a poem at the funeral. I’m not really sure why it surprised me, but it did. I tried to tell her that it was a lovely idea, but really, she didn’t have to do that. She stood strong, and said she needed to do it. I told her okay, and that if she needed me, I would stand beside her while she read it. She said that would be fine. Then she floored me when she asked me what I would be saying at the funeral. In reality, I had not thought about speaking at the funeral. I am terrified of public speaking, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being an embarrassment, and being in a rather emotional state, I did not think it would be the best of ideas. But trying to explain those weaknesses to a 10 year old, who was looking at me with quiet expectation, just wasn’t going to fly. So I agreed, that if she thought I should speak at the funeral, then I would.

So today, my post is a reflection of last November 10. At the funeral, the minister spoke first, followed by my mother in law, then my 10 year old, and finally me. When it was her turn, my 10 year old walked to the microphone at the front of the church. When I asked her if she would like me to join her, she gave her head a small shake to tell me no. She stood tall, and stood alone. She was truly amazing, as she spoke clearly and without hesitation. I know I was so very proud of her, and I know Chris was too.

This is what she read:

Where the Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

I have to admit, that following her was a challenge. But I knew what her expectation was. Her faith in me was much too important, and there was no way for me to turn away from it. I know that I drew strength from her faith in me. Now, looking back on what I wrote, I don’t think I would change anything. I do know I added a few things as I read it aloud that afternoon. But it all comes down to the simple fact that Chris was my friend, and he is the man that I love.  

So this is what I had to say a year ago:

So I have had a week of thinking of things to say today. I have had so many thoughts in my head as to what would be the best. It all felt like it was too much to say, or not adequate at all. 

I thought of talking about the many titles Chris had . . . son, brother, friend, SC Trojan, husband, Dad. I thought of reassuring all of our family and friends that seriously, Chris never wore the title of spy. 

I thought of sharing how I used to tease him about saving the world. I would call him at work to ask him to pause in saving the world and come home in time for dinner. I was actually cooking. I find out now, that in truth, he really was out saving the world. He had a passion for it, and most of us will never realize the impact he has had on the world.

There were thoughts of what an amazing family man Chris was. From the time N came into our lives, he was an integral part in all of his children’s lives. Everything from changing diapers to homework, playing puzzles, baseball, and soccer. He even learned how to put MK and B’s hair into ponytails. He attended parent teacher conferences, back to school nights, dance recitals, school assemblies, and school board meetings.

Then I thought about when we first met at school in California. We were first friends, and an amazing love followed.

But then I realized that all of these things could not begin to explain such an extraordinary, complex man, who had a passion for his family, his work, his Southern California Trojans, and Life.

So then I decided that I would rather share a poem that we both liked, and maybe that would scratch the surface of all my thoughts and feelings for Chris:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears of all my life! – and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

(Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

A First to Remember

There are days when everything is moving quickly, and the to-do list is as long as the laundry pile is high, and then you make the mistake of sitting down. You think that you will sit for just a moment to catch your breath before the next item is crossed off your list, before the next phone call is made to set the next appointment, before you realize that you have been going for several hours, and maybe you should eat breakfast, even though it is now lunch time. You also know that you are fooling yourself, because as soon as you sit down, you are going to have time to pause. Time to think.

That is where I find myself this afternoon. I made the mistake of sitting down. Sitting on my couch, looking around the room. Realizing that it has been one year since Hurricane Sandy made it’s way up the East Coast, and wreaked havoc in so many communities. Hard to believe when I look outside on this beautiful afternoon, with one single pink rose on the rose bush, that a year ago the skies were dark, school was canceled, as was work for Chris. I’m also realizing that although I was stressed a year ago because of the storm (I really don’t like “weather events” of any kind) that as a whole we were doing okay. The children were happy because we let them play video games to their hearts content since they weren’t in school, and it would have been a poor decision to play outside at the time. Chris and I were together on the couch, as we worked on a puzzle of the Space Shuttle Columbia.

It’s the part about the puzzle that is coming so clearly to mind today. I know that it was the puzzle of the Space Shuttle Columbia at takeoff, (we have multiple puzzles of space), because it lists it’s take-off date and the disaster date, which happened to be my 30^th birthday. We had had a brief discussion about it. Our discussion that evening went from there to further back in time, to the first October 29 that we knew each other.

October 29, 1992, was the night of our first kiss. Yes, we actually recalled our first kiss. After all, it was a leg-popping kiss, and I have to admit, I knew then, he was the one for me. (It only took 5.5 years to get to the alter . . . didn’t want to rush!) A year ago we were laughing about that evening. What had been going though our minds that night . . . our friends’ reactions when they realized we were a couple. Then the realization that last year marked 20 years since we had shared that first kiss. Since I was 19 when we first kissed, I teased him that we had been together as a couple for over half my life, and I wasn’t really sure what I thought about that. We also spoke about where our 19 and 20 year old minds thought we would be in 2013. I’m pretty sure neither one of us had pictured us waiting out a super-storm in Virginia, as we put together a puzzle and our children laughed while playing sports on a video game.  Honestly, I’m not sure my 19 year-old mind really ever did have an image of us in the future, other than us growing old together.

So now, as I am writing this, I am thinking maybe it wasn’t a mistake to sit down and take the time to think. The laundry pile and the to-do list are still there. But now, I have a cherished memory in my mind as I go about the rest of my day.

And I have a single pink rose, blooming outside my window that I have taken the time to notice.

Just a Few of My Thoughts

Grief is one of the oddest, and most confusing of emotions. And unfortunately too many of my friends have experienced heart breaking loss in their lives. It seems especially in the last year. Now I know that I am not an expert, but over the last 11 months, I have been given some amazing advice, as well as have learned things on my own in regards to grief, like things not to tell someone. So if you would like to know a few of my thoughts, please continue reading . . .

Grief does not only come from the death of a person. A person can grieve for many reasons, including (but not limited to) a loved ones death, because of a divorce, a loss of a job, moving, or even children going away to college. People grieve, because a major part of their life has been significantly changed.

No two people will grieve the same. There are those that will be demonstrative of their emotions in public, and others that will not. No one has the right to judge the person and how they do/do not display their grief. It is an individual’s right to choose how they will express their grief.

Never tell a grieving person that someone else’s “grief is a 1000 times worse than yours. “ (Yes, this was actually said to me). This goes back to no two people grieve the same. A person who is grieving may look completely fine on the outside, and act just like they always have in public, but you have no idea what happens in their mind or in their home. There is no comparing when it comes to grief. 

Be gentle with yourself. This is the most often heard, and yet the hardest to follow. I’m still trying to learn how to do this.

Give yourself time. For some people (like me), a checklist is needed for things. However, there is no checklist for grieving. There is no box to check to say, “okay, I’ve gotten through denial, I’m ready to move on to anger.” This is because there is no order in grieving. You can feel an entire range of emotions all at the same time, or one emotion for an extended period of time.

Never tell a person that they should “be over it by now.” There is no time limit on grief. To people who say this, I would like to smack you in the head.

For those with grieving children, hug them, but only when they want to be hugged. Let them know that you are there to listen when they are ready to talk. Just because they can go laugh and play, does not mean they are finished grieving. Children have their own way and time of processing information.

Laugh. Smile. Enjoy life. Seriously. These are actually incredibly difficult to do after the loss of a loved one. The first time I laughed, I felt guilt. I can honestly say that there are days when I do still feel guilt. Chris should still be here to hear the laughter of our children, and to share in the new inside family jokes. But when I do feel that guilt, I have to talk myself out of it, and remind myself, he would want us to be Living.

And finally, as my 11 y/o added after she read this . . . talk about the person who is gone. They may not be here with us physically on earth, but they live on in our hearts and in our stories. 

A Year of Firsts

When I think of the phrase “A Year of Firsts” I think of the first year of each of my children’s lives. I think of the first pregnancy tests that I took. (Pretty sure with the first one I took about five pregnancy tests. I realized with subsequent children, the test was fairly accurate, and I probably only needed to take it three times). I think about the first time we heard the heartbeat. I think of the first ultrasound, and the first time we saw the baby.

Then the firsts are much more physical. The baby is born and we each had our first time that we held the baby. This was followed by the first bath by the nurse, the first diaper change and the first car ride to go home.  Once we made it home with the baby, then we had the overwhelming realization that the entire year would be filled with firsts. There would be the first bath at home, the first time the baby sat up, the first time the baby ate solid food, the first words the baby would say, the first time the baby would crawl, and the first time the baby would walk . . . those first tentative baby steps, that seem to be one of the top highlights of the first year. There would be so many firsts leading up to each of those big moments. As parents, we tried to capture all of these moments on film, whether as a still or a video. Knowing that each child was growing quickly, and that time is fleeting.

It is the crawling and walking that I really think of now when I think of my children as babies. The other firsts have blended a bit in my memory, until I pull out the pictures. But the crawling and walking . . . I had one child that started crawling with an army crawl, looking like they were going through baby boot camp. Then I had one that crawled with their tush in the air, as if afraid of getting their knees injured while crawling (I know it hurt my knees when I would crawl along besides my children). Then there was my mystery crawler. Seriously, I would put the baby down in one location, and the next thing I know, the baby would be on the other side of the room, and I swear I didn’t see the baby crawl.

From the crawling, came the walking. I have to admit, and I may be a bit biased, but my children were adorable while they learned to walk. Each of them went through the same basic process. First they would learn to pull themselves up to a standing position, usually while holding onto an adult leg, or a piece of furniture. Then they would learn to circle around their base of choice. With obvious confidence that the base would not move, they would walk in circles. Then they would realize that if they held on tightly to an adults hand, they could walk from one base to another. Their knees never had to be on the ground again! As time and confidence grew the children would start walking from one base to another and let go of the adults hand as they made progress. They were learning to walk on their own.

It is truly amazing how a baby grows and develops in their year of firsts. They physically grow and change. They learn more in their first year, that I’m not sure it can truly be measured. It’s made me realize that this year is yet again another year of firsts for our family. No, there are no more babies in our home. They are all rapidly approaching the teenage years. (Another first!) No, this year was not one that was chosen. This year did not actually begin on January 1. No, this year began last November. For that is when Chris passed away. If you combine all of the time we dated and were married, we spent 20 years together. We were together exactly ½ of Chris’s life. This was the person that I shared all of my joys and all of my challenges with. He was the first person I would call to share exciting news. He is the person who would hold me tight, and let me cry all over his lightly starched white shirt when I was sad. He was one of the very few people who ever saw me cry. I like to believe we made a good team when it came to having a family, and the ideals we wanted to instill in our children. But last November, that all came to a sudden halt. With Chris’s last heartbeat, it felt as if it was our last too.

And so a new year of firsts began. For all of us, we were back at the beginning of our lives. We had to learn to take care of ourselves again. We needed to learn to sit up again, to not be doubled over in the pain that was wrenching our stomachs into knots. We had to learn to feed ourselves again. We live in an amazing community that provided us with meals, many times twice a day for months. But we knew, that we had to start living again. We had to learn how to speak with people again. There were other conversations to be had that did not revolve around Chris’s death. For the world kept moving. We needed to learn how to laugh again, and to know that it was okay to do so. Slowly, we have begun to crawl out of the emotional hole that we found we were living in. We have learned to take those tentative baby steps. A little shaky at first, but by holding hands, and anchoring each other, we are gaining confidence daily.

So this has been our year of firsts. It’s just different this time.

The Day After September 11

As I drove my middle and my youngest to school today, I realized that I have done a disservice to my children and to myself.

Time wise, it is a short car ride to school in the morning. Really only extended by a couple of minutes if I happen to hit red lights at the two stop lights I have to go through to get to the school, or if it happens to be raining. Today, it is a hot, humid, clear sky kind of morning. So our only delay was when we hit one red light. It was while we were sitting at the light, that the middle one brought up why there should be a moment of silence at school on September 11. The younger one, sounding perplexed, simply asked, “but why?

I’m going to back up in time a bit . . . 14 years to be exact. 14 years ago the company I worked for offered me an opportunity of a lifetime. I could move from Los Angeles to New York City to work with co-workers I had only talked with on the phone. Chris had one semester left to complete his Master’s in LA. But when I told him about the opportunity, he just smiled and stated the obvious “of course you are going to take the job. When else will you have the opportunity to live and work in NYC?” So we packed up part of our home, drove together across the country, and as I settled into a new city, he flew back to our LA home to finish school.

I only spent one year in New York City. Truly, it was only 11 ½ months. But during that time, I have to tell you, I fell in love with New York City. I really did. People tried to warn me of all the awful things that could happen there. The crime was high, the city is dirty, people are rude, traffic is horrendous, and nobody ever slows down (this last being of great importance to my beach friends from LA). The truth was, yes, the crime was probably high, but there are millions of people living there. Unfortunately not everyone always follows the basic rules of life of treating others with respect. Parts of the city are dirtier than others, as in all cities, but there is also beauty in the architecture of the buildings there, and some amazing parks and gardens that can come as a surprise when you discover them. As for the rude people, there are rude people all over the world. NYC does not stake the only claim for that. But truly, it was the native New Yorkers that I discovered were some of the kindest, most helpful people I have ever met. Especially when I was lost! I could always find someone, especially police officers, to help me get to where I needed to go. As for the traffic and not slowing down, that pretty much is true. That is also why they have a public transportation system. It gets people where they need to go, and usually pretty efficiently, if a bit cramped.

During my time there I met an array of fabulous people. I made friends through church, through work, and even with my landlord. I even discovered high school and college friends that had moved there, but through time and distance had lost touch with. But for obvious reasons (I might have been a bit of a workaholic) it was my co-workers that I spent the most amount of time with. For me, it was like having a big extended family. When I left New York in the summer of 2000, and left my job, I left a part of me there.

August of 2001 was my first trip back to New York after having moved to Virginia. We had just moved from an apartment to a town home, and it felt like we had moved out to the countryside. I was completely discombobulated. Chris asked if I needed a trip to the City to be grounded again. I had to say, I absolutely did! So I called a friend, asked if I could come visit, and oh, by the way, would she mind if I brought an almost walking 10 month old with me to come stay in the City? Being the good person that she is, she said of course, I will meet you at the train station. It was a marvelous trip, and I felt like I was going home. I pushed my oldest in an umbrella stroller all through the City. The two of us saw the sites, ate lunch with friends and co-workers. I wasn’t able to see all of my former co-workers, as some were no longer with the company. I clearly recall the running monologue I had going for my oldest, as we walked through the City . . . “if you are ever lost in the City, look up for the World Trade Center. You can figure out from where it is, what direction you need to go. But no, I will never take you to the top. It’s much to high for me.” When I came back to Virginia a few days later, I felt refreshed. Making connections with friends and being in the City had been good for my soul.

It was that first week of September that my Mom came to visit. Being blessed with wonderful parents and brother, my Mom had come out here to help us get settled into our new home. Dad had already been out to help with the actual move. We had only been there a few weeks, and I knew I wanted to paint two bathrooms, and make some other updates. So she flew across the country to come help, as only my Mom can. I would like to say that we were successful in our painting. However, for one bathroom, we went through 4 different shades of red before I finally liked one, and for the children’s bathroom, the paint literally bubbled off the wall. On September 9, as my Mom and I sat on the bathroom floor, staring at the paint that was peeling off the wall, my Mom suggested that she stay another day so she could help me fix the problem. Seeing as it would cost quite a bit to change the airline ticket, I told her, no, go ahead and head home on September 10 as planned. I would fix the problem later in the week as the baby slept.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, it was a gorgeous clear day here in Virginia, as everyone around the world now knows. I woke up as I did any other day, with an expectation of a good day. So much so, that I changed my morning ritual of turning on NPR for the morning news, and as I gave my oldest breakfast, I said, “you know, there is never anything positive on the news anymore. Let’s take a day off from the news, and plan a trip to the park.” It was 9:01 when I called another mom to see if she wanted to go to the park that day. It was when I called her, that I found out the reality I had been living in had been drastically altered.

I learned a lot that day. I learned, or maybe just learned to acknowledge that there is a lot of hate in the world. It’s not something easy to acknowledge. I learned that this country, when faced with an inordinate amount of hate, from somewhere else in the world, can actually be brought together. I learned that we could not have chosen a better community in which to live, as everyone met out front, to check on one another. We all remained outside until late, just talking. Staying connected with humanity. I also learned that one of my former coworkers, a friend, had died when the plane hit the World Trade Center.  

Over time, I admit, I do not think about September 11, 2001 on a daily basis. Life has continued to move forward for those that remain. However, every September it does come to the front of my mind. Usually by September 9 I’m cranky and moody with my family. On September 10 I think about the “What if Mom had changed her plane reservation for September 11?” By September 11, I usually sit down and watch the news coverage of the day, reliving the time, and I end up having an ugly cry.

But this year was different. This year we have faced our own challenges, and so, not quite through conscious thought, I blocked September 11, 2001, from my mind. I thought more about the fact that it was my neighbor’s birthday yesterday. I thought about the fact that I was starting a new adventure as a substitute teacher. I thought about a first baseball game on a larger field for my oldest. I thought about the positives of the day. I never mentioned September 11, 2001 to my children yesterday. On social media sites, I did not linger on the images and notes about that day. I think, somewhere, in the back of my brain, I thought if I didn’t talk about it, I wouldn’t be affected by it again.

So I admit, it came as a shock when my middle one brought up September 11 this morning. It was a kick in the gut, and a reality check, when my youngest asked “but why?” when we spoke about a moment of silence. I could barely get the words from my brain to my mouth, let alone, actually speak them. As we were stopped behind a school bus, as tears started rolling down my cheeks, and my throat began to close, I explained to her about two planes crashing into the World Trade Center in New York, about a plane crashing into the Pentagon in DC, and about a plane that went down in a field in Pennsylvania, because the passengers prevented it from doing much worse. That there were so many innocent lives lost, and so many lives changed forever on that day.  That the September 11 attack on our country, has lead us to be in a war for more years than she has been alive. That having a moment of silence to reflect upon the changes our country has gone through, and the lives that have been lost since that day is so important, lest we forget.

Will my youngest remember what I told her today? Most likely not everything. She is still so young. Will we have more discussions about it in the future? Of that I am certain. Because I know, and now acknowledge, that I will always remember. 

Letters that should have been written . . .

This would fall under the “Letters that should have been written category”

Dear Gas Company,

I am writing to thank you. Yes, that is correct, writing to thank you for your lack of care or concern. For without this lack, I would not be where I am today. I’m sure if you look, you would find it in your notes that I called you last December.

The conversation went something like this . . .

“Thank you for calling the Gas Company, how may I be of help?”

            Yes, good morning. I am calling because the pilot light on my hot water heater is out, and I need help lighting it. When would it be possible for you to send someone out to help?

            “Thank you for your inquiry, may I have your account number and name please?”

            Of course, the account number is 12345, and my name is Amy.

            “One moment please.”

            “Yes, I see that account number, but the name we have listed on the account is Chris. If I could speak with Chris, we could get this taken care.”

            Well, I’m sorry, but that will be difficult. Chris passed away last month.

            “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But in order to provide service or answer questions, I need to speak with Chris.”

            Yes. I understand that. However, Chris is dead. He cannot come to the phone and speak with you to make the request.  Is there someway that you could help me please? It is December and the pilot light is out. The water is quite cold at this time of year.

            “I’m sorry, but I cannot send someone out to fix it, if the request is not made by Chris.”

            Really? But he can’t make the request because he is dead. Is there someone else I can speak with to get assistance?

            “One moment please.” (placed on hold)

            “I’m sorry, but we cannot send anyone out to help you, since it is not Chris making the request.”

            Okay. Then how can I get it changed so that he is no longer the contact person, so I can get things like this fixed?

            “We would need a death certificate to prove that he is dead before we can make any changes.”

            Okay. The problem is, I don’t have a death certificate. There was an autopsy shortly after he died, and the coroner has yet to determine the cause of death. So I don’t have a death certificate yet. What else can be done?

            “I’m sorry, that is the only way we can make the change.”

            Okay. But again, all I really want is the pilot light to work. There is no way to send someone out for that.

            “Not without a request from the account holder. Besides, we no longer provide the service of lighting pilot lights”

            Okay then. Thank you so much for your time.

Yes Gas Company, I am going to thank you for the complete waste of time that you provided me. I would have made far more progress if I had hit my head against a brick wall at that moment in time. The truth of it is, I sat down and had a good cry after that conversation.

Then I realized, that if I wanted to have something done, I might as well do it myself. I made a few phone calls, and finally spoke with Walt, a handyman. After ONE question, “how old is the hot water heater?” he told me over the phone how to light the pilot light. Yes, it only took one caring person, one question, and one phone conversation to learn something new.  After speaking with Walt, I swallowed my fear, walked over to the hot water heater, and I lit the pilot light. Me. I did it. I did something I had not known how to do before. Something that I would normally let someone else do for me. I admit, I really did not want the knowledge of how to do it. I wanted someone else to take care of it for me. But there was no one else.

So thank you Gas Company. Without your lack of assistance, I would not have risen to the occasion to learn something new. I would not have taken the time to acknowledge, it’s all up to me now.

Thank you for all that you do,

Amy

I took a walk today.

I took a walk today.

I know, not a big deal. People do it every day.  It’s pretty easy to do. After all, you just put one foot in front of the other and repeat. But today, it was me. I took a walk.

So it is a glorious September morning. September 5 to be exact. The walk to the bus stop had a briskness to it, with the promise of warming up as the day went on. Just enough hint of Fall, to feel alive. So after everyone went to the bus stop, I was sitting in a quiet house. I realized as I sat there that it was much too quiet. I also realized, I had NOTHING on my schedule for today. I’m not subbing, I don’t have to take the car in for inspection (that was yesterday after all!), I’m not signed up to volunteer at school yet, there are no doctor appointments, not even ballet or baseball is on today’s schedule. The possibilities of what to do with my day were endless. Honestly, it terrified me that there was nothing planned.

But then sweet Athena, my wonderful puppy came into the room and stretched out beside me. The beauty of the morning was still with me, so realizing that I had the time, and surprisingly the energy, I decided to take a walk with Athena. Honestly, I was worried about keeping my own company, so I did call a friend or two to ask if they wanted to join me. However, they had other plans. Thankfully. Don’t get me wrong, we would have had an enjoyable walk and chat, and I would have been thankful for the company, but I'm learning, that sometimes, as terrifying as it may seem, you need to be on your own.

The moment that I started getting ready to walk, ie. donning my running shoes, Athena rose to the occasion and was thrilled by the opportunity to go. She raced to the basket where her leash is kept, and once it was on, she bounced at the door, as if she was trying to get it open on her own. The amount of energy she has, far surpasses mine! So we began our walk with energy, and with the purpose of not going anywhere in particular. As we walked, she stopped to smell, and I would stop to observe. Whether it was the purple flowers in the field, the butterfly and dragonflies in the air, or even the faceless person mowing their lawn, we paused to take note.

It was as the initial energy wore off, and our walk slowed that I really looked at Athena. Then it hit me that it has been 13 years since we first brought her home as an eight week old puppy. How, there never had been a plan to have a dog in our life, and yet, here she is, 13 years later . . .

A brief history of Athena . . . I was six months pregnant when I quit my job, and we happily moved from NYC to Virginia. Chris had started working a dream job for him, and I was going to start my dream job, of raising a family, and being able to stay home. We had been here for a little over 6 weeks, when we finally took our cars in for the state safety inspection. When we arrived at the gas station we discovered that it would be another hour at least before we could take our cars home. So being restless, I decided to head to the pet store in the shopping center. Thought I would see if there were any cute “puppies in the window.” Not to get one, but just to see cute puppies. After all, I was due to give birth in 9 weeks, and baby anything was on my mind. As it turned out, the pet store’s neighbor had an entire litter of puppies that had been born because Mama dog had been outside, and the Daddy dog was fast. (We’re still not 100% sure what kind of dog we have – we know for certain that she is at least part border collie). When I went back to Chris, I asked how he felt about getting a puppy. His response, “I will not condone, nor condemn getting a dog.” In other words, it would have to be my decision. After several trips between the pet store, and the gas station, with time to play with the puppy in between, and the same answer from Chris all three times that I asked, I decided to just jump right in and get a puppy. I mean, I had 9 weeks to get it housetrained, right? As it turned out, I only had six weeks. My oldest was born in October. Just as Fall was fully entrenched, and an icy winter loomed.

So 13 years ago this Fall, I found myself, with a puppy, and new baby, in a town where I only knew one person besides my husband. We lived in a third floor walk up apartment, and there weren’t too many children living there. There was only one other stay at home mom that I met in the entire apartment complex. As winter set in, I realize now, I was a perfect candidate for postpartum depression. But there was Athena. She was always there by my side. She loved taking long walks. It didn’t matter the weather, she wanted to be outside seeing the world. So there I was, baby wrapped up, in the stroller or in the carrier, Athena on a leash, and we would walk. We spent hours walking. Most days we walked at least five miles. Some days it would be close to ten.

It has hit me before, and it did again today. Athena pretty much saved me 13 years ago. She saved me from depression and from losing my mind by being at home with a new baby. She made me get out of the house. It also made me realize, that in her own way she is saving me yet again. No question about it, my children are the reason I get out of bed each morning. But there is something special about Athena.  Today was the first time in over ten months that I have really taken the time to walk outside. To think. To observe. To realize she was once again saving me from myself.

I took a walk today. I put one foot in front of the other. I kept moving forward. It isn’t always easy, but I did it.