Mother's Day

This is a very special holiday, but this year, it will be a much different holiday for some families. This quarantine is messing with so many things and this is just another one of them.

Doesn't mean we can't still celebrate the women who have loved us through the scraped knees, the broken bones, and the shattered hearts. For putting up with the nonsense children put them through and the craziness that their adult children cause. 

They still manage to love us through it all. That takes a love deeper than most of us will ever know unless we have children of our own. 

So, to all of the women out there, especially those who are working from home while supporting their children with schoolwork and are managing to keep their sanity, we see you! And you don't have to be perfect for your children to love you.

Like I told my mom the other day, she built a home on love, faith, and hard work. And that love made me one of the richest kids in the world.

I'll Always Remember You Young

This song has been playing on the radio a lot lately. It catches my ear, but I seldom hear all of the words simply because I'm lost in my own thoughts most days. However, the other day was a rough one. 

Christmas is always tough time, but this was the first one without my partner in crime, my rock, my best friend...my beautiful boy, Diesel. My heart has been a bit heavier this year. I've been missing my grandparents, my dad, Diesel, my cousin (and now his partner) and my mind has traveled across the ethereal plane, wondering if they are all okay.

The first time I remember asking my grandma how old she was, she answered, "I'm 53." She wasn't much older then than I am now. I cannot imagine Grandma coloring her hair wild colors and wearing the clothes I wear. But in my mind, she is forever 53. Playing ball with us kids, making date candy into dog turd shapes to give to her baby brother, and playing Chinese checkers on rainy Saturdays.

My grandpa is frozen in time as a younger man. Reminding me to hold my silverware like a lady, to not wear my cap so far down on my ears cuz "ladies don't have cauliflower ears", and buying his only granddaughter plastic collectible ponies for Christmas.

My parents will be forever in their thirties. Back when they were happy. Back before Dad's PTSD took over his life. Back when we were still a family.

My cousin will always be 18 (and I can hear him laughing). I remember his smile...god, how I loved him. Driving to town with him to pick up his paycheck, Billy Idol blasting on the radio, no cares in the world. 

I know my cousin, Beth, will laugh, but to me, she'll always be 16. Rimming my waterline with black eyeliner while Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons rocked out on the television in her parents' living room. She is the closest thing to a big sister I've ever had.

And my darling Diesel will forever be the puppy who loved to be carried to bed, sung "Baby Mine", and was the best friend a girl could ask for.

 

My friends are forever frozen in time at 18. When our futures were bright, life was simple, and the world was ours for the taking.

The other day, someone asked me what I was like when I was younger. I paused a moment or two and let my mind travel back in time. I wasn't much different than I am now. Ballsy. Full of sass. Full of spirit. I was the girl who hung out with the guys with jacked-up trucks on Main Street on Friday night, her best friend by her side. Driving backroads with the windows down and the music up loud. Seeing just how much trouble we could find. My nose wasn't always in a book, but pretty damn often. I dreamed of getting out of the one horse town and being someone special. I had big dreams and lofty aspirations. 

I've often wondered how people remember me. If they remember me at all. I'm sure I'm the bad guy to some, wounded to others, beautiful with an ugly heart/ugly with a beautiful heart, unlovable, untouchable, and I'm sure the list goes on. I just hope someone somewhere remembers me fondly as someone who gave her all. And always remembers me young!

Making Memories

I'm not a person for taking photos. I will take them of the dogs, but everything else falls by the wayside. A friend mentioned the other day that I'm too busy being part of the memories to worry about photographing them. This got me thinking. I have a lot of photographs from various family gatherings. However, my favorite memories live in my heart. 

Tis the season... And these days, I get lost in memories. I let the reminiscing carry me where it will since I believe that I'm supposed to learn from them. When this popped up in my feed the other day, my very favorite memory came to mind.

I was a little girl, probably around 8 or 9. Most of you know that I was a farmer's daughter. And it was a life that I loved more than anything. Of course, growing up on a dairy farm, life and death were always lurking about. Life was my favorite part. Better yet was the babies. Dreams of being a vet filled my days. My dad saw me. He really saw me and knew me better than most. 

It was a cold night. I was fresh from the bath and in my warm flannel nightgown. Dad was in the barn, waiting for a cow to give birth. Mom was getting my brother into his nightclothes when Dad called up from the barn. The cow was in labor and he thought I'd like to be there to see the calf come into the world. I remember Mom saying, "But she just got out of the bathtub." Whatever Dad said to her, I heard Mom say, "I'll send her down." I put on my winter barn boots and my winter coat before making the trek down to the barn. 

I close my eyes and I can still smell the warmth of the barn. The scent of warm milk mixing with the smell of the cows. To most people, the odors alone would make them roll their eyes. To me, it is home.

Anyway...Dad was leaning against the barn wall, waiting and watching. He had a thermos of coffee in case it was a longer night than he hoped. I remember the silence as I stepped in front of him and he hugged me tight as we waited. Eventually, he turned an old bucket upside down and had a seat, pulling me into his lap. We sat in complete silence as we watched the cow tremble and push. Slowly, the feet began to emerge and I held my breath. Dad smiled and rubbed my back, reminding me to breathe. Eventually, the calf, a huge bull, was born. Dad got up and cleaned the newborn, made sure he could stand, and let the new baby eat. Once mother and baby were bedded down for the night, we turned off the lights, then walked hand in hand back to the house.

No words were spoken between father and daughter that night, but volumes were said. And the most amazing memory was made. In that moment, I was seen as the person I was becoming.

It took over 30 years before I felt that way again...seen for who I was and who I was becoming. That memory began with a funny comment and the beautiful laugh that belonged to the man with the charismatic smile and that memory is for another day. And while this memory belongs solely to him and me, this song means so much to me because of the truth it holds.

Father, Forgive Me...

This is not an easy blog to write. This is a confession and part of me is so ashamed. Unfortunately, it is part of loving someone with PTSD.

I have told you many times about being a Daddy's girl. I was and am. I loved him with every fiber of who I was. Which is why it was hard to watch him suffer. His PTSD was combat induced and he showed signs shortly after returning from Vietnam. "Combat fatigue" was the name used at the time. It wasn't until the Gulf War was in full force that the term PTSD was bandied about. By then, my parents' marriage had been destroyed. I was 18 and living in Oyster Bay, New York. I was horribly homesick and every phone call had me ready to quit my job. Finally, I reached the point where I said "I have to go home." My family was falling apart and being so far away was killing me.

For twenty years, I was my daddy's lifeline. I wish I could tell you the number of times he was ready to end his own life. And the phone calls! Oh dear gods, the phone calls! I can replay each one of them, word for word. For me, it's my Hell. Every time, I was able to either talk him down or get help to him in time. He thanked me profusely. The last time was the exception. He had called to tell me he loved me and to say goodbye. I was in Felton, Pennsylvania and Dad was in Palo Alto, CA. How in hell was I gonna stop my hero from doing this? I called 911 in York, PA, who put me in touch with 911 in Harrisburg, PA, who called San Fran, CA's 911, who put me through to the Palo Alto 911 who connected me with the Palo Alto VA police station. Every one of these operators stayed on the line with me as they tracked him down. They got him safely into the hospital and the first call I got was from a nurse named Jaime who told me to take a shot of whiskey and get some sleep, she had this. The next morning, Dad called to ask why I wouldn't let him die? I decided then and there that I was selfish, but as long as I drew breath, I'd always save him.

It took some time, but he thanked me for making that call. However...I watched him suffer. I could hear it in his voice via the phone calls. When I lived with him, I saw it first hand. My dad had become an alcoholic and no one was trying to help him. His brother is an even bigger alcoholic and enjoyed having someone to drink with. Everyone else thought it was just Dad's way. My dad used to enjoy a beer or two every now and then. Mixed drinks on New Year's Eve. However, it was nothing like what he was doing before he died. His demons were full-blown and he was losing the battle. At this point, he said some very hurtful things to me and after sitting and crying, I began to question the decisions I'd made. Why did I save him? He obviously didn't want to live, yet I kept fighting for him. I felt as if I was the only one fighting for him most days, however, he wouldn't have given up on me so I sure as hell wasn't going to give up on him. I do remember saying the words "My life would be so much easier if he weren't here!" (I live with this every single day!)

Every time he called, my heart would race. His doctors were the first ones to tell me that I had secondary PTSD. I'd lived with dad and his terrors. I'd been his "partner" through this hell on Earth he experienced. I'd sat in on his counseling sessions. I'd held his hands when he cried. I could close my eyes and follow him into the jungles of Vietnam. My nightmares were riddled with gun shots and death. The nightmares are less now. I don't relive them like I used to. But let me tell you, my Women's Studies class at UWO one semester was about the Laotians who assisted our troops in Vietnam. I spent more sick days that semester than I ever had before. I couldn't sit through the film footage. I would sit in class and cry.

At that point, I was still a Psych major with an intent on serving our veterans. I was hell-bent on saving our returning warriors, one at a time, if I needed to. I had to take a step back. My anxiety was through the roof. My depression was worse than ever. My PTSD was rearing it's ugly head. I was losing control of my life. So, I had to admit I just couldn't. As much as I want to save them all, I can't. I do know that my heart will belong to a veteran long after it has stopped beating. My lessons in this journey with Dad have taught me many things and loving a veteran is my destiny.

Again, I say the words, "Father, forgive me...I did my best, but unfortunately, my best wasn't good enough, my love wasn't strong enough, and my will was not great enough. But it doesn't mean that you weren't loved with all that I am."