Grief

Autism and Tornado Preparedness – A Crash Course

by Tim on April 23, 2011

Some of you know where we live, but most of you probably don’t. You may have seen pictures of all the tornado damage in North Carolina, particularly in the Raleigh area, from this past Saturday. Well, that’s us, or at least just barely almost us. That tornado that carved a huge gash in our city passed within about 500 yards of our house.

Before I talk about anything else, let me say that we’re OK. By whatever freak variables and factors that go into how a tornado moves, the damage path appears to have sideswiped the edge of our subdivision and nothing more. Trees are down in a few places along the edge of our neighborhood, but amazingly, we were unscathed.

Not far down the road, it’s a much, much different story. Some of the worst damage from the storm occurred about a mile to a mile-and-a-half north of our house. The damage path traces the same road I drive the J-Man on to and from school.

The day after the storm, Mary and I drove toward the school to see what it looked like and to check on a friend of hers we hadn’t been able to reach by phone. At the mobile home park we pass each morning, most of the trailers were damaged or destroyed. The Buddhist temple nearby had trees down everywhere. Then we came around the corner just before you get to the school and saw nothing but carnage. Some houses had the siding peeled away like an orange all the way down to the plywood. Some of those had giant holes ripped in the sheathing like some monster had punched them.

The damage kept getting worse the more we looked. Some houses were sheared off at the roof line. Some houses were picked up and thrown 15 feet away from their foundations. Others looked like several feet of the house were just hacked off with an axe. Some were caved in. And there were some houses that were simply gone.

We saw sheet metal wrapped several times around telephone poles. We saw baseball cards and CDs jammed into the cracks of siding. There was even a CD embedded in a tree trunk. We saw pieces of several houses mingled together in the road like some terrible flotsam. It looked like something out of an apocalyptic movie.

And then there are the stories of parents who lost children in the storm. These are too painful to be discussed. We had our two scared kids crammed in with us in our small downstairs bathroom. And ever since, one thought has been running through my mind.

It could easily have been us.

Thankfully the TV meteorologists did a great job keeping us informed and prepared. We had about 15 minutes to get ready. We already had a decent idea in our minds what we wanted to do in case of such an emergency. Now we’ve had a real life run through it. We learned some things, and some of them are perhaps particular to helping your autistic child get through the crisis as best you can.

Start with the basic tips you can find in a variety of places. Here are some tornado and general storm safety preparedness guidelines (courtesy of my alma mater). Don’t wait until it happens in your neighborhood. Being prepared saved a lot of lives here.

Here are some additional things I thought of based on our recent experience. Some are general ideas while others are somewhat autism-specific.

  • Determine your ‘safe place’ ahead of time. If you have a large family, you may need more than one. Ours is the small downstairs bathroom in our house. The backup is the tiny coat closet next to it. The smallest room you all can fit in that’s in the interior and lowest level of your dwelling (one with no windows and no load-bearing walls) is going to give you the best chance of survival.
  • Create a checklist of essentials you need in your safe place and have it ready long before you need to use it. Try this out ahead of time to make sure your supplies and your family will fit in that room. Some things we thought important: pillows and blankets (protects against debris and stuff falling on you), socks and shoes (walking on glass and debris will be bad), diapers and wipes, raincoats, radio with fresh batteries, flashlights (LED ones are great because they will run forever – having at least one lantern-sized light source will make a huge difference particularly if your child is scared of the dark), cell phones, friends’ phone numbers, wallets and keys, your ID and your child’s medical alert bracelet if you have one, medications for everybody, food – especially snacks for the kids – water or favored drink, a pair of work gloves (will make it easier to dig out if you need to), and plastic grocery bags. Throw as much of this as you can into backpacks or duffle bags as it’ll make it easier to keep track off and carry if you need to.
  • Make sure your autistic child’s favored toys or books are in there, obviously the smaller the better. Things of high distraction value are especially good. The iPod helped distract the J-Man who was getting more and more frantic.
  • In some places, you can subscribe to a service that will call you if warnings are issued and your address is in the warning area. We pay $8 a year for this and it paid for itself a hundred times over last weekend. This can be more effective than a weather radio since the service will only call you if your address is located in the warning area.
  • Mobile devices with 3G are very useful as we found those still worked throughout, albeit slowly. We could still get radar updates and additional info even though power was out for miles around.
  • Make sure you cover anything in your safe place that could injure your child if he or she panics. We realized while we were in the bathroom that the protruding toilet paper holder was a potential hazard. The edge of the sink was too. If your child tends toward self-injurious behaviors or simply a lot of frantic movement when panicked, you’ll need to be careful in a confined space.
  • Disable the door knob, lock it, stand in front of it, guard it with your life. The last thing you want is your child getting out of your safe place. We put the child safety knob cover on the inside of the door, which mostly thwarted the kids trying to escape. You might need to resort to something more drastic like a latch or a bolt-type lock.
  • Put your valuable papers, your child’s medical records, and stuff you absolutely need to preserve into a heavy fire safe and etch your name and address into the outside of it. There’s a good chance a locked fire safe will survive a storm, and having your contact info will help it get back to you. Obviously do this well in advance.
  • Ideally, store your essential electronic files far away from your house. We’ve accumulated tons of paperwork for the J-Man, which we’ve scanned and stored on an online backup service. I’ve also backed it up to an external hard drive, which a family member in a different city keeps for me. Losing all that would be disastrous.

If you do suffer damage to your house, obviously the orderliness of your child’s life will be in complete upheaval, whether your child is autistic or neurotypical. I wouldn’t even begin to know how best to deal with this. Our school system published a useful resource about helping primarily neurotypical kids deal with the aftermath of a tornado. The National Child Traumatic Stress Network also has great information.

Not being directly impacted by the tornado but being witness to a lot of things since has allowed me some opportunities to learn some important lessons.

Our school has been one of the community focal points for gathering disaster relief supplies and distributing them to families in need. This week we went through the kids’ old clothes, which got me thinking about all sorts of things. I thought about our two wonderful boys and that we’ve decided to not have any more kids. I’m very sentimental, and so many of their clothes have so many memories or me. I hate boxing up clothes when they outgrow them. It’s pure grief really. Long ago I wrote about how our J-Man growing up and boxing up the things he’d outgrown was hard for me to deal with. Packing up their old toys is at least as hard for me if not worse. We saved a lot of the J-Man’s clothes for Dale Jr. Now we’re saving them either to remember or to donate. And there’s so much need around us right now.

Sorting through these clothes was just one tearful feeling after another for me. I saw the sleeper the J-Man wore to feeding therapy all those months, how it was covered in every type of puree ever invented, and that it was bleached so much it should just unravel itself. I picked out a few more clothes – many being sleepers for some reason – some clothes they had pictures taken in, and a few that I just remember. I tried to keep that pile small. The need is so great. I put the rest in the donation boxes and left the room. I couldn’t do anymore. I felt no small amount of shame about this. I’m grieving my kids growing up while others’ lives have been largely reduced to rubble.

Life seems very intense right now, at least to me. I think that’s what makes me react like this. I’ve been on some raw, emotional edge for a while now. I’ve been incredibly tired these last few weeks, and my coping skills are rather shaky right now. In reality, our daily lives aren’t that much more or less chaotic than they usually are, and certainly infinitely less so than all those affected by the storm. Breaks from school are exhausting as structure spirals and decays to near zero. We’re nearing the end of his 26-day break from school. The emotional stresses of the year have frayed me more than I realized. I vowed to not let myself get burned out again, and I’m not doing a very good job of it.

Some of the worst damage in our city is right across the street from the school. I see that and realize just how close our lives were to crashing down. I hear all the stories of those whose lives were turned upside down by the tornado, and I can’t even begin to imagine our family in that awful story. Some of those affected by the tornado have children around the same ages as ours. They lost so much from their very home to all the precious, irreplaceable things I value so much in our lives. And too awful for words, some families lost their children. There just are no words for that.

I’ve also seen so many acts of kindness this week, far too numerous to describe. People from near and far are generously helping people in need they’ve never met. Relief supplies are showing up from all over the place. You can see damaged and destroyed houses, blue tarps covering the gaping wounds in people’s homes, and endless downed trees from the sidewalk in front of the school gym.

I was over there this morning to drop off some more supplies. I helped unload some things that had come in while I was there. I looked across to all the devastation and around me at all the symbols of generosity and kindness, and I thought, there is goodness all over the place every day if I just decide to look for it. I don’t know why bad things happen, and I don’t know why some people do hurtful things to others, our kids, or to anyone for that matter. But I know our collective capacity for goodness is greater than anything else. It is what we are made for. And knowing that we are able to live that out gives me great hope.

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Diagnosis Day and a Tale of Two Marathons

by Tim on March 19, 2011

Today is what we call Diagnosis Day, the day on which our J-Man was diagnosed with autism three years ago. We have in the past struggled with how one might observe Diagnosis Day or whether it’s necessary to really do so. In our “Diagnosis Day – 2nd Anniversary Edition” last year, we thought about it like the equivalent of renewing your wedding vows. Over time I’ve come to think of it as an opportunity to look back at how far we’ve come as a family in the past year, to give thanks for all those who have helped us, and to renew our commitment as parents and advocates to our children’s growth and to the rights of all children. But as we wrote about on that first Diagnosis Day, the vivid memories of that day always stay with you.

That day three years ago, I felt an entire range of emotions. I was angry, fired up, in despair, filled with resolve, weighed down with fear and every other emotion you could imagine, but most of all overflowing with love for my beloved son. The diagnosis brought a sense not of finality, as no future is ever completely written, but more that we were in this for the long haul now.

These therapies we’d been doing for much of his life weren’t a temporary detour from some other existence. We wouldn’t be taking any exits off this road any time soon. And the best thing we could do was make our peace with that, grieve whatever we needed to, and prepare ourselves for the journey ahead and all the adventures it would bring. The image that came to my mind repeatedly was that now we were running a marathon, and we needed to learn how to run that kind of race from here on.

People often see marathons as a dour battle against suffering and pain. Running is regularly thought of as painful, hard, and even unnatural. Many who ponder just the concept of trying to complete a marathon do so in terms of survival. This is unfortunate as I’ve learned that distance running is so unlike this. It is as much about the journey as completing a distance. It is about learning to put one foot in front of the other and piecing those small steps together into a far grander whole.

Running a marathon seems ludicrous to most of us, but taking that one next step doesn’t. We can be so overwhelmed by the enormity of things in our lives that we can’t even see past that let alone know all the steps we have to take to get where we hope to go. But give us a single, next step, and often we can do that much. And that’s exactly how a marathon is run. I tend to think that I’m not running these seemingly crazy distances; I’m just putting steps together, one after another, over and over again until I get there. This is how our lives can work.

Divide a challenge into its smallest parts, and in doing so we discover a way to overcome it. It is about realizing that what we perceive as our limits really aren’t, that we are so much stronger and more capable than we think we are. It is about going after what is possible rather than focusing on what seems impossible. It is about believing that you can come to the start line, answer the call to go, and somehow achieve something you’ve never done before.

I used to think I would never do something like run a marathon. Eight months ago, I was struggling just to get up off the couch. But in working these five-and-a-half years with this remarkable boy, I’ve learned that so much is possible if you just take one small step at a time and believe that somehow it’ll all add up to something amazing. I see how far I’ve come since I got up off that couch and decided to make big changes in my life, and I am astonished. I have a long way to go, but that’s OK. I will always believe that I wouldn’t have known how to come this far without our J-Man’s example to guide me.

Now our not-so-little-anymore wunderkind Dale Jr. is showing us to see life from yet more perspectives. He seems amazed at so much of his world, regardless of whether it’s something great or small. He just looks so in love with the world. His exuberance infects me and energizes me. He is our adventurous child, rarely afraid of diving into something. He explores and experiments, he creatively figures things out, and he is undeterred by anything. He soaks it all in and misses nothing.

Our two sons are developing differently, but in doing so they offer us a far richer understanding of the world than we would ever have otherwise. If the J-Man first taught me the path to achieving something great in my life, perhaps Dale Jr’s adventurous and exuberant spirit has taught me how to just believe, dive in, and go for it.

This year, and honestly quite by accident, I’m doing something completely different for Diagnosis Day. The marathon I’m running tomorrow just happened to fall on March 20th. They didn’t schedule it just for my benefit, of course, and besides I didn’t even connect the two until about a week ago. I don’t know why I didn’t before then. I had a whole set of reasons to take on this challenge, and the race falling on the same weekend as Diagnosis Day added the exclamation point on the end of the sentence.

So tomorrow I will celebrate everything I’ve learned from my kids and from my life. I will proclaim that even with all these challenges we face and all the effort they require, I am stronger than ever for it. I have come back from a difficult place in my life. When some people assume that parents of special needs children are doomed to an existence of unending struggle and despair, maybe now I can show them it is possible to be that parent and do some pretty kick-ass stuff. And tomorrow I’ll think a lot about my grandmother because I think that’s the kind of attitude she would appreciate and want me to follow in life.

Four or five hours after this weekend’s marathon begins, it will end. The marathon of our lives will continue on. But now I know how to run marathons. I know how to train for them. I know how to get up off the ground on the most difficult days and keep putting one step in front of another until my feet are solid under me again. And I know all this and more because of these courageous, adventurous, determined little boys who taught me to believe that what seems impossible never is.

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In Remembrance of My Hero

by Tim on September 23, 2010

As long-time readers may remember, my grandmother passed away this year on Valentine’s Day after a long fight against ovarian cancer. The loss we’ve felt as a family is nearly impossible to describe. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. I miss her so much I can hardly type this.

Today would have been her 92nd birthday. I think it should now be declared a national holiday. I know she would have told me to honor her not by making such a fuss on a blog but by living a good life, fighting for my family above all else, helping others every chance I can, and being true to who I am. I’d add to that kicking as much butt in life as possible.

This year has been hard. There have been many weeks where it’s just been grinding things out. While I started the year with many goals of diving headlong into the autism world and making a difference not just at home but everywhere else I could, it hasn’t really worked out the way I’d hoped. My efforts for this year have turned more toward something that has felt at times like survival, something deeply personal. My posts have become much less frequent, my ability to keep up with comments and correspondence greatly lessened. So many of you have been supportive, and that means more to me than I can say. In recent weeks, I’ve tried to focus more on what’s going on in our house, taking better care of us and myself, and trying to rein in my not-so-great health problems.

She was our matriarch, our cheerleader, our safe and welcome place. I’ve thought a lot about Mamaw being a 20+ year survivor of breast cancer before she died from ovarian cancer this year. I’ve thought about her entire life, all of her challenges, everything she overcame, and how she did all of it to the very last with honor, dignity, and grace. She was tireless, relentless, irrepressible, and just plain tough. It would take several internets to describe everything I learned from her.

Lately one of those lessons has been present almost constantly in my mind. The combination of determination, hard work, faith, time, and love can overcome most anything, but it’s up to you to do what’s necessary because nobody is going to do it for you. She’s physically gone now. She imparted all the wisdom to me that she could. Now it’s up to me to live like I take that seriously. You’d think at almost 37 years old that I would have figured that out by now, or perhaps figuring it out and living it out are two much more different ideas than I realized until now.

I’ve gotten back into running again and am actually eating a lot better. I’m treating my body less like an abused machine. I’ve lost about 10 pounds so far, and while my knees are barely hanging on, running has been like opening up my windows and airing out all the stale parts of myself. I think about her a lot when I’m out running. I think about how much my body hurts, and I think about all the physical pain she endured, that she endured with such toughness, will, and dignity. Then I straighten up and lift my pace.

I’m running toward something; I get that now. You can only bemoan life and circumstances and feel sorry for yourself but so much until it drains everything from you and leaves you no further along than you were. She always kept trying to tell me that. I’m now running toward a me who is strong enough to be a good dad to two perfect boys and a good husband to the love of my life.

I printed the original post I wrote two years ago in honor of her and gave it to her before she had surgery to try to remove her ovarian cancer several months before she died. She said she kept it with her all the time and read it almost every day, and more often on days she wasn’t feeling well. As I go back and reread it now, some things are hard to believe. I really did think she’d live forever. The last time I saw her as I was getting ready to leave and make the long drive home she asked me, “Do you really believe all that about me?” I said, “Every bit of it, and so much more.”

After she died, I brought home a couple of boxes of things we’d given to her over the years, cards and letters I’d sent her from as far back as when I was very little that she’d actually saved, pictures, other items I’ll always treasure, and that printed copy of that blog post she carried around with her until she died. Below is that post in its entirety.

I miss you terribly, Mamaw. I love you. You’ll always be my hero.

September 29, 2008

“What My Hero Taught Me About Parenting an Autistic Child”

For our big trip recently, we went to my grandmother’s 90th birthday party. To say she is our family matriarch is a profound understatement. Four generations of our family piled into her house to both celebrate her and how triumphantly she has lived through everything she has overcome.

She looks about as much like 90 as our cats look like giraffes. I fully expect her to live to be 125. It was only a couple of years ago that we finally talked her out of cleaning her own gutters. She was talking at the party about needing to get out and powerwash her siding.

She lost her first husband to health complications from him being a coal miner when she was only 25. She became a widowed single mom to two kids – my dad who was six at the time and my uncle who was only a few months old. She became a waitress and sometimes walked to work with a pistol in her pocket. The Kentucky coalfields were rough places. She literally walked uphill both ways to work and home again.

She kept a couple of pigs that became meat during the winter and traded molded butter she made for groceries. They lived off that, biscuits, and whatever they could grow or raise. I doubt she ever slept. And still, poor as dirt as they were, if any of the neighbors’ kids were hungry and stopped by, she would feed them without thinking twice about it.

Throughout my family’s struggles growing up, she always fed us and bought us clothes to wear and made sure we got to school. We’d play cards after school and I’d feel completely content with the world. When I was in college, she would give me everything in her house when I came to visit. My car would be packed full of groceries, things she had canned, a hundred rolls of toilet paper, and anything else that she thought I’d need.

But more than anything, I always knew – and still know – that whenever I’m at her house, I am always safe and loved. Whatever we’ve needed, she’s been there for us. I don’t know how she’s afforded half of it. She’s treated everyone like family. She’s done so much for people that the only person who knows even half of what she’s done is her.

Many years ago, she had breast cancer. Watching her go through chemo was painful, though obviously nothing like all she herself had to endure. To watch such a formidable woman struggle that hard made the gravity of her fight clear. She had fought off so many challenges like a black belt karate master that seeing her go near the brink was uncharted for all of us. My heart ached for her. But she won the fight, and won triumphantly – because that’s how she does things.

There is no gift I can give her to adequately express how grateful I am that she is my grandmother, and how happy I am that she lived long enough to see me become a father and try to emulate as a parent as best I can some of the lessons she embodies. These past three years, I have drawn on them a lot as I have tried to understand how best I can be a good parent to our little autistic wonder.

There are so many lessons I could share, but here are at least some. I hope her wisdom means something to you too.

  • Your children deserve everything you can give them. You do whatever it takes to make sure they realize their full potential, even if hell itself should bar the way. Nothing is more important.

  • Make your home a safe, loving, warm place for your children. When they walk through that front door, they need to feel that everything is OK and that everything they need is there.

  • When an obstacle appears between you and what you’re working toward, you take your fists and beat it down. Turning around isn’t an option. Kicking butt is.

  • If God made it, you love it. God don’t make no mistakes.

  • Making mistakes, failing, and generally making a mess of things is fine. Giving up isn’t.

  • If someone you love screws up, the best way to help them through it is to love them that much more.

  • You can’t fix the past. It happened; make your peace with it and move on. Your family needs you in the present, not in the past.

  • Whoever comes through your front door, you welcome them and hand them something to eat. Make it to where if a guest goes hungry, it’s their fault. Food for her is a symbol of welcome, respect, and care.

  • Most problems in your life can be solved by hard work and time. Most of the rest can be solved with harder work and more time.

  • Be direct, constructive, and honest. There’s no need to dance around something when being direct would make the situation much better off. Life’s too precious to waste time talking around stuff.

  • Be generous to the point of extravagance and expect nothing in return. Somehow it seems to work out that you get repaid manyfold. She’s both generous and thrifty and somehow makes it all work out fine.

  • Be someone people feel they can turn to without hesitation and without shame. Be someone who accepts others right where they are.

  • One of the best signs that you’ve lived your life well is that the children surrounding you at your 90th birthday turned out fine.

  • When in doubt, go have a cookie and a cup of coffee and you’ll feel right as rain. Hot biscuits, gravy, and some apple butter work just fine too.

mamaw-and-us.jpg

(90 years old my foot.)

Happy Birthday, Mamaw!!

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Diagnosis Day – 2nd Anniversary Edition

by Tim on March 19, 2010

Today is Diagnosis Day. Two years later, I can still remember so much about that day. And I’m glad that I do.

We have wondered in the past how to observe the anniversary of the J-Man’s autism diagnosis. It doesn’t much feel like the occasion to invite friends over for a party, make a cake, open presents, and have everyone sing a couple of songs, particularly since he doesn’t much care for crowds, songs outside his comfort zone, or cake.

Last year, we pondered – in a somewhat analytical way – “How Does One Observe ‘Diagnosis Day’?” and looked upon it as a time to remember that turning point in our lives and to be mindful of who we are and the community of people like you with whom we share our experiences.

When Diagnosis Day actually came last year, all of the memories of that day came rushing back. The post I wrote last year I think was the first time I had ever written down the story of that day and the raw emotions I felt. Going back and reading it again was like getting back in touch with the visceral core of our journey.

I was back in the doctor’s office again sitting on that couch, his words distorted in my ears as if I were underwater. I was there watching the J-Man circle that room again and again while the doctor spoke to us. I was there again standing in our back yard angry and hurt and crying. I was there again to feel my resolve harden like a great fist inside me. I was there again, rocking my beloved son in my arms saying over and over again that everything was going to be OK.

I’m glad I wrote our story down. I need to remember all of it.

I am surprised that I almost forgot about it this year. It snuck up on us so quickly. That in itself is perhaps symbolic of where we are these days. Autism is such a part of our every-minute lives that we can’t not observe it every day. What’s ultimately so much different about Diagnosis Day after you make it ways down the road?

Perhaps as much as remembering where it began, Diagnosis Day also should be the parenting equivalent of renewing your wedding vows.

I pledge to love you and be right there with you every step of our way together. No matter what comes, no matter what challenges we face, no matter how frustrated you get or how afraid or overwhelmed you become or how much or how little you say now or ever, I’ll do everything I can to see you through. And together we will discover what you love most and what you most love to do, and we will help you share every gift you have with the world.

I chose you. I chose Mama and your brother, and I have chosen perfectly each time. I chose you the day Mama and I formed you and forever before that. I chose to walk all of the days since I was born to find the path to you, to find you right where I’d hoped you’d be. I chose you the day you were born. I’ve chosen you every day since. And I will choose you every day for the rest of my life. You are our gift. You are the world’s gift. And there is not anything that could ever change that. I am so happy that you are you.

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Beginning to Rebuild

by Tim on February 25, 2010

Not surprisingly, we’ve had a rough go of things lately. So I was thrilled to get our child care person in for about four hours yesterday. We know we can hand the reins of the house and whatever else to her for a few hours and do whatever we need to do. We’ve found a variety of ways to reduce the amount of money we spend on various things during the month, and we’ve used some of that savings to pay for occasional in-home child care, which lets us have a few opportunities to get some things done and generally get a break.

Yesterday for me was the truest form of respite care. I’ve been so tired lately that I feel delirious much of the time. All the lack of sleep that went into all of us traveling to my grandmother’s funeral and all the extra emotional exhaustion that went with it has just about done me in. Having her come over is always a godsend, but yesterday felt close to a miracle.

She got here about 12:30, I did a couple of quick chores, and then fell into bed, piled on the blankets, and tried to sleep. It took me a while to unwind enough to rest, but finally I could feel myself sinking into something close to unconsciousness. I slept until about 5:00. I barely even knew who I was when Mary nudged me and told me it was time to eat dinner. I probably could have slept another 24 hours.

I imagine that most of us develop a pretty high tolerance for lack of sleep, mental and physical exhaustion, and all sorts of stress. We build up the equivalent of Kevlar armor like our own brand of callouses. If we don’t, we fall apart. I’ve drunk enough coffee lately to keep half of Central America in business and eaten enough donuts and sweets to stone an elephant. It’s another coping mechanism. But I’m realizing that this is like charging all that energy we put out on a credit card; eventually you have to pay it back somehow.

One of my words for the year is ‘bamboo’, but I’ve been more like a gnarled, old tree lately. While I have been giving myself some latitude within the understanding that this is so much about grief, I can’t keep this up. Life doesn’t wait around for us. It’s not like I can tell the kids to take a couple of weeks off from being themselves while Daddy regroups. Finding ways to grieve and rebuild myself at the same time is just something I have to start figuring out.

Mamaw frequently gave me a piece of advice that I often didn’t care to follow. Don’t dwell on the past, acknowledge it, move on and move forward. She tried to have this attitude about everything. I don’t think I got this at all until after the J-Man was diagnosed. I guess I liked holding on to all the psychological debris of my life as if not to would be to deny who I am. But I think what she was getting at is that holding on to all that stuff requires us to pay a steep toll, and paying it costs us and our families too much.

I invested a lot of time and energy doing what I needed to do for her obituary and funeral because I wanted everything to be perfect for her and to honor her in the best way I could. I am content with how things turned out. I feel like right now she would be gracious and thankful to us for that celebration of her life, and with her next breath she’d kick us in the behinds and tell us to get moving on with life because our families need us in the here and now.

I finally understood today that we honor her not with how much sleep we can get by without or how much coffee and donuts we can consume, but by the way we build up our families, do good for others, spread some laughter, and keep trying to leave the world a little better each day. She left us the blueprints for a well-lived life. It’s about more than survival and getting through the day; it’s about living a life that others will want to honor and celebrate, just like we did hers.

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Grandmother

by Tim on February 16, 2010

My grandmother passed away at sunrise on Sunday, February 14th. It was the first sunny morning in her town after many, many days of cold, wintry weather.

Everyone noticed how bright and colorful and warm the sky looked. Of all that she taught us – so much that it would take volumes of books to tell – we think that wonderful sunrise was her last teaching to us. No matter how bad things seem to be, there is always light that will shine into our lives if we decide to let it.

We’re finishing up our multi-day, mad scramble to get out the door to go up tomorrow for the funeral. This has been very hard for me to talk about these past three days. I’ll write more after we get home, but for now, this is part of what I wrote for her obituary. I took my own advice and wrote a series of six-word stories about her.

I want to thank everyone for your support, thoughts, and prayers over the past several weeks. It’s meant a lot to us, more than you can know.

Six-Word Mamaw Stories

Superheroes wear aprons, get hair fixed.
Stood straight, head high, facing forward.
Uphill, both ways, overcame every hurdle.
Didn’t dare tell her she couldn’t.
Cleaned her gutters, because she could.
Brightened every day with infectious laughter.
Nobody went hungry at her table.
Soup beans, cornbread, fried potatoes – home.
Plates always full, glass never empty.
Always constant, our family’s true compass.
With every breath – grace, dignity, strength.
Watched over us, and always will.
Best in us comes from her.

Nothing is more important than family.
Love everyone and everything God made.
You can’t love someone too much.
Make your home everyone’s safe place.
Provide more than what people need.
Leave porch light and coffee on.
Hot biscuits and gravy cure anything.
Enjoy life; go back for seconds.
When times get rough, tell jokes.
Be a survivor through every challenge.

Your legacy lives on in us.
We remember everything good; we remember.
Rest now, surrounded by our love.
You are forever in our hearts.

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Six Words

February 6, 2010

My grandmother is still with us, but her health continues to worsen. She’s had some OK days, but the last couple of days have brought a more significant decline. I’m starting to expect the phone to ring any minute. I’ve constructed ways to detach myself from that inevitable moment. I realize I’m pretty good at [...]

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The valley of the shadow…

January 27, 2010

If you follow us on Twitter, you may have read that my grandmother’s health has taken a very bad turn. Her cancer returned with terrible force and swiftness, and now we are holding our vigil and trying to keep things together as best we can. I dread the phone ringing. I don’t think it will [...]

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