The right kind of hard.

 

Chat GPT says that “The word ‘quit’ originated from the Old English word ‘cwitten,’ which means ‘to acquit’ or ‘to set free’. It later evolved to mean ‘to leave’ or ‘to stop doing something’.”

I have quit two jobs in the last year…one that lasted about 8 months and this part-time one that lasted about a month. Never have I ever quit a job after just one month. I knew the job wasn’t for me, and while I let the last one that wasn’t for me drag on and on, I had no intention of doing that to myself this time. One could say I quit two jobs this year. One could also say I tried out two things that stretched me out of my comfort zone. Both things are true. Either way it is all an adventure of this lifetime.

The news of me quitting was met with empathy and compassion from one boss, and with hostility and aggression from another. As I sat on the screen watching this person be forcefully angry with me over what this decision means for them, I stood in my confidence and while my voice was shaking I spoke my truth and said “I am confident in my decision and know this is the right thing for me.” And I resisted my feeling of needing to apologize.

While I did quit, I feel as though I am set free. I have learned what I needed to learn from this experience and am ready to move on.

Last week, as a part of my other part-time job, I visited a woman in the hospital who is dying. There is no question that she will die soon, when her frail body weakened by illness decides that it is time. As I sat with her and held her delicate hand, I stared at her fingers. We spoke about her life and what a wonderful life she has led. She didn’t want her family to come in town and see her “like this” and I encouraged her to let her people love on her. What a gift it is to have people come toward you when you feel most vulnerable.

It was after that visit that I realized that this is what I am meant to do. Sitting with a person who is dying is one of the most beautiful parts of being a human. As the body fails, there is nothing to hide behind. With hearts open and vulnerable, there is nothing to do but face what is happening. Many people are afraid. And if I can sit calm and unafraid, I can look at her and say “it’s going to be okay” and she believes me. What a gift. This is why I am here.

I visited her again this week and as the family and other professionals talked about details and plans and what needs to happen next, I looked at her hands. So frail and weak and full of memories of holding children and grandchildren and husbands and hot pans and making sandwiches and working as a secretary and pulling weeds and drinking coffee or tea. In a room full of talking, I see her hands.

I quit a job this week, among other reasons than because it felt too hard. I had a deep and profound conversation with a woman who is dying. That was hard, too.

I took a chance, and what I found is the right kind of hard.

~AZ

Life is an ultramarathon.

Don’t miss any cutoffs sitting in the aid station.

Those of you who know me well or have been around this blog for a while know that I am an ultramarathon runner. I seek out trails and races well beyond the 26.2 mile marathon distance. While this may seem out of reach, I am learning that seeking a finish of a long race isn’t much different than seeking satisfaction, growth and happiness in life. Therefore to me, living life, loving my people, learning and growing and reaching for personal goals is really just its own ultramarathon.

This came to a head for me recently when I was really struggling personally. I texted a friend who knows me well and knows ultramarathons well. The following exchange took place:

There is a documentary (one of many) that documents the journey of running a 100-mile race. There is a scene where the man running is sitting in the aid station tired and torn. Exhausted. Pushed beyond his current ability. His people are rallying around him giving him aid and working to build his spirits. He is unsure he can go on. Then he says:

“Just give me 60 seconds to feel sorry for myself.”

His friends surround him, encouraging him, keeping their eye on the clock and are ready for him to get back up and finish the race when he's ready.

The draw of an ultramarathon is the unknown. It’s the idea that we train for months for a distance that seems so incredibly out of reach that while we hope it is possible, we know there are so many factors that can derail any well prepared for race. We get to that start line anyway, because the excitement of finishing something big and bold is bigger than the risk of not finishing. The chance we might fail is the draw that keeps us curious about how far we can go.

The draw of life is similar. There is the unknown. There is the ever present fact that life is fleeting and no matter what we do, we and everyone we love are going to die. It is a fact that as much as we may try to escape it, is hard truth. Why would anyone even bother then, right? Maybe because the excitement of having a life that is beautiful and meaningful is worth the risk of pain that ultimately comes when you put your heart out into the world.

We know the world is a terrifying place, yet we explore it and try to understand it and make friends and go places and get into cars and fly on planes knowing that at any moment we could experience some kind of accident, be in the wrong place at the wrong time or be diagnosed with a horrible disease. All of this could be enough to make us want to stay locked up in our homes, missing out on life. But we don’t. We know the chance we might fail is the draw that keeps us going to see how far in life we can go.

Occasionally though, life throws us something truly painful. We are going along in our world living life and something happens that stops us in our tracks. A loved one gets sick. A friend dies. An innocent animal is targeted for an unknown reason. The world becomes too heavy.

Sometimes in a race, there is an injury. Nutrition is off and fatigue sets in. The weather doesn’t cooperate. The course is more difficult than you thought it would be. 

In either case, we seek aid. We sit on our friend’s couch or call our person or cry to our partner. We make it to the aid station and believe we cannot go on. We stop moving forward and are frozen in our grief. We have a choice. We can get up and keep going, or we can sit in that comfortable place and stop. 

Life is an ultramarathon.

A few months ago, someone in my neighborhood shot my cat with a .22 caliber weapon. That same week, a childhood friend died from ALS, leaving behind 4 children and a loving wife. Also in that same week, a key member of our team at work left to pursue a fabulous new opportunity for her and her little family. It was all just so heavy, and I was so incredibly sad. For my cat, for this world we live in, for my own capacity at work and ultimately for the understanding that this world we live in is heavy and hard and full of so much pain. It was more than I could take. I needed aid.

My friend sent that text to me in response to my desire to “just feel sorry for myself for a little while longer”. I knew I wouldn’t be there for long, but I wasn’t ready to get up yet. It is safe and comfortable there in that aid station. Sitting still and feeling all the things and wanting to hide from all of the pain in this broken world. But my friend knows me and knows I cannot stay there forever. He reminded me not to miss any cutoffs sitting in the aid station. Don’t avoid the aid stations, they are there for a reason, but don’t stay there too long either, if we do we will certainly miss out on something beautiful that life has in store for us.

I had a virtual happy hour with a group of amazing women about a month after that text exchange with my friend. I mentioned that I stopped listening to podcasts, I stopped going to my new therapist and just stopped moving forward. I wasn’t depressed, I was resting. One of these amazing friends mentioned gently that I seemed to be sort of stagnant. That I was retreating into my safe place and maybe that’s okay for a while but I probably shouldn’t stay there too long. It reminded me of the text my friend sent me. I shared the words with my girls and they were so taken back by the profound meaning in those words, they said it should be my mantra.

Life is an ultramarathon. Go out there and run it. Get dirty, get hurt, get out in the world and see what happens. Get aid when you need it, just don’t miss any cutoffs while sitting in the aid station.

Tenderness, Right Below the Surface

My friend J, who I have known for almost two years through my job, died from ALS about 2 weeks ago. I wrote most of what I am sharing shortly after he died, but I have been hesitant to share it here. For some reason I planned to sock it away and close this chapter quietly.

I am not sure why I am sharing it now. I love to write out my thoughts and I think it somehow creates closure for me to open up and share what I’m feeling. Perhaps sharing his story allows me to feel that others might know what an incredible person he was even though no one reading this knew him. Maybe sharing what’s on my heart will help carrying the weight of loss a little lighter. Maybe it’s all of these things for me. 

We can look at death as a relief or a tragedy, in depth or shallow, anticipated or a surprise and we can dive into what it means and how we should approach it and over complicate the whole conversation. Or we can say the simple and uncomplicated truth: my friend was here and now he is gone, and that makes me very sad. I honestly just miss my friend.

Right before his funeral, I read this article about end of life care. These two statements really stood out to me and spoke to why I feel so honored to be in the role I am in:

Providing end-of-life care is a privilege that is hard to choose. It is to choose to go down into the dark with another person, down into the deepest mysteries of the human experience. It is to share in the most difficult journey of a person’s life, a journey from which only one of you will return.

This is where all our work comes to its final fruition. This is where all the labels drop away, and we meet one another simply as humans, sharing the joy and grief, the gratitude and regret that is the common lot of mortals at their common end.

So here are some words about my friend, J.

Working with people who are dying is a privilege I hold very dear. When a person learns the news that they have a disease like ALS where there is no treatment and no cure, it is a traumatic experience. Relationships that begin in these types of situations can be very powerful. J and I connected immediately and had some of the deepest and most profound conversations about life, death, the meaning of it all and how end of life is for people. These are very deep and emotional conversations that made us close friends and confidants right from the beginning.

By the time I met J he had already lost enough use of his legs to need a power wheelchair, so I‘ve never actually seen him walk. He zipped around in that chair and still accessed all areas of his home thanks to his home-made ramps. During our first meeting we sat in his kitchen and looked out his back window at his large back yard, and as though we had known each other our whole lives, he began telling me the incredible loss he felt from no longer being able to do things like mow his lawn. He was so appreciative of his friends who showed up for him and completed tasks like this, but the loss he felt from no longer being able to do these things himself stung him to his core.

I remember having some preconceived notions about J. He was rough around the edges and seemed to take no bs from anyone. He was a construction worker type of man’s man with a hard outer core, so to see him so hurt by the loss of being able to care for things like his own lawn showed me a tenderness about him that I then saw every single time we visited. I feel so honored that he would share that part of himself with me.

It wasn’t long after that when I visited again that J was so excited to show me the adapted lawn mower he and his buddies designed. He said his friend took the racing seat right out of his car to make this lawn mower. I remember thinking how incredibly dangerous this contraption was. It didn’t matter though, once a person knows they are going to die, I mean we all know we are going to die eventually but once a person REALLY knows they are going to die, risk just has a different impact.

Another time I was at J’s house a buddy of his called collect from jail. He was on speaker phone so I heard most of their conversation, which wasn’t about anything in particular. When they hung up J said to me that he bets that was the first call I heard from jail. I laughed and said no and proceeded to tell him about two childhood friends who had also spent some time in the same city jail who used to call me collect regularly. I think he had some preconceived notions about me, too. And clearly I’ve always been drawn to those who, ahem, color outside the lines.

Earlier this year I visited with J when he was really sick. His significant other and I didn’t think he was going to make it through the weekend. He asked me what I thought happened to a person when they died. I told him that I wasn’t sure. I added that that every person I have ever been close to in my life who died, and there have been many, have visited me in a dream not long afterwards. Even my pets who I have lost visit me there. I told him I had no doubt that he would visit me too.

He pulled through that sickness and I was able to see him a few more times. One time, we were visiting at his kitchen table and his dad came to see him. I had never met his dad before so I was excited to hear some stories as we visited and J and his dad reminisced. J told a story about when he was a really little boy and he got angry with his brother about putting too much syrup on his waffles. Apparently J preferred lots of butter that fills all of the waffle squares and very little syrup. He was mad that his waffles had too much syrup and this somehow ended up with his brother convincing him to throw the waffle right at his mother’s face. He got in big trouble for that and sent to his room. His dad then came home and helped to ease the situation. It was a fun time hearing this story and I hope that his dad was able to enjoy the reminiscing, too.

I have worked with and met and counseled many people with ALS and they have impacted my life in many different ways. Knowing J has made an impact on me that I am having trouble putting into words. I think of him when I butter my waffles. I think of him when I talk with my other man’s man rough around the edges friends and wonder if their tenderness is right under the surface like J’s was. I think about the beautiful intimacy that developed between J and his significant other during quiet moments of caregiving that happened when no one else was around. I think about the joy and grief that go along with knowing I never would have met J if it weren’t for ALS, and knowing it was ALS that took him away from all of us who cared about him.

So for now I will be comforted by these memories and carry J’s spirit with me as I continue to fight to find a cure for this disease. I will wait patiently for him to visit me in that dream, where I will see him walking for the very first time, without the pain and loss that came along with ALS.

----------

I know friends will wonder if I am okay and I really am. I have been anticipating J's death since the moment I met him. It's just part of the job. It is what I signed up for and while some losses are harder than others, I absolutely love what I do. I will never regret being invited into this time with J. I will look back and feel grateful for having him in my life, and will feel sad when I think about never seeing him again. And such is life, right? Feeling all the feelings, taking it all in. Laughing the laughs and crying the tears, all with equal zest.

"If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special." ~Jim Valvano 

The Way Life Should Be

I work with people who have ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. The people I work with day in and day out, are dying from a disease that has no cure and no known cause. ALS impacts the way a person’s brain send messages to its muscles, and as the messages become more infrequent, the person loses the ability to use their hands, their arms, to walk, often to speak and ultimately to breathe. ALS is sometimes a long and slow process of watching a once active and vibrant person lose all body control and function.

While this disease is awful, I love what I do. Every single person I meet has a story to tell, and I am always so appreciative to be in a position to share some of the most intimate moments that come along with end of life with another human. The reality a person must face when they are dying brings with it fear, uncertainly and often clarity. With each person with ALS that I meet and each new way I see someone coping with this hand they have been dealt, the more I learn about the strength of the human spirit, and the differences in how people react to trauma and tragedy.

It is May of 2020 and we are deep in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. I have been working mostly from home since March 13th with a much unknown end faintly in sight. Our boys’ schools are shut down, summer camps are cancelled, the misinformation is flying all about and the level of uncertainly of what our future will bring continues to deepen. My mood shifts from being ever so grateful for this beautiful time of slowing down and deeply appreciating this extra time with my family to being so stressed by the uncertainly of the future that it feels difficult to even get out of bed. 

I go to the grocery store on Monday or Tuesday nights to avoid the crowds. This week I was walking through the store and paused, looked around the store and saw everyone with masks and gloves, with people avoiding each other, food missing off shelves, paper product shelves stripped bare and I was overcome with sadness and thought, “this is not the way life should be”. 

Working with people with ALS I have seen two pretty distinct differences between people who seem to cope positively (for the most part) with the disease and those who struggle the most. The biggest difference I have seen is between people who can't seem to see past the way their life *should* be and those who seem to let go of what should be and embrace the way life is, ALS and all. 

This difference runs very, very deep. In the people I have seen, this difference is a fundamental difference of belief in life and living. The difference is truly astounding.

A man I became very close with following his diagnosis died earlier this year. He had ALS, but he did not die from ALS. I worked with him for about a year, and throughout that time we had many deep conversations about finding meaning in life. We talked about what he would be doing in life if it weren’t for ALS. He was active and vibrant and while he looked at others with the disease who seemed to be adjusting with awe, ultimately he knew he would never be able to cope with losing his function and dying from ALS. 

He wrote me and said just that, he had no desire to die from ALS and instead chose to travel out of the country to pursue a physician-assisted death. We said our goodbyes and I was sad beyond measure over the loss of my friend. I also understood and respected his unwillingness to let go of what life *should* have been like for him. He died peacefully surrounded by his loving wife and daughter. His service was filled with people telling stories about his incredible life and with each story I understood even better why he and I liked each other so much. He visited me in a dream a couple of weeks after his death and when I woke from that dream, I felt like I understood life just a little bit more. I am so grateful for him and that life allowed me to walk alongside him for a short while.

So when I say that there is this difference between people who seem to be more able to move past what life should be like and those who are not able to so, I don’t mean that one way is better than the other. We are all made up of so many interesting characteristics, it is unreasonable to think it is as simple as bad or good, right or wrong. I do know that my friend worked hard toward accepting his disease and ultimately decided not to. 

Working in a job where every person I am hoping to help is dying, I guess it is expected to also wonder how I might cope with a diagnosis or disease like ALS. My cancer diagnosis certainly tested my coping mechanisms and approach, but not to the extent something like ALS would. 

I am a positive person deep down to my core. I genuinely believe that the universe is a friendly place and that anything that happens in my life is happening for me, not to me. I am currently in a rough place though. The state of the world in the midst of COVID-19 is a difficult place to be. I hear myself saying what should be happening and wishing things were different. My son's missed starring role in theater, the other son's baseball season, pre-pubescent exploration with friends, summer camp, birthday parties and winery trips. My first 50-mile race. I notice it being more difficult to concentrate and am losing focus. I am sad about the ways things are and unmotivated to try and change them. It’s an unfamiliar place and it is not enjoyable.

As I began to write this blog I googled “the way life should be” assuming someone probably wrote something along these lines before and it could provide some guidance as I wrapped my head around what I wanted to say. I did find a couple of quotes from a book of this same title that I have never heard of:

“I have found that the biggest moments in life, the ones that change everything, usually catch you by surprise.” 

“Every decision I make is determined solely by the spark and limitations of my own perspective”

“It’s a longing for things to come, possibilities unfolding before me, the charged expectation of change.”

― Christina Baker Kline, The Way Life Should Be: A Novel

Those who know me well know I will probably never read the book since I have many unread (un-listened to?) books and unused credits on Audible, but these quotes hit home. As my days have blended together I have felt both desperate for certainty and bored by it beyond measure. It’s an interesting and frustrating dichotomy. I realized yesterday I needed to shake something up.

One thing that is on fire in my life right now is my running. I am pounding out the miles and feel so strong and trained. I am able to spend 2 long runs on trails on the weekends which is building my strength and confidence and helping me grow into a really strong long-distance runner. 

I decided to get up early today, drive to my favorite running spot and throw down some mid-week trail miles. This is very unusual for me and it felt like a really special treat. This last quote seems to positively accompany this photo I took today as the sun was rising over what has become one of my very favorite places to visit. 

“... I am halfway between two worlds, the known and the unknown. I feel as transparent as the wind, as if my spirit is hovering in the sky, waiting to land. I am driving toward a future I can't see, leaving behind a past that already feels distant. Nothing is clear - and yet the trees are sharp against the sky; I can see the hard outlines of everything.” ~ Christina Baker Kline

Cheers friends to accepting things as they are, while holding out hope they will soon return to the way we think they *should* be.

The Space Between

About 10 years ago, when BBZ was a baby and blogging was huge, I read a post somewhere called “The Space Between”. The writer was a young mom who described this space as the space between the mother she was, and the mother she wanted to be. She talked about wanting to be the mom that encourages her children to take risks. The mom who knows life is short and the one who wants them to experience all that life has to offer. Meanwhile, the mom she felt she was wanted nothing more than to wrap them up in bubble wrap and protect them from the world we adults know is far from ideal. At the end of her post she wrote something along the lines of, "because the pain of living in a world that once knew them but they then left would be too much pain to bear."

My friend’s 7-year-old son died 5 days ago. He was healthy, then he wasn’t, and then he died. A sore knee and a bad headache was soon diagnosed as cancer soaring through his little body, ultimately causing multiple strokes from which he could not recover. Just like that. He died. Just like every mother I know has envisioned and prayed against since that precious baby was placed in their arms. There isn’t a mother in the world who hasn’t envisioned their child being taken away from them. It is a primal instinct to do everything in our power to protect our children, and we can only do this with the realization that they could be taken away at anytime. 

I had lunch with a social worker colleague recently who has spent her entire career in the field of grief and loss. She shared with me that when she is not teaching at a nearby university, she runs group and individual counseling for mothers who have lost a child. When she said this I immediately balked with the feeling that “I could never do that”. Familiar with this reaction she says to me, “I can do this work because I have a worldview that says short lives have a purpose in this world. My worldview believes that young and little souls have a place here, just as old souls do”.

A worldview. We all have our own way we see the world. Her worldview supports this idea of souls leaving this earth earlier than most foresee, so she is then able to support others who are struggling with how their world has been completely undone. This is not a worldview that many hold, yet it exists in her so she is able to support others. I find such beauty in this.

The space between. As I have been writing this post in my head I have really been exploring this idea. Do you know what is in that space? Do you know what lives in that space between who we are and who we want to be?

Fear.

It's fear that takes up that space. I have been trying my hardest lately to embrace my fear, be energized by it and to run toward whatever scares me. It has lead to some really incredible things in my life recently.

I ran on a trail at night for the first time and discovered the exhilaration of running through dark trails with a headlamp and a new found child-like energy. I was scared of night running and wanted to see myself as brave and strong and able to complete night races sometime in the future. The only thing standing in that space was fear. Dealing with a knee injury dating back to October, I completely backed off running and have been going to the gym and even working with a trainer. I wanted to gain upper body and core strength but the gym seemed unfamiliar and scary. For years I have wanted to strengthen my muscles in the gym, yet my fear stopped me.

The space between the person I am and the person I want to be is full of fear.

There are so many things I hope to be. Yet the fear that lives in this space often seems bigger than what I can face. I want to be an exceptional wife who can love and be loved freely, I want to feel in control and caught up with all of my tasks at work, I want to be vulnerable and brave and adventurous in this life, I want to be a good friend, and I want to love myself with all of my many imperfections. Some of the fears living in the space surrounding these hopes will take a lot of hard work. Harder then showing up to a gym or a dark trail, anyway. Some of the fears living in these spaces run deeper than I even realize.

Experiencing this season of life with my friend is heart wrenching. I am fighting with myself to continue to fully experience joy as I am watching as someone I care about copes with one of the biggest fears a mom has - the loss of their child. I want to be the mom who doesn't waste a minute fearing the future, one who stays present and fully experiences each moment with them. Right now though, I am distracted by thoughts of how it would feel knowing they would not make it to the next grade, or of not being able to wash their hair in the bath again, or of walking through the child's section at the store knowing I no longer need to buy their size. These are all fears I have thought about as I envisioned what my friend will experience. The fear held in this space is so strong. 

Yet as parents we take on this role knowing that at any moment, our lives can be interrupted by tragedy. We willingly face the fear of bringing children into this world knowing the risks life ultimately brings. Yet we do it. We face our fear each day we send them into the world without the bubble wrap, with a zest for adventure and a desire for them to face their world without fear. We teach what we know, whether we mean to or not. If I want my boys to be willing to test the space between who they are and who they want to be, I need to approach them without fear. With the realization that if they are meant to be taken before I am ready, that it is the way my story is meant to be written.

We do our best to show up. We face our fears and try to teach our children well, with the plan to release them into the big bad world. If we're lucky, we challenge ourselves to test our own fears and eliminate the space between the person we are, and the person we hope to be.

Unfortunately, I have been to more funerals than I can count. When someone in my life dies, I am made to be face to face with how fleeting life really is. I see the world differently. It is now, in this delicate time where the truth about this precious life is so raw that I can explore some really hard questions...

What do I want?

What do I need to do to get there?

What fear is living in the space between where I am and that place I want to be?

Life really is short, and we don't have time for fear to stop us from being the person we are meant to be. To ourselves and to our children. Thanks for reading, friends.

P.S. Did anyone else sing "The Space Between" song by DMB during some of this post?? I sure did :)

Delilah Jones Z 10/9/2004~6/14/2018

After just over a week, I am finally ready to write about my sweet Delilah-girl.

When she was a puppy, she was hit by a car. She required a surgery that removed part of her hip joint, with the plan that the scar tissue would create a false hip that would serve her well. With this also came the reality that she would likely have severe arthritis as she aged both from being a large breed dog and from her accident. I suppose we were somewhat prepared then for what her aging included.

Scrolling through Instagram yesterday I found a photo of her on the couch from April 1, 2018. It is probably safe to say that this may have been the last time she was actually on one of the couches. She had been falling a lot, and it was right before our spring break trip to Orlando that she actually had trouble walking. I remember being afraid to leave her with N’s parents since she was so unstable. They were more than happy to take her though so we could go on our trip. By the time we made it home, she was much better. Still falling, but not as often.

During May and June, N was the one who cared for her the most. She was unsteady walking, but seemed less stiff when she did walk, so he always took her and supported her for the walk. It was when he went out of town during the week of May 24th that I realized just how much he was doing for her. She was tilting her head and seemed extremely dizzy. I was concerned and took her to the vet expecting the worst.

The vet did a thorough neurological exam that came back normal. Then she did some x-rays to rule out cancer, which they did. I shared that I wasn’t sure what was typical aging for a dog since I had not had a senior dog before. The vet said with some hesitation “while I don’t think we are there yet, have you thought about end of life plans for her?”

I was taken back because I actually did think we were there. She was falling all the time, had to lean on walls to walk and was barely able to go outside to the bathroom. If the vet wasn’t able to give me a treatment plan, what was the plan?

I left the office feeling uneasy about the next steps. Delilah would barely walk at all for me, and I had to heavily encourage her to drink water. She stopped eating her food completely, so I gave her hotdogs and other table food. N came home the next day and we just couldn’t figure out what to do. While on a run, which really is when I do my best brainstorming, I realized the vet couldn’t get a great look in her left ear to rule out the ear infection. She said it was unlikely because her head would be tilting to the other side, but I knew we had some antibiotics so I gave it a shot and wow did it make a difference!

Something made a difference anyway. She could go with N on a walk again, so that was at least something. We were almost out of the pills, so I called the vet’s office on May 24th and told then what was going on. The vet again said the ear infection was unlikely, but if we wanted to treat it there was a better antibiotic that wanted us to use. Another trip to the vet later and we had more pills and more hope for the best.

Unfortunately that hope didn’t last long. She continued to get worse, barely able to go outside and to use the bathroom. She wouldn’t drink anything but chicken broth and even that I had to help her do. She was full of so much spirit and life. She wanted to be with us and wagged her tail like crazy when she saw us, but her poor little body was just done.

Once we decided that we needed to make plans for the end of her life, I made some calls. First to her vet to see about taking her there, next to a vet that a dear friend recommended who would come to the house so as not to disrupt Delilah’s day. We decided we wanted to have the vet come to the house, so I scheduled the visit for the upcoming Thursday, June 14. It was one of the hardest phone calls I’ve ever had to make.

Wednesday night we took her on one last walk in the wagon since she really couldn’t walk at all by then. She wagged her tail and seemed as happy as she could be considering. Thursday the boys went to camp (we gave them the option to stay home but they wanted to go to camp) and N and I took turns laying on the floor with her and petting her throughout the day. We joked that she probably wondered why the heck we were bothering her so much! She usually has the house to herself, after all.

When the vet got there she was very soft spoken and kind. She noted that Delilah didn’t get up to greet her, but banged her tail on the floor in excitement to see a visitor. John Denver was playing in the background and the vet noted what a nice send-off his music is. I sat on the floor and Delilah’s nose was pressed against my leg. She was calm and curious about what the vet was doing. The vet had to shave a bit of hair off of her leg, which Delilah was curious about, but didn’t make a fuss over. She nuzzled into my leg and with a lot of tears and beautiful music in the background, she took her last breaths while in my arms.

As much as I thought I was prepared to let her go, nothing could have prepared me for the loss I felt as I saw her body in the absence of her spirit. The reality that I would never see her again set in, as did the intense grief. I went through this with both of my cats in the last 10 years, but this somehow was different. Delilah was different. Delilah and I were different. And now she is gone.

Grief is such an interesting process. It is very personal, and for me it has been coming in waves. I could barely be at home for the first few days without breaking down, then once work started this past Monday I was busy and distracted. Then Wednesday I picked up her ashes from the crematory and the grief came pouring back. It comes down to the fact that I just miss her so much.

But even with as much as I miss her, I am ever so grateful that I was able to spend nearly her entire life with her. She was only 13 weeks old when she joined our family, and what a gift it was to share her life with her, and to hold her while she departed this earth. It was an honor and a privilege to care for her throughout her whole life, and particularly during these last few weeks when she relied on us in a way she never had before. She taught me what it means to love an animal, and what it feels like to be loved with no expectations for return. While we are in no rush to get another pet, being with her throughout her life and now experiencing the intense loss in her absence, I know we will have space in our hearts and in our home for another animal sometime soon.

Rest easy, sweet girl. I love you so.

Three Reasons this non-believer loved a book about the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

I have mentioned that I am not much of a reader. I have read only a handful of books from cover to cover in my 37 years, 2 of which were in the last year. So that's huge. I have officially read three books in one year. Crazy.

So anyway, as a person who doesn't read much, When I do choose a book, it tends to really resonate with me and make a mark in my psyche. Otherwise, I simply don't get past the first 2 or so chapters. When the book The Shack first hit the theaters, the trailer was captivating. I looked into the book immediately, and realized it was about god and religion and I didn't even consider reading it. I figured I might see the movie eventually.

Then, a friend who is a strong believer posted something to Facebook stating that the book is not religious and was a great read. I figured if she says it's not religious, she would know, for sure. So I ordered it on Amazon and figured I'd give it a shot.

About half way through I started to regret my decision to read it. You see, I feel uncomfortable even hearing about the stories of Jesus, so choosing to hear his name in this book and hear the stories I have generally not believed was uncomfortable for me. But I pushed on. I really felt that this book sort of chose me, as did the others I have read this year.

So I pushed on, and finished it last night. This book was really, really good. I can't stop thinking about the impact this book has had on me since I began to read it. I have identified three reasons that this book may have changed the way I parent, the way I connect with my spirituality and the way I interact with others.

#1 It validated the reason I became a non believer in the first place.

During my early years in high school, a classmate died in a horrific accident in a car that another classmate was driving. The driver survived, and the story of this tragic accident haunted many of us young folks trying to make sense of it.

It was around this time that I began to explore the ideas of religion on my own, apart from the very infrequent trips to church as a young child, combined with my father's very clear non-belief. I went with my boyfriend at the time to a small church group that was comprised of other students of my school.

I listened to them describe the way they understood Jesus and his life and how it affected the way they live. At one point, it was clear that they believed, as I had already heard, that people who do not accept Jesus as their lord and savior would be punished by an eternity of hell. I asked, point blank, if this meant my friend, who had died so tragically, was burning in hell and they replied, yes.

This was it for me. Never would I love or find peace in a god that punished my friend for anything. I am a bit stubborn, and this was the end of any type of religion, or even talk of Jesus in a positive way for me. While I have found peace in Buddhist practices, nature, and spirituality, a positive idea of Jesus could never be redeemed for me, or so I thought.

In this story, a man has conversations with Jesus, god and the holy spirit in 3 different, yet connected forms. During his conversations with them, they explain the this belief that god (and therefore Jesus and the spirit) as a punishing god is an untrue story created by humans in an attempt to control that which is out of our control.

I will not go into how this conversation goes in the book, but for the first time in my life, I see a god portrayed in a way that shows love for all people. This is a god that for years I have seen in nature, in my children's eyes, and in the beautiful love I feel when connected to my husband. This was not a concept that was new to me, but this book tied this belief that I already have, with Jesus and the teachings surrounding him. I do not know that I believe in Jesus any more than I did before, but I do see how others' belief in him in this way can give them the peace that I feel when I am with what I consider god.

#2 It addresses the biggest fear that I, and many other parents, hold so close to our hearts. The potential loss of our child(ren).

This story is about loss. The death of an innocent child at the hands of the deepest violence that exists in this world, and the fear we as parents carry about this exact scenario playing out in our own life and in the life of our child(ren).

I am terrified that something awful will happen to my children. So much so, that I try to control anything terrible from happening by worry, fear, and any possible chance of being able to keep this from happening. This has negatively affected my life in many ways.

This story puts it all out there. The fear, the worry, the pain of losing an innocent child to violence. It brings it right up to the uncomfortable surface and forces the reader to acknowledge it. It is difficult to explain how this happened for me by reading this book, but reading this story helped me realize that my life is simply my story. The boys each have their own story, as well.

I have written my boys story to include a long life. Great success and health. Perhaps a family of their own one day. No where in their story that I have written, is their death. Well, maybe there is, but it is long after I am gone and they are asleep peacefully in their old age after a long and fulfilling life. The fear I hold, is that this story may not play out as I have written it.

But what I have come to understand, is that I truly have no control over that. While I hope that my story goes a certain way, and that my boys story goes a certain way, and that my parents have as story for me that they hope goes a certain way, the truth is we have no control over our story. When I die, that will become part of my loved ones' story. If something would happen to someone I love, that would be part of my story as well.

This is not unlike other teachings I have read on the Buddhist ideas of life, or even in other books about letting go of control and trusting in fate, or the stars, or the universe or whatever other way we wish to assign words to this feeling of peace over being able to handle anything that occurs in this life. The way this was delivered in the book was extremely powerful for me, and I feel peace over this huge fear that I have carried for years after reading this book.

#3 It emphasizes connection, vulnerability, and the way in which we all could be interacting with each other.

My word for this year is vulnerability. I have been paying very close attention to how I interact with others. Not only those closest to me, but also others in my circle of the world. I have been very impatient, judgmental, and basically kind of crabby off and on for the last few weeks, but I am starting let some of that go.

I read a few other things while reading this book that also helped me see how I react to what others do, so this third reason may have been a combination of those readings, but again this story just captured the potential for connection that is there for us humans. The book talked about god's original plan for humans, our choice for independence and free will, and how this changed everything for all of us on Earth.

While I am not totally on board with all of that, it's important for me to emphasize that my interpretation of how religion works has always included fierce and merciless judgement, holier than thou, and rules rules rules that separated those who worship god from those who do not. This is not how this concept was addressed in this book. This concept was shown as an underlying love and potential for connection that all of us have deep in our being. It talked about how carrying Jesus in your heart can accomplish this, which isn't the way in which I think this can happen, but for the first time in my life, I have an understanding of how OTHER PEOPLE may be using this concept to find connection and love with and within others.

This concept is huge for me. I have spent most of my life feeling judged by the very idea of Jesus and god, and that my beliefs and spirituality were from a different perspective. This story helped me understand how people who believe and follow the teachings of Jesus, as they were meant to be taught with love and kindness and genuine connection vs. fear and punishment and damnation has resonated with me in a way that I am trying to communicate, but is likely falling short.

***

This book, like many that I choose, or that choose me, has made a difference in how I view my little corner of the world. While I am sure my struggle with vulnerability, connection and the fear of something happening to my loved ones will persist, the feeling of peace that I have now is almost in a little compartment, and when I begin to feel a certain way, I can quickly access it and rationalize where I am, and bring myself back to this place of peace and security in myself, and in my future.

I have one story that I'd like to tell, that was buried within me for years but brought to the surface when I was reading this book.

When I was a sophomore in college, I had become fairly depressed. I spent a lot of time in my dorm room alone, as my roommate had moved in with her boyfriend. I was single for the first time since early high school, and was confused about who I was and where my life was going.

On one particularly difficult day, I literally could not get out of bed. I laid there, crying, and said out loud "why am I so sad? What is wrong with me? I need help, somebody please help me".

Almost instantly, I felt a release. I sat up, and felt an incredible sense of peace. I had an idea to go get a haircut, so I got up, I got dressed, and I went to get that haircut. Never again did I experience that type of depressive state.

I tell this story because I always felt that something bigger than me helped me during that time in my life. I have never felt worthy of god's help, as I have spent most of my life adamantly not believing, but I wonder. Whatever it was, it was a turning point in my life that I will revisit, and show gratefulness for often.

Next up? to see the film version of The Shack. Hopefully the screen will do it justice.

Bill Z 6/2003 - 5/2016

On 5/7/16, I made the very difficult decision to put my cat, Bill, to sleep.

I adopted Bill in August of 2003 from a coworker. I later learned that he was likely taken from his mother much too soon. I actually thought he was a girl and named him Lilly! It didn’t take long to realize my mistake.

The movie Kill Bill came out not long after the adoption, and it became the joke because he was such an asshole. Seriously. I thought maybe it was just that he was being compared to the best cat on the face of the earth (Cat V, RIP), but as time went on and I got to know him more, I think he was just a jerk.

He had what we have now labeled as Irritable Bowel Disease (IBD). So perhaps he was just sick and not an asshole. It is still unknown for sure. He often had bowels outside of the litter box. I usually could figure out what was wrong and fix it – new litter, a new box with a clean scent, etc. I took him to the vet every few years starting in 2006 trying to figure out what was going on. They typically treated it as behavioral and made me feel as though I wasn’t doing enough for him. I had one vet tell me to put the litter box(es) in the main area of the living space. When I explained I had a toddler and that wouldn’t work, she acted as though I wasn’t doing enough to arrange my life around the cat. She kind of sucked a little bit.

Around 2014 when I finally realized this could be health related, I searched online and found some information about food and food allergies in cats. I tried a different food and for the first time in as long as I could remember, he had solid BMs. It was like a miracle.

It didn’t last long though. Sometime in 2015 I went back to the vet and saw the male doctor who treats my dog. He looked at the long history of bowel trouble and said some of the most validating words I have ever heard “wow, you have been dealing with this longer than most people would have”. This was when I began to see him as needing more medical care, and less like I was doing something wrong or not enough to discourage the behavior.

That doctor put him on some special low allergen (i.e. expensive!) food, and a steroid, which helped at first. When things were good, they were good. When they weren’t, Bill had to stay in the basement where his 2 litter boxes and food were. I would periodically let him spend time upstairs, and eventually he would pee or poop somewhere and would have to go back downstairs.

In December of this past year, when that last doctor retired, I worked with another doctor in the same office and we decided to go a route we hadn’t gone before – treating this as anxiety. He gave me 2 medicines to try. When we got home from the appointment, Bill was like a new cat. He had solid(ish) BMs, he was friendly, and he stayed upstairs with us and was like having our healthier Bill back. I didn’t try the medication.

That lasted about 3-4 weeks, then things turned south again. This was sometime in January. I tried the meds but he wouldn’t take one at all, and the other I had to hold him down to give, and he threw it up anyway. Over the new few months I would try less and less to reintroduce him to our living space.

About 2 weeks ago, I brought him upstairs and blocked off the majority of the house so he couldn’t access it. It was a great day full of snuggles and hanging out with Bill. I tried to let him stay upstairs overnight, but as I started to fall asleep I heard a loud and explosive poo at the end of our bed. That’s when I realized this was not at all behavioral. This was complete incontinence of bowel, and out of his control.

So I called and made the appointment with the vet for 5/7, prepared to have the conversation about the next steps for being unable to continue to care for him.

When I went into the appointment and described the symptoms, as well as what I had tried, I said that words I was so afraid to say when it came to Bill “I don’t think I can take care of him anymore.”

The vet was so supportive. He validated everything I have done and said no one could have taken care of him as long as I did. I’m not really sure what I expected when I left the house on Saturday. Maybe that they would suggest a shelter for cats like him, or maybe want to observe him for a few days. But none of that happened. They just brought the form for me to sign and started the process. They asked if I intended to stay and where I wanted to do it. I did want to stay, and I chose the “quiet room” which is where I held Cat when it was his time. I wanted him to be in the same place Cat was, for some reason.

I had some time with him before they did anything, so I just snuggled him. I noticed that his ears weren't red. Whenever he was stressed, his typically pinkish white ears and nose would become bright red. They were red when we got to the office, but when we were in the quiet room they were not.

I cried a lot. I held his little body as they injected a muscle relaxer and he became limp, but I could see his little chest rising and falling. I told him I loved him, and that I hoped he felt loved and that I was sorry. The doc came back in and gave him the medicine that made his heart stop. I found myself smiling when he was taking his last breath. I was so happy to be with him during this time in his life, which I felt was as beautiful as any other part of life. The doc said he was gone and left me to stay as long as I liked.

Once he was gone I didn’t feel a need to stay. I knew it wasn’t him anymore. So I covered him up with the towel he was laying on, kissed him and walked out.

I told a friend today that I didn’t know why I was taking it so hard. He was an asshole after all, and at times I didn’t even really like him that much. Her response was that sometimes assholes need the most love. I definitely think that’s true.

This is also the first time in at least 16 years that I have not had a cat. Before then my parents always had cats. I didn’t buy cat litter at the store yesterday. I didn’t have to feed him this morning or make sure he was ok in the basement. It’s a huge difference to suddenly not have to do something I’ve done daily for most of my life.

BBZ wants another cat. I think I need a break for a while. I made N promise to stop me if I ever suggested getting another cat. It’s hard to risk it without knowing what kind of cat we’d get. Although the boys have a pretty limited view of what it’s like to have a cat since Bill is all they knew. Either way, it will be a while.

I'm slowly getting adjusted to a cat free house. I wonder if Delilah even notices he is gone. She has her own health issues going on, but I wonder if she realizes. Animals do seem to have a sense about such things.

RIP Bill, I will miss you and your sweet little face.

I hope these two are chilling together once again.

"The results of your screening are benign."

The topic of cancer is not unfamiliar in my family. 10 years ago, less than 1 month before my wedding, my mom’s biopsy results showed positive for breast cancer. She had surgery following the wedding and the full course of chemo that is the recommended treatment. Then on 2/29/16, my very first day at my new job, she again received news that the results of her biopsy, this time taken from the inside of her uterus, was indeed cancer.

So when my doctor followed up with me in mid-March because of “abnormal glandular cells” found on my pap, with a recommendation of a colposcopy (where the doctor takes a super close look at the cervix) and a possible endometrial biopsy, the reality that this could be cancer was as real as my mother’s positive diagnosis.

The follow-up appointment was one day before my mother’s full hysterectomy.  Feeling the need to allow her to focus on staying positive through her surgery, as well as the healing that followed, I did not tell her about the abnormal results of my pap. It wasn’t until after she returned home and received her own best case scenario news that I felt okay about sharing my situation.

It was a Monday, and I scheduled the appointment as early as I could to avoid using any sick time at my still brand new job. I had to meet a coworker at a work site at 10am, so I hoped this would be enough time. I failed to review the process for this procedure, and ended up experiencing tremendous pain and a lot of bleeding. I left the office feeling defeated, and terrified.

I’m not sure how we do it. How we put on a face for the world while carrying around so much inner anguish. I found myself wondering who else was going through the motions of the day, yet struggling inside to do so. I felt strangely connected to others, even though I hid what I was experiencing both physically and emotionally from all of those around me. “We’ll get the results in about a week” is all he said as he rushed out the door. My OBGYN is very popular in the birthing world in my town as a sought-after OB with a natural mind and a support for minimal interventions during the birthing process. Even though he didn’t make it to LBZ’s birth since he was born so fast, my doc would have allowed me to go 42 weeks and 5 days before insisting on induction, so for that, he was a great doctor. As a GYN, he is smart and dedicated, yet lacks in the compassion department. This is why I always go to the nurse practitioners. Which is fine as long as things are “normal”.

The next week moved by slower than I could have imagined. Each day was different. I have very real times in my life when I was aware of how long I was waiting for news. Going past my due dates with my boys, waiting for job offers, and now, waiting to find out whether or not I had cancer.

As with the way all time passes, thinking about this past week feels like it flew by, but this upcoming week seems like it will last forever. This was also the case for the long week I waited for the results.

As many in our world do, I know a few people who have been through cancer. I frequently thought of them as I waited for my results. I didn’t have a sense of what the results would be. I would play out each scenario and wonder what would happen in each. I wrote the story of lots of scenarios. My job is brand new, they don’t owe me anything. I could lose my job, my health insurance, and could N’s pick me up or would I be denied for a pre-existing condition? What if I had mountains of medical bills. I have seen firsthand what happens to families when their insurance or other circumstances fail them. It happens. To real people just like me. I am not special or unique. I'm just another person in the world who could easily be touched by cancer.

I imagined going through treatment. Having to have surgery and being unable to pick up my children. What if I had to go through chemo? My body would be wrecked. It was in this daydream that I discovered that I am not afraid of death. Truly, I am not. I had a dream once where I died. I was shot in the head, which one would think would be brutal and tragic, and perhaps the story surrounding the gunshot was, but that is not what I remember. I remember hearing the shot, falling backwards, feeling the blood dripping down my face and seeing the person who shot me looking over me. I did not feel afraid. If anything, I felt as at peace as I am when in nature or staring into the sky.

As I awaited my results of the biopsy I realized I was not afraid of death, I was afraid of what I would have to do to my body to avoid dying.

I know people do it, and they survive and fight the cancer and go on to lead long and beautiful lives. I saw my mom do it. I didn’t want that for me, just like I don’t want it for anyone in this world. I am not special. It could as easily happen to me as to anyone else. And I was afraid of that story for myself.

I spend many of my lunch breaks walking in a nearby park in order to get fresh air and some steps in for the day. My job is quite more sedentary than my old job. I used that time during the week of waiting to relax and trust in the breeze that blew my hair, or the smile someone gave me as I passed, as a clue that I would be able to handle whatever came my way. There is something beautiful and terrifying that happens when one is faced with the possibility of a cancer diagnosis. While the waiting is long, when the news is positive, I am left with a distinct remembrance of the direction my path could have gone.

For a few months now I have been planning a huge race. It was to be my first step into the world of ultra-running, which is just long distance adventure running on trails. I told myself that no matter what the results were, I was healthy and strong and could complete the race. Well I did run it this past weekend, and it was incredible. I ran better that I ever have. I felt strong and healthy and like I had nothing to lose. I had full faith in the health of my body to run this really hard course.

I can’t help but wonder how I would have ran it if the results of the biopsy had been positive for cancer. Nothing would have been different inside me besides the knowledge, as there are often no symptoms of reproductive cancer. I wonder…

So while I still have some follow-up doctor visits to do since these abnormal cells came from somewhere, the world seems a little brighter this week. The air is a little sweeter. I have a little more patience with my boys, and I feel stronger and like I can take on anything. At the very least, I have a very heightened awareness of how sweet it is to be healthy and alive in this beautiful world.

“Life is a drama full of tragedy and comedy. You should learn to enjoy the comic episodes a little more.” ~ Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

Until we meet again.

I went to a funeral today.

She and I were inseparable when we were in middle school. The typical BFFs. We had sleepovers, talked on the phone for hours on end, and were each other's world. A long time ago. 

She was a drug addict. 

I remember when we began to drift apart. We all enjoyed alcohol, even as young as we were (sorry m&d), but that wasn't enough and soon she was snorting powders, and I began to move away from her and her drug use. 

I never judged her. I almost always felt sorry for her, and wished things would be different, but judge her I never did. I never saw her as different than me. Sure she made different choices, but her opportunities were limited in many ways, and she was choosing to live her life differently than me.

I randomly stopped by her house a few times and found her still using, as in snorting meth while getting ready was a typical part of her morning routine. 

She would call me when she was doing well. I remember a call once when she had a great job. She bought a nice car and her own condo. She was so proud of herself, and I was really happy for her. Looking back now I think she was trying to prove she was going to be ok. I honestly thought that somehow she would be.

Our last conversation was through text about 18 months ago.  I only know that because her daughter was 6 months at the time, and she is now almost two.  My friend wondered if my number was the same, and it was.  We talked about parenthood and how she was feeling.  I wanted to meet up with her, but I hesitated.  Admittedly, I was afraid of inviting her into my world.  I can't really pinpoint what I was afraid of, but I have wondered since I found out she died if there is something I could have done in that moment.

When we were 12 years old, another friend and I snuck out of my house and some boys she knew drove us to her house. It was after midnight and her mom knew we were there. We didn't cause too much trouble and eventually the boys took me and my other friend home. 

I had a pager back then, and it started blowing up with my home phone number. I knew my parents found us missing and were frantically looking for us. Being a parent now, it must have been terrifying. I remember once we got home and my parents said what they needed to say to make me see the wrong I had done, my father wrapped his arms around me in a way I'll never forget. Again, being a parent now I understand. I'm guessing that he imagined the worst possible outcome to us missing, and in the midst of his anger at and disappointment in me - was love. Absolutely irrefutable love for me.

My parents loved me so much, they locked me in. I was grounded for the rest of the summer, which was at least two months. 

I had my fair share of trouble making after that, but that summer was a turning point for me. As much as I didn't want to admit it then, I really did learn something, and I truly believe that it changed the course of my life.  My friend, however, did not have the same experience.

My friend's mom was an alcoholic. When we were kids, the kitchen cabinet that held the liquor had written in red nail polish "we hate you when you drink". And yet, drink she did. Her mom was a bar tender, and I remember her coming home after work and getting us up out of bed during a sleepover. She'd be talking strangely and apologizing for the death of her baby brother, who died when she was 6 or 7 from a heart condition he had since birth. Her mother blamed herself for his death. 

When I heard about my friend's death, I wasn't really surprised, and I wasn't even sad. I was sort of...numb. The sadness has come since then, as the reality sets in that I will never see her again. That I will never have a random Sunday lunch where we will catch up and share stories of parenting. She will never see her daughter grow. She will forever be known as a drug addict, and people will say what a sad thing it was that happened to her. 

I will not miss her everyday, as it had been years since I last saw her. I will not miss her as a best friend, which we once were, but it was many years ago.  I will miss what could have been, if things could have been different for her, and for us. And hope that they will be different for so many others out there like her. 

I'm sad that she is dead. I wish she could have done something different. I wish there was something I could have done, or could do now. I explained to my boys tonight that my friend died from taking drugs. They are almost 6 and almost 3 and wondered why I was sad. As always, I was honest with them about my pain.

I gave LBZ a bath tonight, and I began to cry.  Concerned, he asked what was wrong.  I told him that I was very sad.  That I missed my friend very much, that I would never see her again, and that made me sad.  He said "well me and daddy and BBZ are here".  What comfort they give me today, and always.

I posted this on my Facebook page today:

“Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives. Such striving may seem admirable, but it is the way of foolishness. Help them instead to find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life. Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples and pears. Show them how to cry when pets and people die. Show them the infinite pleasure in the touch of a hand. And make the ordinary come alive for them. The extraordinary will take care of itself.” ~William Martin

Substance abuse is an escape.  A dissatisfaction with the way things are, to the point of altering reality in a way many of us can never truly understand.  If there is anything I hope to teach my boys, and myself for that matter, is to accept life the way it is, and to find peace and happiness in the here and now.  To stay present, and to rejoice in the simplicity of the ordinary.

Life is full of sadness.  It is full of uncertainty, darkness and pain.  The local news is difficult to watch and digest, and escaping it can be so incredibly hard.  I visited her dark world today.  I got a very small glimpse into what life may have been like for her.  It felt like a dark place of mistrust, substance abuse, child endangerment, family courts, alcoholism and just...darkness.  Yet, at the end of the funeral, I emerged, and reentered my life of success, positivity and light.  But my friend, she never had that out.  She was buried in darkness.  It is all she ever knew in her adult life.

Finally, old friend, you are at peace.  Rest there, dear friend.

Until we meet again.