A Letter to Jack

 

Jack and his mom, Angie Ricketts

Dear Jack,

I’ve been wanting to write you for some time now. In that strange phenomenon of life in the 21^st century, I have come to know both you and your mother electronically. That is to say, while my husband knew your mom in-person, I have come to know her, and consequently you, through social media. I connected with your mother’s irreverence, straight-forwardness, and willingness to hang it all out there in a “what-the-hell, you only live once, loosen up your collar and share a shot with me,” perspective on the world.

My relationship with you (can I call it that?) has taken longer to develop. At first, you were merely ancillary – the handsome son about to graduate high school who graphically got some teeth severed from his jaw in a soccer match. Then, slowly, more of you began to emerge. The creative, intelligent boy who made a wonderfully entertaining and humorous mock ISIS recruitment video for a high school class. A couple months back (it seems like several years ago) you stole center stage, though, with the discovery of that bastard Homer who’d somehow made a nest in the core of your brain. For those of you who think I might be in Colorado smoking a little legal weed, Homer is the moniker Angie (Jack’s mom) gave to the brain tumor that had secretly been waging a life-long war on Jack. Your dream of continuing the family warrior tradition of fighting for your country’s ideals, was suddenly sidelined. Instead, you had been knighted to fight the dragon inside of you, in a strange Eastern medieval fashion.

You did not realize it, I’m not even sure I did, but that day you and I were connected. I’m not sure why, but the date of your battle became lodged in my head – even overriding my own life issues, like my husband’s absence and my children’s looming trip to Alaska. When Jim called to check in the day of your surgery, around midmorning, from a Forest Service cabin on Hebgen Lake, I said, “Jack’s been in surgery now for at least four hours, still no update from Angie.” I’d misunderstood that you were going in at 6:30 a.m. on May 18^th. Jim, who was in his “I’m fishing” mode, paused, and had to do a mental shift before he could respond and reassure me. Clearly, the anxiety in my tone surprised him. We’d both talked about your surgery, and Jim was aware of it, but I didn’t really “know” Angie, I’d never met her and I’d never met you – why the level of concern? For some reason, I just felt a deep emotional connection with both you and your mom. I knew that both of you needed to feel connected to something stronger than yourselves, a force of love that was like a wall of soldiers standing ready behind you.

It was weird, Jack, and an entirely new use of social media that gave me a healthy respect for it as a new kind of support tool. Sure, I’d seen other postings about folks with health issues, etc., but none of them reached me like yours. Maybe it’s because your mom’s a writer I connect with, maybe it’s my own traumatic brain injury that I survived, maybe it’s because I’ve always had an affinity for the name Jack, or maybe it’s just because I’m a mom. Regardless, I stalked your mom’s Facebook page relentlessly that day and the following for updates – any sign that you’d fought Homer and won. Thankfully, your mom seemed to know that myself and many others needed updates from the battlefield, and she kept us well-informed. But, the immediate good news was followed by the realities of the inevitable side-effects of brain surgery. That night, the first, when your mom shared with us your degraded condition, I cried for you and for her. My children comforted me and as I told them about you, they too came to know Jack.

The next day, when I picked the children up from school, my 13-year-old daughter got in the car and the first thing she said was, “How’s Jack?” If you’ve had teenagers then you realize how amazing that is, given their entirely selfish natures. I thanked her for asking and then reassured her that although you’d slain the dragon, the injuries you’d received in the fight would take time to heal. That evening, as I was patiently waiting for a final update from your mom, the video came. That dancing Brain Surgery Boogie video. And, Jack, with that video I came to know all that is you. Your spirit was trying to tell your mom, and all of us, to have no fear you were celebrating the win. But, juxtaposed with that video was the comment from your school psychologist about two suicides in your school that week. Which made your video even more poignant. You chose to fight Jack. You stood and fought for your life and here you are, waiting for your body to catch up to your heart and spirit.

My message to you today is simple Jack. Be patient. Give your body time. Let it heal. The best advice I got after my Carotid Artery Dissection was from a nurse friend of mine who said, “Your body is running a marathon every day trying to heal. Listen to your body.” She told me this because I was so frustrated at what I couldn’t do. Before my dissection, I was cycling 100-mile weeks, running, and more. I’d never had my body fail me before. But, suddenly, it was like someone turning off a light switch. I’d announce, “I have to go to bed,” and I’d have all I could do to make it up the flight of stairs and onto my bed. My body took charge of me and that was a frightening feeling. What I’m telling you is to listen to your body. Don’t push too hard too soon. You are going to be back before you know it, but time has a new elasticity when it comes to healing. You need to take the long view and celebrate every moment that you are Homer-free, even if it is going to temporarily reroute you.

Thank you for reminding all of us that life is worth living and worth fighting for Jack. You are an amazing young man and I feel very proud to know you, even if it’s in this weird 21^st century kind of way. One of these days, I’m going to get in the car and drive down to Colorado Springs, just to shake your hand. Men can spend 20-years in the military and never see combat like you have. Be proud, be patient, be strong, and most of all, keep dancing.

Much love to you from Montana.

Andre Zollars

 

 

Piece-by-Piece

Car ripe with the smell of freshly run damp, muddy dogs, I crawl in and peel off the layers that protected me from the early morning Montana chill. As I back up, Elllie-May, my Beagle, crawls on my lap and I switch on the radio. Usually dialed into the teen’s top-40, it’s become more background noise then something I focus on. But, today I switched stations until one caught my ear. Shaking off a chill, I glanced over at the Bison standing forlornly in too small of a pen, overshadowed by the freshly dusted Snowies and head towards home.

As music is meant to do, Kelly Clarkson’s song penetrated a place I never knew existed in my memory, snippets of the song stuck and evoked a deep sadness I hadn’t felt in a very long time: “Piece by piece he collected me up off the ground where you abandoned me…He filled the holes that you burned in me. He never walks away, he takes care of me… Piece by piece he restores my faith that a man can be kind and a man can stay.”

Etched forever in my mind is that dark, misty coastal night. The lights of the ferry lit the wet dock and I had the car running to keep the babies, 1 and 3-years-old, warm. I tried to bury my emotions as deep inside of me as I could dig in order to answer their incessant questions without revealing the absolute terror of the unknown that gripped my heart: “Where are we going, mom?” “Why isn’t dad coming with us?” “How long is the ferry ride?” “Where will Bella (our Lab) go potty on the ferry?”

In Clarkson’s song, her man leaves her at the airport. Mine left me that night at the ferry dock. His last words were, “Here, take these with you, I don’t need them,” as guilt drove him to shove our camera and laptop through the car window, which I’d rolled down halfway to keep out the driving rain and his dark presence. So many times over the years, I wished I’d recorded that moment for my kids. So that when the day came that he told them I’d left him, as he did sooner rather than later, I could show them that he left us. But, I always knew that cruel memory should only be my own and that, as in everything in life, I was half at fault for our failure.

It was at that moment, as his back faded into the wet darkness, that I broke completely. Not visibly to my kids, or even to myself, but the wisdom of hindsight leads me to believe that was  when  I lost complete faith in myself, as well as any modicum of self-love I may have possessed. This self-loathing was to manifest itself in many negative and personally destructive ways over the next nine years.

“Piece by piece he collected me…” I am only now realizing how broken I’d become before Jim arrived so unexpectedly in my life. In the nearly five years since we met, Jim has patiently rebuilt me, often having to patch and re-patch the same stubborn pieces. He picked up the first piece of me by the Flathead River, despite me begging him to just leave me. I didn’t believe I was worthy of anyone. On the drive home to Lewistown, he carefully held me together, and in so doing showed me a love I had forgotten existed. He also revealed to me the myriad of cracks that had developed over the years in my facade of independent strength.

I first felt the depth of his resolute character when he returned from his first work trip. As I stepped into his arms, I felt like a balloon suddenly anchored to terra firma. Over time, I would come to feel that same solidity as he pulled us all together into one family. It was this dream of his, that slowly repaired me, “piece-by-piece” and made me believe in myself again. It was his unwaivering commitment to us, to building a life and a family together that would eventually heal me.

“I wish I was on a divorce diet,” someone once said to me, oblivious to the absolute cruelty of the statement. Because if you’ve ever been on a “divorce diet,” particularly with two babies in your care, you will understand the self-loathing, fear, and anxiety that drive you to shed pounds like so much icing off a warm cake. But, as I was to discover, it is self-loathing that had become the cancer inside me.

Jim taught me to love myself again and to trust myself, because, miraculously despite my life experience, he was able to see in me that 18-year-old girl who dreamed of a good man and a home full of children and laughter. In seeing all my beauty and strength, he helped me to believe in us and most importantly to trust myself that I could do my part to make it come true.

You have taught me that, “a man can be kind and that a man can stay.” Thank you for the gift of this life I imagined when I had my Aleutia and Elias. I see all that you are and I see how far I’ve come because of your love. Thank you for believing that I was worthy and for being willing to take one last ride on the child-rearing bull before hanging up the spurs. I love you my darling.

Bucket List

Of all the things I have known in this world, of all the experiences I have had, the greatest is love. Love, I believe, offers the greatest lessons on the human condition. Life without it is unfathomable to me. In my fifty years, love has given much more than it has taken. It has brought me to my darkest places and given me the strength to believe again. If there is one lesson I try to reinforce with my children over and over again, it is to love – always, especially when you believe you never can again.
Today, I cross into what will undoubtedly be the briefer half of my existence. The odds are strongly against me making it to a full century. Moments like these bring reflection and clarity. For many, these years bring a sense of things left undone, and thus the creation of a “bucket list.” If God were to take me this moment; sitting here with my glass of wine, surrounded by the carefully selected pictures, art, and words of all whom I’ve loved, I would be at peace.
I have, at this moment, been given more than I feel I rightly deserve. My life is so full of love that my heart overfloweth. I have two beautiful children whom I was lucky enough to conceive at a rather advanced age, and who have given my life so much meaning that there seems little depth or value to the years before they arrived. In this little town on the prairie, I was to find a man who would see in me the 18-year-old girl with all of my innocence, strength, and virtue that even I was no longer able to see. He has loved me through so much pain and helped me to grow back into that girl I once knew. And, always, I have known the unique companionship of the animals in my life. I’ve buried my companions of 18 and 13 years here in this little town, having known a love with them deeper than any I’d ever discovered with another being. I would never have made it through my years of child-rearing alone, without my dearest Bella, my yellow lab and best friend.
As I write, my husband is in preparing me a birthday cake from scratch. Cooking, I have learned, is for him what writing is for me. It is a chance to get all the words out on paper, to show his love in the thoughtful selection and preparation of exquisite meals. When I eat that cake with my birthday dinner tonight, I will experience it more intimately than a store or box-made cake, because I know him well enough to realize it is full of love. He once teased me that I only loved him because he could cook, and..well… But, the truth is, I love him because he is soulful. His brusque exterior hides what only I could see in his eyes when I met him; that life has asked more of him than most, that he knows what it is to love more than most. The first night I met him I crawled up on his lap, like a stray cat, finally having found its home. Something in me just knew. He has taught me that true love is simple, really; it’s being there – always.
My marriage has brought me two step-children, who have risen to great heights in the time that I have known them, suffering the unspeakable loss of their mother at very fragile ages. They do not understand the composition of the love that I have for them because the ages at which we met and the time made that nearly impossible. Still, if they knew how fiercely I would fight for them, how much I would take care of them if they needed me, they would understand. But, they don’t need me now, they’re too busy becoming young adults and making their way in the world. I hold them dear in my hearts and pray that over time I will become a rock for them in this tumultuous world.
I have come to know what it is to have a relationship with a horse. It is an indescribable thing that is more than I could ever have imagined. There is a reciprocity of feeling and trust that simply defies explanation, but anyone who has ever loved a horse understands. This was an unexpected gift, that was not intended directly for me, but rather was intended for our daughters. Somehow, I became the beneficiary, however. Cowboy has taught me, as much as any meditation or hypnosis tape ever could, how to ground and center myself. Through his eyes, like that of a child’s, I see the world with every sense heightened; the rustling of the deer in the bush, the sudden swish of the wind through the willows, and the harsh rasp of the human voice. He has taught me to learn to filter these intrusions in order to determine what is truly a threat. His power and strength defying the soft beauty that resonates in the burnt chocolate reflection of his eyes.
I have been blessed with a dear friend, who has taught me what it is to believe in someone. She has shown me through her unfailing support of me, what it is to truly be there for another. In my darkest hours, she has believed in me and given me faith that I otherwise might not have found in myself. She has taught me the power of laughter, irreverence, and sarcasm. Our deep respect for one another has only grown over the years and we find great humor at our increasing age.

This morning, as I stood outside the barn, with the brilliant sunshine glinting off the snow, the air punctuated with frozen exhales from the horses nostrils as they tossed their hay around, and the occasional whinny as they paused and looked up expectantly for their oats, I smiled. This is my bucket list. This life that I know, full of more love than I ever would have imagined. I have no need to travel to exotic destinations or try my strength or nerve in unexpected ways. Life has already given me more of those challenges than due for my years. No, this right here, is all I need.

Thank you Jim, for finding me in this tumbleweed town on the prairie, and for the life you have given my children and I. Mostly, thank you for continuing to put out that bowl of warm milk and encouraging me to come back inside to the warmth and security of your world, assuaging my fears and finally showing me a love I could trust for the rest of my years. I love you and the life we have created.

A Savior and a Companion – My Ellie May

I had a friend, once, the kind you think is going to last a lifetime. She rescued me, pulling up to my house in her minivan, an unexpected chariot for a savior. It was instinct for a person like her. A stray had been deposited in her neighborhood and she couldn’t overlook it. For her, I believe, helping those in need was a way to heal her own aching heart, broken from the loss of her mother. Her pain assuaged by nursing other injured souls to health. For five years, we shared kids, Sunday morning coffee, long evenings on the deck and many precious moments in-between. We were family, or at least the only family I had. Our children made it possible, this unlikely union between a worldly woman, broken, who’d come to this small town searching for roots, and a small-town girl returned home to take over the family business after her mother’s death.

It’s been years since she’s initiated contact with me. Only I have reached out, confused, hurt, and needing validation. “You’ve changed,” she told me. No, I’ve healed. But, she wasn’t meant to be my companion for the remainder of my years, because saviors move on when there’s nothing more to fix. And, she did, moving on to another woman in town who’d suffered a tragic, unexpected loss in her life. She was certainly a worthy candidate, I have no bones with her; she deserved to be rescued as much as I did. Still, like the stray fed, comforted, and left again by the roadside with only a passing prayer, I am left confused at my abandonment.

About a year ago, I ran into her and her husband in a public place. Given our rich history, I couldn’t do the small-town thing and pass by, pretending it had never transpired. Rather, I stopped, and through a veil of tears, thanked them for the gifts they’d given me in the time I’d known them. After all, her husband had helped me bury my only companion of 13-years and he’d been there to rescue me time and time again, from moving furniture, to fixing pipes, to helping me with a flooded basement. My gesture that night was kindly acknowledged, but never reciprocated. I finally had to move on, grateful for the kindness that had been extended for a time.

“Do you feel like rescuing a puppy,” he asked, this new man in my life, a rhetorical question, he knew. Minutes later, I was cradling a Beagle, cream with liver-colored patches, in my arms. He’d followed her running pell-mell down the middle of the highway, for over a mile. “Ellie,” my daughter immediately coined her, to which I added “May.” She was also to be known as “Runaway Sue” in those first few months with us. I saw in that little Beagle myself, running down the highway, to God knows where, certain of only one thing – I wasn’t going back to where I came from. Those same instincts had brought me to this little town on the prairie. I didn’t know it, but I had just rescued my next savior and companion, a distinction she was going to teach me.

But, first, I had to win her trust. I knew the only way I could gain that was to chase her every time she ran away, returning her to my unconditional love and absolute security. The running away was instinct, bred of a wild desire and carelessness that comes from not being loved or feeling secure. For months, I’d spend hours tooling around stands of wood, waiting for her to emerge in hot pursuit of a deer. I stopped traffic on roads, dove in front of her, leaping out and putting her back in the car. Every time, my heart breaking when I saw her tiny little figure running, without any regard for danger or consequences. I used to run like that – running until my body was so exhausted I could no longer feel. It was the best tonic I’d found for an empty, aching heart.

Then, one day, she quit running, suddenly believing that I would always come after her. She’d just needed me to prove that to her, because her heart couldn’t take being abandoned again. I know, because in rescuing her, I came to understand the very same instincts that drove my own behavior. Ours is a deeply held belief that we have no intrinsic value, that we are not worthy of chasing after again and again. It is the life lesson of having been let go, tossed aside, left by the road side, because somehow we are just not worth the effort. So, we run and we don’t know how long or how many times we will run, until we are convinced we are safe and have truly found someone we can trust again.

Every time I pulled her into the car, I held her and told her over and over again, “I’ll never leave you. I got you,” and finally she believed me. That’s when she just became “Ellie May,” and no longer “Runaway Sue,” a moniker we laugh about now.  Thank you Ellie May for helping me to understand the difference between a savior and a companion. I see now that my savior was just that and her friendship was not meant to last a lifetime. Through your pain, I have come to understand my own. It is our instinct to run, because deep inside, we don’t believe that we are worth coming back for and too many in our lives have proven that to be true. It is something only an injured soul can understand, so if you don’t, count yourself lucky that someone in your life has made you feel worthwhile and safe.

Now, my Ellie May is sick and all my love and reassurance can’t protect her. So, I ask myself, what would I want right now? And, I know it’s what she and I both have always wanted – security.  The only security I can offer her is the warmth of my embrace and the constant whispering in her ear, “I got you. I’ll never let you go – ever,” and mean it with every cell in my being. Because that is the one thing I need to hear and be absolutely certain of, and that, for me, is what love is – being there, always.

A Parents Gift

This past month I have had a couple of wonderful visits with my inlaws. Yes, that’s right, I said my “inlaws.” I know, it seems to be incredible luck to be able to say that – at least, according to many relationships spouses have with their inlaws. But, you see, I’ve learned from my inlaws some things about being a parent I hadn’t considered before. These aren’t simple things I’ve picked up that they shared with me in a conversation. No, they are something deeper, more profound that I’ve come to realize over observing and interacting with them and their children and grandchildren over the course of the past four years.
What I’ve come to discover are a myriad of gifts that they unknowingly have imparted on their children and that I suspect their own children may only be mildly aware of since, unlike me, they don’t have a very different experience to compare it against. Some of these gifts have been given consciously, with great effort and planning – like making their children and grandchildren’s lives a priority or providing financial support when needed. Others, like living a full, rich life are secret gifts that their children may not recognize. So, I’d like to spend a little time ruminating on these gifts.

Dick and Dixie Klingaman are setting out on their 60th year of marriage. This is, easily, the most recognizable and the greatest of their gifts to their children. To maintain their union through thick and thin clearly, no matter what the rest of us who have divorced tell ourselves, provides a steadfast foundation for their children throughout their lives and into adulthood. I was lucky enough to also have a nuclear family, my parents having been married for 63-years. But, as I have learned by observing them, there is much more to growing old gracefully and with dignity and respect for yourself and your children than simply staying together.

Their children and grandchildren are the center of Dick and Dixie’s lives. They make a concerted effort that includes great planning, time and financial commitment to be there for their children and grandchildren. This isn’t a once-a-year affair, or a pop over for a quick visit when it’s convenient for them kind of deal. Rather, they rotate Christmas visits every year between children (traveling from PA to NY, MN, and MT), ensuring they get to see all their grandchildren. In the time I’ve known them, they’ve made special trips for birthdays, anniversaries, and to take their grandkids to Disney World. The time they give on these trips is solely focused on their children and grandchildren. I’ve left the table so they have time to visit with their son one-on-one about our life. I’ve sat and watched them visit with their grandchildren, not showing a precursory, but rather a real interest in them and their lives as they grow and develop.

In between these visits, there is a weekly phone call that is meant to check in and be sure everyone’s doing well. This isn’t a phone call about them, their issues, or their problems. Rather, it’s a phone call geared towards us, our children, our challenges, and our lives. The questions from both Dick and Dixie are genuine, thoughtful, and always with only our best interests in mind. They will always ask about each one of our children and how they’re doing. After a visit, I feel a bit like I just got tucked into bed for the night. I hang up the phone, knowing that while they may be on the other side of the country, they’re really just down the hall. That’s the security that phone call gives me. We all should be lucky enough to get that call once-a-week.

The hidden gift in their lives, though, is not the obvious devotion to their children and grandchildren. Rather, it is that Dick and Dixie are happy. They clearly have a wonderful rich life outside of the time when they are traveling or visiting with their nuclear family. Dick, at 81, remains the Chairman of Westmoreland Coal Company and is very busy in that role. Dixie is an avid reader and is very active in the community where they live, doing classes, sports, and attending cultural events; all of which they do together, as well. Most recently, at 80 and 81, the two just returned from a trip to Slovenia – Dixie’s 80th birthday present from Dick. While her mother never got to return to her childhood home, Dixie was able to walk the streets where her mother grew up. Why is all of this a gift? Because, when we see them or visit on the phone, and the conversation isn’t directed at us, we get to hear about all their wonderful escapades. This is uplifting, enrichening, enlightening, and enjoyable to experience. They are truly happy and have built a wonderful life for themselves. By having done this, we get to share in that positive energy.

While I’m sure there are things about all of their children’s spouses that aren’t perfect or exactly what they’d perhaps desire, Dick and Dixie are resoundingly supportive. They do not judge their children’s spouses or the way they raise their grandchildren. Because of that, they are able to truly enjoy their visits with their children and grandchildren. I’m sure that their children do not make the choices they would always like to see, but they support them financially and otherwise, regardless. This support seems to cultivate a mutual respect between them and their children. They have what I would call an “adult relationship,” instead of one where the child is still trying to seek approval and afraid to voice their opinion for fear of reprisal, despite the fact that they are adults. This respect cultivates an exchange of ideas and thoughts about difficult life decisions their children face, without them trying to control their children.

All of these things are gifts. I note them because I’d never thought of parenthood in quite this way. Before, I thought my greatest challenge was to get my kids through college and able to function as contributing adults in society. But, really, that’s just the beginning of the journey and relationship I signed up for when I had them. What Dick and Dixie have given me is perspective. I see now that I must continue to model for my children what and how to grow old well; how to give back; how to not just take care of myself physically and intellectually, but how to continue to grow and challenge myself; how to build a life with my husband that is full and rich; how to make my children a priority without being overbearing or trying to control their lives and decisions as adults. All of these things, and more, I just simply hadn’t thought of before as part of my role as a parent.

Dick always says to me before he parts, either in-person or on the phone, “Now, if you need anything you give us a call.” And, the thing is, I know he means it. Thank you Dick and Dixie for the greatest gift you have given your son and I. May your 60th year be your grandest. Happy Anniversary!

How Do You Say Farewell?

My dearest father,

The news of your illness seems to have been oddly synchronized with an arctic blast that has tossed those of us in Montana headlong into winter. It has created an eerie mood of a haloed sun with a hoar frost and mist rising off the creek that portends of a mysterious portal you will enter where I will no longer be able to hear your voice or touch your hand again.

We live in such fear of this place, spending many of our days alive dreading its coming. Yet, I see now that it comes no matter our fears, and that, like everything in our lives, we have no real control over its timing. It seems a wicked joke to say laconically that you have lived a “full life” and thank God for that. Yet having stared death in the face with two young children in tow, I can appreciate the underlying meaning in that statement. Still, it seems it does not soften the blow to the ears that must hear it.

Father, if I have taken any wisdom from this life it is that becoming “real” like the Velveteen Rabbit doesn’t happen just from “love,” but also from the releasing of “ego.” This is something I only accomplished when death swooped in and tried to take me. It forever changed me, and brought me one step closer to becoming real one day. The other –  love – you gave to me, and I have carried that love cautiously in my heart, sharing it foolishly at times, but always with the best hopes and dreams. I feel myself becoming real too and as I stared at the snapshot I took of you and I talking on Skype the other day – that crazy modern invention that lets me peer across space and time at you – I realized that is where you are headed. I will no longer be able to run to the garden and find you tossed amongst the rose bushes, forgotten after a time of play. But, I will be able to wade in the creek, suck in the smell of the honeysuckle, listen to the whisper of the aspens, watch the hawks soar, and see in the wonder of it all that is you.

Like the old man, wandering down the road, who is able to see the beauty in the flapping of the wings of the birds as they rise from the trees in the morning sunlight, despite being a survivor of the horrors of war, you have taught me to never stop seeing the beauty around me. What is more, you have taught me to never stop trying to find the kind of love that can carry one through a lifetime. For these two lessons, more than all the others – and there are many – I am most grateful. Because, those two things are what I believe make me beautiful inside, where it counts. A pure spirit still flits in my soul, a golden light that will always look to the sky and believe that there is good in this world.

Pappy, this is damn hard. Damn hard. How many years? How many years have I said goodbye, expecting it might be the last? How carefully I calculated those goodbyes, wanting to never hold in my mind anything but joy at our parting. When things did not go as planned, I was quick to call and ask for forgiveness for my short-sightedness. You see, I never wanted to be in a place where we were cross with one another over something neither of us could let go. This past summer was a lot like life. Your visit brought the very best times and the very worst I could have ever anticipated going through with you. I thank God for getting your sister Ferne up here and getting you to see Faith and your nieces and nephews. I will hold those memories of the two of you singing and your recollections from Kalispell to Libby dear in my heart for the rest of my days. And, the laughter. What fun we had with the Spencers and how unexpected that was, but so comforting for me to find kindred spirits tucked up in the NW corner of this mighty state. That is a gift I will always be grateful for and I hope to share with my children so that they can feel surrounded by more family.

I was out in the garage, picking up things so we could put the Sprite in the barn for the winter when I came across a little Thermos lunchbox. Opening it up, I sat down and cried. Its contents revealing the man that had raised me and my five siblings on seemingly nothing. Inside that lunchbox, carefully packed was duct tape, electrical tape, a ballpin hammer, a Leatherman’s tool, a hand brush, Son-of-a-Gun protectant and cleaner, a dog leash, a leather holder with lock picking tools, a socket wrench and sockets, a towel, and some other carefully selected tools. No artist alive could have rendered a better representation of you and your life’s work. I still remember coming back from the ocean and the fan belt breaking on one of the rigs. You stopped, pulled over, and used a shoestring to fix it until we got home. How many cars did you tow home, headed for the junk yard, that two weeks later came out shiny and like-new, only to be sold to pay for groceries a week later? Think about the number of times you fixed dishwashers, toilets, washing machines, lawn mowers. And, these were the most minor of your challenges.  What about the deck and the pool at the Wall Street house in Spokane, or the cool loft at the house on Lake Blaine, or the inground pool at the place on Brown’s Point? Even those pale to your 20-odd-years spent in “retirement” fixing up, buying and selling homes from Montana to New Mexico.

You never had the luxury of hobbies, so that all of those projects were but a means of survival. I know now that’s how I got those new tenner-shoes or that jacket that everyone else had and I wanted.  You used to talk to me about the joy it gave you to take something old and make it new again. And, I watched you over the years, breathe life into every type of thing imaginable in order to give it one more run. Your lessons were not for naught. I have learned to be a self-sufficient woman who spent the better part of the past 10-years raising her two children on her own. I felt your lessons every step along the way, as I went to thrift stores to buy clothes, furniture, pots, and pans to provide for my children. Or, when I breathed new life into an old stove, by tearing out a broken heating element and climbed over salvaged stoves in the snow to find another one that matched. Each time I peeled the layers of paint, stain, wallpaper, or veneer off of walls and furniture and made them new again, I stood back and felt the pride that you have known for years.

And, now, here we are standing on the precipice and I cannot breathe life back into you. Damnit.

But, I know that this physical existence is just a small part of our spiritual life together and that I must simply be thankful for these past 49-years that I was lucky enough to feel your touch, hear your voice, and experience your love.

Thank you for that father and for showing me what it is to live a life well, with nothing but love as your guiding principle.

I’m here dad. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got nothing more pressing to do. There is nothing more important in my life. I am here. Hold my hand, do not fear, and let’s take this next step together. You are not leaving me, you are simply coming back into my heart to stay so that I have you closer than ever.

So, I will not say farewell, but instead welcome. Welcome back into the place that you created. Rest easy here and know that I will care for you as you have for me these past 49-years. I will never leave you, but together we will face whatever comes.

All my love my dearest Pappy – your Spider Monkey.

Can I Have This Dance?

The memories flow now silvery blue in my mind, a little girls dress rippling softly over his head and a voice declaring to all who would listen, “he’s mine, I saw him first.” Thus, began a dance that has lasted nearly half a century and one that I know I am blessed to have enjoyed for so long. I hold in my mind a picture of an auburn haired girl nestled in between two men, one with a cropped 70’s beard and sideburns and the other bespectacled and gray. Her face is radiant with a smile that shows these two men are the most important in her world and this place is the only place she wants to be in the world at that moment. Walter C. Zollars Sr. and Walter C. Zollars Jr., those were the loves of her life at that tender age of five or six.

The water flows through my mind, washing over memories like river rocks, softened and rounded with time. Laughter bounces off the ripples sounding hauntingly like the water moving downstream. Oblivious to its flow and lost in the current, visions dart around like so many wild trout, searching for sustenance. Pappy is wrapped in an old patched flannel blanket, and we are stacked around him, like so many cords of wood – his six children. But, I am closest, tucked under his arm. He is recovering from an accident that would have taken a lesser man, a man who had nothing to live for. Not this man, though, this man, whom I still can see being wheeled past me in the emergency room, covered in sheets soaked with blood. This man fought through dozens of surgeries, having his entire face rewired, an eye removed and a new socket put in. This man would not go down because he knew that sitting at home in a bed, surrounded by all those pieces of wood, was a woman who needed him. They’d gotten into this mess together and it was the two of them against the world. So, he fought, and he survived.

Diving back into the cool depths, I let the icy chill settle on my shoulders as I stare over a video screen at his pixeled image and am haunted by what I see in his eyes. He is letting go, I can see it. But, he is waiting. He’s waiting for me and I know it. He cannot bear to speak, because it hurts so badly and he no longer wants to feel, it is all too much. And, I know what that is to not want to feel and my heart aches for the umbilical cord that we must sever. Because the time has come for him to bow out and for me to continue the dance without him. The waters carry us, no matter our resistance, down to where they empty into the great sea and that is where he is headed. We both know it and we both cannot accept it.

So I stay low, dug in to a nice little back eddy, tail against the bank, facing into the current, watching for disturbances on the surface. As the ripples spread, I rise towards the sun warming the surface and break through to remember again. Laughter, there was so much laughter, and all of it without regard for convention and often meant to flaunt in the face of convention. Irreverence, I was taught, will help you to see clearly, to see outside the box, to better understand why rules are made, and to always keep life’s craziness in perspective. Reflection too, there is no better way to learn, grown, and become better than to observe your reflection in the face of your actions and of those you love. Reflection is key to self-growth, self-understanding, and achieving all that you were meant to be.

Dreaming comes easy to me in this new world where light never really reaches and I am lost in a dance that I thought would never end. Recently, I was with him, and we were in this big silver building with all these stairways and industrial windows that looked out onto a vast landscape. We were going through this building together and he was distraught. His father was dying and he couldn’t bear it. I was following him and trying to comfort him. Out the window, I realized when I awoke, flowed the mighty Kootenai, the river of his boyhood. And, I remember in my dream, that I kept looking out the window and knew that if I could just get him there he would be OK. I settle upon this thought because I did get him there, this summer. He was sick, his mind failing, and I was the one to rescue him from the Emergency Room in Dillon where the police had picked him up. He’d left Arizona, searching for something in Montana and I’d rescued him.

The one thing I did right this summer of what I did not know was to be our last time spent together,  was I flew his 86-year-old sister up and the three of us took a road trip to Libby to see his 89-year-old sister who lies dying from Alzheimers. The trip from Kalispell to Libby was one I’ll never forget. From passing our namesake, Roger’s Lake (my great-grandmother settled there), to our arrival on the outskirts of Libby, it was a flood of memories for the two of them. My only regret is that I didn’t record what they had to say, all the places they remembered. The spots they’d camped, where my grandpa homesteaded, the places they’d gone to dances and parties. Then there was the singing, the beautiful old songs, all of which bespoke a love for this little corner of this grand state. And, I could feel the roots grow underneath me, pinning me to this place along with them. Then there was an evening spent with cousins I hadn’t seen for 30 years and sharing tales of the two Walter Clay’s (my father known affectionately as “Uncle Bud.” The humor, it turns out, is a family trait. I lose focus for a time and the current grabs the side of me, pulling me further downstream as I struggle to regain my concentration and find another holding spot.

Suddenly, there is a knock on the door and a little auburn haired girl comes in and says, “Mommy are you allright?” as she climbs onto my lap. “You shouldn’t cry on your birthday,” she says. And, as I hold her and tell her that I am just sad about my dad, I realize that I am for her what he was for me. I am her rock, her best friend, her absolute everything. And, I realize, that I must let the current wash over me and I must let it carry away a part of me that has held and grounded me for all these years. But, mostly, I realize that while it feels like the core of my being is being pulled from me, that is just the love he gave and it is the love that binds me to my two little bugs.  Thank you Pappy for the dance.

The Time Has Come

He lifted the pillow off of my head and the stark light from the adjoining kitchen poured in. “Your brother Clay called,” my husband said, “Your dad is in the ER in Dillon.” I sat up. The night before my brother Kent had called to tell me my dad was staying overnight at the Motel 6 in Dillon, Montana. Just the week prior, he’d left my mom in Arizona and driven to the Washington coast and back. After a few days rest, he’d told her he was headed to Montana to look for a place to live in Polson. I got Clay on the phone. “Dad’s OK sis, but the police brought him into the ER last night…..”

Within 30-minutes we were on the road. Jim took the first leg to Harlowton. We tried to use humor, as we so often do, to make the best out of things. “You need to call in a situation report to the family,” I said, “But, we need to give my dad a code name, what could that be?” “Are you kidding, me?” my husband asked, “He’s fucking Bowe Bergdahl – he abandoned his post.” We laughed. But, he was right. Dad had abandoned my mom, taken his dog and headed for all that he knew – Montana. His prior trip to the Washington coast had failed to uncover whatever it was he was seeking. His mind now told him that was in Montana.

I’d seen this scenario played out too many times to remember over the past 30-years, since my dad had retired from teaching. With the kids out of the nest, my parents had never really settled into retirement as some folks can do. Instead, they’d moved restlessly from place to place looking for something they would never find. I’ve only recently realized what they are seeking is that time we had together, those years in a house full of kids, laughter, and love. Times were simpler then. Who they were was defined by the simple need to provide – to put food on the table, clothing on our backs, and shelter over our heads. It was this responsibility that bound and defined them for most of their years. When that responsibility disappeared, they lost their identity and I don’t think they’ve ever figured out a definition of who they are without us kids and that life we shared.

His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt, and his feet were dangling over the hospital bed like a little kid. The fear in his eyes drew me to him and I grabbed him as tightly as I could. “I got you dad,” I kept saying over and over. “I got you.” Because I know what it is to be all alone in this world and the comfort those three words can provide. His steely grip had not changed, but I could feel his emotional and mental frailty. “What did I do sis?” he asked, as I stepped back and looked deep into his bloodshot eyes, trying to ground and comfort him with my gaze. “Did I kill someone?” he asked. He thought he’d killed someone with his car. “No dad,” I said, “You didn’t hurt anyone. The police pulled you over for erratic driving.” He stared back at me in confusion and I had to resort to waving my hand in a zig-zag fashion to explain what he was doing with his car when the police pulled him over. “Well, that’s because there were kids in the road,” he said, “they were naked and they were running everywhere.”

The storm we’d passed through on the way down hit us hard on the way back and I had to slow as it passed through the Tobacco Root Mountains outside of Butte. I was leading Jim home, who was driving my dad’s little truck behind me. I hoped that dad would sleep, and rest his tormented mind, but he couldn’t. Instead, he tried to recall for me over and over the events of the prior night. “It was the craziest thing, sis,” he said, “There were these kids and they were dressed like light poles and bushes and street signs. It was the craziest damn parade you ever saw – but, it was kind of cool.” As we drove on, he slipped in and out of trying to sort out the events that brought him to me, and sliding into the distant past, a place where his memory was more comfortable.

In the back of my dad’s truck, in a little cooler packed full of ice, was his dead Yorky dog, Molly. Somehow, in the events of the prior evening, he’d lost his little companion. If I’m able to understand it all, he arrived at the Motel 6 very distraught because Molly was not doing well. He put her in the room along with his stuff and went back to the truck to get more. In the process he locked himself out of the room. When he banged on the door of the neighbor’s room, they called the police. The police arrived and pronounced the dog dead. The police left and afterwards, at some point, he left the hotel and got in the car. I’m still not clear why he was driving or where he was going. But, it’s all immaterial now, except to Molly.

Jim, exhausted from the 11-hour drive the previous day, arose early to dig a grave for Molly. He selected a spot in our back pasture, at the base of a tree, with large rocks to place over her grave. When he was ready he came and got us. As we stood by the grave, I waited for the father I knew to come out. He was never a man at a loss for words, especially in a situation like this. So, I stood, and soon he spoke, but it was not a eulogy for Molly. Instead, it was a lengthy oratory full of the venom that filled his mind, a seething line of disgust at the people who he believed had poisoned her. When he was done, I sobbed from the very core of my being, great heaving sobs of pain. I cried for Molly, for that tiny little being who had trusted him with her livelihood. I cried for the man that I had known.

Life, it’s unexpected. It brings storms that shake you to your core as sure as it brings comforting sunshine that fills you with strength and security. I did not see this storm coming, despite the thunder clouds that were rolling on the horizon for many years. The stories my mom had told me were easily discounted, attributable to their unhappiness with their life situation. My little brother, who spent the most time with them, confirmed the forecast, but I chose to ignore it, believing he was simply siding with my mom. Regardless of the past, here I sit, and I am suddenly the parent.

My heart tells me to get my dad a little place to live here in town. I can supervise him to ensure he’s eating right, taking his medicine, getting some exercise, and socializing with other adults his age. Afterall, I took him to our Presbyterian church on Sunday and he had a grand ‘ole time at the coffee hour afterwards. Couldn’t I take him down to the art center where maybe he could teach a class and Jim could take him to his “old man” lunch each week? He’d be nearby to go to the kids’ sporting and school events. I know he’d love that and it would be a real gift to the kids to know their grandpa and have him close.

But, I’ve got my hands full as it is. My husband is gone a third of the time for work and I’ve got four kids, three dogs, a cat, and a horse to take care of, not to mention a job. I also do volunteer work with a non-profit agency and hold a local position that demands much of my time. I could abdicate those responsibilities, however, and all that would remain would be my everyday duties and my work. If I don’t do these things and follow my heart, then nothing remains but to put my dad in an assisted care facility.

The storm is here and it is within me. The time has come.

The Things We Leave Behind

Life, it seems, is a game of lost objects. Most of which, we are never able to recover. The greatest of these are not material possessions, which we all seem to work hard for every day, but rather relationships amongst people. If we look back and reflect on the things we’d like to find again, for many of us it would be lost loves, squandered friendships, relationships never attempted or never mended. As the years pile up under our feet like mud on wet galoshes, the choices we made can be seen behind us in the sloppy, mucky footsteps that lead us to where we stand.

In this place of retrospection, it is possible to see that some things we need to leave behind in order to make the most of the time we have left. For survivors, like me, time resets when you are given a second chance. Each day is fresh, new and you find a renewed desire to be better, to do better, to not waste one moment of this borrowed time. In so doing, I have realized that there are some things in life we must cut away that mire us down and are meant to be left behind.

The greatest of these, I believe, that has the most power to change all of our lives, is judgment. I have seen more relationships ruined because of the infliction of judgment from one person to another. Judgment is such a delicious thing. It’s like that jelly donut that you crave, and when you eat it you savor every sugary, airy bite. But, as soon as you feel the taste on your buds, it’s gone and all you’re left with is guilt. Judgment feels so good, your ego loves it. It gives you the power to feel right, to feel sure, and to feel better than another person. When you judge someone, you are saying, “I am right, you are wrong, I am better than you.” Oh, and that feels so good. Our ego loves it and like a cat splayed on a blanket in the sunshine, begs us to stroke it again and again.

But, all too often, when we judge we never take the time to fully assess the other person’s situation. How could we? Judgment is about making snap decisions, without too much thought: “Did you see what she was wearing? I heard that the two of them moved in together! Can you believe she did that? I would never!” The old adage about you can’t understand until you’ve walked in someone else’s shoes is so true. So, why, when we know this, is it so hard to let others make their own choices, live their lives and not judge?

Because, our ego is a powerful force in our mind and it is often difficult to discern that there is another voice capable of overriding our ego and that is the conscious self. The conscious self can say, “What are you saying, you jackass? You have no idea what that person’s life is or why they’re making choices different than what you think you would make. You know why – because you are not that person!” Yes, the conscious self has so much power, but for some reason it takes years for us to learn to exercise the power of our conscious mind and, unfortunately, by the time we do it’s a much harder thing to put into practice.

The hardest part of getting older is letting go, of this I am certain. However, I believe that with conscious work, there are some important relationships that perhaps we can save and not leave behind, if we learn to withhold judgment. In so doing, I know that I will be a better person and that perhaps when I look back, there will be one less set of footprints left behind.

A Preemptive Farewell

April of 2014 will mark two years since my Carotid Artery Dissection. While it was a terrifying event, it was also a rebirth. In that process, I’ve come out a better person and the blessings I received from that event are an unexpected gift, so that I can truly say I am glad it happened. Until I faced death I didn’t awake each morning, really and truly, with a smile on my face and an honest to goodness sense of pure joy and exaltation that I’m still present on this earth. Everything and everyone around who I hold dear became even more so, the world has taken on a golden glow, and I am always aware of my very presence as just being this amazing gift that God has bequeathed me with. But, I also became painfully conscious of time ticking away slowly behind me and, finally, a knowledge that this too shall pass – that my physical presence, my ability to reach out and touch those I love is disappearing behind me with every moment that slips away. Which leads me to ponder what it is that remains when I’m gone, what do I leave with those I love? And, the answer is, I believe, that I will never leave those I love. This physical presence is a very small part of the spectrum of my existence, it is God’s gift, but what endures is the love I leave in the hearts of those I share my life with. So, while it’s taken me two years to have the courage to do it, this is a living letter that I am writing for my children to read when I am gone. It has been an amazing process, thinking of all the lessons I hope to give them now and for the remainder of my years, should that opportunity slip away from me. I thought you might consider doing the same for those you love. Because, the cumulative lesson of my dance with death has been that dying is the most unselfish act we will ever do. It is not about us or our passing, but rather about helping those who must go on without us to make it beyond our passing and to build a life of their own with the love we gave them sustaining them through their lifetime.

My dear Peanut and Bear-Bear,

I started to write you this note while I waited to go into surgery for my hysterectomy in December of 2013. But, the thought of you ever getting it was enough to scare me and make me worry that I was somehow jinxing myself. So, I didn’t. But, I know now that was just silly. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that one of the hardest things in life is not being able to say goodbye. So, I want to talk to you about your life after I’m gone. About what my dreams are for you and how I would like to see you live your lives. I understand now that by acknowledging death, I am not somehow jinxing myself into allowing it to steal me away sooner. Perhaps more importantly, I have learned that to die gracefully and allow the living to find peace is the greatest gift we can give. Death is the most selfless act we will ever be called upon to do in our lifetime. It calls for the utmost bravery – to stare it down, find peace with it, and, in so doing, let our loved ones find peace themselves. Because, my passing is not about me, it is about you, your life, and the lives of everyone else who loves me. The easier I can make that transition on you and everyone else, the better your life will be going forward.

I know now that when death comes knocking I have no control over if he takes me or not. It is a matter that is in God’s hands. I learned that in April of 2012 when I got very sick. I never told you two what happened to me because I knew it would be too scary for you to know. But, your mom is lucky to be alive. More than that, I’m lucky to still have the full use of my body and my brain. Your mom had what was called a Carotid Artery Dissection. My right internal carotid artery right at the base of my brain stem somehow suffered some trauma and the lining of the artery broke away. When this happened blood pushed up against it and the artery closed off. At least that’s what the doctors here thought. Normally, if that happens, I would’ve either died or suffer what’s called a stroke. That’s something that causes you to lose the ability to use parts of your brain or body. Dr. Echeverri (who I work with on the Africa Foundation), my neurologist, was able to determine, however, that a very tiny part of my artery was still open and blood was passing through. Also, amazingly, my Circle of Willis, which feeds your brain, rerouted and was still functioning.

I was a miracle. Because of the location of the dissection, I was not able to have surgery to put in a stent, which they sometimes do, so instead Dr. Echeverri put me on Coumadin, which is a blood thinner, and sent me home. I had to take it for three months. After that, I had a picture taken of my brain – and, miracle of miracles, I was healed. So, I’m telling you, I am living testament that miracles do happen. But, what I want to tell you is that before I left for Billings to see that Dr. (you stayed with Beth), I wrote you a letter and gave it to Scott to give to you in case I didn’t come home. Thankfully, I never had to give you that letter. But, what I can tell you is that at that moment, when I should’ve been most terrified. My only terror came from thinking about being separated physically from you – to never brush my hand through your hair again, kiss your cheek, hold your hand, cradle you in my lap, or hear your voice. That was the terror that coursed through me. Beside that terror, I felt no fear of my own death. When Beth texted me telling me to get to Billings, I responded, “I am in the hands of God.” And, I felt it. He was with me then, holding my hand, telling me that it was out of my control now and that it was up to him.

So, I want you to practice your faith. Find time each day to just connect with your center. That center, that calm you find when you are prayerful or just still and mindful is your connection with a higher being. You can think that is whoever you want, but I believe it is God and I believe that God is love. That calm I felt was because I realized at that moment, that while I would have to leave you physically, not even God could take me from you spiritually. I understood that the connection we have, that we’ve built these past 9 and 11 years, is something much greater than just our physical connection. It is a bond of love that can never be broken. And, that is why it will hurt you so bad you will feel as though you cannot take it. You will want anything to make the pain of losing me go away. But, what I want you to realize is nothing can. That pain you feel, that horrible ache that feels like it’s going to break apart your chest and split your soul – that is me, that is us, that is the love we share. And, as long as you feel it, we are together. I am sure of it. So, if you are reading this and I am gone, do not resist the pain, give into it, knowing that it will hit you unexpectedly. There will be days it will absolutely bring you to your knees and you will feel like you can’t breathe. But, know that those days will become fewer, until it is absorbed into you and becomes a part of you. Then, for the remainder of your life, a special day, an unexpected memory, something unforeseen may quickly trigger that old, sharp pain. And, just remember, that is me tapping at your heart saying – hey, I’m here, we’re in this together. I only had to check out of that human body I was in, but I’ve never left you.

God, I love you two. I hope you know that. From the moment I met your father I was so in love with him because I wanted to have you two. He wanted the same thing and we were so in love and so very lucky to have the two of you so quickly and one right after the other. Do you know I’d just finished nursing you (my milk ran out at 10 months), Aleutia, when I became pregnant with Elias? I was asked once to make a drawing of my life and I drew this path which compacted all the 37 years I had before your arrival into a very small space, and the 11 years since was this huge, blossoming thing that just suddenly gave my life a meaning I’d never known. You two have been my best friends since you were born. A burden you probably shouldn’t have had to bear. But, circumstances being what they were – living in remote Alaska and being home all day with two young babies – I spent all my time with you. Because of that you both talked very early and had excellent vocabulary. All because I talked to you like you were little adults, even when you were babies. The thing is, I never wanted to spend my time with anyone else, I enjoyed you guys too much. And, you know what? I still feel the same way. I feel all alone in this world, save the two of you. We are so blessed to share the deep, enduring bond that we do. It will carry you through a lot in your life. As long as you remember, I have not left you and never will. I am not looking down on you, God didn’t need another angel, none of that nonsense you’ll hear from those who can’t find the words to express themselves. Rather, I have simply left my mortal shell, which for some reason failed me and I have moved on to that next plane of existence – the spiritual one. I am sure of this, because I have stood in the shadow of death and watched the incredulous look on doctor’s faces as they realized I was still alive and fully functioning.

Remember what I always told you, I’m in you. When you laugh a certain way (like with a snort) or when you’re a jackass or a wise-ass, that’s your mom  Or when you’re just plain goofy and irreverent – that’s your mom. And, when you see some injustice being done to a person or an animal and you raise up in indignation – that’s your mom. Or when you stop and talk to someone who is in a much lesser station in life than you – that’s your mom. And when you take the initiative and chase your dreams, knowing you may fail – that’s your mom. Or, when you choose love over the chance you might lose someone or fail – that’s your mom. When you stop to pick up that stray cat or dog – or donate your time or skills to people less fortunate – that’s your mom. Every time you speak your mind about what’s going on in this country, about politics – because you know politics do make a difference – that’s your mom. But, mostly, when you stop and pause and suck in your breath because it feels like you just got punched in the gut and the wind knocked out of you and your eyes fill with tears because of some memory or thought of me – that’s your mom.

There are things I’ve learned in my 48 years on this planet, pearls of wisdom that I hoped to share with you during the remainder of our time together. Many I’ve already taught you or have already introduced you to, but many you will need to live a little longer to truly understand and appreciate. I’ve spent a long time thinking about these things that I believe are valuable in forming your character and defining what kind of person you will be in this world. I will continue to add to this as long as I’m able. This is how your mama raised you – to be:

1) Be good to animals and stand up for them when no one else will. There are those who will tell you that God gave dominion to man over all animals. That’s bullshit. God gave you the ability to harm and also to love. Use your love to provide as much compassion as you can in your lifetime for those creatures who can’t look after yourselves. Always, always, always, stand up against harm and abuse towards animals. It will define who you are – at the very core of your being.
2) Practice kindness to other people as much as possible. That is, own your feelings and actions. If you think or act with the intent to harm then you will. Even your thoughts have power and you will learn this as you get older. Learn to control your thoughts and you will be more likely to bring good unto others.
3) Remember that hatred takes a worse toll on you than it does the other person – forgive. There is nothing that will destroy your insides quicker than anger and hatred. Find a way to move that black energy through your body and out of it or it will eat you from the inside out and ruin the lives of everyone around you. Trust me on this. I’ve seen hatred cause disease, bitterness, and even change a person’s appearance. It is a horrid thing that must be controlled.
4) Be understanding – you know nothing about how that person got to where they’re at in life or what they’re dealing with. Always, always act first with compassion and with an open mind. You can ask questions and discover later.
5) Eat breakfast – even if it’s just a piece of toast with peanut butter. I never liked to eat breakfast, so I get it, but try to get something in your belly. It’s also better to eat small meals several times a day rather than 3 main meals. Most people don’t get this, but it helps fuel your metabolism all day long and doesn’t slow you down like a big meal does.
6) Be best to one another. The world is full of schmucks. You should always be able to count on one another. Your immediate family, your siblings should be one of those true things in your life that you can trust and always come home to.
7) Practice good manners in everything you do. It is a big part of your character and one that’s sorely overlooked. (You know what I’m talking about – please, thank you, no thank you )
8) Send thank you notes after your birthday and Christmas. It’s an old tradition, but like manners, reflects your good character and upbringing.
9) Limit your use of foul language, crassness, and vulgarity. It is not attractive and makes you look less intelligent. Rise above the fray and remember in this digital world that all the photos you post on Facebook, Instagram and I’m sure other sites will be looked at by people who love you, people who want to hire you, and finally by yourself someday. Put yourself in a good light – act with class – be the amazing children I raised you to be.
10) Be thankful for all that you have – from the house you live in, to the food in your cupboards, to the clothes in your closet. Someday you will see how poorly most of the world lives and you will understand how darn lucky you are.
11) Use the gifts God gave you – whatever they are (for mom – I think it is my writing, my leadership skills, my ability to make people laugh and make people comfortable, as well as my athleticism) Figure out what yours are and use them. If you’re not sure what they are, then stop and think about what things you do every day or wish you could do every day, that bring you joy. For me, it’s spending time with family, spending time with my animals, spending time writing, spending time reading, doing something athletic, and listening to music. I also crave a little alone time each day.
12) Always give everything your best effort even if it’s something you don’t want to do. Life will present you with many boring, mundane, or even despicable tasks, but it is how you tackle them that will define you.
13) When you fail, pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try again. Get back on that horse. Life is meant to be ridden sitting high up in the saddle. It is how you deal with failure or setback that will define who you are in the end.
14) To love anything is to risk having unbearable heartache. But, what would a life be without love? So, when you choose to love, give into it freely and with the knowledge that nothing lasts forever. You will one day lose what you treasure so deeply. But, what a thing to love. “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you give.” – The Beatles
15) Never, ever give up hope – ever. Better days will come. A positive attitude creates a positive outcome. Without the rain, we can never truly appreciate the sunshine.
16) Be empathetic with those you interact with on a daily basis, your siblings, your parents, your teachers, your friends. Stop and offer to lend a hand or do a small favor to make their day a little brighter.
17) Practice compassion in your everyday life. Find someone or an organization that you can help and devote time at least once a week to something besides your own selfish interests. Start your own organization in your own community if you don’t find something.
18) Everyday, stand in front of the bathroom mirror and say, “My mom was amazing. I’m damn lucky I had such a great mom. God must really love me.” (OK, just kidding – checking to see if you are still reading )
19) Enjoy every moment of every day as much as possible. There are no guarantees. None of us have a stamp on our forehead that says “guaranteed until 90.” Live life to the utmost every moment of every day.
20) Do not beat yourself up. Read that again – DO NOT BEAT YOURSELF UP. It’s fine to acknowledge a poor decision, a failure, or a genuine mistake that happened despite your best intentions. But, once you do, don’t waste time beating yourself up. Trust me, I spent most of my life doing it and it never once helped me. The moment I acknowledged I was human and forgave myself, I was a much happier person and a lot more likely to make better choices the next time.
21) Ignore all those who would question your judgement, or laugh at you, for taking a path they did not take. There are many in life who will sit on the sidelines and find their humor at your expense. You have at least taken a chance and gotten off the bench.
22) If you find yourself buying things to make yourself feel better it’s time to stop and question the path your life is on. Take inventory of everything that you have. Open your kitchen cupboards, look at all the food. Look at your driveway – do you have a car? Do you have more than one car? How big is your house? Open your closets. Count how many pairs of shoes you have, how many jeans, shirts. Do you have running water? Then, go drive around your own community and look at all those who have less than you. Go to your community food bank and ask about how many poor are in your community. Start a program to feed kids in your community. You will learn that you have plenty. That if you’re buying, perhaps you should be buying for someone else. Then, think about what it is that’s making you feel like you need more.
23) Be that one true thing for someone in your life. Whether it’s your dog, your cat, your horse, your spouse, or a dear friend. Never falter for that person. Be there for them always. Develop a friendship and a kinship that goes deeper than family ties, because it isn’t blood. Trust that one thing in your life and be that one thing they can trust. You will never find anything more rewarding than that.
24) Get outside – everyday. Go for at least one walk a day. Get a dog and take them wherever you live for at least a half-an-hour a day. Now, if you can double that. It will be better than any therapy or other self-healing program you will ever learn. The greatest lessons you will learn in life will come from your interactions with Mother Nature. She has so much to learn if you only get out in her and give her a chance.
25) Take something old and make it new again. My dad used to tell me as a kid that there was nothing more satisfying than taking something old and bringing it back to life. I never really understood that – until I moved to Lewistown with the two of you as little babies. We had barely the shirt on our back and a bunch of thrift store furniture to make a start with. I bought that old house on Belden St. and I made it new again. I breathed life into it with my own two hands. I built that fence in the back, then I built two decks and framed in your sandboxes. I tore down the old metal shed to make a place for your sandboxes. Then, I tore off all the wallpaper inside and mudded and painted. After that, both upstairs and downstairs, I pulled off the old carpet and then, with a palm sander and a hand scraper, I got off all the old glue from the carpet. This was the hardest part. Then, I hand sanded it and sealed it. In my office, I did the same with my floor, mudded and painted the walls, added blinds. In the basement, I tore out the old windows, dug places for window wells and put in window wells and re-framed the windows. The kitchen I re-painted, bought old cupboards and re-painted them. I bought countertop, cut it myself and put it in. I saved and bought a new stove and refrigerator. Aleutia’s bathroom we totally re-painted and decorated, the same with the main bathroom. You guys helped me with that. All the bedrooms upstairs were repainted and I put window coverings up. And, that’s just what I remember off the top of my head – there was much, much more, but when I was done it was our house, and it had “good karma” as my friends would say. It had our mark on it and that made it ours. So, try that yourself, with an old piece of furniture (good Lord, I refurbished so many dressers, desks, tables), an old car, a house – something. I promise you – you will find it immensely rewarding.
26) Use your hands. This is a follow-on note to the previous, but it has a different point. Use your hands. Learn to do things yourself. If you’re intimidated start small. Fix a leaky faucet, or a screen door that won’t close and work your way up. You will be amazed how much you can do on your own if you just try. All those things I did at our house on Belden I’d never done before (except for painting and mudding). I got a book from the library in order to build that fence. I bought a post-hole digger, a level, a hammer, nails, and the wood as I could afford it. And, you know what, I had more guys than you can ever imagine stopping to check out my work and they’d walk away saying, “it’s plumb and straight,” shaking their head in amazement. But, I enjoyed the challenge and I didn’t have one single person ever help me. So, when I got to the back section between our neighbor and us, I couldn’t figure out how I was going to hang the new fence because they had a chain-link fence and I wouldn’t have room to get on the other side. I lay awake at night pondering this, until one night I sat up and smiled. I’d figured it out. I’d hang some nails on the outside of my posts, build the entire fence frame first, stand it up and lift one end at a time onto those nails. Then, I would have to go into my neighbors yard to put the screws through to put it in place. It worked! Or like when I built the back steps. I’d never built steps before – but they lasted 8 years! Or my first plumbing project on that old clawfoot tub. That was one I took particular pleasure in. It was very hard work and I had to go borrow some plumbing wrenches, and order the parts online, but I fixed it. All these things will save you an amazing amount of money that you would have to pay a “skilled” worker to do. But, in the end you will have the satisfaction of knowing it was your own handiwork and there’s just nothing else that will make you feel like that.
27) Share your life with an animal. You will never be alone if you give your heart to a creature that cannot look after itself. It will teach you more lessons about yourself, about life, about love, and about loss than anything you’ll ever learn from a book or from hearing it from someone else.
28) Celebrate the holidays without relation to my passing. Christmas should be a wonderful time of year. It should be full of family, fun, laughter, and a celebration of the biblical Christmas story. Please do not pick days to remember me, just let them come to you as they may. Grief cannot be predicted or scheduled. It will visit you on its own course and sometimes that won’t be my birthday, Christmas, Mother’s Day or another day. Besides, in my mind, holidays are for the living. They are a chance to enjoy a day off from your hectic life with the ones you love. I know your love for me will never fade. The memories may, and don’t be afraid when they do – that is just the way the human mind works. Instead, know that my body was just a loaner anyway. Wahat we really share cannot be captured in an image in your head. It exists deep in your soul and eventually becomes part of your blood, my blood flowing through yours, time only combines us – it does not divide us – of this I am sure.
29) Start a prayer box (or worry box, whatever you want to call it). Put it next to your bed with a small notepad and some pencils. Before you go to bed every night write down all the things you’re grateful for, worried about, etc. It is a great way to put your mind at ease before you sleep. It is when the lights go off, and our mind is at rest, that it begins to wander and for some reason it always seem to unearth every worry imaginable at that time, disturbing our sleep.
30) Along that same line – keep a journal. It doesn’t have to be lengthy. You don’t have to fill it out every night. But, sometimes, especially when life is especially challenging, a journal can serve as a non-judgemental friend. It can help you to get out those things that you couldn’t tell anyone else and sometimes that’s all you need. It can also help you to lay out your thoughts and sometimes find what’s really bothering you.
31) Practice being non-judgemental. This will be the hardest thing you will ever do. Just remember that the little voice in your head that immediately places judgement (I can’t believe she’s wearing that, did you hear what she did, she’s not even married, how many times has she been married) is your ego. It is this very small, selfish, part of you that wants to control the situation and feel that you are right. Every time you step back and act with understanding, compassion, and empathy you are beating your own ego. You are telling it, just because that is my experience, or my belief because of my life experience, that does not make it right. It is a very hard thing to do – especially if you’ve been raised by judgemental parents. But, it will make your life and those of the people around you much easier.
32) When you’re feeling sad or life is overwhelming you with demands. Stop, turn on some music, and dance. Dance by yourself, dance with your dog, dance with your children or your spouse. Don’t ever forget the power of music to lift you up from your darkest place and fill your heart with sunshine and hope. A house without music is like a house without books – it lacks soul.
33) Books have always made a fine companion for me. Do not forget what it is to read. The places you can go and discover sitting on your living room couch. So many characters to meet, mysteries to solve, journeys to take. Revisit all the classics I kept of my fathers, and read the new authors too. There is immense power in reading and it is sadly becoming a lost art. My grandpa (your great-grandpa Zollars used to always say, “I’ll never be alone, I’ve got my books.”)
34) Embrace change. This may be one of the hardest things to do in life, particularly as you age. When I was younger my life was all about change. But, after you two came along, change was not easy to accept. For the first time in my life I found it to be scary. But, always remember that with change there comes good and bad and there’s no predicting how much of either. It’s a guessing game, so when change comes your way, embrace it and make the most of it. Celebrate the good that comes with change and accept the bad, managing it as best you can. In the long run, you will find that somehow your life will fit together, curiously, like a jigsaw puzzle. All those changes it turns out were meant to be in order to get you to where you are.
35) Practice unconditional love with one another, but especially if you ever become parents. Don’t ever make your child feel like they could lose your love because of their actions. Children will screw up, upset you, behave poorly, and they need to be corrected. But, always say, “I love you, but I don’t like it when you behave like….” Always, always, always, reassure them of your unconditional love. Every child needs that and deserves it. Also, it’s OK to get angry and always best not to discipline your children when you’re angry, but be sure after a proper cooling down time, that you always sit down and talk with your children. Never give them the silent treatment as a way of withholding your love and punishing them. (All this applies to the animals in your life too).
36) Sometimes you’re going to screw up what I just told you. It’s why parenting is so hard – if it were easy there’d be a guidebook everyone followed. But, every kid is different and parenting is so nuanced that it’s impossible to know exactly how to handle every situation. But, if your temper gets the best of you or you act when you’re emotional, don’t beat yourself up. Forgive yourself, but most importantly, explain to your child that you are human, that you screwed up and reassure them of your deep, everlasting love for them.
37) When you put your children to bed at night, always take time for them. Reassure them, cuddle them, listen to their worries. Especially if you have a lot of kids, this may be there only one-on-one time with you. Never shrug off their fears, and don’t let them be alone when they are afraid. I don’t believe you can ever give your children enough cuddling or attention. When you tuck them in, take a few moments to tell them how proud you are of them, all the great things that make them special. Every kid should hear those things from their parents. It’s part of teaching your child to love themselves and to see the good in themselves.
38) Practice temperance in all that you do – whether it’s eating, drinking, or working out. God only gave you one body to get through this life in. Do not ask too much of it, or push it too hard like I did back in 2012. Take care of your body and don’t overeat or drink too much, too often. It will thank you for years to come.
39) Get to understand the mind-body connection. You will discover this when you work your body. When you get out and walk or run or play a sport. You will feel that amazing, joyous energy course through you. With every breath in you bring good, clean, energy full of hope and positivity into your body. With every breath out you cleanse yourself of spent, worn, negative, energy. When your body is healthy, fit and strong your mind is too. You will feel it. Learn to relish it and take care of your body. Your mind and body will thank you for it. When your body is strong your mind will tell you there is nothing you can’t do. When your body is fat and sluggish and tired, never taking in new energy, however, it will feel defeated and you will struggle to get out and work it as you should. Your body, your ability to run and walk and play sports are all gifts. Just ask the guy in the wheelchair. I’ll never forget, after I had my incident in 2012, how amazing it was to see all the people who just sat on their couch all day, never getting up to do much of anything. Such a waste I used to think. And, I remember the joy the first walk where I dared to begin to jog and the absolute glory in feeling my body move and the air coursing through making my lungs burn. Always appreciate your physical gift and don’t abuse it.
40) If you ever find yourself in a place where you simply can’t seem to accomplish the smallest tasks – where you struggle to get up and do the dishes, or make the coffee in the morning. Stop and assess your mental state. This is one of the first signs of depression. You will feel as though someone has put your feet in quick sand and somehow all those small tasks you do everday, like doing the dishes, taking the kids to school, getting to work, doing the laundry, will feel overwhelming. Get help if you need it, talk to someone you trust if you can. But, most importantly, will yourself to put one foot in front of the other. Turn on some music, take all those tasks and break the down. Focus on just one. And, do that one task. Then focus on the next task. And, one day, you will find that you will do them with ease, without thought and your mind will be strong again.
41) Never flaunt your social status or act as though you are somehow entitled. You have no more entitlement than anyone else. You may have more than most of the planet, but you are entitled to nothing. All that you are entitled to is the conviction to create at least as good a life for yourself, your family, and others through your own skills, talents, and dreams. Do not seek for others to take care of you. Learn to take care of yourself. In so doing, you will discover your talents, uncover your drive, and develop pride in yourself and your own ability to take care of yourself.
42) Never forget your sense-of-humor or your ability to laugh at yourself or your situation. I always remember the moment the doctor showed my dad his heart with four arteries darn near completely closed. When he told my dad he’d have to do open-heart surgery, my dad’s response was “Ce La Vi,” which was so perfect. When life is beyond your control, never forget the power of humor to ground you, center you, see the ridiculousness, and remove the fear or sadness from your heart. If you are ever with someone and they don’t make you laugh, that’s not the person for you. Find someone who makes you laugh and who you can laugh with. At the same time, if you find yourself always finding humor at someone else’s expense it’s probably time to do a self-assessment and look elsewhere for your humor.
43) Be sensitive to your fellow man and to all creatures great and small. Do not share your heart with anyone who isn’t as sensitive as you because they can cause you great damage. You are both beautiful, sentient children who see and feel so much because of your huge hearts. It is a gift and a curse because while it makes life that much richer, it also, at times, makes it that much more painful. Because life can be a hard thing. Read “A Soldier of the Great War,” my favorite book, and revel at his ability to see beauty after all that he’s been through. Never let life harden your heart, stay soft and open and gentle and it will give you much. Do not let anyone ever change this in you.

For God’s sake, never-ever forget how much I love you. How dearly I have cherished every moment together. Please read the blog I wrote before I met Jim, http://andrezollars.wordpress.com (Heart Adrift). You will learn a great deal about how I enjoyed every moment of our life together while we were in the house on Belden. If you feel angry at me for leaving, do not feel guilty. It is natural. What? Do you think I’m not pissed off? Oh, I can guarantee you that if I see the main man up in heaven, he and I will be having a serious talk about his timing. But, see, that’s the thing. I don’t think I go to heaven. No, I think I stay right here, with you – a part of you. Before my Carotid Artery Dissection, I would’ve said I wasn’t so sure about heaven. But, now I know, that not even God can take me from you. So, when you’re mad, remember that’s really just me inside of you getting mad too. You two are and always will be my absolute everything for eternity.

People talk about regrets. Look, there’s a chance you might have some of those two. Maybe we were angry at one another the last time we saw one another. Maybe you feel bad about some slight you feel you did towards me. Whatever it is, I want you to find a way to release those regrets and to forgive yourself. Whether it’s writing them down and burning them or tying them to a balloon and setting them free. Do something symbolic with all your regret and once it’s gone, forgive yourself and move on. I have. I forgave you of any wrong you ever did me the day I gave birth to you. Because a Mother’s love is unbreakable. No harm can ever jeopardize it. I promise you that. That’s called unconditional love.

Now, go out and seize the moment, seize the day, seize your life and suck every last bit of marrow out of it that you can. And, should you ever feel afraid, or alone, or anxious, stop and close your eyes and breathe deeply imagining me standing there holding your hand. Now look up at me and squeeze my hand and go – run – go what you’re after. Because, you my beautiful children are meant to do amazing things and I am the lucky one to be with you for the ride.

All my love – eternally.

Mom

Celebrating Mother’s Day, a month post CAD with Horner’s Syndrome very evident in right eye as a result of incident.