A May Day Memory

The year was 2001, and my 12-year-old son had been in a coma for over a week. He had recently been airlifted to a university hospital for another surgery, his third in the past week. This was going to be a delicate surgery. His eye muscle was trapped in an orbital fracture. His nose was broken, too, and needed to be repaired. While these repairs would ordinarily be complicated, the complications were compounded by my son’s skull fracture and significant brain swelling. The surgery posed a risk of further brain damage. Without it, his eye would forever be “sunk” into the socket and cease to function. These were horrible choices for a parent to make.  I wouldn’t wish this kind of life-altering decision on my worst enemy.

We had spent the morning consulting with doctors while our son lay motionless and hooked up to machines in a the giant common room of the pediatric ICU with other gravely ill children. I was frustrated and at the end of my rope. The transfer to the new hospital felt like a huge setback. We were back to square one again. After a week of prayers, despair, being told first that our son would not live, then that he would never wake up and if he did, he would certainly remain in a vegetative state, we were given the same hopeless prognosis over and over again. I REFUSED to believe any of them. These doctors didn’t know my son the way I knew him. He was IN THERE. I felt it. I knew it. I was certain.

Like a mama bear, I stood between my son and the rest of the world. I questioned everything. I hovered over the nurses administering his care. I asked to read his chart daily. I made sure that he had his favorite Frank Sinatra CD playing at all times. I’d bought him a CD player and head set, and I was royally pissed off if I saw that someone had neglected to place the headphones back on his head.

That day on May 1, 2001, I had infuriated practically every staff member in the ICU. The surgeon had wanted to perform my son’s surgery that day at 4:00 p.m. I refused to allow it. I had been at my son’s bedside since 6:00 a.m. I’d seen the surgeon at that time. Now he wanted to perform an 8-hour surgery beginning at 4:00 p.m. When did this guy sleep? I refused. I told him to go home and get a good night’s sleep, and he could do the surgery in the morning. The guy was flummoxed.  Didn’t I want what was best for my son?   I was refusing to allow my son’s surgery?  No, you arrogant asshole!  I am refusing you to allow you to operate on my child when you are exhausted!  He kept talking to me about the hospital’s schedule, which I replied, “I really don’t give a damn about the hospital’s schedule.  All I care about is this one patient.”

He brought in the head surgeon to speak to me, and they took T and I into a conference room.  (I’ll say now that T was dead silent during all of this.  I think I was scaring him, too!)  All I remember now is the glaring, stark white of the room, and the fact that they gave me a very large Snickers bar.  Why would they have done that?  Did most mothers allow a risky surgery to be performed on their child after a boost of chocolate?  Nothing they said mattered to me.  I answered each one of their arguments with, “I am not refusing the surgery.  I am refusing to allow an exhausted surgeon to operate on my child.  Go home tonight and rest.  Schedule the surgery for the morning.”  Apparently the hospital’s policy was to keep the morning ER schedule open for emergency patients.  The afternoon was reserved for surgeries that were not “emergency” in nature.  I said, “Look at my son.  He is a top priority emergency patient to me.”  Finally, the doctors relented.  The surgery was scheduled for the following morning.

During our son’s stay, we were welcome to lodge at the nearby Ronald McDonald House.  I can’t even type those words without being flooded with complete gratitude.  Our time at Ronald McDonald House was almost surreal.  The kindness of the many volunteer groups that served the grieving, tragedy-struck parents, the commraderie of the families, and the warm smiles of such very sick children will always hold a special place in my heart.  That May Day in 2001, we returned the Ronald McDonald House to find a sweet, little May basket hanging from the knob of the door to our room.  A local Brownie troop had made the baskets, filled them with flowers from the own yards…as well as beautiful little violets and dandelions from their lawns…and delivered them to each room at the Ronald McDonald House.  Those crayon-decorated baskets and brightly colored flowers touched me in a wonderful way during that dark day.  Beauty and kindness still existed.  Even in this hell I was living, good things surrounded me.  I can still remember the awe I felt as I looked at the simple beauty, innocence, and great human kindness of that the basket hanging on my doorknob represented.

Later that afternoon, I went out to the lawn behind the Ronald McDonald house.  I laid down on my back in the grass.  I let the sun pour over my body and warm me once again.  I felt the embrace of the earth, caring for me, strengthening and reassuring me.  I felt a power far greater than the problems I was facing.  The power of GOOD was all around me.  Once again, laying there flat on the grass, I felt peace return to me.  What if Andy died?  He would become part of all of THIS, this warm, sweet-smelling, beautiful earth.  He would forever know the peace of being embraced by what is real and good.  The pains of life would be over, but the beauty would go on and on.  Finally, I knew what my dad meant when he said, “Let go, and Let God.”

Twelve years later, another May Day.  I felt a sense of awe once again this morning as I drove to work.  The rolling fields are waking up.  As I looked across them, my eyes filled with tears.  Goodbye, fields!  I’m leaving you soon to begin a new journey.  I’ll miss you, but I’ll never forget the beauty of your embrace during some of my darkest moments.  I knew that the fields would remain behind, but that they would also be with me on this new journey of mine.  I will carry them in my heart.   Joy fills me as I think wonderingly of how far we have come since that May Day in 2001.  My son is now an adult.  He’s happy, whole, and functioning as well as any other young man finding his way in this world.  I am thankful everyday that he is still in my life and that he too not only sees the beauty around him, but feels it deeply in his heart…just like his mom.

Randomly Posting

I haven’t written anything in three months.  In fact, I haven’t read anything….AT ALL.  Nothing.  Beyond street signs, I’ve been outside of the world of words.  I made my blog private, not because I had anything to hide, but because I needed to hide from myself.  I was hiding from the self that was introspective, analyzing, thinking, and remembering.  I wanted to see only the truth, and I wanted to concentrate on real things, the things that were/are right in front of me.  Writing was/is an escape.   Writing allowed me to slip away from reality into a world of introspection.  Self-pity?  Yeah, my writing often allowed me to wallow in everything that was wrong while I ignored the many things that were right.

As I sit down tonight to begin writing once again, I am amazed by the changes that have occurred these past three months.  While tonight I sit in my same comfortable spot on the couch, everything around me is about to change.  HUGE, GIANT changes are just around the corner.  I am scared, and at the same time, I am straining and impatient for these changes to begin.  Tomorrow I am resigning from my job, a position that I have fought for, believed in, and loved….and tomorrow, I am resigning.  It’s time, and I’m proud to know that this great thing will continue along successfully without me.  I’m feeling a little bit like a proud Momma who knows that it’s time to allow her beloved child to find his own way in the world, a way that will be filled with even bigger and better things.  The program (my program!) will succeed without me, of that I’m sure, and I am very proud.

I’ll back up a little bit here.  On Valentines weekend, T and I went away for a short trip.  We had stopped for lunch, and I went to use the restroom.  When I returned, T told me that I’d had a call while I was gone.  I asked him if he’d answered it, but he hadn’t.  He hadn’t recognized the number which was out of our area code.  We sat there and speculated for a few moments.  Strange that I didn’t just listen to the voicemail right away.  When I did finally listen, I was in shock.  It was a recruiter calling me about a position that she had been hired to fill.  She said that from what she heard from colleagues, I would be a perfect fit for this position.  What????  I hadn’t applied for any new jobs.  I wasn’t looking to make a change.  T and I ate our lunch and idly discussed the voicemail.

Hours later, I decided to return the call “just to see what it was all about.”  Immediately, I was intrigued.  The position would be a challenge.  The pay was amazing.  The location, however, left a bit to be desired.  Still, I agreed to throw my hat in the ring.  When we returned home, I sent a copy of my resume and professional biography.  The months that followed were filled with visits, interviews, more visits, another interview, and finally, an offer and negotiations.

In three weeks, I will be leaving this place I call home.  I’ll be moving BY MYSELF to a hotel room over two hours from my home and my family.  I won’t know anyone.  I’ve never lived alone.  I’m excited as hell!  For the first time EVER I am going to stand on my own two feet.

T is staying here.  We have two houses to sell.  He has a JOB of his own.  The girls have to finish out the school year.  Maybe they will join me then?  Nothing is settled, and no one seems to be in a hurry to settle anything.  I love it!  I can’t wait to take my first tentative steps on this new path.

 

Team TEAM

 

When the boys moved out a couple of years ago, it was a big adjustment for our family.  Well, a big adjustment for ME.  T didn’t seem too troubled.  The girls didn’t miss their brothers too much.  I’m sure on some level they did, but on a daily basis, the girls were pretty pleased.  One Sunday, Lola moved out of their shared “girls room” and set up her own room in her recently vacated brothers’ room.   We all thought that she had been upstairs playing, but she had moved all of her belongings into the boys’ room declaring that she wasn’t leaving.    We all admired her 8-year-old determination, and the boys’ room has now become Lola’s room.  The boys have been more than willing to sleep on the trundle bed in the corner on their occasional visits.

As the months, and now years have passed, the dynamics in our household have changed.  For the first time, the women outnumber the men.  Our old gray cat has been joined by a busy, little puppy.  T has been more than tolerant of the changes.  In fact, he has thrived on them.  He likes being the lone man of the house.  He has accepted a puppy that was thrust into his life even as he proclaimed, “No more pets!”  The girls and I have smiled as we’ve watched Boo the Puppy charm his way into T’s heart.

We’ve even come up with a name for this new family in our home.  TEAM.  Together Everyone Achieves More.  It began as a joke on night at the dinner table, but it stuck.  Team TEAM, that’s what we call ourselves.  What does Team TEAM mean to us?  It means a changed household.  Our family that has gone through adjustment, change, and loss, but in the end has created a new dynamic worthy of celebration.

Our son Andrew was home for a visit for several days this week.  I LOVED having him back home, and we all had a great time.  He was a visitor in our house, though.  We stayed up late, had big meals, and talked so much.  We packed in as much time together as we could manage each day.  When he caught the train this evening, we were all smiles.  We’d had a good time, but we were all exhausted and ready to get back to our regular routines.  He was ready to go home, and we were ready for our lives to settle back into our new normal routine.  As T and I drove home from the train station, he said, “I’m ready for some TEAM time.”  The girls greeted us in the kitchen when we returned.  They were smiling and held out their arms for a hug, a TEAM hug.

 

Listening For Calm

 

There was a time when I saw music in my head.  As I fell asleep at night, I would listen to my iPod.  I had a special “Sleeping Playlist” that I listened to each night.  I became so familiar with the songs that I could see the music as I listened.  Notes would dance across my closed eyes as I fell asleep.  Their gentle movement up and down the staff lulled me to sleep.  I drifted off as I became part of the music.  My mind was clear, troubling thoughts rarely intruded to interrupt my slumber.  It was just me and the music.  I was at peace with myself and the world around me.  That allowed me to appreciate the beauty and the composition of the music.

That hasn’t happened in at least three years, probably much longer.

I haven’t written in weeks.  I haven’t been able to write.  The words wouldn’t come.  My thoughts were jumbled and unclear.  The January doldrums are weighing heavily on me.  I am lethargic and dragging.  I have been dealing with health issues and haven’t felt my best.  My energy level has tanked.  I’m not surprised by any of it.  Who would be?  Prolonged stress is a fairly common cause of health problems, but that’s not what this blog is about.  I don’t want to talk (or write) about what is wrong with me.  In the grand scheme of life, my problems are just a blip on the radar.

I spent the bulk of last week in Chicago.  I couldn’t really get into my usual conference socializing and networking.  Most nights, I found myself in bed before 10:00 p.m.  I had dinner one night alone at the hotel, declining the opportunity to dine with friends.  Pam has been spending some time with Pam lately.  I’ve been soaking in the quiet and moments alone.  There were bright spots during my time in Chicago.  I spent some time with my son as his schedule allowed.  Even our time together was quiet.  We sat at a piano bar speaking quietly, remembering times from his childhood.  We laughed, talked, and listened to the music together.

On my last night in the city, I received a text from a co-worker informing me of something terrible.  Really terrible.  A mutual friend had been diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer.  It is inoperable and has also metastasized to his lungs.  Having just been diagnosed, he is not expected to live out the year.  She sent me a link to a private video blog he had begun that day.  His intention was to chart his journey, to relieve his wife from having to repeat his status over and over each day to well-meaning, concerned family and friends, and so that some day his young children would be able to see their father’s strength as he fought for each day that remained.

I cried as I watched my friend relate his pain, multiple misdiagnoses, and finally a diagnosis that was the worst case scenario.  He has begun intensive chemotherapy in a valiant, long-shot effort to reduce the tumor to an operable size.  The doctors are not optimistic, but he is a fighter.  He’s fighting for his wife and their four kids.  He has promised them not to give up.

His fight and the pain his family is experiencing, are breaking my heart.  I spoke to him this morning.  Part of my job will be to organize a benefit for him and his family.  That is my job, but it will be a labor of love.  Today, I spent several hours making calls, asking for assistance, and sadly, informing people that a wonderful asset to our community is in a grave situation.  I feel exhausted and emotionally drained, and ashamed for feeling those things.  I want to slap my own face and say, “Look around you.  Gather in your blessings.  Thank God for the life ahead of you.  Appreciate the good.”

These weeks of quiet and peaceful introspection have been good for me.  I have needed some time to listen to the world around me and to seek out moments of calm.  This quiet needs to be protected and continue.

Defining Me

Late on Christmas day, while our house was still full of people, my oldest daughter and I retired to the living room.  T had made mochas with his new milk frother (awesome!) and Emily and I snuck away to a quiet spot to spend few moments together.  When we sat down, my daughter told me that she had been prepared to give me a “talking to” that day.  Sadly, I wasn’t shocked.  My poor daughter has been my watchdog and my rock, but on Christmas day, she was proudly smiling at me.  She went on to tell me that she had been prepared for me to be upset that Andrew hadn’t been able to be home with us and that my parents were gone.  She had been prepared for me to wallow in what was NOT instead of being grateful for what WAS.  I smiled.  She was right to have been prepared with that talk, and I was ridiculously proud that she didn’t have to say those words to me.  Yes, I have changed.  The changes have been subtle, and they have been a long time coming, but here they are.  I made the most of the moment right in front of me.  Best of all, I made my daughter happy and proud.

My life is not perfect.  Far from it.  Everything is the same; what has changed is me.

When I was in high school, I went behind by mother’s back and double pierced my ears.  I did the piercing job myself the old fashioned way with an ice cube, a needle, and a potato.  I wore my ears double-pierced for years, but when I entered the workforce, I opted for a more conservative look and wore a pair of simple pearl studs or conservative gold hoops.  In the years between my sons’ births, I began to wear a diamond stud in one of the double piercings.  I wasn’t working then.  I wore the little diamond to remind me of Grace.  No one knew that’s why I wore the little diamond but me.  I wore it in my left ear for years until I once again returned to work.  As the years past, I almost forgot about the other little hole in my ear lobes.  I’m not sure what happened to the little diamond stud that was once part of my life.

A few weeks ago as a joke on the girls, I put an earring in that same ear once again.  My hair was up that day, and I did it to tease my daughters who didn’t even know that their mother had that “edgy” double pierced ear.  “MOM!  Is your ear double pierced?  When did you do that?”  They were shocked, and I loved it.  It was so funny for them to see me as someone, someone different, before I became their mother.  I wore the double earring all weekend, but when Monday came, I took it out, back to normal and conservative.

As Emily and I talked in the quiet living room on Christmas day, she brought up the earring to me.  She said that I had seemed so happy and lively that morning.  She said that I had been so proud of myself, almost playful, and she asked me why I hadn’t just kept wearing that extra earring.  I said things like, “Oh, I’m too old.  No one my age wears double pierced ears.  Nah…”

There I was, doing what was expected of me, behaving like everyone else.  Almost 50 years old (WTF!!!!) and still worried about what everyone else would think about me, worried that someone would look down on me or pass judgment on me.  I thought a lot about our conversation in the following days.  Years ago when I had worn the little diamond stud, it had meant something special to me.  It was a reminder of my daughter, but more importantly, it was a reminder of strength.  It was my own reminder of the strength I’d had to endure, the trials of life.  Diamonds are hard, but they sparkle and shine.  I had liked that.  It had seemed a fitting reminder of persistence and endurance.

A few days later, on my birthday, the girls gave me a gift.  It was a set of tiny diamond studs.  Emily told me to put one in and save the other.  She had a big smile on her face.  She is a smart young woman.  She knew that once again, I needed a reminder to be proud of who I am and not worry about what others might think.  Once again, I needed a reminder of strength, endurance, beauty and sparkle.

I know, wearing a second earring is hardly edgy.  It’s not like I’ve pierced my tongue or a nostril.  It’s not a tattoo or a neon stripe of color in my hair.  But that’s OK.  Being edgy is not who I am or who I want to be.  Those things would mean nothing to me.  This does.  This means something to me, and that’s what it’s all about.

Optimism

I’ve spent the past few years plodding along, but not really going anywhere.  Certainly, the past few years have been filled with loss and change.  Life changes our plans, and sometimes our plans change our lives.  Sometimes we can control the changes in our lives.  Other times, the changes take control and pull us along with or without our consent.  I have learned something important, though.  Most days are there for the taking.  Most days at least have the potential to be a GOOD DAY.   What happens, though? Well, I certainly can’t speak for anyone else, but I know what my problem has been.  Instead of treating each day as a gift full of potential, I have continued pedaling along on a course that goes nowhere.  Too often, I have looked back at days that are in the past, agonized over things beyond my control,  and wasted the potential of each fresh, new day.  It’s time to get off of the hamster wheel.

Life is short.  The moments we are able to spend with those we love, moments without loss, times when we are well-fed, warm, and secure should not be wasted with the selfish drivel of thinking, “Is this it? Is this enough?”  If where you are in your life is not making you happy, the first place to look is in the mirror.  YOU, my friend, are the key to your own happiness.  You are in the driver’s seat, no one else.

I know all too well, that sometimes life puts curves and bumps in the road.  Deal with it!  Accept, accept, accept.  Life is not fair.  Deal with it.  Tomorrow is another day, another chance, another gift.

Today is my birthday.  I have thought a lot about both of my parents today.  This is my first year on this Earth celebrating a birthday without parents.  When I realized that this morning, I was a little awestruck.  How did the years speed by so quickly?  How can they possibly be gone already?  Today, I missed them, but I did not cry.  I smiled, because of the memories I have of other birthdays spent together.  I smiled, because three of my kids are home and spent the entire day hanging out with me.  I smiled, because the sun came out for a few moments for the first time in days.

I haven’t worked in almost two weeks, and it has been great.  I have spent time with family, done a ton of cleaning and cooking, lots of movie-watching, and plenty of eating and drinking.  Oh, and I’m teaching myself to knit.  I haven’t had a lot of sleep, yet I feel rested and relaxed.  Something has stirred inside of me that I am almost afraid to acknowledge.  I think that the feeling might be called optimism, and I realized that this feeling of optimism scares me to death.

I have spent way too long crouched down with my hands over my head waiting for the next shoe to drop.  I have waited for things to go wrong, to be hurt by something, to lose again.  Oh, and I know new versions of these things I fear will certainly happen once again.  Every one of our days cannot be filled with sunshine, vacation days, family, and birthday cake.  Bad things happen.  Loss happens.  People will disappoint and hurt us, but I am tired of wasting my time fearfully waiting for the next bad thing to rear its ugly head.

Enough of that.  I’ve decided to keep working on the optimism.

 

 

 

 

Taking Too Much For Granted

 

I was driving in one direction, and T was heading the other way.   We were both on the same two-lane road, so it was inevitable that we would eventually see each other in passing.  We were talking on the phone at the time.  I waved as he passed by.  He lifted his hand in return.  As his image faded into my rearview mirror, we continued talking.  T said, “I hate to admit this, but I am tired of being a parent.”  Ah….I knew how he was feeling. I was feeling tired at that moment, too.  T quickly admitted that he felt terrible for even saying such a thing, and I told him that it was OK.  I said, “It’s OK to feel tired, because I know that you will never stop caring about them and being a good parent.”

Our week had been rough in so many ways.  One kid needed $2,800 immediately, yesterday, for six months’ rent that we thought didn’t come due until January.  Another kid needed $1,900 immediately for a tuition payment.  Not such great news at Christmastime.

Last week also brought December 11, the day when both my daughter and my dad died.  I was in conflict for days.  Basically, I was in a zone of depression, fear, and anxiety that something else bad would happen on that date.  I couldn’t decide what to do.  Should I go to the cemetery?  Should I take the day off work and stay home?  What if I went to work, and I wasn’t able to keep it together?  What if I started crying in front of people?  In the end, I decided to go to work.  I could always go home early if necessary.  The day was terrible.  I cried in my car during lunch.  But that’s not what this blog is about.  I made it through another difficult anniversary, and the sun rose on another day.

Wednesday and Thursday, I plugged along.  I could feel the November/December depression beginning to lift.  Soon I would be spending time with the kids for a few weeks during Christmas break.  I began to feel optimism.  I felt hopeful.  I have vacation time scheduled.  For the first time in a very long time, I will be home for almost two weeks.  While we have nothing planned, I am looking forward to recharging my batteries, working around the house a little, and relaxing a lot.

On Friday morning, T and I woke up at 5:00 a.m.  I’m not sure why, but we were both wide awake almost two hours before the alarm clock was due to wake us.  We decided to make a pot of coffee and enjoy the quiet darkness of early morning.  I curled up in my robe, a cup warm in my hand, and fired up my laptop.  I logged into Facebook, and the first thing I saw was sad news.  A friend of mine had posted the obituary of her 46-year-old brother.  He had died unexpectedly from a fall in his home.  I felt sick to read such sad news.

Moments later, as I sat sipping my coffee and scanning through the Facebook news feed, I heard coughing.  I sat down my cup of coffee and strained to hear.  It was Lola.  Hmmm….I hoped that she wasn’t catching a cold.  The next thing I knew, she was standing in my room with vomit dripping down the front of her footie pajamas.  The quiet calm of the dark morning was over.  I jumped up and yelled downstairs for T to come up and help me.  We both sprang to action, cleaned up her bedding, cleaned up the kid.  I settled her on the TV room couch and went to wash my hands for about the 20th time.

T and I needed to discuss our plans for the day.  Whose schedule was more flexible?  Neither.  Who was able to stay home this morning?   Neither.  What was Emily’s schedule for finals today?  I told T to go ahead and go to work.  I would stay home for the morning until Emily was back home.  He could settle things at his office, and then come home.  Tag team parenting.

A couple of hours later, just as I was about to walk out the door, Lola was sick again….this time on the TV room floor.  We had shampooed the carpet in that room the previous night in preparations for the upcoming holiday.  UGH!  We were out of Ibuprofen and Kleenex.  One paper towel was left on the holder in the kitchen.  Our life seemed to be in major disarray.  Luke was coming home from Milwaukee that night, and there were no sheets on his bed.  Life was feeling like one big chore.  Lots of work, and no joy.

T and I talked as he drove home, and I drove to my office.  What has happened to our lives?  Why do our lives so often seem like monotonous drudgery?  When are our adult children going to grow up and stop depending on us so much both financially and emotionally?  We talked about our own lives.  Married at 20 and 22, we never asked for, or accepted, any financial assistance from our parents.  EVER.  Yet, we wanted so much more for our own children.  We wanted their lives to be easier, to have more opportunities.  We wanted to be able to support them and lift them up, to help them aspire to their dreams.  We knew the sacrifices and hard work were worth it.  They are great kids, but we vowed to speak to our older children during the holiday break and gently remind them to be more considerate and appreciative, especially when it comes to financial requests.

And then it all seemed so petty.  Within moments of sitting down at my desk that morning, someone came in and told me to look at the news.  There had been a school shooting.  What came next occupied the remaining moments of my day.  How could this happen?  Why?  How many?  Oh, my God…  Like millions, I cried as the horror of the situation began to sink in.  Suddenly, immediately, my impatience with the trials of an ordinary day made me feel shame.  My beautiful little girl was safe at home tucked in on the couch watching Nickelodeon with her big sister.  I was suddenly grateful for the financial burdens of raising our four children.  Thank God!  They are healthy and whole, and able to pursue their educations.

How do we even begin to sort out such evil?  It is impossible.  Hundreds of lives have been forever changed.  Parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, neighbors, friends, classmates are forever changed.  An entire nation mourns.

I called my boys that day, and I cried as I told them that I loved them.  That evening when I returned home from work, I hugged my girls, and we cried.  T and I sat in the living room and watched the horror on the news until we could take no more.  I felt guilty as I turned off the TV.  The families mourning the evil and violent loss of a loved one are not able to “turn it off” and move onto something less horrifying.

I couldn’t sleep at all that night.  I couldn’t even bring myself to walk up the stairs to the bedroom.  I sat on the couch.  I sat quietly praying, mentally sending my sympathy, sending my hopes that the grieving families would somehow find strength and solace in the days to come.  I could not sleep with the cloud of sadness hanging low over our country.

Once again, I am reminded that the only thing we can be certain of is today.  Time with the ones we love is precious.  None of us know what tomorrow will bring.  Say the words, “I LOVE YOU.”  Hug your children.  Cherish every moment of happiness.