One might think that the resolution would bring an element of peace. Certainly, there are things to ponder and improvements to make, but one would think that a calm might set in now that an ending has come.
Since Aaron's arrival back with the family, I find myself in the midst of extreme anxiety. It did not subside when the summons was fulfilled. The relief I expected now that my son was no longer anxious and in despair did not arrive.
Aaron's entry back into family was smooth.... and overwhelming... for us. He talked non-stop from Sedalia to Colorado Springs and back to Boulder. That's a nine hour journey (we stopped at the zoo in Colorado Springs). We learned so much about Ramah in the Rockies (it sounds like such an amazing place - when is family camp?!?) and the boys in his bunk (I know where they live, whether or not they are home schooled, if they've been to Ramah - Rockies before), and the food that was served (we heard that was the worst part about camp, but - according to Aaron - it was one of the best parts - especially that blueberry cake like stuff they served).
I had to remind myself that this was a relieved child that we had picked up, and his relief was almost instantaneous. He was back with his family where he felt safe. And everything came rushing out.
If I pause to view this whole situation from Aaron's perspective, I imagine this is what he might say:
Dear Mom & Dad:
I know you are disappointed that I was not able to enjoy myself at camp. I know this because you told me, and I listen to what you say. I know you understand how hard it is for me to be away from you, how difficult it is to face new things without the security and safety of my family nearby for support.
There were sooo many new things at camp. They did not know that I like to lay in bed for awhile before starting my day, that I need that time to adjust to another day beginning. I wasn't able to tell them that because, well, I didn't really know that that is what I do either.
There were so many new faces at camp. And some old faces, but I haven't seen those old faces in so long. And some of the people in my cabin have so much energy, and they are loud. And it overcomes me and paralyzes me. It might be normal, but it's not me and it's a lot for me to take in.
There were so many new things to try at camp. And each of those new things - no matter how excited I was about them - was terrifying. It takes so much energy to try something new, and it drains me. There was no time to rest between trying new things. It's such a busy day, non-stop, and that's hard for someone like me who needs time to recharge and who gets drained from outwardly social activities. You and dad should be able to relate to that. I think I got a piece of introversion from both of you, so I guess that means I have 2.3654 times more introverted energy than both of you have.
I like routine. You know I do. I like to know what to expect. I'm not sure you properly prepared me for what camp was like. I know you tried your best, and you did do so many good things - like taking me to Gabi's house to hear about camp and to ask him any questions I had (you asked all the questions I was thinking of but was afraid to ask - the silly ones - like where do you shower?).
I heard you say that we should have gone up early, and we should have created a map. That would have helped. You know I like to know a space before I enter it. Familiar spaces are easier to enter. And, now that I'm thinking about it, it might have been nice to meet my counselors before camp started. I know that's not usual and most kids are happy to meet their counselors when they get off the bus, but - for me - I would like to meet them beforehand.
I know that you recognize how much courage it took for me to tell you I wanted to go, and I know you are proud of me. I know you know how hard it was the night before I left and started crying and telling you I didn't want to go. But, I got on that bus and I know that made you happy.
I listened to what you told me and I tried everything I could. I tried to like it. I gave it a chance. I hope you know that I did. But my anxiety was like a roadblock and I couldn't break through it.
(I have to tell you, mom and dad, that since I've been back - I've gone to the bathroom more times than I did while I was at camp - which was none at all - and my throat has been hurting and I'm under the weather. All of that could definitely have had an impact on my experience at camp.)
I know I told my counselors that I hated everything and I hated that place, but I know you know that it had an impact - a positive impact - on me because I can't stop talking about it. And I remember how to cook hash browns outside, and I remember how to tie a knot with a rope, and I'm still trying new foods now that I am back with you.
Sure, there were things that could have been done differently. And, maybe if we do them in the future (not next year, mom) - they will help me adjust better to camp. But, I don't want you to regret picking me up or get mad at camp for not doing more to help me enjoy myself.
Now that I am back with you, I can see what my nervousness did to me. It was paralyzing; I couldn't move. I couldn't feel joy. I just felt empty and like I needed you. Thank you for understanding me and for accepting me for who I am, mom and dad. That's what I needed most of all.
July 9, 2013
July 7, 2013
The Summons
Shabbat is so peaceful and hopeful. With no disruptions coming in from camp, it feels like everything is hunky dory and that we won't be seeing either of our boys until July 15th.
I'm already winding down for the night and my cell phone lights up. Another call. We weren't supposed to hear from them until Sunday morning.
Let's see - after the email of Aaron being on the porch, we had another phone call with camp. Ilan had seen Aaron and was able to get him to go for dinner. It was a BBQ so campers could sit with and eat with whomever they wanted. Perfect.
Camp had already told Ilan that he was a great big brother. He frequently asked how Aaron was doing, and it's obvious he is sensitive to Aaron's feelings. He was told how wonderful it is that he wants to help, that camp and his parents were working together, and that neither of us wanted his time at camp to be tainted by his brother.
But, he saw Aaron on the porch and took him to the BBQ. He told the Director for Camp Care (DOCC) that Aaron may go to Capture the Flag later that night but he would probably not play.
We were encouraged by upcoming Shabbat. DOCC told us that many children "turn around" on Shabbat. Given, Aaron was a bit extreme but they were willing to see how Shabbat worked for Aaron.
It didn't.
The last call we received was the Summons. Aaron was up and down during Shabbat. When it looked like he was having fun and someone commented on it, he'd reply - "I'm faking it because my parents said I had to."
DOCC said he thinks it's time to come get Aaron.
So, I am off to Sedalia this morning and thankful that David commutes to Boulder for work so that I am "close by".
To Aaron:
I am disappointed that you were not able to experience fun at camp, but I also know how much courage it took for you to even get there.
I am proud of you for trying and am eager to help you acquire the tools that would allow you to stay at camp (even if you never go back to camp, you still need the tools).
I am grateful - as you should be - for Ilan's compassion and for the Ramah Outdoor Adventure staff who tirelessly, enthusiastically, and skillfully tried to help you ease into camp.
I know you have told them that you did not enjoy anything at all (you told us you liked the food the first time we talked to you which, from what we've heard, is commonly a camper's least favorite part about camp). I want you to think about the book that you, Ilan and I were working on. The part we left off on was the assessment of how we look at the world. Do you look at the world with the eyes of a pessimist? Or do you look through the world with the eyes of an optimist?
It is a skill we (you, me, and Ilan) are working on to improve in our lives. But, I am sure there is something that you can say to your counselors, to the Director of Camp Care, and to the others who tried to help you about what you liked at camp.
To ROA staff - Aaron's counselors, Zach, Miki, anyone else who "tried to get in"
There is so much that I could say to you write now. I first want to express my admiration, my appreciation, and my awe with the way you tried to help Aaron acclimate to camp life.
From the beginning, I have been aware of how this might take away from other campers, from your schedules, and from your energy!
We had great hopes for Aaron - who told us on his own (no coercing involved) to sign him up for camp. But, we should have hesitated for a moment because we know our son.
He has difficult times through transitions. He is an introvert. It takes him awhile to settle in. He is stubborn. He is an anxious child. He hasn't even really enjoyed sports (or wore shorts - he used to wear jeans every single day - even in the hot, Arizona summer) until this year.
He has come so far and that is what we were focused on. That is where we placed our hopes for his summer.
Thank you all so much for your efforts, for the time you devoted to him, and for the encouragement you gave him.
Aaron and Ilan's younger siblings are more like Ilan, so please don't freak out if you see the name "Pinkus" on your camp rosters in future years!
July 4, 2013
The Call
During the preschool years, I was one of those dump and go parents. I knew I had to take him in, connect him to a teacher so he would not be able to run after me, and quickly escape out the front door. This was the daily routine, and it worked for us. I never got "the call" in preschool.
I got the call in kindergarten from a nervous and uncertain teacher: "Leeesaaaa? Aaron is sitting in the corner with his head between his knees and won't participate with the rest of the class." I received many of these calls: "Leesaaa? He's in the corner again." Don't even ask why the teacher wasn't able to handle it and why I had to be involved. Don't worry - school administration soon was.
I got the call in first grade. Aaron went "inside" and wouldn't respond after the class was asked to write about their family and whether they were the oldest, middle, or youngest child in their families. According to Aaron, he was "none of the above". His teacher tried to help him see that he was still in the middle even though a fourth child was added to our family, but he would have none of that. Perhaps that was the moment he decided to hate his sister - she who took away his identity as the middle son. Hmmm.
I got the call in third grade. Given, we started at a new school and entered an environment where we knew no one. I should have expected the call. I merely anticipated a difficult adjustment. Indeed, Aaron was under the desk and wouldn't go to his classes or respond to his teacher. The principal and I became best friends fast.
Today, the call came from camp. It had been quite a journey already and - if you know Aaron - you know the courage he had already displayed. We took him to the camp orientation with the intention of sending Ilan and hoping that Aaron would like it enough that we could nudge him and push him and maybe talk him into it... for next year. That was my goal, but my hope was much greater. So, when we came out of that orientation and he said, "That sounds really cool, but I'd be really nervous.", we danced with joy. I'd bring it up every few days and, finally, he said, "I think you and dad should just sign me up and not tell me about it and stop talking about it."
So, we did. And he was excited. A bit nervous, but excited. Until the night before when he started crying and saying he didn't want to go. He woke the next morning with the same resistance but - miraculously - he overcame it. He still talked about being nervous but got in the car to go from Boulder to Denver. He gave us tight hugs, but he walked on the bus willingly and stood up to wave good-bye as the bus pulled away for the two-hour drive to Sedalia, Colorado.
Thursday, mid-morning, "the call" came again from Ramah Outdoor Adventure - "the happiest place on earth". Aaron is refusing to get out of bed and participate in... well, anything. He has been staying on the periphery and - today - has just decided he's done. He's saying he is homesick and wants to be picked up.
The plan of action was to try and get him out of bed for lunch and to touch base after that by phone or email. He did get out of bed because they had a camp fire drill and he had to. He sat at lunch with one of the camp staff and talked with her awhile after that. He said he would do afternoon activities if he talked with us.
The call we were expecting between 12:30 and 1:00 came around 2:30 (with me checking my email every five minutes during those hours). Aaron wanted to come home. He hated camp because he didn't want to be away from his family. I asked if he was missing Ellie but only David and I got that joke. Aaron continued to wail about wanting to come home and, please, to come get him. We said everything we were supposed to say - that we know it's hard, that other boys are homesick too, that there are so many great activities he hasn't tried yet, that he can't tell us he doesn't like camp if he hasn't given it a good shot - and staying in bed, refusing to participate is not a good shot.
He left the room so we could talk to the two, patient, phenomenal, we owe them staff members. We are concerned how it will impact other campers. We are sad, disappointed but not surprised at Aaron. We know it could go either way - that if we give him a few days, he'll come out and play.... or, if he's decided not to enjoy camp - he will NOT enjoy camp.
We hung up and they would pass our good-bye on to Aaron. We'll keep in touch.
The email we just received said that Aaron did not do an afternoon activity. He has chosen to lay on the porch of the office cabin and do nothing.
The Director of Campus Care told us he knows what it's like to see that the camp is calling, so he tries to email instead when possible. :) He, too, knows about "the call".
I got the call in kindergarten from a nervous and uncertain teacher: "Leeesaaaa? Aaron is sitting in the corner with his head between his knees and won't participate with the rest of the class." I received many of these calls: "Leesaaa? He's in the corner again." Don't even ask why the teacher wasn't able to handle it and why I had to be involved. Don't worry - school administration soon was.
I got the call in first grade. Aaron went "inside" and wouldn't respond after the class was asked to write about their family and whether they were the oldest, middle, or youngest child in their families. According to Aaron, he was "none of the above". His teacher tried to help him see that he was still in the middle even though a fourth child was added to our family, but he would have none of that. Perhaps that was the moment he decided to hate his sister - she who took away his identity as the middle son. Hmmm.
I got the call in third grade. Given, we started at a new school and entered an environment where we knew no one. I should have expected the call. I merely anticipated a difficult adjustment. Indeed, Aaron was under the desk and wouldn't go to his classes or respond to his teacher. The principal and I became best friends fast.
Today, the call came from camp. It had been quite a journey already and - if you know Aaron - you know the courage he had already displayed. We took him to the camp orientation with the intention of sending Ilan and hoping that Aaron would like it enough that we could nudge him and push him and maybe talk him into it... for next year. That was my goal, but my hope was much greater. So, when we came out of that orientation and he said, "That sounds really cool, but I'd be really nervous.", we danced with joy. I'd bring it up every few days and, finally, he said, "I think you and dad should just sign me up and not tell me about it and stop talking about it."
So, we did. And he was excited. A bit nervous, but excited. Until the night before when he started crying and saying he didn't want to go. He woke the next morning with the same resistance but - miraculously - he overcame it. He still talked about being nervous but got in the car to go from Boulder to Denver. He gave us tight hugs, but he walked on the bus willingly and stood up to wave good-bye as the bus pulled away for the two-hour drive to Sedalia, Colorado.
Thursday, mid-morning, "the call" came again from Ramah Outdoor Adventure - "the happiest place on earth". Aaron is refusing to get out of bed and participate in... well, anything. He has been staying on the periphery and - today - has just decided he's done. He's saying he is homesick and wants to be picked up.
The plan of action was to try and get him out of bed for lunch and to touch base after that by phone or email. He did get out of bed because they had a camp fire drill and he had to. He sat at lunch with one of the camp staff and talked with her awhile after that. He said he would do afternoon activities if he talked with us.
The call we were expecting between 12:30 and 1:00 came around 2:30 (with me checking my email every five minutes during those hours). Aaron wanted to come home. He hated camp because he didn't want to be away from his family. I asked if he was missing Ellie but only David and I got that joke. Aaron continued to wail about wanting to come home and, please, to come get him. We said everything we were supposed to say - that we know it's hard, that other boys are homesick too, that there are so many great activities he hasn't tried yet, that he can't tell us he doesn't like camp if he hasn't given it a good shot - and staying in bed, refusing to participate is not a good shot.
He left the room so we could talk to the two, patient, phenomenal, we owe them staff members. We are concerned how it will impact other campers. We are sad, disappointed but not surprised at Aaron. We know it could go either way - that if we give him a few days, he'll come out and play.... or, if he's decided not to enjoy camp - he will NOT enjoy camp.
We hung up and they would pass our good-bye on to Aaron. We'll keep in touch.
The email we just received said that Aaron did not do an afternoon activity. He has chosen to lay on the porch of the office cabin and do nothing.
The Director of Campus Care told us he knows what it's like to see that the camp is calling, so he tries to email instead when possible. :) He, too, knows about "the call".
Mr & Mrs Bickerton are here!
It started shortly after we pulled out of the parking lot at the Hebrew Educational Alliance, the pick-up spot for Ramah Outdoor Adventure. We waved good-bye to the bus carrying Ilan and Aaron to their magical destination, and headed off with just our "littles" (our affectionate term for Isaac and Ellie).
A commotion in the back seat caused me to turn around and - lo and behold - the Bickertons had arrived. Isaac and Ellie are like an old married couple. When left alone with no other brothers to buffer them, they nitpick each other non-stop. Not the typical sibling rivalry bickering - the we've been married for nearly a lifetime and you are driving me nuts kind of bickering.
It's going to be a fun, two weeks.
As we are pulling away from the Denver drop off:
"Ellie, can you give me the water? Mom, Ellie's not giving me the water."
Ellie: "You told us we couldn't reach over into the other one's space."
"Ellie, just give me the water." (ok, perhaps a bit sibling-ish)
After they had both crawled into our bed in the morning:
"Ellie - you do not lay in the bed that way. Move your knees."
"Isaac, yes I DO sleep like this."
"Ellie - ugggghhhhh!"
Ellie telling Isaac how we went hiking with cousin Anna while he was gone and it started to rain so we went to get ice cream.
Isaac: "Why would you go for ice cream when it's raining? It's already cold."
Sharing the crackers on a hike. Isaac is hungry; Ellie wants to save them.
"I'm starving, Ellie. You can't just tell me not to eat."
(substitute Helen for Ellie and you'll picture your grandma and grandpa after 60 years of marriage)
Then they instituted the rule:
"You can only take one cracker at a time."
"We shouldn't finish them all now."
"Yeah. We might get a stomach ache or something."
And, then there is the love between the Bickertons.
Mr Bickerton had an upset stomach the other night, and Mrs Bickerton stopped eating the special crackers we bought at the store so that he wouldn't feel bad. "I won't eat this since you can't have any."
All the way to the zoo, the Bickertons were writing notes complimenting each other and helping each other with their spelling.
A commotion in the back seat caused me to turn around and - lo and behold - the Bickertons had arrived. Isaac and Ellie are like an old married couple. When left alone with no other brothers to buffer them, they nitpick each other non-stop. Not the typical sibling rivalry bickering - the we've been married for nearly a lifetime and you are driving me nuts kind of bickering.
It's going to be a fun, two weeks.
As we are pulling away from the Denver drop off:
"Ellie, can you give me the water? Mom, Ellie's not giving me the water."
Ellie: "You told us we couldn't reach over into the other one's space."
"Ellie, just give me the water." (ok, perhaps a bit sibling-ish)
After they had both crawled into our bed in the morning:
"Ellie - you do not lay in the bed that way. Move your knees."
"Isaac, yes I DO sleep like this."
"Ellie - ugggghhhhh!"
Ellie telling Isaac how we went hiking with cousin Anna while he was gone and it started to rain so we went to get ice cream.
Isaac: "Why would you go for ice cream when it's raining? It's already cold."
Sharing the crackers on a hike. Isaac is hungry; Ellie wants to save them.
"I'm starving, Ellie. You can't just tell me not to eat."
(substitute Helen for Ellie and you'll picture your grandma and grandpa after 60 years of marriage)
Then they instituted the rule:
"You can only take one cracker at a time."
"We shouldn't finish them all now."
"Yeah. We might get a stomach ache or something."
And, then there is the love between the Bickertons.
Mr Bickerton had an upset stomach the other night, and Mrs Bickerton stopped eating the special crackers we bought at the store so that he wouldn't feel bad. "I won't eat this since you can't have any."
All the way to the zoo, the Bickertons were writing notes complimenting each other and helping each other with their spelling.
July 3, 2013
The Boy Who Hates His Sister
He treats her like her girl-cooties are contagious. He won't sit next to her at the dinner table or partner up with her in siblings against siblings games. The day I think they are finally going to become friends had arrived.
We are going to the amusement park, and she likes to ride the roller coasters that their oldest brother won't touch with ten-foot pole. He won't have to ride alone anymore. But, no, even the thrill connection is not enough to form a bond between them.
Is she an easy target for his pre-adolescent anxiety? First time at overnight camp is coming up right around the corner. Sandwiched between two boys, is the girl thing too much for him to handle? Is her growing brilliance a threat to the "brains" in the family?
Her ability to push his buttons, touch his weak spots, and toy with his emotions triggers unnecessary arguments, rage, and hatred. We watch patiently waiting for this phase to pass and love to blossom - or at least tolerance.
But he continues to get up when she sits down on the couch, won't accept the special gem she has selected to send him off to camp with, and won't go on one last ride at the amusement park if he has to ride with her.
We'll continue to be patient. We will continue the conversations and try to make him understand and care about the feelings his actions elicit in his sister. We will even demand that his behavior changes and follow through on consequences for choosing evil. We will reward small steps that show he is trying to make a change. We will protect him when her claws are extended.
What will it take to make the boy like his sister? We may have to wait until 2020 when he's in 11th grade and she's in 7th grade, and he wants to date one of her friends. More like 2023 - at the earliest.
When the boy who hates his sister began to cry the night before he was to leave for two weeks of overnight camp, I tried to use the sister thing to help him out. "Think about it," I said, "You'll have two weeks away from your annoying sister. It will be great." For some reason, he didn't think that was great and continued to cry through the night and for several hours the next morning.
As we were saying good bye at the camp drop off site, the boy who hates his sister was tightly clinging to his dad and me. He gave us great hugs that said "I hope I survive this. I don't know if I can be without you for so long." He turned to the brother staying behind and gave him a loving, deep hug.
I asked if he wanted to high-five his sister, and he turned and walked on the bus.
We are going to the amusement park, and she likes to ride the roller coasters that their oldest brother won't touch with ten-foot pole. He won't have to ride alone anymore. But, no, even the thrill connection is not enough to form a bond between them.
Is she an easy target for his pre-adolescent anxiety? First time at overnight camp is coming up right around the corner. Sandwiched between two boys, is the girl thing too much for him to handle? Is her growing brilliance a threat to the "brains" in the family?
Her ability to push his buttons, touch his weak spots, and toy with his emotions triggers unnecessary arguments, rage, and hatred. We watch patiently waiting for this phase to pass and love to blossom - or at least tolerance.
But he continues to get up when she sits down on the couch, won't accept the special gem she has selected to send him off to camp with, and won't go on one last ride at the amusement park if he has to ride with her.
We'll continue to be patient. We will continue the conversations and try to make him understand and care about the feelings his actions elicit in his sister. We will even demand that his behavior changes and follow through on consequences for choosing evil. We will reward small steps that show he is trying to make a change. We will protect him when her claws are extended.
What will it take to make the boy like his sister? We may have to wait until 2020 when he's in 11th grade and she's in 7th grade, and he wants to date one of her friends. More like 2023 - at the earliest.
When the boy who hates his sister began to cry the night before he was to leave for two weeks of overnight camp, I tried to use the sister thing to help him out. "Think about it," I said, "You'll have two weeks away from your annoying sister. It will be great." For some reason, he didn't think that was great and continued to cry through the night and for several hours the next morning.
As we were saying good bye at the camp drop off site, the boy who hates his sister was tightly clinging to his dad and me. He gave us great hugs that said "I hope I survive this. I don't know if I can be without you for so long." He turned to the brother staying behind and gave him a loving, deep hug.
I asked if he wanted to high-five his sister, and he turned and walked on the bus.
June 29, 2013
Hollywood and Vine
It all started on the ferris wheel at Elitch Gardens in Denver, Colorado. My first mistake was going to the amusement park without David, oh fearless one who will ride whatever ride child wants to go on. My second mistake was merely hoping that Ellie, otherwise known as "legs", would be too short to ride most of the roller coasters without actually checking to see whether or not this was true.
As we are going up in the ferris wheel (over 100 feet tall), I am smiling for my son who has declared himself "afraid of heights". Same son, oldest son, has not - until recently - enjoyed the thrill of the roller coaster and this has led me to the promise that I will go on all rides that he chooses not to go on and that thrill-seeker son wants to go on.
Note that daughter would happily go on any of the whirling, twirling, dropping roller coasters with thrill-seeking brother. However, same brother chooses not to engage in a relationship with said sister. So, it's on me.
We go up; the panic settles in. I have visions of my the large, metal cage plummeting to the ground. I do not let go of the bars, inappropriately feeling safer if I have something to hold on to.
It can happen, I think. Everything eventually crumbles. Nothing lasts forever. Bridges collapse. Foundations crack. The things we once thought were unimaginable have seeped into reality. It can happen, and I can be the one. I know this because I have seen the impossible turn possible and if it can happen to "them", it can happen to me.
Too many friends whose children are battling or have battled cancer. Too many young parents who die before they see their children into adulthood or even to preschool graduation. Too many times, the impossible becomes reality when "that can never happen to me" taps you on the back when you least expect it and the horror left for TV shows or movies enters our lives.
So, I imagine what I will do when the slowly and slightly rocking cage comes loose and my children and I tumble toward the Earth. I finish the story with a miraculous survival and the world settling into "all is good" again.
When the man opens the cage to let us out, I let him know that I am too old to ride the ferris wheel and that I'm in big trouble since this is the first ride of the day.
I spent the rest of the day twirling and whirling and spinning upside down. Ellie was able to go on most of the rides, and Ilan braved the coasters with newfound enthusiasm. When neither of them could or would ride on the ride, I put on my grin and got in line with Aaron.
We shook, we spun, we hung upside down. I was dizzy, nauseated, and kept thinking "This is the last ride I can go on. I can't possibly do one more." I lured them away from spinning rides with the temptation of a slushy, and my day was over.
I survived the Hollywood and Vine, a ride that spins faster and faster like no other octopus ride I had been on before. I want the t-shirt!
As we are going up in the ferris wheel (over 100 feet tall), I am smiling for my son who has declared himself "afraid of heights". Same son, oldest son, has not - until recently - enjoyed the thrill of the roller coaster and this has led me to the promise that I will go on all rides that he chooses not to go on and that thrill-seeker son wants to go on.
Note that daughter would happily go on any of the whirling, twirling, dropping roller coasters with thrill-seeking brother. However, same brother chooses not to engage in a relationship with said sister. So, it's on me.
We go up; the panic settles in. I have visions of my the large, metal cage plummeting to the ground. I do not let go of the bars, inappropriately feeling safer if I have something to hold on to.
It can happen, I think. Everything eventually crumbles. Nothing lasts forever. Bridges collapse. Foundations crack. The things we once thought were unimaginable have seeped into reality. It can happen, and I can be the one. I know this because I have seen the impossible turn possible and if it can happen to "them", it can happen to me.
Too many friends whose children are battling or have battled cancer. Too many young parents who die before they see their children into adulthood or even to preschool graduation. Too many times, the impossible becomes reality when "that can never happen to me" taps you on the back when you least expect it and the horror left for TV shows or movies enters our lives.
So, I imagine what I will do when the slowly and slightly rocking cage comes loose and my children and I tumble toward the Earth. I finish the story with a miraculous survival and the world settling into "all is good" again.
When the man opens the cage to let us out, I let him know that I am too old to ride the ferris wheel and that I'm in big trouble since this is the first ride of the day.
I spent the rest of the day twirling and whirling and spinning upside down. Ellie was able to go on most of the rides, and Ilan braved the coasters with newfound enthusiasm. When neither of them could or would ride on the ride, I put on my grin and got in line with Aaron.
We shook, we spun, we hung upside down. I was dizzy, nauseated, and kept thinking "This is the last ride I can go on. I can't possibly do one more." I lured them away from spinning rides with the temptation of a slushy, and my day was over.
I survived the Hollywood and Vine, a ride that spins faster and faster like no other octopus ride I had been on before. I want the t-shirt!
June 4, 2013
I don't push delete
I knew it was coming. I was watching for it for days. Anticipated what it would feel like this year. Pushed it out of my mind until the day actually arrived.
And the day came - and almost passed. Until a phone call reminded me that it was May 28th. I'm surprised I didn't already know, that I wasn't on top of it. After all, the day is shared with my niece's birthday. We called her that morning to wish her a happy birthday.
It was a busy day - one of those days where it is one thing to the next - and there isn't time to breathe. But that's no excuse. I'm not sure it's a good thing I didn't think and dwell all day or if I'm more sorry that I didn't have a carved out piece of time to sit and think and dwell. I need some of that.
But children were tugging on my last bits of patience and, suddenly, it was late afternoon.
I was excited to see a voice mail message from a friend. I listened and my heart fell. That was the day. The day that Cindy left us.
This is how it happened four years ago. The same friend finally reached me late in the afternoon. I remember screaming - crying - needing to get through the phone and be with people who knew what a loss to the world this was.
And people feel like that every day. Afterwards, they walk down the street shocked that people are just going about their day as though the world was the same as it always was. It's not. And it never will be.
I called Peter (Cindy's husband), and I see your cell phone number above his. I used to call your number accidentally when I was calling Peter after you died. And he'd say in his thick Slovakian accent, "Lisa, do you know this is Cindy's phone?" This time, I called Peter's phone, and your voice is still on his message. It's still bubbly and happy and full of life. It still rings with the pure joy that you were.
It makes me happy for about a millisecond.
And then I think of your beautiful daughters, your husband, your family and your friends.
How lucky we were to know even if it was such a short time.
Truly blessed to know you and to call you mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend....
I don't delete you -
not from my cell phone,
not from my memory
And the day came - and almost passed. Until a phone call reminded me that it was May 28th. I'm surprised I didn't already know, that I wasn't on top of it. After all, the day is shared with my niece's birthday. We called her that morning to wish her a happy birthday.
It was a busy day - one of those days where it is one thing to the next - and there isn't time to breathe. But that's no excuse. I'm not sure it's a good thing I didn't think and dwell all day or if I'm more sorry that I didn't have a carved out piece of time to sit and think and dwell. I need some of that.
But children were tugging on my last bits of patience and, suddenly, it was late afternoon.
I was excited to see a voice mail message from a friend. I listened and my heart fell. That was the day. The day that Cindy left us.
This is how it happened four years ago. The same friend finally reached me late in the afternoon. I remember screaming - crying - needing to get through the phone and be with people who knew what a loss to the world this was.
And people feel like that every day. Afterwards, they walk down the street shocked that people are just going about their day as though the world was the same as it always was. It's not. And it never will be.
I called Peter (Cindy's husband), and I see your cell phone number above his. I used to call your number accidentally when I was calling Peter after you died. And he'd say in his thick Slovakian accent, "Lisa, do you know this is Cindy's phone?" This time, I called Peter's phone, and your voice is still on his message. It's still bubbly and happy and full of life. It still rings with the pure joy that you were.
It makes me happy for about a millisecond.
And then I think of your beautiful daughters, your husband, your family and your friends.
How lucky we were to know even if it was such a short time.
Truly blessed to know you and to call you mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend....
I don't delete you -
not from my cell phone,
not from my memory
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