This one will be family lore for generations

Last weekend, we had gloriously warm temperatures. Every day for a few days in a row, the mercury rose higher and higher, until it was resting comfortably spring-like in the middle of the 60s. I was down in my office, busy cleaning and organizing. I had packed Hannah off to a friend's house for the morning, and found my boys underfoot and full of the cabin fever.

When they approached and asked to play the bloody Xbox yet again, I told them in no uncertain terms that they were to go outside. I demanded that they get out there and enjoy the warmth while it lasted.

Their shoulders fell, as all technology-deprived children's do, and they started to head upstairs and outside. Just then, the tornado sirens went off. Having been out earlier in blue skies and sunshine, I told them it was probably just a drill and to GET. OUTSIDE. NOW. before I put them to work.

Or killed them.

Or both.

After about a minute, Chase came back in and asked if they could set their tent up in the backyard. Yes, fine, whatever. JUST GO PLAY.

About 20 minutes later, the tornado sirens went off again. I looked out the window and noticed the sky was now an eerie green color. Fearing it was NOT actually a drill, I went in search of the boys.

Their poor tent was being ravaged by the wind, and the rain pounded them from above. Were they not holding it down inside with their weight, I am confident some family in Indiana would now be the proud owners of a red two-man tent.

I immediately called them inside, and gave myself a few lashes with the belt made entirely out of guilt. You know that belt. We mothers all have one.

Come to find out, there was indeed a tornado. And it touched down only two miles from our home. And killed, oh, six people or so. Why, yes, child protective services, I made my children go play in it. Was that bad?

I'm thinking this story will be an excellent anecdote in my Mother of the Year speech. Don't you?

image via

Here's to a new year and a new me

Oh, internet. Words cannot begin to express my gratitude at your heartfelt empathy, sympathy, and love on my behalf. You are just plain good. When I think that the majoirty of you have never even met me in real life, your sweet words are that much more touching.

Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. It was not easy to put that post out there. It is hard for me to put my weaknesses on display - be they real or perceived. I have a hard time letting my guard down. But this blog has become such an important record of my life that I felt I could not let such a soul changing, monumental experience go unwritten about. And yet you embraced me anyway. And made me wish we could all sit around in my living room, large slices of coconut cake on our laps, and laugh and cry over it all in person. Please tell me there is a way to make that happen? Someday?

Anyway, when I saw this video on my real-life friend Katie's blog - I knew I had to share it here and make it my new motto for the year. I love it. Made me laugh and made me cry. My two favorite emotions rolled into one.

No more looking back. Only moving forward.

The story

Last July, I started having some pain.

Like any rational, normal mother of three, I ignored it.

Six weeks came and went, and it became obvious that ignoring it was not going to be prudent. I could now palpate a large mass, probably four-by-three inches. It was extremely painful and worrisome.

Unsure of what it was or even what type of doctor to see for it, I took a wild guess and ended up at the office of a gastroenterologist (Dr. Google and my best guess said it was a hernia). The GI doctor took one look at it and immediately sent me downstairs to see a surgeon. He said it was an abscessed cyst and needed to be taken care of right away.

The surgeon lanced it in his office while a nurse held me down, and I laid on his table and just sobbed. It was the worst pain I have ever felt in my entire life. Natural childbirth? Broken bones? NOTHING compared to this. Nothing. It was surreal. I was immediately put on two different types of antibiotics, and given strict instructions for cleaning and packing the wound with gauze.

Weeks passed. I was in and out of that surgeon's office, sometimes daily. I was on round after round of antibiotics. The beastly thing was just not healing. Physically, I was a mess.

And mentally? I was falling apart. Tasks that had once been routine and mindless were daunting and impossible. It was a challenge just to get out of bed every day. I found myself frequently collapsing in tears. I was unable to function, and completely miserable. I lay there, night after night, sobbing into my pillow and wondering if I was strong enough to survive this.

And fearing deep down inside that I wasn't.

The Husband was a trooper. He held my shaking, sobbing body again and again, and told me it was going to be all right. He took over laundry and cleaning when he could. He prayed quietly with our children that I would heal quickly and get better soon. They hugged me anxiously, worried looks on their faces, and asked me every day if I was better yet. Hannah's tears frequently mirrored my own, and I watched helplessly at the toll this was taking on my family.

Through it all, we went through this hell completely alone. I did not tell a soul for several months. I just kept thinking it would get better and it never did. I retreated inside myself and thought I was doing a great job of hiding it from everyone. I patted myself on the back for my bravery and stoicism out in the world, all while weeping over my misery at home.

When a good friend came up to me and quietly asked if she had done something to offend me, the tears just spilled over and the story came out. I was failing at putting on a good face, and hurting others in the process. My mother and mother-in-law were called, and a few close friends told. Simply unburdening myself with the news was such a relief. It helped to have someone to call and vent to when the news was not good. It was nice (for the Husband, definitely) that I had other shoulders to cry on. Meals, hot rolls, diet cokes, and books were brought to my door. I cried at my stupidity in not telling my people sooner.

None of that changed the fact that the abscess refused to heal. It was early November, and after yet another useless visit to the surgeon, I wept in the elevator, unable to hold in the tears before reaching the car. I choked on the sobs, as I told the Husband over the phone what the doctor had said. I was defeated. I was so afraid that my life would never return to normal. I did not know how I could face it any more. I was spent.

In a whisp of inspiration, the Husband remembered a surgeon in Florida he had spoken with at a conference the week before. Laughing that he hadn't thought of it sooner, he said he was going to call and get his opinion. Bless his heart, that surgeon said I should have been operated on MONTHS ago and should immediately seek a second opinion.

The second opinion was sought, and I was in the operating room the next week. It was really bad. He said he had never seen a cavity so badly infected before. He placed a drain and said it would likely require a second surgery once some healing had taken place.

Six weeks passed, and the pain was no better. I was beginning to feel numb to my life and resigned to unhappiness. I went through the motions of Christmas preparations. I could barely summon the strength to do much of anything. The usual joy of present shopping was undertaken online and in a hurry. I felt like I was standing still, while everything else was spinning wildly around me. I felt run down and exhausted. I hated this unhappy person I had become. I wondered what it felt like to smile and laugh.

The second surgery took place a week ago today. The doctor said the wound was starting to collapse in on itself and he was able to cauterize it.

He said it was starting to heal.

And for the first time in six months, I am virtually pain-free. For the first time in a long time, I have hope that I just might be myself again. That I'll laugh with my kids and be active. That I'll take care of my family instead of them taking care of me. That I'll be happy.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I have hope again.

I have HOPE.

Stepping back onto the grid

Hi, all.

Christmas and New Years were pretty freaking fantastic around here. So great, in fact, that most days I [purposely] forgot to charge my cell phone or check my emails. The Husband was home for two weeks, and we were all together, wrapped up in that lovely cocoon of togetherness that this time of year sends our way.

I am ready to come back to it all, however. I've got words to say about 2010 and I need to sit down and breathe, think, and process as I get them out. These words are for me alone, and I need to do them justice so that years from now when I remember the debacle that was this year, it will be in the right way.

So hang in there just a little longer. I will be back soon.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas...

Poetry and Pictures

The cards have been mailed, and plenty received. If someone's been missed, we would surely be grieved.

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care. (Along with some fights on whose sock goes where.)

The presents are wrapped, all snug near the tree. It's possible that I even put one down there for me.

The decorations (though scant) have been placed out with care. So far I'm not manic, they might last out the year.

The flower has bloomed, no thanks to my man. He fed it Coke Zero, then quickly he ran.

The plastic nativity changes each day. Sometimes poor Jesus goes very astray.

The good one sits untouched, as per mother's orders. If someone goes touching, they'll be sent 'cross the border.

If only you'd hurry to us, Christmas dear.
We're waiting most anxious for you to be here.