The STUFF Sisters

When Mommies Freak Out

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways.

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways. Or maybe my husband did that. Can’t remember exactly who was behind the wheel because I may have been freaking out. We got there and parked in under 8 minutes.

My husband and I escorted our young son into Children’s Mercy Hospital way after midnight all those years ago on feet that never touched the floor. A mere few minutes before that, we had been sleeping in our bed when the sound of troubled breathing from the baby’s room woke us both with a start. We knew something was wrong, and it really sounded like he had swallowed something and it was stuck. Stuck right beyond where we could dig it out with cupped fingers. We know, because we tried.

We had been out earlier that night. The sweet boy had been with his favorite sitter in our home. We had houseguests – my very pregnant best friend and her husband were sleeping over while their floors were being refinished a few blocks away. They were asleep as well.

But not for long. When a wheezing sound from another human hits you that hard, you have trouble breathing yourself. I caught my breath enough to wake our guests, call the babysitter, ask a few questions, and dress us all for quality time in the emergency room.

I can still see my friend Cathy – out to there with baby #1 – in silhouette at the top of my stairs telling me to call her. She had the same look of fear in her eyes that I did.

We flew into the hospital, and everyone could hear that something was wrong. Those geniuses knew what it was from his first exhalation in their presence. They are that good. I believe we heard the word “spasmodic croup” before the next inhalation. We answered 900 questions, filed a gazillion forms, and paid a co-pay with a credit card in the exam room. And then our friend Scott walked in the room.

scott & D — Scott and our son on Valentine's Day this year.

How he knew we were there I will never know. He is a respiratory therapist at Children’s Mercy, and he walked into the room in the heat of it all. He was as cool, calm and collected as the other staff. They all seem to know each other at that particular hospital, and they all seem to love their jobs. It is palpable when you meet any of them – in or out of the hospital.

When it was ascertained that there already was a respiratory therapist in the room for our son and Scott was asked why was he there, he simply stated, in true Scott fashion, “I’m not here for him. I’m here for her,” and he swiftly pointed to me.

He made the whole room smile with that line. He made me laugh hard enough to have oxygen reach the bottom of my lungs – at the exact moment our son ceased to struggle due to the vapors coming at him from a crazy machine. He made the whole room relax.

And then he was gone. Back to the children that needed him. He hugged my husband and me, patted our son on the back, and left.

We spent a few more hours at the hospital, and we never laid eyes on Scott again that night. We went home and slept well. Our son never had another episode in infanthood. Or ever.

Lucky us. For having friends who know exactly when they are needed, and for having a son who knows to just have his croup “spasmodically” and not every day.

Lifecycles

Recently a friend posted a photo to Facebook that shook me a little bit. My mind was racing all over the place with memories of my own life.

Recently a friend posted a photo to Facebook that shook me a little bit. My mind was racing all over the place with memories of my own life. Of comments made in the past by strangers and friends. Then I let my mind go silent.

In the spring of 2008, my last grandparent passed away – My Dad’s mom. I hold firmly to my belief that I am a better person having had grandparents who loved me and were alive well into my 30’s and 40’s. Mostly, I am a better person for having had a hand in caring directly for my grandma during her last year.

When her health dictated that it was time for her to leave her Mid-Missouri home and move to Kansas City to be nearer to her family, she embraced it whole-heartedly. Her statement was, “I’ve always wanted to live in the big city!” The day she spoke those words to me, I wrote them down so that I wouldn’t forget that adventure comes at every age.

My father found a place for her to live in south Kansas City that was very near her primary care doctor, but I think he knew that the best medicine for her was to be super close to her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Finally, after all the years of driving to Mid-Missouri to see any of my grandparents, I had one living less that 4 miles from my home. I was a little bit excited.

I tried to visit her two times a week, but some weeks found me there only once. Those weeks were hard for me, because I have inherited from both of my grandmothers a need to not be “cooped up” and to “get out for a little while,” to paraphrase them both. I was always afraid that, when I was unable to visit, she would suffer from this virus we all shared. I called her every day, and we spoke of much. She let loose with a few thoughts she’d been harboring for years, and those utterances left me speechless several times. Deep issues regarding her life with my grandfather and, therefore, my father. I was glad she released them, and, two times in particular when I didn’t respond quickly, she asked if I was OK and I told her I just needed a little time to think about what she said. She replied, “I’ve got time.”

What was amazing to me about my grandma’s last year was that many of my friends and aquaintances were stunned that I would take my son with me to care for his great grandmother. I found no shame in having him help me with her hair, putting away her small amount of groceries, cleaning her bathroom, lotioning her legs, and, on one occasion, trimming her toenails. One person admonished me with this line: “He doesn’t need to see all that.”

Yes, he did. We all do. The lessons that are learned at the end of life are as great as the lessons I learned at the beginning of my son’s life.

He never saw her naked. He never cleaned up the truly messy parts of her bathroom. He sat on the edge of her chair and charmed her with stories of basketball and art class and his younger cousin. He told her about the trials and tribulations of the 4th and then 5th grades. He read her mail to her and described every detail of the art on the greeting cards, because the finer parts were lost to her macular degeneration. He helped her decorate her door and bedside table for the passing seasons and always was a guiding force on how the magnets and photos were displayed on her tiny under-the-cabinet refrigerator.

I was not prepared for the fact that so many people spoke to me about not understanding why I did all this,I talked to a family lawyer from the criminal lawyers Melbourne office. It was more people than those who could easily see why this was so important to me. And why it was important to have my son see the glory of living past 85.

A series of strokes dictated when the time came for her to enter the hospital and never leave. My son only visited her in the hospital once. It was early in the episodes, and she was cognitive and aware, smiling and laughing. She was still his “Gramma Ginny”. He got right up into the bed with her, and her eyes just blazed. I remember thinking he was so comfortable in a place that makes most people ultra-nervous and stiff.

I am amazed at how much he remembers from this year we had with her in The Big City. We showed her a good time, given all the limitations. We made a little magic.

p.s. I want to thank my friend Shelly DeMotte Kramer for letting me share her photo of her daughter with her father-in-law. You can see the second pair of hands to the left in the photo. Shelly has twin girls, and the human caring they share in this photo is amazing. Shelly and her family laid him to rest today.

p.p.s Casey wrote an amazing blog in 2008 about my grandmother. Find it here.

Falling in Love Again

For 17 years, we lived with one dog. He was amazing, and he was cherished. This past August, we let him go into his good night.

For 17 years, we lived with one dog. He was amazing, and he was cherished. This past August, we let him go into his good night. His name was Einstein, and I still miss him terribly. However, a month or so ago, I felt the grieving end. I was able to look at photos and say his name without a catch in my voice or a quick blink.

Einstein was our baby when we brought our bouncing baby boy home. They took to each other instantly, and it had everything to do with the full-face lick our son received when he was 16 hours old and the carrier was set in front of Einstein soon after our arrival home. They were thick as thieves, and Einstein never betrayed his love for our young man.

He stayed true to our son through the perils of toddlerhood. My theory? Because Einstein had spent our son’s babyhood under the high chair and it had been glorious for him. The new parent in each of us knew to be grateful for Einstein’s help in making sure the floor was always spic and span.

He stayed true to my husband and me when daily walks weren’t always achieved in a coordinated and timely fashion. We think this patience with us was direct compensation for spending every night for 17 years in our bed with us.

Then, last Wednesday, I started to fall in love again, and my voice only caught once that day. We were at the shelter, the final decision had been made, and the money had changed hands. We were merely waiting for someone to unlock the cage. When I said to my husband, “Let’s take him home,” I lost it just a tiny bit.

Here’s why:

Falling in love again has been easy. Edison is wonderful, and we will all grow a little bit older together. To me, it’s the beginning of another perfect love story,

p.s. Should you want to read more about Einstein, click here.

Photo Credit: These shots were captured just this afternoon by Joy Albright. I owe her one.

I Wish All My Ex’s Lived in Texas

I was out last week with a group of friends to celebrate a 40th birthday. The birthday girl’s husband had reserved a private room at a local bar, opened the bar to us, and made sure the snacks were abundant. I didn’t try any of the snacks. I know this because I was happily keeping my custom-printed cup full of cocktails instead. It was gearing up to be a fantastic night.

When the timer on our private room expired, we moved upstairs for the band. At this point the remaining group was a heaping handful of close friends, all married, all spouses accounted for, and me. The single woman. I am used to being the only single person in a group of married people. I show up to most social events alone. I don’t bring a “crutch” date (another single girl friend or a married person that is out without her husband). I just go everywhere alone. I mean let’s face it, folks: I am alone when it comes to couples events.

So…we were – how should I say this politely – loose with drink. And ready for some dance therapy. Cue birthday girl to the stage! Said birthday girl drags “the posse” of girl friends with her. And oh, what fun. I love to dance. Music lifts me right out of the world where we are all firmly planted, and I escape into the rhythm, music and vibe. And that was where I was delightfully lost when a man took my hand and helped me off the stage.

Then I found myself standing face-to-face with my EX-HUSBAND! No shit! I can’t make this kind of tragic crap up. He is saying something. My friends are staring and starting to think…who’s the guy? (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge). I pull my ex away from the speakers to hear what in the world he would want to say to me at the very bar where he spent an outrageous amount of our money drinking while he was cheating on me and tearing our marriage to shreds. But I am hopelessly curious (and stupid).

Yep, you guessed it. I got the “I really, really miss you. I always loved you” drunken-goo-goo-eyed pick-up line. I was speechless. If you know me, “speechless” is very, very, very rare. I stuttered. My knees felt weak. I shouted over the band, “Where is your wife?” He didn’t answer. He just repeated the line about missing me and loving me. I took a breath, regrouped my courage, and resorted to a one-liner to cover up my devastation. “Of course you miss me, I am fabulous.” I walked off.

Don’t be impressed. I immediately marched outside, where it took me 20 minutes, two friends, a strong drink, 2 cigarettes, and a face full of streaming tears to get my ass ready to return to the dance floor. When I returned to the dance floor, I closed my eyes and let the music carry me away.

What is remarkable about this story is that it is not remarkable at all. This happens to people all the time.

The week before, my ex-lover showed up at STUFF during our Wings of Hope event to say “hello”. He had been driving by and thought it would be a good idea to stop and catch me in front of my store (where I can’t walk away). And then he came back a second time to bring me food he had been cooking all day with his wife, kids and close family friends.

And, if that wasn’t enough, two years ago at the holidays I was dating a man (who chose to compare me to “new car smell” and classify me as “one of his obsessions” on Facebook after I asked for a break). This man has called, emailed and come to the store multiple times over the last few weeks looking for me. At least he offered help and shopped.

Casey Simmons driving her FJ. — going forward...never straight...at the wheel.

These men that I shared my heart, my mind, my body, and a small part of my soul with never once stopped to think about me. Not once. They just marched all over my personal space, my feelings, and my life. They showed no respect for me, my family, or my business. I don’t seek them out. I haven’t played games. I haven’t posted veiled (or direct) references on Facebook about them. I have left them alone.

“The holidays” make men and women want to couple. I get it. I feel its powerful pull every day in November and December, too. After the first week of January it fades, and I fall back into my natural state. I too want to fall in love again. I want a husband and a big crazy combined mess of a family. But, in the meantime, I want to avoid stomping on the very people that I cared for deeply…and I want to avoid them stomping all over me.

These ridiculous happenings have left me sad, frustrated, exposed, raw and lonely. But, they have also left me proud that I have the courage to stand alone, even when I don’t want too.

Never Say Never

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself.

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself. I answered – and sent on! – a chain letter via the Internet. But only to eight people, who I’m sure now think seriously less of me. In my defense, it came from a reliable and trusted source, and the message was sincere and did not involve a scheme of any flavor.

I had not sent one of these since I folded six letters in the 7th grade and sent them on with quarters taped to them. I was going to be rich. The letter said so.

I told my 12-year-old self – when the money failed to roll in – that I would never do that again. I asked myself, “How could you be so stupid?”

My 46-year-old self answers, “because you followed your heart and threw caution to the wind.” This wiser me remembers recently thinking, “I’ll never do Facebook. Who has time for that? Pinterest? There’s not enough hours in the day for crazy, frivolous things.”

Now, at the end of a busy day before a very busy weekend, I have logged out of Facebook, finished pinning in Pinterest, and received two – count them two! – responses from the recipients of my first chain letter in 34 years.

Cancer on the Run

On achingly beautiful days – days full of falling leaves, crisp air and sunshine – cancer lives with us. It doesn’t present itself, it just waits for us to find it.

On such a day not many days ago – with his cancer apparently on the run – our father met with two tumors that didn’t play with the team on the first go-round of chemotherapy. It was a day mixed with a little bit to celebrate and a whole lot to continue to deal with and worry about. Our dad needed a mental and emotional break from cancer – we all did – before starting his next therapies. He will now have to wait longer for that much needed break.

We at STUFF spend months preparing for our holiday open house – Wings of Hope – every year. This year, November 5th and 6th will be the days at STUFF that are meant to remind us that when one of us has cancer, we all have cancer. The days will be full of laughter, tears, food, drink, smiles and friendship.

Wings of Hope is special to us: we remember our family and friends lost to cancer, we re-commit to our fight to find a cure, and we thank the universe for keeping our parents – both cancer survivors – standing with us on these special days.

We hope you will join us at Wings of Hope and shop. We will proudly donate a part of your purchase to benefit cancer research at the KU Cancer Center. Our friend Susan Henke Miller showed us the way years ago – to keep cancer on the run we need piles and piles of research.

It has been the loss of friends and family and the battles in and outside of our tribe that have taught us that we can’t stop looking for cures and treatments.

Join us this weekend at Wings of Hope. Together, on these two special days – and every day – we can help find a much needed cure for all cancers.

Sisters, Co-owners and Believers in Hope

Steve Jobs’ Death Pisses Me Off

Personally I am tired of cancer taking amazing people from me and from our glorious world. Steve Jobs’ passing makes me sad, but it also pisses me off.

Personally I am tired of cancer taking amazing people from me and from our glorious world.

Steve Jobs’ passing makes me sad, but it also pisses me off. And I think this is a good thing. Because it will, once again, renew my passion for being part of finding a cure for all cancers.

My grandmother died from cancer, my mother has survived cancer more than once, my father is in Houston right now undergoing chemotherapy for cancer, and this week I have deeply needed one of my business mentors that died a couple of years ago from cancer.

Cancer Crew Cut — Me and my Dad. I shaved his head when the chemo started causing it to fall out.

That’s it. Cancer has got to go. That is why today I am going to make a donation to The Susan Henke Miller Breast Cancer Research Fund (the same charity our annual event Wings of Hope supports) in honor of Steve Jobs.

I don’t want to feel powerless today. I want to feel empowered and inspired by Steve’s legacy. Owning his inventions are not enough for me today. I want to kick back at the loss that cancer has brought us all.

Until there is a cure….

Summer Goes

On this, the last day before Autumn officially begins and my favorite season ends, I wanted to share a blog I wrote in August of 2007. I can still see the evening vividly, and the memories are overpowering.

Enjoy. Here it is.

Sloane

Trail of Tears

Almost a month ago we put our dog, Einstein, to sleep. I can’t say it’s been a long month since but it has had its moments.

One month ago, we put our dog, Einstein, to sleep. I can’t say it’s been a long month since, but it has had its moments. Last week, a wonderful note in the mail from a dear friend left me navigating the steps to the second floor with blurry eyes and tears gently rolling. It wasn’t even a long note. It was just a perfectly chosen single sentence from a man who takes care with words.

It actually took us until this past Saturday to pick up his remains, and we still don’t know what to do with them. So they are sitting on the kitchen table. Our son wants them in his bedroom. Sounds like a good place to be – with the twin beds and the Legos and the books. Our dog always was happiest with one of us by his side. Particularly the youngest of us. At first it was funny smells that allured him, then nibbles dropped from a high chair, food left unattended on a toddler table, and, finally, long walks alone with his growing boy. They both liked those walks. We even got a picture of him posted on the Blue Buffalo site once, he was really proud of that. We Our son would saunter at a speed that Einstein dictated, and both experienced a freedom from rules, regulations, timetables and adults.

I have revisited our last day with our dog many, many times. I doubt I’m done picking it apart, but I can find no flaw with it just now. My visual memories of our time with the vet that day are vivid. He was surrounded by us all, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The vet and her assistant have cared for him since we rescued him 17 years ago, and they too had spent the morning wishing noon would never come.

But high noon always comes.

I have found myself lately playing the “why & what if” game. Why couldn’t his mind have gone first? Or his sight? A funny tummy plagued him for a few years but arthritic hips took him out. Why? What if we had gone ahead with the hip surgeries 6 years ago? What if we had installed wall to wall carpeting in our historic home? Would it have been easier on his hips? What if … and why? It’s a game you play when sadness breaks down your ability to see clearly. Most days, however, I can see that 19 years is a wonderful life for a dog. It was a wonderful life for all of us.

Our last morning with our dog was slow and restful. I don’t believe we were ready to leave the house, but the photos from that day show a family at peace – a family that knows letting go is the right thing to do. The kind thing. The humane thing.

I miss my dog. However, there is a certain grace that enters the final and permanent moments of living, and I have witnessed it three times so far in this life. It was in that stillness that my dog helped me rediscover that the peace I carry will be with me long after the trail of tears ends.

p.s. Our son set up a page on Facebook with many photos of our dog, some from his last day with us. You are welcome to view them here, if you dabble on Facebook. The photos used above were taken on Anna Maria Island, Florida, on July 31, 2011. It was our last family “portrait”.

Friday Night Lights

I attended my first friday night football game at my son’s new high school tonight.

I attended my first Friday night football game at my son’s new high school tonight. Football’s never really been “my sport”. It is a wee bit violent for me. When I attended high school way back in the early 80s, I tried to never miss a game. Our school shared a field with another high school, so even home games held the allure of a car ride, before and after I had my license.

I did not sit with my son at the BBQ before the game or at the game. He was off with his friends – new and old – and that made me infinitely happy. He’s building his life and his memories, and I’m merely the taxi driver. Fine by me. Truly.

The light came on again tonight that my son has done nothing but grow away from me since he was born. I should be sadder, or so I’m told. I’ve spent time and energy visiting this issue, and you can see one of those musings here. While sitting in the bleachers with my niece, I was reminded that – even after the lights came on and the world got a little darker tonight – my son knew exactly where to find me. If I’ve been doing my job correctly and have let him grow away from me, he’ll always know exactly where I am.

p.s. If the photo of the field lights I captured isn’t the stuff of a Lori Buntin painting, I don’t know what is.