Carrying That Knowledge of…

Carry

 

 

In making this decision to end the slow march of cancer, I’ve had to separate so many factors that it required talking with various people.  Carrying the kind of guilt I have for so long has to be a factor removed from the discussion at all costs.  While this is going to be a selfish act, I am trying to make it a selfless act as well.

I’m not sure how to make that part work.  The lawyer has said a few things, but he has also admitted that having known each other since we were teenagers colors his opinions on this topic.  The therapist has had her chance to chime in as well.  That has been about the absolute weight of my emotions that curl my shoulders and strain my legs most days.

It’s easy to plan for what becomes of your things.  Who gets what and who gets told they get nothing.  [sorry I have an aunt who would clean my house out before the body was cold.]  But the emotions that go into that are tough.  Some items mean a great deal to me and finding them a new home with someone who might also grow to understand that can be draining.

Strangely I have a teddy bear that will go up in smoke with the rest of me because that has been the pattern for the others who have the matching 5 other bears.  Odd since they are all handmade and I still know where each of the others are.

There’s a drawer full of letters.  All sealed and signed across the back so no person opens another’s without their consent.  It has taken time to write them.  Not a single one out of spite or anger.  I’ve done my best to only talk about funny or meaningful stories.  No reason to add weight to their journey.

I have even written a draft on this blog that eventually will get posted.  I won’t be the person pushing any buttons that day, but I’m a planner and a few people here need to hear how much I have enjoyed their writing.

My nightmares come from dealing with a few of the ladies in my life.  My mother, other mother Kathy, my niece and the two she has brought into my life to help get me through the days.  I saw what happened to the first three when we had to say goodbye to my daughter.  Family grieves differently than those reading my words.  I’ve spent a lifetime protecting them and I would give everything to protect them from what comes next.

It’s not like my father or brother aren’t going to be bothered, that’s not my point.  But they handle things so quietly I couldn’t tell you what they are going to do.

Like a few posts, I’m not sure of what the point has been.  My emotions are at times very difficult to get a handle on.  I’m confused about how to handle a few people and experiences.  That female who keeps knocking on the door asking what she can do has asked to be there.  For all of it, damn the laws.  But really who goes after someone who sat in a chair while another person drank a very medicated milkshake?

Maybe tomorrow we can talk about the road trip to get ice cream?  That sounds like more fun.  Especially since we ‘re letting a 15 year old drive part of the backroads!

730 Days of Clouds

Sudden Shifts

When I sat down behind the wheel of my car the sun was bright.  The sky was clear for miles and the warmth on my face felt good.  I’d gone for a run outside at lunch because it was just one of those days you don’t pass up a few minutes outside, even when you should be in your office!

There was no sense of foreboding.  No sirens or alerts to warn anyone.  The only warning I had was the phone call that came while I was listening to some music anticipating a different conversation.

The skies hadn’t changed colors, but as I pushed the pedal further into the floor I couldn’t see through the water clouding my vision.  While everyone around me was enjoying the same sun that only moments before had felt so great, the day felt like a hurricane bearing down on me.  I was dodging things that weren’t there and as my heart raced the world was crumbling behind me.  The road surface disappearing in my mirror.

Sitting in the backseat of my father’s SUV racing towards John’s Hopkins Campus, curled up on the tile floor still not able to see anything, trying to eat a bowl of soup my mother later made while I sat not having any words; all just images that appear when I blink.  Nothing makes sense, everything about the rest of that evening is lost to me.  And I am trapped between feeling grateful my brain is trying to protect itself and angry for the same reason.

730 days have passed since the clouds took over and I haven’t seen the sun the same way.  The prism of color that used to exist is now just shades of grey, the world feels like I’m beneath the water’s surface and spinning while trying to find air.  A chance to breath without this dullness in my chest that grief and confusion has applied for permanent residence status.

It’s selfish and I make no excuses for my feelings, February 11th, 2014 changed everything in ways that I’m still recovering from.  Some times I know I never will and other times I’m afraid that I might.

I’m just a dad who doesn’t know how to stop acting like one…

This deserves a better title

The tablecloths were spread out over several tables.  White linen pulled tightly to each edge, the crisp folds still easily visible to anyone looking.  A table covered in blueish-silver bags for people to take home with them as they eventually would trickle back out the door hours later.  The screen was sitting where hopefully everyone could see  and know the only thing to do was wait.

We’d spend Friday night going through the paces, joking about how things should go but expected that they were going to possibly make us scramble for a minute or two.  After finally figuring out how to work the sound system, we nodded in agreement that things were the best they could be.  So homeward bound to reflect on what to wear or who we might see probably occupied everyone’s thoughts.

I made sure to lay out my clothes a little early Sunday morning as I went about trying to get a few things around the house.  My shoes polished a little brighter than normal.  It wasn’t for the people who were there, but for the possibility of who might.

As I got out of my car and walked towards the door, you could hear the laughter of people as they were telling the band where they needed to set up.  The locations of power and hopefully enough space had been set aside.  The classic drums, guitar, bass and keyboard to accompany the 5 women singing.

Hugs are exchanged, little children as running around hopefully wearing themselves out a tiny bit before they are going to be sitting.  The echoes of their laughter filling a hall where their very presence is going to be appreciated by most and celebrated by all.

I couldn’t help sneaking down the hallway to check out the food that was laid out throughout the room.  Cakes and cookies, sandwiches and platters of various fruit and cheese.  A veritable bounty that was more than enough to feed everyone.

Sounds like a pretty good party?  The kind being thrown elsewhere that day in hundreds of locations around the globe.  Only this was a different kind of celebration, one where the kids were going to be memories and pictures flashed with dates on that screen.  For a few moments those laughing children are going to be a a painful reminder of why we gathered that day.  Later a grateful feeling that those signs of life are still present around us.

As the band hit that last chord and everyone filed out of the church, taking one of those bags that contained a bulb for a flower, it was quiet.  Some of the faces were still able to smile and a few others needed to avert their eyes because they didn’t know how to deal with the emotions at that moment.

For some it might have been the only time someone heard their child’s name.  Saw a picture of that same child frozen in time from before.

When it was my turn to stand in front of the crowd and say even a few words about my daughter, I froze.  Just being there was sometimes difficult as I helped people towards the front of the sanctuary so that they could speak for the silent.  That part was easy, it made it worth everything else.

I could have spoken.  I was being encouraged to speak, but my normal ability to be strong falters at these moments.  The same weakness shared by every single person present.

Of those people, there are any number that would have stood next to me for as long as it took for me to utter a name, Abigail.  Light that candle and grab my arm.  I can think of one or two who would have been just as happy to say her name for me if I suddenly fell mute.

It’s easy to help people at times like that.  It can also be painful to watch as you know the grief they are experiencing.

I’ve come a great distance to get to where I am today.  I just know I’ll need to ask for a little more help finding my voice next time.
<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/sorry-im-busy/">Sorry, I’m Busy</a>

Lines in the Sand

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-guilt-that-haunts-me/”>The Guilt that Haunts Me</a>

Sometimes you just freeze in place, your body just stops responding and a wave of panic so severe takes hold that you don’t really know what emotion you are feeling.  When I was told that I was to blame for my daughter’s death, it did all of those things and more.  Someone told me the normal thing would have been to start yelling about how could they say that to me, but instead I grabbed my tail and stumbled to my car.

I went home and sat on the couch to watch some television.  I didn’t cry, get angry, or do anything other than just sit there and listen to dialog.  What if she was right?  What if I had done something differently, would the outcome have been changed?  Those would have been great thoughts, but all I did was push it away and watch the screen blink back at me.

The excuses I allowed for her behavior never addressed my growing and very unhealthy emotional breakdown.  While I kept ignoring how it was affecting me, I concentrated on my physical needs.  Two weeks after hearing those words I was in the hospital having a portion of my kidney removed.  My time needed to be spent dealing with that, not the angry words of someone who didn’t know the lengths I had gone.

My guilt just kept getting worse at times I didn’t expect.  Sitting in the office, not saying something while I was in a therapy session, I withdrew from everyone around me.  I confused anger for grief and let myself slip deeper into a depression that made my world so much darker.

If your going to hit someone, always make sure you go for their biggest weakness with your first punch.  It knocks them off everything right away and rarely allows them to recover.  The only time that advice is valid is if you find yourself in an actual fist fight.  Lashing out at someone like that requires a lack of human compassion that few people ever exhibit.  [And my former mother-in-law showed a stunning lack of compassion even for her own grandchildren]

But my guilt kept growing and it got so bad that in order for me to be able to address my own medical needs I left my house, left my family, left people I would have died for behind.  I went someplace safe where I could get help that I knew I desperately needed.

“What if’s” are horrible things.  They place you in times and events you can’t change.  There are rarely days where I don’t wonder if I had just been there would my daughter be alive.  It compounds the problem of having not been in the room when she did die.

I’ve calculated the time over and over that the drive from my office to the hospital would have taken.  20 minutes with my lead foot pushing the pedal through the floorboard of my Volvo!  20 Miles that on that day felt like I was on Mars.

How have I dealt with the guilt?  I have a button that I sometimes wear as a joke that resembles a Construction Zone sign you might find along the highway.  There are few people who understand and that’s a good thing.  I can walk someone through the steps they should take, which are the polar opposite of my stumbling, unhealthy path.

Every day I remind myself that I loved that little girl more than anything, her mother as well.  But it doesn’t do much to help me.  Odd that I continue to protect that other person [m-i-l] when it would have been easy to expose her issues.

Guilt has a pretty good stranglehold on my emotions plenty of days.  Forgiving myself for something I couldn’t stop is much harder than anything I have ever attempted.

 

It’s Her Birthday, Let’s All Celebrate!

I thought I wanted the day to be stormy, weather so blustery that any person would think twice about getting out of bed. Mother Nature somehow making how I felt as I went to sleep the night before captured for the rest of the world to see. The pain, heartache, the rawness of my eyes as I shut them tightly to hold back any more tears exposed to the masses drenching them like they had my shirt. My hands soaked through, I couldn’t breathe.

The sound of my phone going off woke me from another night of dreamless sleep. The message light blinking random green flashes. I looked at the screen and a video was waiting, balloons being let go in the air. A dozen purple and blue perfectly shaped balloons floating into the sky. The text was simple, “She’s waiting to catch these, jumping through the clouds”. My heart just broke into a million pieces because I started to realize I didn’t want today to be dark and grey, I needed it to be full of color, full of life.

I had always pictured celebrating today with cake and flowers. A clown that comes around doing silly animals that stretch the imagination of every child or wanna be child. My father pushing people out of the way with his camera so he can add to his already obnoxious collection of images. The grandmothers jockeying for who made the best cake, since there just had to be one vanilla and the other chocolate. Aunts and Uncles speculating on what silliness this brought out in me. (maybe payback for me having been the human pinata at one party!) The sounds of children running around, laughing the best part of it all.  Brightly colored boxes, wrapped in ribbons and bows resting on the table waiting for anxious hands to hold their wonders.

Today is my daughter’s birthday and I want to celebrate it. Even if she can’t, even if I’m not sure how to go about it, this day needs to be about life. There will be 364 other days in which I can allow the other stuff to creep into my mind, my emotions; but it can’t be today!

How am I going to do it? The only idea I have is getting some Orange Hostess Cupcakes and putting a candle in the middle of one. Why those? My mother’s birthday is 3 days after mine and she was still in the hospital so my father brought those in for her to enjoy. They don’t taste like orange, and they don’t resemble those former “pastries”. But it is my way of remembering something in a manner that includes some family history in a positive way. It doesn’t need to be $8 a piece cupcakes, some lemon verbena blueberry creation; just love.

There are those who aren’t sure how to respond to this need, their emotions confused on what to say. That’s okay, I don’t expect anything from them anymore.  I’m worried the ex just keeps her head down and tries to push it from her mind, but that concern needs to be another day.  My mother asked what I was thinking and I couldn’t capture it, words completely failed me.  Later I’ll force myself to post something on Facebook, my announcement to the world that today they should smile.  Even though none of them speak a word of Japanese!

Hoppibasude no bagu! Otosan wa anata o misu!

“Happy Birthday Bug! Daddy misses you!”

Now it’s time to go figure out who carries those cupcakes!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Those Dishes Won’t Do Themselves.”

My Personal Bastille Day!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Forgive and Forget?.”

It was my last year in college (1993) and we were trying to figure out what the nest step was going to be.  Those couple of years had been interesting from many different perspectives, but where to take out relationship was the topic at hand.  Our best friends had gotten married at the beginning of the semester and we figured that would be the next logical step.  So out to buy the ring I went, took the aforementioned recently married groom and shelled out more than a college kid should have.  The nice dinner, flowers and there we were, engaged.

But then I finished college a semester early and went out into the workplace.  Hours where I was not around and felt guilty because we no longer had those dinners most nights, or even a random lunch if time allowed.  So being dumb, oh so dumb, I asked my best friend to pick up the slack.  Hey I know you’re not seeing anyone and you get along really well.  I’ll even pay for food.  Could you just make the time where I can’t?  [yes, engagement ends.  Friendship ends.  Lots of hurt feelings.]

It was an ugly breakup for our friends.  They didn’t know who to invite to something and who stayed home.  I was working, so I didn’t care all that much.  Told them not to choose, the thought really was all that matter.  But damn was I angry with the guy.  He never spoke to me again.  I wasn’t mad with the former fiancee, I knew in time that we just got engaged for the wrong reasons.  I loved her, but that semester apart showed that we were never going to work.  Different plans, different needs started popping up.  She hung around for a little while, we talked to the parents ab out what was happening, at least the broad strokes.  It took me years to understand what a gift that truly was.  [especially compared to someone who just sends a text message and walks!]

But what to do about the guy?  Years passed, literally 20 years have passed and only one thing got me to make even the slightest effort.  Grief Counselling, and learning how to deal with my anger.  It wasn’t that I even thought about it much, I would joke about the anniversary of our ending the relationship as my personal Bastille Day [July 14th in my case].  It was gallows humor about something painful, but long in the past.  But I needed to write a letter saying, Hey I was wrong in the way I handled talking to and about my former best friend.  I should have taken the high ground and just let you guys be.

It was hard to explain why I was writing it.  They wouldn’t have known about my daughter’s death, it not like when you send out birth announcements.  But I wrote about how I needed to be a better person for my daughter.  Even if she wasn’t around anymore, that promise needed to be kept.  I never wanted my daughter to hear some story abut her father from years long since passed and be ashamed of how I handled things.  I always knew she would resent me for something at some point in her life, but this wasn’t going to be it!  That meant opening myself up more pain, hoping it would help heal me.

I sent the letter back in March and haven’t heard anything, which is okay.  I wouldn’t expect to.  There’s really nothing left to be said, no reason for us to start talking again.  In the 20 years, they married each other and had several children of their own.  I’m happy for them.  But a little part of me wished they had acknowledged in some small way my letter.  It’s silly, but writing that letter took some effort.

I forgave them years ago, but I needed to acknowledge that in my own way.  It’s the reason why, even though I have a litany of reasons for being upset with my former mother-in-law, I never have said a nasty thing about her to anyone.  She definitely crossed a line she shouldn’t have.  But I still loved her because she was family.  [great, now I’m hoping she is doing well.  I guess I still love her, too.  Damnit!]

Brought to You by the Letter “F”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fearful Symmetry.”

Fear holding me in it’s cold embrace.

Finally wiping that smile from my face.

Fists left open, resting against my hips.

Fidgeting, quivering the moves of my lips.

Faceless demons come visit at night.

Forcing them down takes all of my might.

Fate for my future sometimes out of my hands.

Facing a life whose time is measured by sand.

Faith in a Deity long gone from my mind.

Fruitless whispers, Why won’t you be kind?

Forgotten by some as if I’ve already left.

Feeling dead already, “don’t worry” the words of my very last breath.

I dislike writing poetry, but today’s challenge was going to center around a theme.  Originally I was going to go with the infamous “F-bomb” to start every line, no matter what style I had chosen.  It felt empty since I wasn’t able to conjure the emotion to go with it.  Later on I need to post the Writing 101 prompt about fear, which is probably what helped trigger this little piece of word play.  Maybe that will get it out in the open for me to deal with.

Love is Sacrifice

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Want to Know What Love Is.”

In my mind the common thread through all types of love is sacrifice.  There are all kinds of levels one has to commit to when you love something, but what are you willing to give up in order to say you truly love something?  Is it people?  A future job opportunity?  I’ve know I’ve said that I would gladly have traded some portion of my lifespan so that another would be able to survive, be happy, have the chance at a life.

I love calamari, yes the little ringlets of squid so delicately fried in a tempura-like batter and placed in a heaping mound on a plate with marinara sauce.  But that also means that there are plenty of other foods that I am willing to just skip over any time I go to a certain restaurant.  Am I missing out on something?  Yes.  I’m allowing myself to willfully ignore the other choices, so that I can stick with something I know that I enjoy.  Might the mussels have been better that evening?  Sure, but I’m staying with calamari!

M puppy and I have a mutually respectful balance of sacrifice.  Lately her’s has been time spent with me due to my being unavailable to even rub her head.  The trade-off is that if I have something on my plate that she is even sniffing at, I tear off a piece and place it in her mouth.  I don’t think I’ve actually eaten a pizza crust in 10 years.  Do I care?  Not at all, she loves them.  Her odd yeasty bones.

If you have a group of friends that you care about, you give up on something so that they can be happy.  The group functioning better when they agree.  Are their times when I would have preferred a different menu, maybe wanted to see a different movie?  Definitely, but those are completely simple items to give up on.  Maybe they know something I don’t, maybe I will enjoy this other game rather than the one I had originally intended to see.

Lastly and most importantly, at least to my way of thinking, is the sacrifices you are willing to make for your family.  Going through a medical treatment that even the doctors aren’t sure about just because it makes your mother feel like something is being done.  Keeping your tongue in your mouth when the idiot aunt shows up for the holidays and says something completely stupid just because she can.  Or the cousin who shows a severe lack of emotions when talking about something painful to me personally. [in that case I just walked out of my own house!]

But the thing to remember is to not give up on people.  I gave up a job for my ex, but it was because I wanted her to not have to give up on something she was hoping for.  It’s been months since she and I have spoken, but to this day I have not given up on her.  Maybe that sounds stupid, but I have always believed in her, her abilities.  But that now must be put aside, another sacrifice of my heart that I don’t wish to make, but know it has to be done anyway.

What are you willing to give up so that another person can succeed?

An Anniversary I Don’t Want!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Light.”

About a year ago I was forced to join a club that I really hadn’t ever given any consideration.  We meet on the first Thursday of every month and every person who has joined, either before or after me hasn’t wanted to be there either.  The faces are a mixture of smiles, some hiding the discomfort they feel about how we are going to spend the next few hours.  There are others that you can see the pain from the moment they remove their coats.  But I promise that they will most likely be there next month.

Our clubhouse is a church basement.  Lots of parking for those who need to come, plenty of seats which at times are completely filled.  Books laid out for people to borrow, pictures of children, the ever popular buffet of sugar and dairy.  Coffee flowing, and ironically a youth group meeting above us.  Those sounds we all shook our heads about before, a welcome sign that life goes on.  For some, like myself, a necessary sound.

See these collected faces, parents all, are trying to come to terms with the loss of their children.  For some it has been years of learning how to cope with holidays, birthdays with one less person at the table, graduations where every person they grew up is walking across the stage.  Others, like myself, are very new to the process.  Maybe they needed time to come out and be social, to feel like someone might be able to relate.  In my case it was that the loss hit me so quickly and I needed to be around people who were going to tell me how to deal with the change in my life.

There are a set of lyrics that describe plenty of people –

“Don’t you know, I’ve got to paint me on

When I smile, I’ve got to paint it on

When I say Hi, I’ve got to paint it on

When I cry, I’ve got to paint it all, my tears.”

It’s about the masks we all use to cover how we feel.  Those nights, while driving from my house, I heart is racing.  There is panic, anxiety, pain, and relief.  Those first three are ones everyone expects, but that last one is hard to describe.  I can sit in a room and talk about my daughter.  I could talk to them until my voice gives out, my stomach tied in knots, and they will listen to every last word because at some point they were exactly where I am right now.

Our paths are very different when we walk out the door.  Some go home to other children, spouses who may not be able to express themselves in the same manner, and some go home to quiet.  There is a collection of every possible demographic, enough that some person who would be studying us would realize that there is only one common denominator – we lost children.  Through every effort made to prevent it, fate landed on our doorsteps.

For some it was that late night knock on the door telling them that their child had passed due to some traffic accident.  How they fought so hard to keep breathing, kept trying to fight for every breath until they took their last.  That maybe they weren’t alone in that moment.  There are the few who get the opportunity to make it to the hospital and hold their child’s hand one time before having to make some final medical decision.  Learning to live with the idea that they did the best they could, learning to put down the doubts about what might have happened if some different choice earlier might have spared them.

Others have the long task of watching their child slowly slip away while they sit in the corner fearfully watching their child’s chest rise and fall.  Praying that this isn’t their moment, but also knowing that time is not on their side.  That same common thread with someone down the hallway, crying as they are lead away from the room for the last time.  A series of blurs and words that don’t make sense when they are being uttered, and most likely won’t make much sense later when the shock has worn off.

I fall into this subcategory of these two intertwined groups of parents.  My daughter never was able to take her first breath.  She died at the moment of her birth, possibly before, I’m not really sure.  Never had the opportunity to hold her, I missed out on hearing that cry as she broke into our world.  The voice on the phone telling me that the life I had spent months preparing for had been extinguished.  I was sitting in the parking lot of the doctor’s office and didn’t know what to do.  Panic took over, I called my parents and told them I needed them to come get me.  It was time to go to the hospital but for a very different reason then they expected.

The next couple of days are the same blur, curled up in bed trying to make sense of everything.  More silence followed, questions that couldn’t be answered for various reasons.  What did I miss?  Did we do something wrong?  Who might be responsible for not telling us something that could have changed the outcome?  I’m all for the stages of grief, but the one that took hold was anger.  And it took a good grip.

Anger is a blanket, I was able to wrap myself to keep me warm.  It was something that allowed me to not feel the pain.  I wasn’t angry at the world, my anger was directed at specific people.  There was nothing that was going to change that.  The cost was something I wouldn’t learn until later.  The price my friends paid, my family paid, and eventually myself, those ripples are still being felt.  Some things will never be the same, other things are stronger, but several of the things I valued I should have remembered during the angry phase.  In time, that’s the phrase I live by now, hopefully in time…

And that is where I find myself at this point in time.  Hoping that I may find the answers to the simple questions anymore.  Why are we here?  Where did we come from?  Where do we go when we die?  The one universal truth I have learned in meeting this new group of friends is that we no longer fear death.  No one is playing with powders or deciding that a game of Human Frogger on the highway is the way to spend the afternoon, but the idea that we will get to spend that notion of eternity with our children is appealing.

How does that spirit carry on?  History teaches that lessons were passed down as parables until Guttenberg established a method to get words on paper for the greater masses, a wider audience.  We spend a few minutes saying our children’s names.  And they are honest up front at these meetings about how hard that is.  Rarely do you say it out loud anymore.  There’s no yelling at them to make their beds, clean up after themselves or even just tell them how proud you are of them.  Sitting in a room, saying something that for some hasn’t been spoken since the last meeting, its gut wrenching.  The picture of who they were frozen in time, the thought of what they could have been too painful to contemplate.

As I enter into the second year of this new club, I know I’ll continue going.  As the years progress it will fall on my generation to take the torch that others help to establish.  Try to honor all that they have accomplished, not only for themselves, but for me and my daughter.  It the legacy we knowingly build in the memory of our children.  A lasting place for others to join, to share, to cry, to scream, but most importantly to know that they belong.

Meeting My Daughter

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Happy Happy Joy Joy.”

You would be surprised to be sitting in a room where the temperature is in the mid 60’s and they are asking you to remove portions of clothes.  The hallway we had been sitting in had been quite comfortable, even though we were the only ones waiting for the appointment.  The nervousness of sitting in that hospital was something completely different from any other time I had spent in one.  December 19th, 2013 the day they had slated for us to get better, more high resolution pictures of our child.

Dad’s can only sit there and take in the sights and sounds around them.  There’s very little for us to do.  Sit in the chair and turn towards the monitor.  The entire time hoping that everything was going to be alright.  Ten fingers, ten toes and what was to be the beginning of a nose.  As alliterative as that sounds, that was all I was hoping for.  The baby’s gender was already chosen, nothing was going to change that; but they might be able to tell us what to expect.

It was everything you imagine and more, and it made me weak in the everything.  On this simple 20 inch monitor was a picture that is so ingrained on my mind I could draw it from memory today if someone asked.  Everything was right where is was supposed to be, and then the young lady who was working so diligently to get the best angles turned to inquire if we wanted to know the sex.  Of course I did, Whitney wasn’t so sure; but we knew it was something else to help plan for the future.

When I heard the words, a little girl; the tears were already in my eyes.  Boy or girl, they would have been there; but my heart secretly wanted a little girl.  Even while I’m relaying this story, my eyes are completely welled up with the memory.  Thoughts of little dresses, scared notions of little boys who would be too close, but most of all just the idea that I had helped to create this perfect little life -it’s okay to cry guys.  We’re human, and no man can say he isn’t a mess when he learns he has a daughter.  Times have changed, technology lets us in on the mystery a little sooner.

I just sat there holding Whitney’s hand and couldn’t talk.

I’ve shed plenty of tears in the months since we lost her, and more later when we couldn’t work things out.  But for that day and the months that followed before it all went away, I was walking on clouds, standing a little taller [and at 6’4″ that’s tall enough!]

That was the last time I know I was happy.  With everything else going on with me there are times when the medications they give me have placed some holes in my memory.  Things I don’t recall as quickly as I used to.  But every time some doctor has told me to look at the picture on my iPad, it brings me right back to that day.  It was a good day!