The events of this past week have brought a lot of emotions to the surface. Quite honestly, I never truly realized that Erin gets her strength from me. It’s rather annoying and amazing at the same time. She slaps those latex gloves on, changes her own dressings, accepts her nasty meds with loathing (“This tastes like throw up, and it’s child abuse!!”) and swallows it down anyway, and when you ask her “How are you, Erin?” she takes a thoughtful moment to give you the adequate number relating to the pain chart, “Four.” (I have to take a second to explain to visitors why she is responding with a number.) And, the humor. “Why do people keep bringing me stuffed dogs, don’t you think that’s a LITTLE inappropriate?!” We’ve said as long as we can find humor in any situation we are going to be OK. As we were leaving the hospital her nurse said to Erin that it was such a joy to take care of her. It’s not often on the Peds floor that a child does exactly what she is told to do. But, she will also stick to her guns if you try to push her too hard. This girl has her limits. It’s a privilege to be her mother. It means I’m the one she reaches for – especially when it’s the absolute worst, and the one she pushes away because we tend to hurt those closest to us when we are hurting. I’ve been on the giving end of the latter myself…and the receiving end. Neither one is a good place to be. After a particularly difficult night at the hospital, I grabbed a bite to eat by myself. I sat in a corner booth and fought back tears. I began to write, to try to put into words what had been building up inside me. Kim left me a voicemail and I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it. It was 44 seconds long, so I already knew what it was going to say. I texted her to tell her that I couldn’t talk to her because I would just fall apart if I did. I made it through dinner, kept dabbing my eyes with my napkin, got Dylan some food to go, and came home. Dylan gave me a hug as soon as I walked in the door and the tears just fell. He is warmth and pure love. I’ve often jokingly said I get enough love from both my children from just him. To know your children is to love them, and they are as different as night and day. Erin will decide when, to whom, and how she will love you. Dylan gives freely and often. He is full of I love you’s and hugs. He went back to his room and I sat on the couch in darkness, letting the events of the last 24 hours unravel and began to sob. I called my Mom and let it all out. I wept and apologized for how awful it must have been for her 28 years ago- how awful *I* must have been to her. I pushed her away so often, when she needed to love me the most. Sean reminded me in the hospital “Don’t take it personally, she only wants me to spend the night because I give her space” and I know this, I really do -up close and personal, my role through this has been whatever Erin needs me to be. I can’t fathom how my Mom and my Dad did it, day in and day out for over a month in the hospital, and not just the hospital around the corner – all the way downtown to Methodist. But, especially my Mom. 3 days in the hospital was a harsh reminder, a bitter taste, of everything we all endured. I shared my own experiences with Erin to give her the strength to get through, especially when they wanted to soak the wound. It took me right back to the soaks I had to do. In many cases, my wisdom backfired. “At least when you got hit by a car it was an ACCIDENT!” Well, this is true. Anyway, I believe the worst is now behind us, (although they are back at the ER trying to figure out why she cannot walk) but the timing feels a little diabolical. 28 years ago today. My son walks the very halls at Chatard that I navigated through in my wheelchair. He is the same age I was 28 years ago today. I can’t even imagine. Life is bizarre, and cruel, and beautiful, and I couldn’t help feeling like the past was repeating itself this past week, just on a much smaller scale. I would not feel complete without acknowledging what incredible parents I had that were simply given the burden of enduring.  As a parent, I know it was harder on them than it was on me. The following is what I wrote Thursday night after I left the hospital.

It’s remarkable, really. 

The Thanksgiving Experiment.

I dedicate my post today to my Mom. Of course, in my younger years, she was lovingly referred to as Mommy. (Even my 4 year old is already phasing out Mommy, and replacing it with Mom. I’m not sure why I’m offended, but I am.) Besides being a mother, she is known by many different names, some more colorful than others, all equally meaningful to the person speaking of her.

“Katy” – by her loving husband.

“Aunt Katy” – by her many nieces and nephews that have always adored her.

“Chatty Cathy” – by her extremely funny children.

“Grandma” – by most of her eight grandchildren.

“Kiki” – by 2 of her 8 grandchildren.

“Grammy” – by one, little Honey Badger.

“Daughter” – spoken from the lips of her Father, but only until the age of 3 when he was taken from earth. And, most certainly spoken with elation when her mother gave birth to a girl, after 5 boys preceded her.

“Sister” – spoken by her 5 brothers, each of whom have passed this life before her.

“Friend” – the many, many friends she has touched over the years, and the close ones she relishes today.

But, if there is one title she deserves, it is that of “Mother”. You see, that is how she always referred to her own Mom. I have always found it to be a very reverent title for a woman, my grandmother, that symbolized the epitome of strength.   Her name was Sarah Nadine. At least, that was the new name she chose for herself after she left behind a life of torment, walked from Ohio to Indiana by herself, got a job, and married a man 16 years her senior. Together, they were raising 6 children, until his sudden passing. Poor and alone, she did the best she could to feed her family. She never learned how to drive; she walked, or took the bus wherever she needed to go. She, in fact, walked to church every single day. She had weak knees, but her faith was stronger. I once found myself in a small church in Rome; I believe it was called the Scala Sancta. They had a staircase that Jesus walked on to his way to Pontius Pilate. It contained drops of his blood, and was encased in a protective case. I saw little, old ladies on their knees, going up each step, one by one. It was difficult with my prosthesis, but I went up those stairs one at a time for my grandmother. She would have. She was a woman of devotion and endless love for others. Once, she had just enough money to buy groceries when she boarded the bus with my Mom. But, a little girl boarded as well, and she had no shoes and she was dirty. My grandmother insisted they get off at the next stop, and they took the little girl and spent all their grocery money to buy her new shoes. This was the kind of selfless person my grandmother was, and passed along to my own mother. My mom would give the clothes off her back to her children, her nieces and nephews, her husband, or her friends. She has given countless time and energy to making each of her grandchildren feel loved. When my aunt was dying from cancer in a hospital in California, she and my Dad drove my cousins to the airport to send them on a plane so they could be there for their final goodbyes. My Mom decided, in that moment, that she was boarding the plane as well. She had no clothes, no toothbrush, but she provided an amazing amount of support that came from the depths of her amazing soul.

I believe that there are two kinds of people in this world; those that have lost a parent, and those who have not. I cannot even fathom losing my Mom. My heart goes out to the many people today that I hold dear that are celebrating this day with an ache in their heart that I am sure will never, ever go away. I will be one of those people one day, and so I take each moment I can to relish my relationship with my Mother. I find that my relationship with my Mom means more to me today than it ever has. I appreciate each visit, each moment, each conversation.

So, today, I want to say – I love you, Mother. I am humbled to be your daughter. My children are privileged to have you in their life in such a meaningful way, and I hope that I have made you proud. You are incredibly beautiful inside and out.

Love,

Your Daughter.

I’ve had a bit of a rough time lately, which explains my absence  here, so I thought I would make this a cathartic post and move on. I seemed to have misplaced my humor, and I’m looking to discover it again. This letter is long overdue.

Dear Mr. , (I don’t even know your name, because I never wanted to remember it.)

It’s coming up on the 23rd year of our accident. I say “our” because you were involved too. In fact, you were the one that was behind the wheel of the vehicle that was traveling over 55mph when you struck me and my best friend, Kim. I’m not sure what your plans were for that day, April 29th, 1990, but we just wanted to cross the street to get to Dairy Queen. Instead of settling into a sticky booth for some cold, tasty treat, it was the hot tire of your car that I woke up to, slowly opening my eyes up to the vast, blue sky, wondering if I was dead. The heat of your car pulsating through my body, and the screams and cries of my dear friend for her Mom, were the first rape of my senses. She remembers nothing; I remember everything. Twenty three years later, I can still recall exactly what that heat felt like. I wanted to comfort my friend, but I couldn’t speak. I turned to reach for her and all I could see was her leg split wide open. She was too far from me to touch her. I didn’t cry at all. I understand this to be called “shock”.  I just wanted to escape from the heat, so I tried to roll away from the car. It was then that I looked down and saw my leg. Gone. I looked up to the pristine sky and thought that I might vomit. Man, I hate throwing up, I thought. A nice pregnant lady, very pregnant in fact, was suddenly next to me telling me not to move. She kept gently telling me to stay still. She asked me questions and I heard my voice calmly answer them. What was my name? Where did I live? She was wearing a beautiful, flowing dress with flowers on it. The sun was shining directly above her on that beautiful spring afternoon. I held her hand, and she held mine.

I often wonder what you did that morning. Kim and I went to church with my parents. (Later, the woman that sat behind us in church would make it her mission to visit me constantly at the hospital. She dubbed herself my “Guardian Angel” simply because sitting behind us at church, hours before our own personal massacre, equated to perpetually “watching over us”. I found her to be extremely annoying and often wished she would go away.) Kim had spent the night at my house. We couldn’t wait to take a walk on our own; we would laugh and talk all the way to the local DQ. More importantly, we could smoke our menthol cigarettes stuffed in my green, leather Liz Claiborne purse. That purse was the only item of mine that survived the scene, and it was the first thing I saw upon my return home from my month long stay in the hospital. (Once I made it up the stairs to my bedroom, anyway. That took more effort than you could possibly imagine.) Innocently, it sat on the dresser in my room. I promptly threw it away.

Do you happen to recall our age? We were 15. The nurses said I had the best tan lines they’d ever seen. We had just returned back from Spring Break in Gulf Shores, Alabama the week prior. I was wearing my new clothes that my Mom bought me for vacation: white shorts, new Keds, and my favorite: a long sleeve, button down shirt with tiny flowers all over it. I loved the colors. It looked good against my “tan”. (Let’s be honest, I don’t really tan. But, I did get some nice color on that vacation. My pale skin usually just burns. The night before the Turn-a-Bout Dance – also our Freshman year of high school- Kim stayed up all night with me putting cold, wet wash cloths all over me to cool down my burn from the tanning bed. She was so sweet to me. I wouldn’t have the opportunity to comfort her, and she me, in the hospital because we were in separate wings. Only once was I wheeled to her room to hold her hand.)  Anyway, I remember the EMT’s cutting my clothes off me on the street. I really liked that shirt. It was from The Gap.

I never did get the real story on what happened. Apparently, it made national, even world, headlines because it was so “bizarre” that a bird hit the windshield and you slammed into 2 girls and pinned them to a guardrail. That’s quite a distraction, must have been one giant bird. However, other witnesses say that you were arguing with your wife and weren’t paying attention to the road.

No matter what happened that day, I spent 22 years forgiving you. I was never out for blood. I never wanted to seek revenge. I imagined that you must have felt awful. But, I recently found out that you passed away, and that kind of pissed me off. You went the rest of your life without ever having apologized or, at the very least, just touched base to see if we were OK. No visit to the hospital. No letter in the mail. Speaking of mail, I got letters in the mail from Vice President Dan Quayle, and Senator Ted Kennedy. They found the time to write, acknowledge what a devastating injury I had, and offer words of wisdom. (I believe this goes back to the “Bizarre Bird Hits Windshield!” media coverage that our accident garnered.)

My Dad walked up on the scene. He loves working out in the yard, and yes, it was a beautiful day. He heard the sirens and decided to take a stroll to see what was going on. We were already gone – Kim by helicopter, and me in the ambulance. (At this point, I drifted in and out of consciousness, but quite clearly recall hearing them radio ahead to Methodist Hospital, saying that they had my severed leg on ice.) A police officer swiftly drove my father home to deliver the news to and collect my mother. You have children, don’t you? Have you ever been put in the position of thinking that your child was dead? That’s what my family thought as they arrived at the hospital. No one would give them a solid answer for hours. Did you ever tell your children what happened? Were we a cautionary tale to them? If so, that’s fine. It means we mattered enough to you to speak of us. All in all, we didn’t ask much of you, did we? Your insurance company took a very small hit in the grand scheme of things, and guess what? That money ran out a loooooong time ago. I have a lifelong disability, and with that comes lifelong medical bills. Today, I am still struggling just to be ambulatory, and perhaps that’s why I am feeling really ticked off lately.

I can roll with the punches here and there. I can rise to the challenge with the best of them. But, I am having a new prosthesis made right now and it’s really taking a toll on me. As you sailed through the years, did you ever stop and wonder how I was doing? Do you have any idea how tedious and frustrating  it is to have a new prosthesis made every few years? Since mine was a tragic amputation, I woke up to nurses and doctors telling me just how “lucky” I was to have my knee. And so, the stump of my leg is so short that every fitting is agonizing. I also have quite a bit of skin grafting where they put the rest of my leg back together. My bottom (my kids say “butt”, and then I tell them that “we say bottom”) still hurts from where they took the skin for the grafting, isn’t that weird? My left arm was nearly severed, and I have a nice chunk missing from my ankle. The scar under my arm really annoys the shit out of me,  but the other scars on my body aren’t too bad. But, back to the prosthesis. I was hoping to have a new leg made so that I could run. I really want to run. I am in charge of planning the Indy GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association) Club Trip to Ireland this July, and I was counting on going as a player, not just the planner. Well, the first Hurling practice was a few nights ago, and I am sitting here on my ass with my leg off and a nickel sized blister on the end of my leg. I might have to go on antibiotics due to infection. This is from my new prosthesis. My current prosthesis is not even wearable due to breakdown. I’m sitting here with a new $24,910 prosthetic leg that I can’t do shit with. The new prosthesis being a completely standard, no frills, no electronics, no ‘sweet blade for running in the Olympics’ type model. (By the way, Fuck You Oscar Pistorius. You had a plethora of resources available to you and you squandered them all.) A few days from now, I’ll head to my appointment so we can talk about where we go from here. I already had to stay off my leg for over a week because of a sore that was healing, when I tripped over our entry-way rug and landed right on the end of my leg. Yes, sir. In order to describe the pain for you, as a man, I would imagine it’s like getting hit in the balls with a sledgehammer. Does that make you feel nauseous? Ok, then that’s how it felt. For at least a week. So, once I healed up from that, then I was ready to keep moving forward with this new leg. And, well, here I am. (My husband wadded up the rug right then and there, and threw it away, so it’s not an issue for me anymore.)

So, here we are. You are deceased, but I’m writing a letter to you. I sure wish I knew how you felt about us all the years that you were living. I saw on Oprah all the time how important it was to “FORGIVE”, but I don’t really feel like following along. I’m not much of a follower. I would rather tell you this : Thank You. When I put my oldest child to sleep at night, every now and then, I remind him of this: If my accident had never happened, and he interrupts, “I know, I know, I know, then you wouldn’t have had me!” and he reiterates how awesome it is that my accident happened because we are all here now. Believe it, because it’s true.

I do sincerely, with all my heart, believe that all things are meant to be. I believe that I have learned so much from my experience, and that I would not have the family and friends that I do now, if things did not flow in my life as they have. Every one of us faces some sort of struggle, or multiple struggles, at once – whether it’s a parent, child, friend, or neighbor. I am blessed to have been given this challenge in life because it has introduced me to the people that I adore and love, and call Home.

In the infamous words of the Beatles, “All You Need is Love”, and I feel that with my own family.

However, my daughter might shape it even better:

“I love you, Mommy! I love you even when your leg is off!”

And that, my friends, is what it’s all about.

One of my Top 5 All-Time Favorite Movies is, “A Christmas Story”. I just didn’t realize when I woke up this morning that I would be reenacting one of the scenes spontaneously with my 10-year old child today.

About said child: I have often said that I get enough love from both my children from my 10 year old son, Dylan. He is the epitome of love. He still holds my hand, snuggles with me on the couch, loves a bedtime story, and tells me several times every single day, “I love you!”. He is one of the funniest people in the world, too. I took him with me today to shop at Bed, Bath & Beyond. He had me laughing so hard that I was almost embarrassed. Almost. He is witty, funny, super sensitive to a fault, athletic, hard-working, smart, and FUN.

He helped me carry a great deal of stuff today, some of it at my Mom’s house. “The Incident” took place when we were trying to get out of her front door. Both of our hands were full, and I take full credit for trying to urge him to get out the door. I became frustrated and was trying to rush us all.

Me: “Go, go! Keep moving!”

(I couldn’t understand why he just stopped at the door and didn’t go any further. Plus, the Honey Badger was on my heels, and it took me ages to get her shoes and socks on and get ready to get out the door.)

Dylan: [Completely frustrated by the door, because it had locked on him, and his hands were full, but I didn’t realize this]: “MOM! I can’t open the door because I don’t have any [INSERT “F-bomb with -ING”] hands to open it!!!!!!!”

I stood there with my eyes wide open and my jaw hanging to the floor.

Immediately, he burst into tears and dropped everything and ran to the car. (Since he dropped everything, it was easy for him to open the door. Moot point.)

My Mom came to the door with the same jaw dropping look on her face. I told her I had it under control, grabbed the little Peanut, and headed for the car.

Dylan’s sobs were loud….and sincere. This is my boy, who HATES to get in trouble, and turned to me and implored, “I DID NOT MEAN TO SAY THAT!!!” And, I 1000% believed him. Never, in a million years, did I think that Dylan would drop the F bomb. But, I truly know that his own words completely shocked him.

We drove the brief drive home in silence, except for his muffled cries. I felt awful for him. But, he didn’t know that. He was devastated. I have always said about him, he feels things so deeply. So, this wasn’t some kid who said something nasty and then was crying because he was going to get into trouble. This was a very sensitive kid, who wouldn’t dream of saying THAT, and went into shell shock. I had to rein him back in.

“Dylan, I know you better than you probably know yourself. I know that you didn’t mean to say that. I know exactly how you feel.” I’m telling him this at his bedside, because he climbed into bed and pulled the blankets over himself.

Dylan: “How do YOU know???”

Me: “Because I’ve been in your shoes.”

Dylan; “You’ve said THAT WORD?”

Oh, sweetie.

Me: “Yes!”

Dylan: “TO SOMEONE YOU LOVE?!”

Me: “Yes.”

Dylan: “What is my punishment going to be?”

Me: Internally – Hasn’t he punished himself enough already?? I mean, the guilt, tears, and strain on his face – he put himself through HELL after he realized what he said. He totally didn’t mean to say it, I know this.

I told him I would think about it and get back to him.

Turns out, he initiated his own punishment.

“Mom, I know you know that I love my iPod [Touch]. I set it on top of the fridge because that’s probably the best punishment.

And, he totally helped me clean up the house: he emptied the dishwasher, cleaned up the family room, sorted laundry, helped clean up Erin’s room, among other tasks.

I think he has been so traumatized by his own actions, that he needed a bit of positive reinforcement tonight. Poor kid.

I have raised a total straight edge. He pushed back on me today, and he ends up punishing himself for it. On the one hand, I am happy that he knows he crossed a line, on the other hand, I was concerned at how hard he was being on himself! It’s a WORD. He’s TEN!

So, we are sitting at dinner tonight, and the booth behind us has a very vocal man telling a story. He used the word “hell”. Dylan leaned over to me, “Um, HEL-LOO, there are KIDS here!” and I kept me snicker to myself, considering the previous incident. I wanted to talk about irony and hypocrisy. Anyway…

Of course, the Honey Badger announces, “This looks like throw up, right??!!” as she points to her rice and beans. On the way out the door, with no warning, she yells, “I farted TWO TIMES when we were in there!!!”

ALL.CLASS.ALL.THE.TIME…..