daughters – ALS Fact of the Day~

happy birthday, baby girl!

50 Mother Daughter Quotes That Will Have You Cherishing Your Bond - Just Simply Mom

They went by in the blink of an eye.

Twenty years…

I am in shock, laying here, remembering.

The morning that those two little pink lines appeared. The fear, the excitement, and the question of “NOW?”

We had nothing.

No home, no furniture. No real roots yet, nor any stability. At least, not the kind that a baby needs to thrive and grow, but still, you were on your way.

Having been told we would not be able to have a baby without thousands of dollars, and many new scientific procedures, I had put family planning on hold. After all, I was only 21 years old. There was plenty of time to worry about all of that later.

I was barely older than you are now when you became a reality.

You gave me serious heartburn.

The kind of heartburn where I was guzzling Maalox daily, yet still craving spicy foods. You were barely the size of a bean, and yet the energy it took to carry you still defies reason. I slept for hours, day and night.

As you grew, the excitement grew with you. Suddenly, that small little bump was large enough that others were taking notice. I may have even arched my back a bit, hoping others would see that small mound that I was so proud to be carrying.

There were challenges, of course.

Nothing in life is perfect…except you.

I didn’t know if you were a girl or a boy, and I didn’t really care. I assumed in my childlike naivete that you would be a boy because that is how babies are born..boys first, then a girl. I didn’t know what to do to plan for a girl. I was hardly the girl-kind of mom.

I had no idea what I was doing, or even how to prepare for you. Yet, I loved you.

You came into the world, unwillingly.

You were late. So late that the doctors decided to do whatever it would take to get you to make an entrance.

Your stubbornness almost killed us both.

At 22 years old, I held my perfect child in my arms, forgetting all the heartburn, the stretch marks and the intense pain of the last 24 hours, staring in awe and wonder at the tiny creation that lay before me. I had never known such love!

I wanted to be the perfect mother for you.

I read every book on child development, and stages and phases. I made all the baby foods from scratch, joined Mommy and Me classes. I wanted to be perfect for you.

I had no family to help, besides your father. He seemed to comprehend that my inability to change poopy diapers did not mean I was inept at other tasks, just that I gagged easily. I was jealous at how easy he made it look, while I fretted constantly about every little thing.

Your smile was infectious…it still is.

I loved being at home with you those first two years.

You were so sweet. Many people would stop to smile at you, as your face lights up and your spirit would shine through. Your energy was contagious. Those little legs carrying you beyond the trail ahead of me, little brown piggy tails swaying with each step. Every so often you would glance back at me, making sure I was still nearby. Yet, you have never needed me. You just needed the assurance I was there.

You have always been fierce.

You walked into daycare, and onto the kindergarten bus, into each new school and into the final years of high school on your own. With one glance back, to see if I was still watching, you smiled and waved.

I doubt you noticed each of those milestones, but I did.

I had no idea how fast these years would go by. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would. All the sick days, the temper tantrums, and the teenage fights. I would go back and re-live each day, just to cherish each of the moments more.

I had no idea ALS would come into our world.

For that, I am sorry.

I am sorry that these last seven years have been with a mother that is tired, and stressed, and not always attentive.

All those times you waited, or the many times I put you off to the side, because someone needed my help. You had to learn how to wait for my attention. Between the two little ones, the divorce and then ALS, you have sat patiently waiting for my attention.

If I could go back, do better, and be more for you, I would.

You are fierce.

You are just coming into adulthood, with an entire lifetime of memories to build. I am excited to see who you will become.

I am learning to sit back and watch. You have never wanted my advice, always choosing to do things on your own terms and on your own timeline.

You will make mistakes.

And I will still love you.

You will face unimaginable trials and challenges along the way.

I will still love you.

You have not found your passion yet. The spark that drives a person forward. My passion found me, and I have a feeling yours will find you. When it does, I know that you will be loyal to what ever that cause may be. You will tackle it with intensity and drive.

But for today, I will sit here, and remember the baby I held in my arms. The perfect child that came to me at just the right moment.

Today, I will remember all the sweetest of moments that you gave to me, and I will cherish them that much more. Because I know that the next 20 years will go by even faster.

Stay fierce, baby girl.

4 years…

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The pounding at the door had some strange sense of urgency to it. I glance at the caregiver, my eyebrow raised.

I wasn’t expecting anyone else for the day.

“Tell them I died and to go away!”

I hear voices at the door. She yells for me to come to the door. I groan. I can’t be seen like this!

I glance down and yell out.

“No!”

I am wearing an over-sized shirt, one of Matthew’s old ones. It is at least five sizes too big. I haven’t showered or even brushed my teeth yet and the morning is almost over. My face is bare, my hair piled high on top of my head.

I don’t want anyone else to see me like this. It’s bad enough that the caregiver, the occupational therapist, the carpooling kids, the crossing guards, and who knows who else has had to see me today in total disarray…

I am slightly annoyed at this minor inconvenience.

Seriously, who could it be?

The Occupational therapist was already in the bedroom, performing Matthew’s “exercises” for the day, and physical therapy and massage therapy were already done for the week. The lady who checks the machine isn’t due for another week.

No one else ever stops by during the day.

I hear the door close, and footsteps walking down the hallway, more like elephants stomping and the caregiver telling me I need to see this.

I am hiding in the kitchen.

The footsteps draw closer.

I see the giant bouquet before I see anything else.

A giant bouquet of roses.

Eighteen of them to be exact!

Long stem roses, white and soft pink, arranged in a large vase, carried by a wisp of a girl. The roses must have weighed almost as much as her.

A smile spreads across my face.

She sets the roses on the table, along with two small bags. The names of my two youngest children are written on the bags.

Again, I can’t stop smiling.

I tell the girl thank you and watch as she stomps out. (for such a small thing, she sure is loud!)

And I shake my head..once again amazed at my husband and his thoughtfulness….and lack of ability to follow directions.

I walk into the bedroom, that same smile still spread on my face to find him, like a small, anxious boy, ready to burst.

“I thought we agreed not to exchange gifts this year, since we are going to dinner?” My eyebrow is raised again. I am trying to look stern, but it isn’t working.

“That rule was made after this was arranged. And there are no take backs!” His eyes are twinkling.

I shake my head, lean my arms against his wheelchair and give him an eskimo kiss.

“What did you get for P and K?”

“Well, it’s their anniversary too!”

And just like that…I remember why I love this man.

He is compassionate, kind and caring. He is thoughtful and sweet and generous beyond anything I have ever seen. He is also, by far, the most romantic man I have ever met in my life. He knows me better than I know myself. He is my biggest fan, and for some strange reason he loves me.

And he loves my children as much as I do…

Happy Anniversary, babe!

San Fran! – Take 2!

ALS Fact of the Day~

If you must know, I never write if I’ve been drinking. Matthew says its because I refuse to be truly vulnerable.

Pff!.
That couldn’t be further than the truth.

The truth is that I simply don’t have the ability to form complete sentences if I have had a drink or two. It’s similar to drunk texting your ex at 2:00 am after a night of too much indulgence, or getting on stage with a microphone after knocking a few back and thinking you can speak coherently.

It’s just a bad idea!

You’ll end up thinking you sound intelligent. But in reality, you’ll come across as desperate and probably a bit inept.

I left off on our California adventure having had a less than ideal experience in San Francisco. We had hoped to have two days to explore, but after the hotel and trailer fiasco, we would have to make due with only one day left..

I stopped writing for the remainder of the trip because, as you can probably guessed by now, I began drinking every night.

Don’t raise your eyebrows at me!

It’s hard work, daunting even, to be solely responsible for a paralyzed man, two children and all that that entails, thousands of miles from home, or help of any kind. Falling into bed exhausted, the last to close my eyes, and the first to open them. I took my respite once everyone had fallen into their slumber. I would pour myself a glass of my favorite red wine…or more often than not, some cheap crap from the gas station with a twist top, poured into those little Styrofoam cups from the bathroom counter and relax for just a while, thankful no one is needing me for just a while. Some nights I stopped with one glass; some nights required a bit more of the tranquilizing liquid.

However, Matthew is holding me hostage. He says I need to finish the story and post the pictures so that we can move on with the next adventure!

So here it goes….

San Francisco – Take 2

The city is a hodge-podge of messiness. It is almost as if it can’t quite make up its mind what it set out to be, so it took everything and everyone and wrapped its arms around in a welcoming embrace. Before the gold rush, the city consisted of about five hundred people. One year later, it was five times that size. There was no planning or time for adjustment. They began building in the least desirable location possible. On steep mountains and dense forest on the edge of the ocean.
Just ten years later, the population was over one million.

Yet, now, it feels as if the hippies, the yuppies, the homeless, the hopeless, artists and businessmen alike, have molded into a beautiful condensed mess. There are redwoods mixes with cypress trees, military with peace and love. Vines, flowers of every texture and color mixed with weeds growing in impossible locations. Fog, so thick you can’t see ten feet in front of you, only to traverse a few miles, and see brilliant blue skies, and birds gliding seamlessly across the horizon.

Every ethnicity, culture and race can be found within a few miles of one another, stacked upon each other, not unlike the buildings they co-habitat in. In a matter of just a few hours, we ate at the Fisherman’s Wharf, with Alcatraz looming off in the distance. We walked, following the masses along city sidewalks, when the kids jumped up and down excitedly.

Could they please???

Now, I am not much into the whole Ripley’s Believe it or Not kind of entertainment, but after looking aghast at the prices, I kept walking. Matthew rolled up alongside me and gave me the look.

“What??”

I tried to ignore his scowl.

It’s one I get quite often actually. It’s the “You are being cheap!” look…

Fine!

The next building had wax figures, some so life-like, you could almost sense their eyes following you as you tiptoe around them, inches from their face. The kids were creeped out yet enthralled by Madam Trousseau’s Wax Museum. The Virtual Reality exhibit was open, and this time, when I was given the
“Can we please, mom?!”

I shrugged and left it up to Matthew.

Okay, to be fair, the virtual reality was really cool. A quick walk back to the van and this time, buckling Matthew in to avoid him making a face plant on the dashboard, we went on to the next location.

The Fine Arts Museum, with columns and arches, complete with a beautiful Indian wedding taking place in the center of the columns. Women in colorful gowns, jewelry jangling at their wrists, eyes darkened to accentuate their almond shaped beauty. Men, dressed in their wedding attire, trying not to look nervous, their feet shuffling, as they readjust their vests for the hundredth time that minute. I felt as if we were trespassing, so I ushered the kids along the path, shushing them along the way. Matthew unable to follow us along the pathway by the pond, turned his wheelchair around and began to navigate his way around. We watched the swans swimming gracefully along. The idea of staying still and simply watching life move by for a while was tempting, but my children are unable to sit still for long and I should probably make sure they stay out of trouble.

Instead of simply walking along the path, enjoying the sights, and sounds, they have to run, whoop and holler. The next thing I know, my children are attempting their skills as modern day Tarzans, climbing onto massive limbs, so far high above the ground I began doubting their ability to get down safely.The limo pulls along side the street, and the wedding is about to begin. It is time for us to go.

Chinatown:

The streets were jagged, the buildings looked ragged and old. Paint peeling from the walls, and steep steps into nooks and crannies that promised intrigue and ancient secrets. As soon as we find a somewhat level parking lot, Matthew wheels himself out of the van, we are ready to explore!

Damn…

Each street is cobbled stone and cracked beyond repair. Most sidewalks are crumbling concrete with no gentle slopes to be found. Matthew would not be able to go far. We settled for a restaurant as close as possible to where we parked. We weren’t going to be able to explore this part, but we could at least try the food. Yelp reviews be damned!

Imagine the look on my children’s faces…no one spoke English. No English on the menu, no English to be found anywhere! The menu had strange marks etched beneath photos of food. There was no way to distinguish pork from chicken or beef…All we could do was point to whatever looked appetizing and hope for the best.

The circular platter in the middle of the table was soon filled, and they delighted in spinning it to and from, reaching for new delights. Besides sitting in an area where no one spoke English, it felt like any other restaurant. Families walking in, toddlers misbehaving or whining, and parents scolding them for wiggling. The tone, inflection of the stern voices, and the parental “evil” eye cross all boundaries!

I want to say that we had all the time to explore, but really it was more about racing from one site to another, since we only had this one day to see it all. A drive-by to visit the Painted Ladies (no one seemed to impressed..) to Coit Tower, and the last part of the day, driving down the infamous winding Lombard Street, all before the sun set on our adventure for that day.

I can’t say that it was easy to get around, and I am sure that it is even harder in a wheelchair, as Matthew was bounced around in his endeavors! However, the kids didn’t seem to mind only getting quick sneak peaks here and there, and Matthew was happy to finally see the city that I had told him so much about.

Stay tuned for our next few days of adventures along the California Coast!

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A letter to my daughter…

A Letter to My Daughter;

The time has come.

I must admit, knowing for years that this moment would be upon me, I was still caught off guard. I had no idea the multitude of emotions I was going to feel, seeing you sit among your classmates, in your cap and gown, as the speaker announced the Class of 2019. As your hand reached up to move the tassel from the right side over to the left, signifying the completion of your high school career, the tears began pouring from my eyes.

I suppose it may seem silly to some, but I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready for my job as your mother to be over. I have no idea how to move forward as a mother to a young woman. So please forgive me, as I am sure I will stumble along the way. I have had you all to myself for eighteen years. And I want more time. I am not ready for this to be over.

I will never forget the moment those two pink lines appeared, signaling the changes that would soon begin in my body. I will never forget the first time I felt the little flutter of kicks as you began making your presence known. As the months went by, and I was more than ready to have the heaviness of carrying you inside of me over, I would learn so much about your personality, and you weren’t even born yet!

You were ten days overdue. Even then, you were stubborn as hell. I should have learned in that moment, the extent of your stubbornness. There was nothing anyone could do to make you do anything you didn’t want to. It wasn’t until we were both exhausted, and our heartbeats and blood pressure were dropping, the risk too great to both of us, that the doctors in the room decided to take action. After 18 hours of intense labor, you had to be dragged, kicking and screaming into this world.

As the months went by, you taught me how to be a mother. I must admit, I was probably more nervous with you than I was with your sister and brother. I read every book on what to expect, through each month or stage along the way and which milestones you should be hitting and when. You were a great napper but would only sleep through the night if you were walked and sung to. I was sleep deprived for years, but I loved every minute of it!

And true to your personality, you did things when you were good and ready. You were independent from the beginning. Never fearing the strangers around you, or being out of my line of sight, you were off on your own adventures. You waved goodbye on your first day of daycare, with no tears or drama. I doubt you knew I went to my car and cried like a baby, seeing your two-year old self walk into that room of strangers, with out a care in the world.

I remember your first days of preschool, and kindergarten. Your first temper tantrum. WOW! Over and over again, you showed me your fierceness and independence. You never wanted to fit in, nor try to morph into those around you. And you have always excelled at voicing your displeasure at things that do not go your way.

Maybe that is why it comes as no surprise that you were anxiously wanting to grow up and get on with your life. School was never your thing, nor were clubs or sports, or group activities. You preferred beating a drum all your own.

I was the hardest on you. I am sorry about that. I suppose because you remind me so much of myself. I want you to be so much more than I ever was, and I definitely pushed you. You, of course, pushed back.

I watched you walk down that aisle yesterday, that beautiful smile across your face, as you looked at me and said, “I did it, Mama!” and my heart ached once again. Another symbol that my job is over. This is it. I don’t get a do-over, or more time. You are off to begin your new life.

I probably embarrassed you after the ceremony when I grabbed you and began sobbing, my head tucked into the crook of your neck. You are now as tall as I am, and more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

I will feel this heartache for a while, I suppose. It seems incredible that these years have flown by so quickly, and my role is now changed. I wasn’t ready. I am not sure if I ever will be. My heart is breaking into a million pieces, but I expect this is the same feeling the countless mothers experience throughout their lives.

You taught me how to be a mother. I can never thank you enough for that. It has been the most difficult journey of my life, and the most beautiful and rewarding. I am immensely proud of the woman you are growing into, and I hope that throughout the years, you will hold that independence and strength inside of you. As you struggle, and experience roadblocks and failures along the way, I hope you know you can always lean on me for strength. I will always be here, cheering you on.

I know that I was not perfect, but I hope you know how much you are loved, and I tried to show you how much I loved you as often as I could. I never cared whether you were the smartest or the most athletic, nor the most popular or the most beautiful. I have always been in awe of your ability to walk away from anything that does not serve you, including the need to please others. Your character traits will take you far in life, so hold on to them.
I am still on the journey of discovering who I am, and more than anything, I wish you happiness. I hope you take the time to learn about who you are and the things that bring you joy. I hope you reach for the things in life that are important to you, no matter what the world whispers in your ear, look for what you are passionate about. I hope you choose kindness over judgement, and forgiveness over anger. There will be many times when that will be real struggle. Learn to let go of the things you cannot change and as I always say, “You have no control over others, you can only control how you respond.”

And above all, know that you are loved unconditionally and will always have a mother who will support you and love you, for exactly who you are.

It has been an honor being your mother, and I am excited to see what life has in store for you. You are and always will be, my baby girl.
Love Always,
Your Mama

❤️ Richelle Duffield
Matthew Wild

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healed…

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Powell, WY

It was an ordinary day as most days are. Blue skies, a few clouds floating wistfully along their path, in no hurry on their journey. A busy weekday in a small, idealic Wyoming community. The house sits on the edge of the street on the outskirts of town. The newest sub-division of neat homes, edging ever closer against corn fields.

A little girl yells in frustration, trying to give chase to the boys in her home, but her big brother pushes her aside. He is too big to play with his “baby sister.” She sits down, grabs her doll and pouts. A young mother, peering through the kitchen cabinets, realizes that the ingredients she needs for dinner are not there. She sighs, knowing she will have to run to the store if she is going to feed these boys soon. She glances towards the ceiling, wondering yet again why she thought she could be Scout Leader to six young boys. Then she remembered. It was because of the look in her son’s eyes when he pleaded with her. There would be no Boy Scouts without a Leader. The mother, already frazzled, added one more responsibility to her long list of daily chores. Den Mother to six high energy nine-year old boys.

She walks into the living room, trying to organize the troop. Asking each child to sit with legs crossed, she explains that she will have to leave, but if they are good, she will be sure to make a yummy dessert to go with her famous fried chicken. Glancing at the clock, her anxiety is heightened as she knows she is running out of time.

Her step-son, Mitch, a teenager hiding in his room will have to be the make-shift baby sitter while she runs to the grocery store. Yelling that she will be right back, she turns the knob on the television, and says a silent prayer that she can return quickly enough to get the dinner done and the boys working on their next badge assignment before her husband gets home to a mess. Grabbing her purse, she motions for her baby girl to follow her.

A small girl, four years old, her blonde hair bobbing with each skip she takes, follows her mother out the front door. The slam of the screen door makes the little girl jump a little and she looks behind her. Through the screen door, she sees her brother and his friends, all in their crisp blue shirts and yellow ties, laughing and running through the house. She wants to stay and play with them, but she knows her brother doesn’t want her around.

She turns back towards her mother and jumps down the concrete step onto the pathway along the house. She pauses, and looks down at the edge of the driveway, noticing the beautiful yellow blooms that she hadn’t noticed the day before. She bends down, quickly grasping at each flower. Her doll Raggedy Ann, a trusted companion, tucked safely in her arm, as her mother scolds her for not loading up into the car quickly enough.

“Hurry up Theresa, I am already late!”

She glances up, wondering why her mother was frowning at her. The small child thinks it is perfectly normal to be picking the dandelions to present to her mother as a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Normally her mother always smiles and smells the flowers she picks for her. This time, her face looks upset. She looks down at her hand and notices she has bunched all the weeds into her small hand. Her bouquet doesn’t seem as pretty as the last time she picked flowers. Still grasping tightly to the dandelions, she quickly plucks more grass than yellow blossom.

Glancing up, the little girl see that her mother still has that frown, as she swings the door to the car open, arm outstretched and motioning for her daughter to get in the car. The young girl jumps up, a trail of grass, leaves and weeds behind her as she runs towards the open door. She holds onto the steering wheel as she kneels along the seat. Her little legs are moving as quickly as possible, knees scooting as fast as they will go. She knows better than to put her shoes on the seat. She doesn’t want to make her mama more cross at her than she already is. She finally gets to the passenger seat and smacks the silver knob down with her palm, locking her door.

Her mother gets in, turning the key in the ignition. The little girl tucks her doll into her left arm as her right hand grabs the door handle. The car still has that brand-new smell, and her little feet swing up and down, too short to reach the floorboard and too short to reach the glovebox. Her mother moves the stick by the steering wheel down, her body pivoting to glance behind her, her face still scrunched up in worry. Her foot pushes down on the gas pedal and the car is jerked quickly in reverse.

It happens so suddenly, both mother and daughter are unaware of what is about to happen and there is no time to plan or even anticipate what can only be described as a “freak accident.”. As the car is moving quickly backwards, the passenger door swings open, and the little girl, whose hand is still holding tightly to the handle, is yanked out. The car continues, the mother not having enough time to react to what has happened in that split second, is still pressing her foot into the gas pedal.

As the little girl is falling out of the car, the front passenger tire is continuing its path, and she has been yanked out head first by the car door. The little girl is pitched uncontrollably out and down, as the front tire continues its backward momentum. Her legs are split, one still dangling upwards, as the tire runs over the other, and sucks the little girl up, her body unable to prepare for what happens next. Like the ragdoll that had been in her arm only seconds before, her body is thrown carelessly up and over and then under the tire.

The mother slams on the brakes, puts the car in park and jumps out of the car, quickly looking under the car. She screams as she sees her little girl’s body contorted around the front tire, and the weight of the car on her little body. The mother foolishly tries lifting the car at first, but it doesn’t move. On all fours, she peers under the car again, feeling helpless. She can see her daughters head, and there is no movement. She hears the smallest of whispers.

“I can’t breathe.”

As fast as she jumps out of the car, she quickly jumps back in, shoving the stick into drive and moves forward, hoping she made the right decision in going forward instead of backward. She swings the door open, running around the front of the car. Her son is standing at the edge of the house, his eyes huge, watching what is happening.

“Call 911!”

The boy turns to run into the house, his legs pumping almost as fast as his heart. The mother comes around the front of the car, she sees blood smeared along the driveway, and sprawled out is her baby girl. Her body freezes, glancing around not knowing what to do. She wills her legs to move closer towards her daughter’s body, scared of what she will see. Her sobs caught in her throat, as she sees her little girl’s body isn’t moving, but she gasps when she sees her daughter’s face. One half of her face is gushing blood, her ear hanging down by her neck, as the blood is soaking the ground beneath her.

The little girl’s eyes are open, and she is gasping in shock. There are no cries or whimpers, just blue eyes gazing at her mother. Suddenly, her mother is inches from her face, tears dropping onto her. Time has slowed down, and the little girl can’t understand what is happening to her. It is as if everything is in slow motion, and people are all around her, motioning their hands wildly in the air, or yelling.

She can see that her mother is screaming and crying.

“Why is mommy so upset?” the little girl wonders.

Then her friend, Police Officer Fred is there. He looks worried too. Then her grandmother is there.

“Why is everyone crying?” the little girl wonders.

She hears her grandmother yelling at her mother. Grandma never yells. Fred is holding onto her mother, and then even more people are gathering around her. An ambulance crew begins carefully lifting the little girl onto the gurney. The boys are on the front door step, not moving and the son is sitting on the stairs, his arms wrapped around his body, as he rocks back and forth. He is chewing his bottom lip, trying not to cry in front of his friends. His little sister looked like she was going to die. His grandpa walked over to him, and ushered him inside, along with the other boys, all staring and not knowing what to do.

“The helicopter is ready. Don’t worry, she is in good hands.” The EMT turned to leave.

“Wait, I am going too.” Panic in her voice, she notices that they are taking her daughter away from her.

“No, ma’am. I am sorry, but you can’t. We need to leave right now, and there isn’t enough room in the helicopter for you too. You will have to drive and meet us there.”

The mother glances around her, confused. She doesn’t know what to do. Her eyes look down. Raggedy Ann is laying on the driveway. A bouquet of dandelions that appears to have been bunched into a ball lays next to the doll. The ambulance drives away.

The young mother crumbles to the ground.

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Billings, Montana –

The young mother doesn’t remember much of the drive. What normally takes an hour to drive to the small city, took much less than that, but it still felt like a lifetime for her. Her husband was driving, and the cars following them were family, all needing to lend support and help in any way they could. She glances at her husband. He showed no emotion except the ticking of his jaw. He doesn’t speak to her, and she says nothing to him. She just kept staring, willing the car to go faster. Looking into her hands, she held the little doll. It was her only lifeline to her daughter. Tears continue to stream down her face as images of her daughter laying there on the ground continue to haunt her.

Her baby was all alone.

Before the car can even come to a complete stop, the young mother opens the door. Running inside the ER, she frantically looks for anyone for help.

A nurse at the desk softly assures her that the little girl is sedated and stable. The x-rays were still being done, so all they could do was wait. The young mother takes a seat. Her husband chooses to stand and refuses to look at her. His brothers arrive, their wives comfort the young mother, and the brothers take vigil. Soft voices are spoken in assurance. Of course the little girl would be alright. The little girl had been life flighted to one of the best hospitals. The doctors are some of the best in the area.

The waiting room was filled with smoke and foot tapping. Nerves stretched taut, and about to break. At last, the doctor walks in, eyes searching for the parents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock?”

Quietly, the parents approach the doctor, as family step back respectively.

His eyes hold sadness. This is one of the hardest parts of practicing medicine. Telling family there is no hope.

“I am sorry, but your daughter is very badly injured.” He looks towards the father, knowing that if he looks into the mother’s eyes, he will be unable to finish the diagnosis. “The x-rays show that her spine was crushed at the base of her neck. Several of her vertebrae are crushed. We will have to clean out the gravel from her cheekbone and reattach her ear. I don’t foresee her having any hearing problems at this time, as the damage to her face is cosmetic.” The doctor took a deep breathe, needing to pause before he continued.

“Doctor, what about her spine? What happens now?” The father asked, his eyes looking willing at the doctor, silently pleading for him to fix his little girl.

“I am sorry, but your daughter will be a paraplegic. She will not be able to move from her shoulders down, ever again.”

The young mother screams.

*********************************************************************

An accident, by the very definition of the word, implies that it is unintentional. An event that happens that is unexpected, unforeseen, unplanned for, and otherwise surprising. This moment, this accident is forever engrained in a young girl’s memory. The images have grown hazy, and time has softened the edges.

The little girl remembers laying in the hospital bed, trying to move her legs, her arms, but her brain won’t make her legs work. She remembers her mother crying, her father looking angry. She feels sad for making him angry again. Her uncles try to make her laugh, but her face hurts and she is sleepy. She can’t seem to keep her eyes open.

Days go by. She can’t remember how many, but her brain always feels fuzzy. She thinks she dreams a lot. She remembers one dream. The doctor coming into the room, and his face looks excited. He is holding a file.

“You have to see this!” His face is full of excitement. “I don’t understand how or why… The x-rays! They are different!” He opens the file folder and pulls out two sets of x-rays.

“Look here. This is the first x-ray. You can clearly see the spine at the thoracic region, # 1,2 and 3 are clearly crushed.”

The doctor sets it down and pulls another x-ray from the folder. Holding up the black and white film, he raises it, hands shaking.

“This is the x-ray from this morning.” He pauses, glancing at the parents as they try to make sense of what they are seeing.

“Don’t you see? Her spine is perfectly normal.”

They can only stare, grabbing each one, comparing.

“I don’t know how, or why. But your daughter is healed.”

*************************************************************************************

The ending of a song…

Image result for phrases about songs and life and love

The music makes my body sway. The upturned faces, smiling, as they nod their head to the beat. Music fills the room, and the old, young and everyone in-between, are caught up in the moment, and their energy. Parents have their phones out, trying to video tape and take pictures in a darkly lit room. Grandparents are singing along, not bothering with capturing the moment on film, they are content to watch. Matthew and I had snuck in, half way through the show, standing along the edge of the auditorium, as there are no seats for those who have arrived late.
Finally, her choir comes on stage…
She is in the very back. ..the back of the stage where I can’t see but the tip of her head. The songs are sung back to back, with little to no break in-between. The singers are smiling, all wearing ridiculous renditions of what they think the 1970’s and 80’s styles were. I suppose a few of them aren’t too far off. Their dance moves are more for themselves than to show their skills, but they have pure joy on their faces.
I feel it.
I see it.
It engulfs me.
The audience has come to watch these children perform one last time.
I begin searching, reaching back into my memory. Was I every so carefree at that age? I can’t remember ever feeling like that, feeling so much joy? I must have, but it seems so foreign to me. I can’t remember my high school years being very happy ones. If anything, I was in such a hurry to get it over with. I often felt alone, as if I didn’t fit in. I suppose I often feel like that still.
Suddenly, I see my daughter’s face. It is lit up, blissfully radiant, as she has completely let herself fall into the rhythm and song.
When was the last time I saw her like that?
I am struck with fear and regret and shame and guilt. Every emotion comes rolling into me. She will be a senior in high school next year! But when I look at her, all I see is that sweet, innocent baby toddling down the pathway, her little pigtails, and her excitement at every new experience before her.
I can’t remember if I was ever so happy when I was her age, but I want to hold this moment for her. I want to tell her to lock it deep inside of her. To pull from it when she has lost her way. I want to hug her, and tell her that I will always love her, that I am so proud of the woman she is becoming.
I need time to slow down.
It’s going too fast! Please… I haven’t had enough time with her!
I haven’t gotten to enjoy who she is today yet!
I need to tell her how much she means to me, how much her laughter makes my heart burst with happiness and pride. I need her to know that I am harder on her, not just because she is the oldest, but because she has such naïve innocence, and such a trusting and open heart, that I am afraid that if she doesn’t learn fast enough, the world will swallow her up…and I am scared she will make choices out of fear, instead of searching for choices that suit exactly who she is, and who she will become. I simply want her prepared… because those were the choices I made. I was scared…and I was alone…and I didn’t know how wonderful the world could be…
I want her to know that I am here for her…even when she doesn’t do “life” the way I want her to. I want her to hold on to this moment..this exact feeling of freedom, and take it with her, to let it guide her on her way.

So many children, almost grown, all in the spot light, with their fresh faces and youthful innocence. I can see pieces of who they are, and who they are going to be. Some are so confident, yet others have no idea yet the strength they possess. The coming weeks, many of them will walk on stage again, this time to be handed a piece of paper that signifies the end of their childhood. They are rushing towards an unknown, and doing it with such excitement, I don’t have the heart to burst their bubble.
Each of them will fail.
They will fall again and again, and it will hurt. Most of them will stand back up, wipe the dirt off themselves, and take another step forward. The world is wide open for them, and their paths are unknown. I am excited for them… and I am scared for them. Mostly, I am scared, because this is the first time I have felt the intense sadness that this time next year, my daughter will be walking towards her own unknown.
I don’t understand. I am standing there, and I can remember being that exact age. Did I look like that? Did I have confidence, or was I simply placing a smile one my face, trying not to fall to pieces, as the world was suddenly larger than I thought, and there was no one I could fall back on when I failed.
Does my daughter smile, hiding her fears, trying to be brave…for me? Or for the world around her? Or both?
She gets that from me….because I am smiling as I sway along to the music. The song is almost over, as they begin slowly moving and bending, arms outreached, as they softly lower their voices and slow their tempo down. The song, “Stairway to Heaven” is almost over…and with it, the ending of a part of their childhood.