The Blatz Nativity

Six kids left unsupervised got into a lot of trouble. Except Sharon, Sharon NEVER broke the rules. She was the good kid. I always say that Sharon was like Marilyn on the Munsters, she didn’t fit in, not with all of us trouble makers. She never did ANYTHING wrong. She wasn’t like the rest of us.

We were country kids and we were known for our parties. This started with Mike and John. They had jobs, which was their excuse for not going camping. Then they would throw parties. We would come home and the neighbors would tattle on them.

One year, after Sharon and John had both gotten married and left home, Michael had the end all, be all party at the Sermon house. My parents and the ‘three little kids’ went camping for two weeks. We drove our pickup truck up through the U.P., through Wisconsin to see family in Minnesota. It was a great trip and I have wonderful memories of that time. However, that camping trip was punctuated by what we came home to. We pulled into the yard, very tired and ready to get unpacked. There was ‘debris’ all over the yard. Bottles and cans were everywhere. The grass had been flattened by car tires. We had a habit of having keggers in the back. Folks would drive their cars out back and blare their radios. Michael greeted us at the back door. He was chattering on about how tired we must be and how HUNGRY we must be. Wouldn’t we like to head over to the Texan for a bit to eat. Dad was giving him the parental skunk eye. Then Michael added he needed a few minutes to tidy up the place. Dad shot a look to my mother and then told the three of us to “Stay here!” He stomped into the house.

We heard loud voices, then yelling and then we heard slamming doors. My mother was muttering something about Michael being a fool and “I don’t know WHAT your father is going to do!” At that, Mark, David & I shot into the house. Michael was somewhat of a hero to us. He was older, a drama major and VERY popular in school. But he drove my father to the edge and the only times I ever truly saw my father angry was usually AT Michael. We felt if we could plead his case to our father, he would let Michael live.

Coming up the back entrance step we saw many more empty bottles but what we saw in the kitchen has gone down in family history. There were liquor bottles EVERYWHERE! It looked like a bar. Empty ones, half empty ones, broken ones, there was even the game “Passout” spread out across the table. Cigarette butts were in bottles, in the sink, on the counter and smashed out on the floor. My parents didn’t smoke or drink. We were Baptist; there were rules about that sort of thing. We didn’t see dad or Michael. The boys went upstairs to see their room. My room was downstairs. I had a double bed that Sharon and I used to share. I was in this aquarium phase which my father had indulged me in. I had about eight tanks set up in my room with a variety of tropical fish.

The first thing I noticed was my door was coming off the hinges. Then I noticed that my bed had collapsed. It used to do that when Sharon and I shared the bed. I can’t tell you how many times we had to get up in the middle of the night and put the slats back under the bed and align the mattress back on top. Sometimes we were just too tired and just slept on the slant. I hated that bed. However, I hadn’t been home so WHO had been in my bed!?? There were bottles on my floor as well. The worse thing was every single one of my fish tanks was destroyed.  The heaters had been cranked to high and literally boiled my fish. Some of them had jumped out of the boiling water to escape the heat and were stuck to my walls. There were cigarette butts and empty bottles floating in the water. I was mortified.

Mark and David came running down the stairs. Dad had ordered them out and I wasn’t allowed up. I never saw the condition of their rooms but I heard conflicting stories from my two older brothers over the years. Evidently the door was completely torn off my parent’s room and my dad found a used condom in their bed. We also heard later that Michael had a band out in the backyard and things got so rowdy that the cops were called. That was the first time Michael got kicked out of the house. The big takeaway for Mark, David and I that day, wasn’t not ever to have big parties when the parents were gone; it was clean up immediately AFTER your parties, no matter what.

Over the years, Mark, David and I were also known for our keggers out back. No matter how late it was or how stumbling over drunk we were, the three of us cleaned the house spotless before bed.  The year my grandmother died, my parents took Mark and David to Alabama to collect her things. I couldn’t go because I had been sick so I had too many absences at school to take time off, or so I told my parents. I didn’t want to go. I wanted the house to myself. They took off with the boys over Christmas break and weren’t coming back until a few days after school started up again. The tree was still up and all our Christmas decorations. I was used to having outside parties with just a few people inside. This was to be my first inside party. I was excited.

I had about 30 to 40 people over. I made it B.Y.O.B and had the smokers smoke outside, putting their butts out in a coffee can. I was being oh so careful. I felt very grown up and very clever.  Just like I had done over the years, even though they were in Alabama, I cleaned the house before I went to bed. The next day, I cleaned it again, dusting, vacuuming, the whole nine yards. 

Eventually the folks came home. I greeted them at the door with a big ole smile and smugly quoted Michael, “I bet you’re tired and hungry. Why don’t you head over to the Texan for a bit to eat? That will give me a few minutes to tidy up the place.” My dad shot me a look that told me he failed to see the humor in that but I did see both my parents scanning the spotless room.  Mark and David were helping dad bring in the bags and my mom was still standing near the entrance to the living room. I was standing near an old desk, near the front door, that had belonged to my grandmother. On top of this desk was my mother’s prized nativity set from Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland in Frankenmuth. My dad had built her a stable to put the pieces in. He had taken shredded wheat and placed it about the stable to represent hay, even though they didn’t have hay balers in Biblical times. Each piece was about six inches tall. The whole set cost my parents over $200.00. As my mother was recounting their trip, I happened to glance down at the nativity scene. What I saw chilled my blood. 

My heart literally stopped beating. The entire 19 years of my wasted life, flashed before my eyes. It was horrific! On top of the head of each wiseman, of each shepherd, of Joseph, Mary and even the baby Jesus was a carefully balanced beer cap! I had to tear my gaze away to be sure my mom hadn’t seen it. She was still talking and finally headed over to the stack of mail and newspapers on the coffee table.

I quickly snatched off about three beer caps and put them into my pocket before she looked up. The boys and my dad came in with another load. I calmly stood there chatting with them. I couldn’t leave my post. Once they left for another load, I had to wait until my mom walked into the kitchen. I snatched off another three or four more beer caps. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. I was sweating now. I had to get them all before someone, anyone noticed. If one of the boys noticed, they would have squealed in delight and I would be found out. If mom noticed, I could be thrown out just like Michael. IF dad noticed, he wouldn’t have said anything to my mom but he would have blackmailed me with it later, making me listen to Ray Stevens’ songs or some other horrid payback. Every time the room was clear, I shot over to the nativity to snatch a beer cap until they were all gone. Once they were all gone, I had a pocketful of beer caps and a very guilty conscious. 

BIG Fish

I loved to go snorkeling with my dad. I’m not sure, why out of all six, I was the one to go with him but I suspect it was the timing of his life. My parents had three children, took a six year break and then had three more. I was the oldest of the last three. By the time dad and I started to go snorkeling, the two oldest had moved out of the house and my brother Michael was usually either gone or kicked out but he certainly never went camping with us at this point. The younger two were too young and well, I guess I was just the right age and the right time.

When dad and I went snorkeling, we went arm and arm. We both wore flippers. His were green and shaped very much like a frog’s foot. They were ancient. Mine were blue ones that he picked up for me at the local Yankee’s Store.

Our first time snorkeling was up to his friend, Harry’s, cabin. Harry and his brother-in-law, Pinkie, shared a cabin on Loon Lake. While dad was friends with Pinkie as well, we never went up there with Pinkie, only Harry. The cabin was up a slight hill and your basic Michigan cabin on a small lake. It wasn’t glamorous and nothing special. I do remember it was an A-Frame and the first time I had ever been in an A-Frame. Dad, Harry and I had been out on the lake early in the morning, fishing. Loon Lake was a small man-made lake but it was in a heavily wooded, lovely area. I have no idea where this lake was. There are several Loon Lakes on our Michigan map. All I remember is it was up north.

Dad didn’t do much explaining before we headed out snorkeling. The lake was small enough that he did mention we could probably go all the way around. I don’t remember if we did nor not. I had swam in mask before so I knew the process of keeping them clear. I had even played a bit with a snorkel before so both dad and I figured I knew the ropes.

So we started out, arm and arm. They lake was spring fed and very clear. It was amazing to zip through schools of fish that would simply split and go around you. We saw a huge snapping turtle that was too lazy to move when we went by. Maybe he thought we didn’t see him tucked in under that sunken log. Dad would gestured to something and point. We communicated by a natural sign language. One we made up on the spot because we knew each other so well. Every once in a while, dad would stop and we would come up for air. He would ask me how I was doing or tell me the name of the fish we had seen. One time he stopped because we both got the giggles because we thought of the same thing at the same time. Going arm and arm, we both started thinking of a bride and groom, walking down the aisle.

We were coming around the north end of the lake. Then dad saw this MASSIVE fish. He was huge. Well over a foot in a half long. I have NO idea what he was, a trout maybe?? Anyway, dad took us diving down towards it. However, dad failed to signal me what he was doing. Dad had also failed to explain to me that when you dive, you take a big gulp of air so you can have full lungs and can clear your snorkel when you come up. I sucked in a ton of water. I was not comfortable as we went down deeper. I started tapping dad’s arm but he was focused on the fish. My dad was a big guy, 6’3” and about 225. He had his huge arm bent so I was locked in. NOW I was getting very uncomfortable because I needed to breathe and I was starting to choke on the water. I was REALLY thumping his arm trying to get him to let me go. All at once he turned to me. He didn’t turn because he remembered he pulled me under. He didn’t turn because he felt my thumping him arm. He turned all excited to see if I saw the big fish too. The minute he saw me thrashing, he knew what he did AND being my dad, started laughing under water. He was trying to get me to the surface but he was buckling over in laughter, under water. We went towards shore but I couldn’t stand up because the ground in this area was not stable, common with man-made lakes and clay shorelines.  When we broke the surface, I flipped to my back to stay afloat and gasped, turning to my side to cough out the water. He was STILL laughing, saying he was sorry and did you see it all at the same time. I LOVED my dad. I adored my dad. At that moment, I forgot that. I glared at him. “You almost killed me!!” My dad burst into laughter again, “I KNOW!!”

We eventually went on with our journey around the lake but that moment marked our snorkeling from then on. Just before we would start out on a dive, no matter how long it had been, I would always remind him to TELL me before he decided to dive after a fish. Sometimes, when we were arm and arm under water, we would see a big fish and I would quickly dart my eyes to him and we would have to surface because he was laughing again.

Simba

We had several small boats when I was growing up. Dad loved the water. One of our first was a small wooden boat. It had two openings, a front area for two adult passengers and a back area for two adult passengers. It was so small it had oars along the sides. It had no steering wheel but was turned by the direction of the motor. My mother hated the water. She was actually scared of it. She rarely went out in our boats and she never went out on this one.

All our stiff, smelly orange life preservers were tucked in under the bow. Dad never wore one but he made sure that Mark, David and I did. One time we went fishing with my dad and his friend, Roger. It was a small boat so we never went far out in the Bay but fished just out of the river. Around the corner from the mouth of the Bay, is the Consumers Energy plant, where dad and Roger both worked. Consumers used to release steam from the power plant into an area known as the ‘hot beds.’ EVERYONE liked to fish in the hot beds or near them because the fish LOVED the hot beds. The area was a bit like a cove. You were only out on the Bay for about ¼ mile to get into the hot beds.

This particular day the Perch were biting like crazy. A storm was coming and for some reason the fish were plentiful. None of us were watching the sky when suddenly the air turned and the sky went black as pitch. A summer squall! A summer squall and we were on the water, this would be bad very bad. Roger told my dad we better head in. Dad wasn’t worried because the waters in the hot bed weren’t rocking much and the rain hadn’t started yet. Once he turned the boat out to the Bay, that all changed. That was when he realized that there was a huge storm and we were in it. We only had to go ¼ mile on the Bay to get to the river and then less than a mile to get to the boat launch but we weren’t going anywhere.

They wind had come up and the rains came down. The waves were over 8’ and our boat was being tossed about like a toy in the bathtub. Dad ordered all three of us into the bow, down where the jackets were stored. Roger put on a life jacket. We were crying because dad wouldn’t put one on. Actually, he couldn’t because none of them fit him. For 20 minutes we tried to get to the mouth of the river. We were very close to shore, which made the danger a bit surreal. There were times that the boat was at the crest of the wave and nearly stood straight on end. We were terrified. Dad had shouted to Roger that he would drop Roger and ‘the kids’ off at Consumers, take the boat on himself and come back for us with the truck. My brother’s and I went into hysterics. There was NO way we were leaving him. Eventually, dad was able to maneuver the small boat into the river. On the river the water was choppy but nothing like it had been on the Bay.

We found the boat launch and got the boat loaded. Dad only had a small pickup so he and Roger were up in the cab; my brother’s and I were in the box of the pickup and thankful that this week, dad had the cap on the truck. It was summer but we were freezing! It was another short mile and a half to drop off Roger and then eight houses down the road to our house. Dad left the boat hooked up. Thunder and lightning were crashing about us. We just wanted in the house. Dad came around to the back of the truck and lifted the door. Before he let us out he said, “Don’t tell your mother.” 

My father’s “Don’t tell your mother” was akin to any redneck saying “Hold my beer” but dad’s comment used to come after a ‘hold my beer’ moment, not before.

Another such “Don’t tell your mother” moment came with Simba. We eventually move up to a 16’ Seacraft that my brothers and I dubbed, Simba. There was a 1970’s cartoon called, ‘Sea Lab’ and they had a pet Killer Whale named Simba. The first time we took our white aluminum boat with the green under belly out on the Bay and rode the waves, she was named.

Simba was a real boat. She had a canvas top that could be flipped down. She had a real windshield and a steering wheel. There was a small metal railing around the bow and I was allowed to sit up front, on the bow, holding the railing and ride the waves. She had a real cool CB radio and a special scanner for picking up radio stations. Fishing became a whole lot more fun on Simba. Simba could pull someone skiing but although dad tried, none of us could master the art. Instead, we were towed behind on tubes or air mattresses. We had great fun on that boat.

We got her in April of 1970 something. It was really too soon to be out on the water but dad was so anxious to try her out; we headed out one mild sunny day. It was cold enough that we were in snow boots and heavy coats. My poor dad, trying to launch a 16’ boat with three little kids, somehow we got her in the water. Dad sent me to the bow to sit up near the railing and call out when I saw logs or ice in the water. He was only going to take her to the mouth of the Bay and come back. He just couldn’t wait anymore. I was young but I realized how dangerous this was and how dangerous my position was. IF I didn’t see a log and dad hit it, I could be tossed into the freezing water. Still, I was having fun and enjoying the day.

We eventually got to the mouth and turned around. Simba was much bigger than the last boat and dad had never launched her or loaded her. Eventually and way before I had my driver’s license, it was easier for my dad to have me back the truck up until he said stop and pull it back up to park it, then to hope I could hold the boat as it slipped off the trailer. But today, he was struggling with three children and cold April weather.

The three of us held the boat where told us to while he back the truck & trailer into the water. He was on the dock and trying to line the boat up over the trailer and he kept stepping on children, well, David mostly. 

David was about six. Dad kept shouting, “Back up, dammit, David, back up.” This went on for a while until we heard a loud splunk sound. We all turned and David was gone. Dad had backed poor David up, snowmobile boots and all, right off the end of the dock. Dad took a second to realize that David had gone off the end of the dock and under water. All he said, was, “Dammit” he handed me the rope for the boat and went to the ripples. He knelt down on the dock and reached into the water. A second later, there was David’s head, popping up through the stinky, freezing Saginaw River. The minute he was above water he was screaming. No coughing or spitting, just screaming. My dad started laughing. He had David by the hair. He grabbed David’s heavy winter coat with his other hand and pulled him out of the water. David was still screaming and my dad was still laughing. Dad tossed David into the boat. Then he looked at Mark and tossed him in too. Dad stood laughing, looking at David totally soaked and screaming his head off. Then my dad stopped laughing, looked at me and said, “Don’t tell your mother."

The World's Smallest Horse

I had just finished “Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children” and then started Alice Hoffman’s “Museum of Extraordinary Things” so maybe that’s what brought the memory on but I remember going to see “The World’s Smallest Horse” with my dad and crying. 

It was summertime and they were having Sidewalk Days downtown. This meant sales for my mom and my sister but it meant rides and a carnival atmosphere for me! My sister had taken me downtown while she did some shopping. We did our usual stop, Caris Red Lion for the world’s BEST Coney dogs, a must whenever hitting downtown Bay City. 

We did the Ferris Wheel and walked around looking for bargains. Then I saw it, a sign to see “The World’s Smallest Horse.” Now I already owned a very VERY short Shetland/Welsh pony. I had been around horses all my life, drawn to them by some unseen force. As usual, because I was a good girl, I didn’t tug or pull, just stared with an aching curiosity. My sister looked over to where I was staring and simply said, “NO WAY.” There was no discussion. While she enjoyed animals, she didn’t have my bug for anything furry or fluffy and certainly was never bitten by the horse bug. 

Later that evening I quietly mentioned it to my dad. We discussed how small this horse could be since my pony was pretty short. This was the days before miniature horses and the extreme backyard breeding that brings us Teacup poodles and Walkaloosas. I didn’t ask and we did not make any plans to go see the horse. The week was winding down when my dad asked me, as usual, if I wanted to go for a bike ride. This bike ride was not on a bicycle but his motorcycle. At the time he drove this bottom of the line bike that my mom had gotten him from Sears. It was black and a VERY basic looking motorcycle for 1970 something. 

When I was very small, I sat in the front. On the gas tank were two large caps; one for the gas and one for the oil. I used to hold on to those as we rode. I was big enough now to ride on the back. I would put my arms around my dad, which was one of my favorite places in the world to be, and hold on. When I got cold, I would put my hands in his pockets. If I was lucky, I would find a Snickers bar or some Wrigley’s gum stashed away in one of those pockets. Tonight it was summertime and he didn’t have a coat on. 

It was a short ride to downtown. I had no idea where he was heading. Downtown with dad usually meant a trip to Mill End, one of his favorite local haunts or through Wenonah Park or Vet’s Park to be near the river and watch the boats. We usually drove to water, either up north or just down to the river nearby. I know that is where I get my addiction to the water was from my dad. 

He pulled up and parked very near the area where the horse was kept. He wasn’t outside. It was a small, single wide white trailer, covered with a HUGE banner, “World’s Smallest Horse” and a line of people going down the wooden porch and onto the street. Dad took my hand and headed us over. I didn’t ask, he didn’t say anything; we just joined the line, holding hands. At last we were through the door. It was warm and muggy in that trailer. It smelled of straw, hay and horse, some of my favorite smells. There he was a very small dapple pony. He was very small, not much bigger than a very large black lab but much fatter. He looked like Pooky, the nasty pony mare from down the road. Pooky had run me into more fences than I could count. She was a typically fat naughty pony but I sure had fun the hours we spent riding her. 

He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t moving towards the people, he was just standing and staring. He was in a small fenced area on a huge pile of straw. He looked so bored. You couldn’t touch him. Just stare at him. There had to be over 20 people piled in talking about him, making noises to get his attention. Still he just stared. He looked so very sad. 

He rocked back a bit and then I noticed his feet. He had the worst case of what I always called Elf feet, that I had ever scene. He must not have ever had his tiny hooves trimmed. They were so overgrown that they curled up and he literally could rock on them. If you don’t know anything about horses, you have no idea how painful this condition is. He tried shifting his weight and adjusted his balance. I couldn’t help myself, I started to cry. I was quiet about it but the tears fell. Dad looked down at me. He felt it too. He tried talking to the man about buying the horse but the man was all about his money maker and wouldn’t hear any reasonable offers. My dad, who taught himself how to trim hooves and kept my ponies trimmed up, tried explaining to the man about the pony’s hooves. The man didn’t care. He asked my dad to stop talking about it because other people were starting to listen to my dad. 

We left, went back to the bike and rode for a while. We never ever spoke of it again. Our hearts had been broken and we knew there was nothing we could do about it. The only thing we could do was ride, in the warm summer night.So we did

http://blogs.esouthernoregon.com/southern-oregon-pets/2008/05/01/dapples-the-party-pony/

(The pony in this blog is the same color as the 'World's Smallest horse" I saw. However, as bad as his feet are, the small horse I saw actually had worse feet and was much shorter, much fatter & miserable. Heartbreaking)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; my childhood.

I grew up in a household of six children. Mom should have stopped at one. Dad could have had 15! Dad worked swing shift which meant there were days we wouldn’t see him either because of his work schedule or his sleep schedule. Mom was left to ‘raise’ us alone for the most part. A job she was NOT up for so when we got old enough or at least when one of us got old enough, she took off. She took off a lot. Yes, she did have bowling every Tuesday and TOPS every Thursday and once a month on Mondays she had card club (oh how VERY 60’s) but for the most part, she just took off! Can’t say as I can blame her for leaving when she could.

I was number four. My parents had three children, very close in age; took a six year break and then had three more children, very close in age. So my family had teens & toddlers. Something I myself experienced when I remarried at 29 but I only had one sullen teen and two toddlers. She had three teens & three toddlers. She also came from a long line of crazy women. It was really best when she was gone but that is for another time.

Six kids, alone, without adult supervision; yeah the neighbors have stories to tell! I remember Saturdays, before my sister got married. They were full of ‘Shock Theater’ (horror flicks, 60’s style) Big Time Wrestling and lots of black and white movies. They were also full of shenanigans of all sorts. David was the youngest. He was a pretty mellow kid with incredible strength. He is probably the closest in temperament to my father. That boy can STILL lay line of B.S. that would put Frank Abagnale to shame. I do remember the older three playing with camera effects. They were very good at trying to line up shots where it would look like Sharon was holding Michael in her hands. Our mother couldn’t really cook. She was nineteen when she got married. Her mother died shortly after that. My grandmother was very non-traditional in the grandmother sense. She never made cookies but she knew how to make a meal of squirrel, raccoon or another other life form. Her perch was out of this world but one learned to never question what you were eating at grandmas. If you couldn’t tell, it was best you didn’t know. Sharon tried her hand at cooking. Once she made biscuits SO hard, we ended up throwing them at the walls! She wasn’t the oldest but she was the oldest girl and she was born responsible. She had a lot of pressure put on her at a young age with our crew.

I was usually outside with the dogs or wandering in the back yard. The younger two were still in diapers.  One of my earlier recollections of one of our ‘Saturday events’ was when David got angry at Mark and threw a green toy Volkswagen Bug at him. It missed Mark but sailed through the closed living room window.

No one wanted to anger our mother so there was quick business going about getting it cleaned up. However, John, the oldest, cut his hand on the glass. My sister had a friend over, Nara, and Nara took off running to my sister, ‘Sharon, come quick, come quick!!” That led to an ER trip, several stiches and groundings. There was always stuff like that happening. The door to the sun porch from the living room was broke SO many times; my dad finally put plywood over the opening. I think at one time or another, all of us had a hand at breaking that glass. I was ‘playing’ with David one day. He did this thing called, Rhino Charge where he ran at you, full tilt, with his head down and butted you in the stomach. We weren’t fighting and he wasn’t coming full tilt but it was a Rhino Charge. He barely hit me but it was just enough that I was knocked off balance and I went through the glass door. My father was reading the paper. He put the paper down and said, “Shit.” He wasn’t mad at us, he was worried about her being angry.

Sharon got married in 1974, John did as well & Michael, well he got thrown out, allowed back in, thrown out again, allowed back in and eventually married. That left ‘the three little kids’ with me being the oldest.

I have NO idea if John, Sharon & Michael fought like Mark, David & I did but Holy Moly, we had some drag out fights!!

One fight in particular initially took place in the kitchen. For SOME reason, Mark decided to set up his record player in the kitchen. It was 1970’s fancy as you could tape directly to a cassette from a record! However, Mark didn’t understand the process and insisted on TOTAL silence while this was recording. Both parental units were gone and I had made pork chops and mac & cheese for dinner. Mark kept making angry faces at me if I clinked my fork on my plate or chewed too loud. Mark & I NEVER got along, from the beginning of time. He just always rubbed me the WRONG way. So, of course, his pain brought me pleasure. I started giggling at his frustration. Yes, that only made him madder. It was working both my nerves and David’s. What I didn’t know, was what David did. Mark and I were squabbling over his demands and my demands of WHY are you recording in the kitchen during dinner? Mark was never very reasonable. David took a piece of pork chop and dropped it in Mark’s milk. After our squabble, we sat down to eat. Sure enough, when Mark took a drink of milk, PLOP, right in the face with a soggy piece of milk sodden pork chop. Well of course I started laughing. Mark immediately accused me of doing it. We both launched from our chairs. I bolted for my room, a locking door! As I raced through the kitchen, Mark, realizing I was going to reach my room before he could reach me, grabbed the full jug of milk off the table and threw it at me, hitting me right in the middle of my back. Let me tell you that a gallon of milk, hitting you square in the back, hurts. It also explodes. I stopped for a moment. My reaction to getting hit in the back with a full gallon of milk sort of looked like I was doing a Captain Kirk impression when he was hit with some sort of unseen ray. I recovered and tore up the stairs with Mark hot on my heels. I barely rounded the corner and was about to clear my doorway when I felt Mark’s hand on my shoulder. But suddenly, he let go. David had tore behind Mark, no doubt riddled by the guilt that I took a gallon of milk to the back when HE was the one who dropped the pork chop into Mark’s glass. David had Mark on his back on the floor. Mark was red-faced and thrashing. David was trying to apologize and kept asking Mark to be still and ‘don’t make me hurt you;’ which is truly a line from our father. But Mark wouldn’t calm down. He was NO match for David’s strength and eventually David had to pop him one.

It was always Mark and I fighting with David trying to keep the peace. Once Mark threw a mustard container at me. It missed me and hit the wall, exploding. The thing is; we couldn’t tell where the mustard was. My mother had and has HORRID taste in home decorating. Most of my childhood was spent in a robin egg blue living room with nasty orange striped couches, in a bright mustard yellow kitchen that had chocolate brown appliances, red linoleum countertop and blonde cupboards, in an avocado green bathroom. My parent’s room was a nauseating lavender and I like purple. When the mustard bottle exploded we all stopped and stared at the walls. We literally could not see where the mustard landed unless we looked along the wall sideways. Well, that ended the fight because we were in fits of laugher as we all tried to clean the walls.

Once Mark and I got in a knock down drag out fight and since HIS bedroom door didn’t have locks, he ran to the bathroom. Well, there is NO escape from our bathroom as it has no window so I decided I would wait him out. I held onto the knob so he couldn’t get out! I was patient. Eventually, he panicked when he realized he was trapped. He was thrashing about, pounding on the door, screaming and yelling, which only made me hold on tighter and with such a sneer of satisfaction. Suddenly, something shot by my head. Mark had hacked at the door with the dust mop shoving the end of it through the door. I let go and took off out the front door. Mark was in hot pursuit, mop in hand. We were running down the middle of our road. I would REALLY love to hear the neighbors version so the stupid Sermon kids.

Dad fixed the door by covering the hole with a large diamond shape. He thought that would please our mother and let the whole thing blow over. HOWEVER, we repeated our same argument a few weeks later and this time, Mark hacked through the door with a toothbrush and not in the center of the door. Since he had to replace the whole door this time, Dad was a bit angry. Groundings were had by all.

My father never hit us, never. He would rarely be angry with us. He was always, “So, what did you do this time to piss your mom off?” “Don’t make me have to give you a what for.” He was a great dad. I only saw him angry a few times in my life.

He had been working midnights and was sleeping. It was Sunday morning and all six of us were still living at home. Sunday mornings sucked at our house. She was always yelling at us to get moving, hurry up and get dressed. My mom never learned the skill of laying out our clothes the night before. We always spent Sunday morning trying to locate everyone’s shoes. Now, six children had a LOT of shoes. They were all tossed in the front hall closet, with NO organization. ALL of our shoes, our tennis shoes, our dress shoes, our snow boots, ALL of our shoes. Well this particular morning, Mom could not get the stupid closet door open. That set her off on one of her Sunday morning warpaths. She was making some serious noise. Then we heard it, we all heard it; the thudding sound from upstairs of a 6’3”, 225lb man, getting out of bed and stomping down the hall. He came down and demanded to know what the problem was. My mother, still very hysterical about the door, explained herself in an expressive high velocity manner. My father looked at her and looked at the closet. He said, “This door, THIS door right here. THIS is the door you cannot open.” And with that he PUNCHED his massive fist through the closet door, grabbed it with his hand and pulled it open. “THERE, NOW It’s OPEN!” and then he went back upstairs. NO ONE said a word, nothing. We all got our shoes in stunned silence. We drove to church in stunned silence. We sat in church in stunned silence...until we got the giggles. Mom glared from the choir loft. Yeah, did I mention she sang in the church choir? Six children who couldn’t handle being home alone, sat in a church pew without a grown up. Again, I’d LOVE to hear the stories of those who witnessed our behavior. 

Dreamy

I had a dream the other night. It was one of those dreams that felt so real. One of those dreams you think about for days and wonder if it was a dream, a memory or a premonition?

In this dream, I was out of town, visiting a friend. I don’t recall the travelling to get there or meeting up. We were in a grand old cemetery. It was lush and green. There were many roads and rolling hills. There were several large statues and lovely moss covered mausoleums.  It was a beautiful day, warm, full of sunshine, trees blooming, a lovely late spring day. I think we have had our bikes. We were making small talk and sharing comments about the various stones while we were both taking photos. Then I noticed her.

An older woman was on her knees near a grave. I couldn’t see her face. She was kneeling at the grave, dressed in dark traditional mourning clothes.  She was crying, rocking back and forth on her knees, occasionally pulling at the grass. We both froze. I had often imagined conversations with someone visiting a loved one when I am ‘trespassing’ taking photographs and taking in the weather. I had always imagined I would talk to them. So I walked over to her.

I lightly touched her shoulder and quietly said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Without looking up, she put her hand on my hand and sobbed loudly. “He’s gone. I’m alone. I miss him so much.” Then she shouted, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You shouldn’t have left me.”  I joined her on the grass, sitting very close to her. She leaned into me, a total stranger, so desperate for comfort. I glanced at the stone, the date was recent. I looked down at the ground around us and realized the grass had been patched in. I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing a hat with a veil over her face. I could see she had shoulder length hair, softly curled under at the shoulder. Her hair was colored to a honey tone but the silver streaks were still quite visible.

I quietly asked her what her name was. It was Mary Louise. I told her my name was Diane Louise. She smiled, weakly. I asked her. “Is this your husband?” “Yes,” she said, she sat up a little straighter when she said, “57 years, for 57 years, I was his wife.” I asked her if he called her Louise. She looked straight at me. I saw how red her eyes were from the crying. Her pain was so raw. “How did you know that?” I smiled, “My brother-in-law has called me Louise since I was a young girl. Just a pet name he gave me.” She said, “Sometimes he just called me Weezie.”  She smiled, touched the gravestone and I saw the tears start down her face again. She whispered, “He’s gone, forever.”

I asked her to tell me about him. Without hesitation she started listing random facts about him. I slipped my blue notebook out of my bag and started writing down everything she was saying. “He was always whistling and if he wasn’t whistling he was singing.” She smiled. “He used to sing all the time, not entire songs, just choruses or lines from a song. They always made me laugh.” She smiled, “Sometimes he would change the lyrics to something, um, inappropriate, but only when we were at home or alone in the car.” She touched her fingers to her lips and laughed a small laugh, for only a moment, as the memory washed over her. She went on to tell me that he worked in a plant for 40 years, never missing a day of work for being sick or because of bad weather but he was by her side for each one of their children’s birth. She told me what a wonderful dad he was. He built the children a tree fort, made their lemonade stand, saw all their school plays and helped them with science projects. She kept talking and I kept filling up my pages. She told me that she had been a young bride and so was very frightened when he went to fight the War. He was missing for a few months, but they located him with a few members of his platoon, on an island. He never spoke much about what happened to him there. He loved to dance. “And he was a real good dancer. All the girls wanted to be his partner but I got him!” She smiled again. I have no idea how long we were there but the stories of her husband just poured out of her. She had stopped crying a while ago. Finally she looked at me and asked me, “What are you writing in your book?” I told her, I was writing everything she said because now Thomas would be a memory for me too.

I asked her if her children lived nearby and if she had any grandchildren. She nodded. I put my hand on her arm again, “You need to tell them all these stories about Thomas. You can keep him alive and remember him by telling his stories over and over.” She nodded again. I could tell she was exhausted. I didn’t see a car. “How did you get her Louise?” “Oh,” she said, “I took the bus a few days ago.” My heart ached for her. “Louise, is there anyone I can call for you?” She took a breath, nodded, and said, “I think my daughter might be wondering where I am.” I called her daughter and found out that Louise had been missing for three days. Thomas had only died a week earlier. As we waited for her daughter, I asked her if I could take her picture. She started fussing with her hair, “Oh, I must be a fright.” I told her I thought she was beautiful and I wanted to remember her. My friend, who had stayed just off from us, but within earshot, came over and asked to take a picture of both of us. I put my arm around her and she took my other hand in hers, leaning her head on mine.

The minivan finally pulled up. Her daughter rushed up to us, grabbed her mother in a hug and held her tight. “Mom, you scared us to death! Please don’t do that again, promise me, please, I can’t lose you too.” Louise introduced us and her daughter gave me the same hug she gave her mom and thanked me for calling. I helped her get Louise to the car. I leaned into the open window and hugged her again. “Are you going to be alright now?” She nodded, “I think so.” I held up my blue notebook, “As long as you share him, he will live on. He’s a part of my life now and so are you.” She kissed my hand and put it up to her cheek.” Soon the car was out of sight. 

I turned to my friend. “Wow” he said, “Just wow!” He told me that he had taken a few photographs of us while Louise and I sat talking together. He and I sat down by a large oak tree and he handed me the camera so we could both flip through the images. She looked so sweet but frail in the first few photos but the more she talked about Thomas, the more her color seemed to return, she even looked stronger.  I paused for a moment and looked up. My friend asked, “What, what is it?” “Oh, nothing” I said. 

It was obvious he couldn't hear it and I couldn't tell him but I was sure I could hear someone whistling. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onH-WTVQGsg&list=AL94UKMTqg-9B23vsJpbYCct5FRDXj7iNk&feature=c4-overview-vl

Curly Toed Shoes June 12th 2013

I'm sitting in a waiting room again. He has to get a PET Scan to see if there are tumors anywhere else in his body. Last week’s CT of his abdomen showed a spot on his kidney. Monday will mean an Ultrasound to get a closer look. I thought the first time I would be in a waiting room for an ultrasound would be with Elissa, waiting on the news of a grandchild.

The diagnosis has been changed from Stage IV Sarcoma to a Desmoid Fibromitosis Tumor.  His samples and scans were sent to Mayo Clinic, because of the size of the tumor and his age. It was Mayo Clinic that made the final diagnosis of a Desmoid. What in the hell is a Desmoid? Well, it’s rare, very rare. I don't blame the doctors in Saginaw for not knowing, for calling it Stage IV Sarcoma. Desmoids happen to four people in a million. Some websites call it Cancer, others say it is not. It is an aggressive tumor, often called the Angry Tumor. While not malignant on a cellular level, like Cancer, these tumors are very invasive and can cause death. This is better news. It is not Stage IV Sarcoma but this is hardly good news. Our life with ‘The Monster’ has just begun.

We are in a makeshift office, a trailer, outside one of Covenant’s Clinics. Nate says it before I do that it feels like he is there getting some illegal treatment instead of a scheduled PET Scan. They take him away, telling me it will be at least an hour. There is nothing but senior citizens in the waiting room. Nate is only 20. We shouldn't be here.

I became fascinated by an older couple speaking Greek. Speaking in English, he tries to explain to her what she is reading. Another older couple comes in. The wife tells a woman, a total stranger, that he has Stage IV liver Cancer. Two other women start talking about where they are at with their cancers. They go on and on about friends who have passed, who has it now….I cannot stomach their conversations. He is only 20.  I put my earbuds in, trying to escape their talk but my brain won't let me.

I text my friend, Kris, for a while, I start thinking about friends who have lost children, young children, to horrid obscure illnesses. I don't know if I can be like them, holding fund raisers for awareness, printing off Team Nathan t-shirts. I don't know what my role is here. I get up to use the bathroom and I see Nathan in another room. He has to wait for the dye to work into his system. I am so proud of how he is talking to the technicians. He speaks clearly, like an adult, and asks all the right questions. Back at my seat, I think about how he has grown.

He used to get so nervous and excited to do things with his friends that he threw up, even in high school. Nervousness runs on his dad’s side of the family. I used to push him, maybe harder than I should have, about being stronger. I would tell him that he could outsmart those butterflies and push through it. Not being a nervous person myself, I really couldn't understand his behavior. I didn't mock him but kept telling him how strong he really was.

I couldn't help but think back to my father’s funeral. I was abnormally high-strung and understandably upset hat day. Normally the tough as nails one in the family, I was shaking.  My eyes darted about the room. I really couldn't settle myself down. I had spent the day before at the funeral home for the visitation. I didn't do well there either. I wasn't being a grown up. I was being a little girl who lost her dad. I spent a lot of time sitting on the steps on the back porch of the funeral home.

I wasn't doing the grown up thing. Hours of telling people thank you for coming and making idle small talk was tiring to say the least. The funeral was being held at the church of my childhood. Standing in the back I could remember all the times I sat by my dad singing hymns. I can remember lighting candles with him on Christmas Eve and I remember him walking me down this very aisle. I’m not ready for this day.

The pastor comes over and tells us it’s time. It’s time to say goodbye so they can close the casket and start the funeral. My knees buckle and it starts. I’m not ready and start crying. My friend Cheryle, bless her soul, was watching me like a hawk. Before she can reach me, Nathan has his arms around me. Suddenly I am the child and he is the adult. 

I'm sobbing by now, uncontrollably. I can not stop. I'm sobbing as I hug my sister saying I don't want to say goodbye, not yet. I'm sobbing when I go to his casket and touch him for the last time. I'm sobbing while they are leading the prayer in the hallway, before we take the walk to the front of the church. I’m trying to compose myself during the prayer. I have my eyes opened but my head down. Nate is by my side with his arm around me. I look at his shoes. Good Lord, he wore his ratty old leather shoes and they were dirty. I look up at him, he gives me such a tender look and I say through sobs, “Your…shoes…are..dirty.” He looks at me, shocked, and whispers, “Really Mom, really, you want to go there with my shoes, now?” 

I'm leaning on him as we walk down the very aisle that I walked down with my father on my wedding day to Nate’s dad. I'm holding onto Nate this time. He leaves me to help bring the casket in. He’s so tall. He’s the largest of all the grandson’s. My Dad was a big man too. I feel a touch of pride knowing Nate is so big. Throughout the service, Nate was on my left side, Elissa on my right. I kept sobbing. I could NOT stop the tears. A couple of times I looked up at Nate and he patted my head. He was being my rock, my shoulder. Not my oldest child, not my daughter, my baby, my baby was there for me.

My boy grew that day. He was called upon and he didn't cower. He knew I needed him and he did what had to be done.

They bring Nate back to the waiting room. He is talking to the technician and they are joking about how tall Nate is. Because Nate is 6’4”, they had to do his PET scan with his feet sticking out, and then later with just his feet sticking in. I’m seated, listening to all of this. While Nate is asking questions about when the results will be to his doctor, I notice the technician’s shoes. They seem to be curled at the end? I stifle a giggle, grab my phone, mumble something to Nate about texting his dad but I secretly snap a photo of the guy’s shoes. In the car later I show them to Nate. He looks at me and says, “You notice people’s shoes at the weirdest times.” 

Purple Flowers June 10, 2013

There are moments in your life, defining moments that you remember where you were, what you were wearing, what you ate; odd details that have nothing really to do with the impact of the moment. 

You remember that on your way there, a car, a blue car, cut you off. You remember the flowers blooming outside the doctor’s office, unusual purple flowers that look a bit too much like onions. You think, “What an odd choice for an ornamental flower?” They aren’t very attractive. You keep thinking about those strange flowers as you sit in the doctor’s office, waiting. You have done your research. You only researched benign tumors. You have a few theories but you wait for the experts to explain it all. You listen to the too young doctor in the too large suit rambling. You can tell he is nervous. That makes you nervous, so you think about the odd purple flowers.

Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20. Yes, the tumor on the CT Scan last week seemed very large but he only started having pain a month or so ago. Stage IV, how can this be? The too young doctor in the too large suit starts talking about treatment plans, U of M, and the dimensions of the tumor. You look at him, your boy. You can tell he has NO clue what a Stage IV diagnosis means. You look at your ex-husband; it hasn’t registered with him yet either. You keep swallowing, trying hard not to make a scene. You want to scream, cry, to vomit but you keep it together because you KNOW what Stage IV means. You see that the too young doctor in the too large suit realizes that you know. He starts looking directly at you, speaking directly to you. You don’t know what to ask? How long has it been there? Well, that is hard to say. What caused this? We really don’t know. You look at your boy again. You remember the first time you saw him. Your skin starts to crawl. You don’t know how much longer you can stay composed. The buzzing in your ears grows louder. The walls start moving. The too young doctor in the too large suit is watching you. He leaves the room to get you some information he’s printed off. You try to think about those damn purple flowers.

And there you are, making plans at the front desk for an appointment at U of M Sarcoma Clinic. He needs more blood work. He needs all his records. You agree to take him for his blood work but you say you have to do something first, that you will pick him up in a few minutes. Driving across town, you keep thinking of the purple flowers because if you think of Stage IV Sarcoma you are not going to be able to move. People are waiting for the news. You call your sister. You have to say the words out loud. You start to unravel. You manage to post the information and a prayer request before your hands start shaking uncontrollably. You are undone. You let it happen. It pours out of you. You try to breathe. You know you have to compose yourself. He needs you to be strong. Dear God, how can I be strong? My baby boy has Stage IV Sarcoma. He’s only 20. 

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy May 23, 2013

“Don’t freak mom.” Those words do more to send a mother’s blood pressure to the roof than any other. “I finally went to a doctor about that pain in my side.”

Nate had told me about his side just a few weeks earlier. It hurt enough to keep him up at night and compared to his left side, it did seem swollen. Having a nephew who had Lymphoma at 16, I had insisted he get that looked at.

“They did a Chest X-Ray and there is a mass of unknown origin and I have a CT Biopsy scheduled for Monday, can you take me?”

A mass of unknown origin, a MASS, how can he have a mass? Maybe it’s a pulled muscle? Maybe it’s an inflamed fatty tissue? A CT Biopsy? He’s only 20 years old.

Monday morning we arrive an evidently we are late. He said it was an 11:00 am appointment. They girl explains that he was supposed to be there at 9:00 am for prep. We assume we are going to have to reschedule, but they don’t. She says, ‘no problem.’ No problem, being late for a scheduled appointment at a doctor’s office? She calls to the back and says a number that must reference Nate. She looks up and says, “We will get you right in.” Right in? What is happening here? This is NOT how the medical world works. You are late, you have to wait. We barely sit down and they call us back. The waiting room is packed. I am somewhat confused at the star treatment. I note to myself, Nate is getting the red carpet treatment here, why?

They make him put on a hospital gown. He’s so tall his feet hang off the end of the bed. I don’t want to scare him but I remember how painful my lung biopsy was so I tell him to be sure to tell the technician that it hurts, not to suck it up like I did if he feels any pain. They come and take some blood work. There is some blood on the bed. His blood. I try not to think about my son in a hospital gown, with an IV, lying in a hospital bed, about to get a CT Needle Biopsy on a mass of unknown origin. I joke about his feet hanging off the bed. He isn’t even scared. At 20 years old he’s 10 foot tall and bullet proof. They take him back and direct me to another waiting room.

I have a book in my hand, one of my favorite authors. I realize that I have read the same paragraph three times and still have no idea what it says. Reading is not going to work. I stare at the huge fish tank that is directly across from where I am sitting. A small child comes up with her father and they look at the fish.

In the movies, when parents deal with terminal illnesses in their children, it’s all so very dramatic. They scream, “No, take me instead!” I start making my pact with God. I can’t scream. It’s a quiet breath that is barely a whisper that says, Oh God, please, just take me instead.”

My sister told me to write down Nate’s entire medical history to take to U of M. I frantically get out my blue notebook and just start randomly noting doctor’s visits, ER visits, asthma, tubes in his ears and my pregnancy for him.

Nate wasn’t planned. Elissa was only six months old when I got pregnant for Nate. I knew his dad wasn’t going to be happy about having another one so soon. I’m not really sure I am ready for another one either. Its Christmas time and I have morning sickness but I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m pregnant.  Good grief, I’m still nursing Elissa. At my parent’s house, I feel sick, crampy. I start to spot. I know what’s happening. I have been through this before. I fight the urge to push and keep saying, no, God no, please not again, please. I keep begging and finally say the words, I want him. I immediately calm down and I hear a still small voice say, “Even if he’s special?” I say yes, out loud and repeat, “Yes, I want him, even if he’s special.” The pains stop. I tell no one about this. It’s February before I even tell his dad that I am pregnant. I spend the entire pregnancy wondering what ‘even if he’s special’ means.

Nate was a planned C-section. I argued with the doctors that they had the date wrong; they were going to take him too early. I knew when he was conceived.  They told me they would only change the date if I had an amino. No way was I having one of those. So August 27^th, early in the morning, Nathan Thomas Bracher was born weighing 9lbs, 3oz and 23 inches. He was covered in vernix. He looked like he had been dipped in pancake batter! I kissed his face anyway. He had the blackest eyes I had ever seen. When he shifted them to look at you, he looked like a shark in a tank. We call him Shark Boy. He had a problem with his bilirubin levels so he was hooked up to a wallaby. He looked like a glowbug! I asked for him to be removed from my room at night because I couldn’t sleep next to this nuclear glowing baby! We call him Pumpkin Boy for his lovely orange/yellow glow.

When Nate was just over a year old, he got pneumonia, bad. He was on antibiotics for a double ear infection but I knew something was wrong. He was shaking and it appeared like he was talking in his sleep. His temperature was 106. I called the doctor’s office and told them I am coming over. When we got there I said his name and said, “Which room?” I wasn’t going to sit in a waiting room, not with a 106 temp. The doctor came right in. He started saying something to me about Nate’s temp, assuming that I was an exaggerating mom. Before he can finish the girl taking Nate’s temp says, “Doctor.” This was before ibuprofen was over the counter. The acetaminophen I had been giving him brought him no relief. One dose of ibuprofen and he wasn’t shaking anymore and peacefully sleeping, even snoring like a man. After the blood test it is confirmed pneumonia. I was given the option to put him in the hospital or treat him at home. We go home.

When he is three we spent a fourth of July in the ER. By spent I mean we are in there at 3:00pm and are not seen until 11:00pm. This was the summer Nate talked me into letting his grandpa shave his head. While we are outside and I am petting his head when I find a bump. I look, oh God there is a ladybug sized brown bug, biting him. I try to flick it off. It won't budge. I try to pull it. It won't budge. So off to ER. Nate was such a trouper that day. We only had a handful of toys but he was great. This is the time period he is called Nater Tornader. He’s usually a bit of an energetic kid. Finally when it’s nearing 11:00pm I go to the girl at the desk and say, “I know you have been busy. I know that drunks who fall off their boats and cut their feet on the boat propeller do take precedence over a child with a bug in his head but really? We have been here since three. It will probably take a minute for SOMEONE to take some tweezers and snatch out this bug.” It works, we are in a room! It does only take a minute to remove the STILL very much alive bug that has been sucking on my child’s head all 4^th of July night. They assure me it’s not a tick but a chigger so I'm told NOT to worry about Lyme disease but they give us some antibiotics just in case. We call him Chigger Boy for years.

There are many MANY doctors’ visits for ear infections that eventually lead to getting tubes in his ears. It took five nurses and myself to hold him still to get the IV in him before the surgery. I was holding his head, trying to keep him calm. I tell him it will only hurt for a little bit. He screams, “You lied. YOU LIED! It hurts, it STILL hurts.” One of the nurses starts to giggle. It took an abnormally long time for us to be able to see him after recovery. We finally question what is taking so long when out pops a gurney, Nate sitting up and five nurses around him laughing. One apologizes and says, “Oh, I'm sorry, we had to keep him a bit longer because he was TOO much fun.“

He is hospitalized at four with dehydration from a Roti Virus infection. This time he was way too weak to fight the insertion of the IV.

Shortly after he is diagnosed with asthma and has to start taking medications to treat his allergies. Try having a three year old on liquid albuterol!!! Bouncing off the walls does not BEGIN to describe the effects of that drug. He’s Nater Tornader again.

With each illness or medical event in his life, I wonder about the still small voice asking me, “even if he’s special?”

He breaks out in Chickenpox the night after our church Christmas program. I had to call everyone he possibly exposed to Chickenpox, including our pastor. The pastor had played the part of Jesus and was sitting among the children during the play. Unrehearsed, during the closing song, he picked up Nathan. Nathan curled up against his chest and made the whole congregation melt. Who wouldn't want to curl up in Jesus’ arms when you have a 104 temp?

Once we moved out into the country, the rest of his childhood was uneventful, health wise. He stopped taking his medications for allergies and asthma in junior high and frankly was rarely sick. Sitting there waiting for him to come back to his room after his biopsy, I really couldn't remember his last doctors visit.

The nurse comes out and says, “Can you follow me? The radiologist would like to speak with you a moment.”

The radiologist starts explaining that they were having difficulty taking a sample. He shows me a screen that displays the image of my son’s body and his mass of unknown origin. The radiologist points to these little broken white marks. “Those are his ribs. They are being destroyed from the pressure of the mass. That is what is causing him the pain.” He shows me that the mass of unknown origin is growing into the muscles on his right side; the other half of it is ‘infiltrating’ his rib cage. He repeats this same information several times. I look at him. I see in his eyes he wants to tell me more. I tell him about the nephew with lymphoma and ask him what he thinks this mass is. He quietly says, I don't think it’s lymphoma but let’s wait until the labs come back on the tissue samples before making any decisions.”

It’s echoing in the back of my head but I can still hear it.

 “Even if he’s special?”

Yes, I say again, EVEN if he’s special.

Before you cross the street,

Take my hand,

Life is just what happens to you,

While you're busy making other plans

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XO2v7qZClbw