I took this photo sometime around 2010 ish. One of the benefits of working 12-hour shifts every Friday, Saturday and Sunday was that around 6:00am on a weekday, I could get up, grab my camera, drive into DC and get some photos of some of my favorite places without a lot of people around.
On this day, I was leaning against one of the stones on the back of the WWII memorial and looking through my viewfinder – totally in awe of the reflection of the Lincoln Memorial and the history of the Washington DC area. I now wonder about the legacy of our nation and I’m apoplectic about the fact that we can use DNA to cure cancer, wireless networks to communicate anywhere and we still can’t abolish racism and treat each other equally.
And in the words of Langston Hughes, “What happens to a dream deferred?“
Here’s why, like many people across our country, I’m a fan of Dr. Fauci.
In 1992, my mom called at 6:00 am one morning and said: “your dad is in the hospital at the Brigham; get here when you can.” (I was living just outside of Amherst MA at the time, it took me under an hour to get there).
It was one of those calls you never want to receive.
Mom and dad were sailing and had arrived in Cuttyhunk, a small island off the coast of Massachusetts. They had just put the boat on a mooring in the harbor and were getting organized when dad suddenly fell flat on the deck of the boat and briefly lost consciousness. When he regained consciousness a few minutes later, mom was so concerned that she radioed for the seaplane to come and pick them up so they could fly back to the mainland for medical care.
Mom was a retired Emergency Department, Registered Nurse. Dad had been feeling “sluggish” for several months (initially they had thought he had asthma), but during this weekend, he felt well enough to go sailing. As mom remained more conscious of his symptoms, she decided to call for the seaplane right away.
Things Get Worse:
They flew back to New Bedford and then went to a hospital that, because of their small size and limited resources, could not fully assess what was going on, so he was subsequently transferred to the Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. Within minutes after arriving into the Emergency Department, Dad had six seizures, followed by a brainstem stroke, which left him in a coma. By the time I arrived, he had been admitted to the oncology pod, still in a coma, while they continued to evaluate him. Because Brigham is affiliated with medical schools in Boston, — many teams subsequently arrived to assess his symptoms.
After days of obtaining a thorough history, tests, labs, he was subsequently diagnosed with Wegener’s Granulomatosis syndrome — (which was confirmed when his Brigham team consulted with Dr. Anthony Fauci at the National Institute of Allergies and Infectious Diseases).
After a few more days, mom and I were scheduled to meet with the neurology team to discuss whether he would ever come out of this coma and what our best next steps should be in caring for him (i.e., “do we bring him home?”, “does he need surgery?”, “what is his overall prognosis?”). From his team at the Brigham, we learned that multi-organ failure was a symptom of Wegener’s and that there were less than 500 people in the United States who had been diagnosed with it. It was referred to as an “orphan illness.”
Dad’s Wake Up Call
A few days before our scheduled meeting, one night after dinner, the phone rang. It was my Aunt (dad’s sister) asking Mom if she could bring a priest into the hospital to pray for dad. So late Thursday night before our Friday morning meeting with the neurology team, my Aunt and my cousin were with the priest who was praying over dad. At one point, he reached for my dad’s hand to hold it, and he (my dad) jerked his hand away, which caught everyone off guard as it was a sudden jerky movement from a guy that (up until that time) had been in a coma.
Fast forward to early the next morning (6:00 am Friday): I was the first to arrive and was walking into the department when the primary Doc asked me, “is the rest of your family here?”. “No, not yet,” I told her, at precisely the same time Mom and my brother came around the corner and walked down the hall to where we were standing. The Doc looked at my mom and said, “I can’t really explain what happened, but your husband is awake and conscious. They have the news on so he can be more oriented to time — but we were all glad to see him awake and talking to us”.
Because the illness he had affected his organs, he needed to stay a few weeks longer and then also (subsequently) have cardiac double bypass surgery.
All this to say — while Dr. Fauci was not his Doctor, the fact that dad’s team at Brigham and Women’s consulted with him was inspiring because of the quality of care they provided and the years added to his life.
Let’s Just Think About This
Now, whenever I see Dr. Fauci standing behind the President or speaking at a press conference, I feel a lot more relieved because of how knowledgeable he is considering the complexity of the Covid-19 virus. And then I remember my dad and the battle he fought. Because of the care and recommendations he received, he was able to live another 22 years (and celebrate his 60th wedding anniversary with mom).
Having experienced the autoimmune illnesses that we have in our family, we learned that Dr. Fauci is a guy you would want to have on your team because of his knowledge, tact, compassion, and the length of time he has been at the NIAID. It’s 2020 — he’s worked at the same place since the mid-1980s; let’s just think about that. In my mind, a 40-year career at the same place isn’t just a “job,” it’s an honorable life mission.
As my dad’s illnesses progressed over the years (and in 2009 when his symptoms worsened), we went to one of the top-notch cancer treatment centers in the country close to where they lived in Florida. The team informed him and mom that his cancer had returned, and there “was nothing we can do for him.” They told mom she should “just bring him home and watch over him.”
But — as usual, that didn’t deter mom who asked their neighbors for names of oncologists in the area. Once she found some names, she called me and said: “I have some names and was wondering if you could look them up on your computer.” I researched each name on her list a bit more and found that one of the Oncologists had completed his residency in Boston. Mom and dad scheduled an appointment and drove over to meet with him.
In meeting with the Oncologist, they learned he had been a resident in Boston (at the Brigham) for the same Doctor who had been dad’s Nephrologist (the Doctor on his team who had contacted Dr. Fauci to confirm his diagnosis). He subsequently agreed to care for dad and provided care in the form of that delicate balance of chemo and radiation, which led to his cancer being in remission for a few more years.
As illnesses go, however — (especially when they’re compounded with his Wegener’s), Dad’s cancer ended up coming back, and that’s what was the cause of his death in 2014; years after the guys at the best cancer place said to mom there was nothing they could do for him.
Retrospectively, on the one hand (and when mom has had this conversation with other people), they have said to her, “well, the Cancer hospital was right as that’s what he died from.” On the other hand, when I think about the quality of his life from 2009 forward and the time we all spent together, I’m pleased mom didn’t listen to them. I’m glad we were able to find an outstanding Oncologist as well as a great primary care physician who had retired from Johns Hopkins and set up his practice on Anna Maria Island, close to the beach and 15 minutes away from mom and dad’s home.
I’m proud to live in a country where you have experts and highly skilled professionals like Dr. Fauci and Dad’s team at the Brigham that you can ask (or consult with) who can make recommendations and broaden your scope of knowledge. And yes, where they also support each other in hospitals and healthcare organizations across the country who continue to provide compassionate care for the patients and families they serve. While I have never met Dr. Fauci, I will always be grateful for him and our Brigham and Women’s team for their excellent care, recommendations, and follow-up.
On this day – it’s about the funny quirky stuff. If mom was still alive the stress would have started about a month ago – just before her birthday. The phone would ring and she would say “I can’t find my calendar. Your father and I have driven to the local bookstore but we can’t find it anywhere. The one place we checked that I thought would have it was already sold out.”
The calendar she was referring to was the Sierra Club Wilderness Calendar – because she loved the photography. It had to be the spiral bound one – so she could flip it over quickly if she needed to. AND – it had to be the one with the large boxes (for days) so that she had enough room to list all of the appointments that she and dad had. “Okay I’ll take care of it.” I’d tell her; and while still on the phone with her I’d grab my computer, go to amazon.com or Sierra Club (#sierraclub), search for the calendar, order and pay for it and make arrangements for her to have it in two days.
By this time she’d be talking about something else and when there was a break in the conversation, I’d tell her “okay it’s on the way”. “What’s on the way?” she’d ask. “Your calendar,” I’d tell her. “Susan Ann!” she’d say, I could never quite figure out if she was frustrated that I had arranged for it that fast or if she was happy that I had saved her some time trying to find it. What was important was that it was on the way. As the years went on, she would call and ask “can you order a calendar for me?” “Sure” I’d say and by the time we hung up from speaking with one another, she would know when the calendar would be coming. But she’d still double check – “it’s the spiral bound one right?” “Yes” I’d tell her.
The week that it arrived she’d spend her initial time looking at all of the photographs. When I was with her she told me what it was she liked about each one. The next week, she’d spend time putting in everyone’s birthday, making notes of appointments and (my favorite) adding her sketches of all of the holidays and birthdays.
Then in 2017 when we moved to RI from Florida, we packed the calendar but couldn’t find it once we arrived. This wasn’t good as I had finally (because I’m slow like this) realized that mom’s calendar and pencil was the exact equivalent of my MacBook pro. So I went to Amazon, looked up previous orders, changed the address to Rhode Island and (“bam!”) another one was on the way. By the time it arrived though, we had already (finally) found her old one so she had all of them (2 for 2018 and her 2017 one) next to her chair.
A few weeks ago when I was with my brother, I told him I had found her calendars about a month or so before visiting him. And because I’m neurotic like that – I took pictures of some of her sketches. And yes, I even thought of ordering a Sierra Club calendar (which would be totally nuts as everything even related to a calendar, appointment or important date is so streamlined on my MacBook (and color-coded and synced to my phone and watch) that this is a totally crazy idea. Right?
Today I was at Walmart looking for one of those hook thingies to hang Christmas decorations on my door. I was distracted by this really beautiful Christmas tree – the ones that have snow on them. A man walks by me and says, “wow, they’re getting so expensive, aren’t they?” (it was a 7.5 ft. tree for about $160.00). He tells me “I don’t even get a tree anymore” and that he doesn’t really celebrate Christmas since his wife died of liver cancer about 15 years ago. “She fought hard,” he tells me.
We discuss how relationships are interesting like that – how you really see someone’s strength when they are faced with adversity. He smiles upon hearing this “yes, she was quite a fighter,” he says. “I’m sorry about your loss,” I tell him – thinking that even though it was long ago, he still misses her. He tells me that there will not be anyone else for him (not sure how we got to this but we did) – but he seems content and walks me through his thoughts about the rest of the trees and the Christmas lamp post that is next to them that he thinks will be stolen in a second if someone actually purchases it and puts it out on their lawn. “Maybe it’ll help the mailman see where he is going as it gets darker,” he says.
I loved speaking with him, not only because he was telling me about his life but also because he actually looked like an elf. He was a little guy – about 5’4″ ish with short wavy hair, jeans and a red and black checkered flannel
shirt, and one of those small little cute beards on his chin – the kind that you see on elves when you’re shopping at Walmart.
When he left, I kept looking at the tree. Like the last thing I need in my place is a 7 1/2 ft. Christmas tree (that honestly – I would seriously keep up until April because it looked really cool). But when I think about our conversation and what he first said when he walked by me, it was like mom and dad were speaking through him – like a tactful “what the hell are you thinking buying a tree like that?”. (It was a Teresa Caputo like moment)
And yes, I left without it – but it was definitely the high point of my day. When I left, I had the 8 items I was holding in my arms and went to check out at the register (one of the ones that are staffed because I hate the self check out thing). The lady in front of me said “Please go ahead of me – you only have a few things,” but I said, “No, you go ahead, I just need to stand here and think about the way my life is going.” (which made the lady behind me crack up and tell me all about her daughter and the 7 (!) Christmas trees she has in her home.
I love these conversations that take place during the holidays; they’re not kidding when they say, “it’s the most wonderful time of the year”.
On this the 18th anniversary of 9/11/01 I wish we could have a national (if not a global) debrief on where we all were and the lessons we learned. But because there is not enough room in my apartment to do this – I’ll just give you my short version.
On 9/11/01 at the point where the two planes flew into the World Trade Center, I was facilitating an orientation for the nurses and staff at Adventist Behavioral Health and teaching them about how to manage stressful situations in fast-paced healthcare environments. When I left the orientation and heard what had happened from the staff huddled around a computer, the rest of the day just felt numb and robotic.
It was a few weeks later that I came to understand the challenges we were facing.
A few weeks after 9/11, a member of the Adventist leadership team asked me to help a member of their church whose 8 y/o daughter didn’t want to go to school. She had seen several professionals already but no luck. I told her I didn’t think there was anything I would be able to do differently but she said, “look I know you like talking with children, can you just see?”
I agreed and met with her the next day.
The next day our little patient and her mom came into my office. Clearly – she didn’t want to talk to me as she buried her head into her mom’s sweater as soon as they sat down. I asked her mom about the different people they had seen, and her mom said, she wouldn’t talk and wouldn’t go to school. “I don’t think she trusts anyone” she said.
As soon as her mom said that, our young patient picked her head up and looked at me. I gently asked her “is that true? Is it hard to trust someone you don’t know?” I watched as she nodded her head up and down.
“That’s okay” I told her “I know trust is something you have to earn, right?” Again – she nodded her head up and down.
I told her it was important for us to know why she didn’t want to go to school. But that I also knew that I had not earned her trust. The only solution I had was to see if she would be willing to tell her mom why she didn’t want to go to school. When I asked her this, she agreed to whisper her reason for not going to school in mom’s ear.
I watched as she put her hand up against her mom’s ear, so I couldn’t hear her and then I saw her whispering something. Mom’s face turned pale and she started crying and gave her daughter a huge hug and said, “it’s okay honey, we’re going to all be okay”.
I asked if I could have a minute or two to meet with her mom and she agreed and one of my colleagues took our young patient across the hall to sit with her where they would still be able to see us. Mom looked at me and said “she told me she was afraid to go to school because if she left, she was afraid the terrorists would come to get her (mom). So together we developed a strategy which we hoped would help integrate her back into her classroom. Also during that time (and from working with the teachers in some of the school districts in the area and hearing their suggestions, one of the things they stressed was having kids being able to attach pictures of their families to their backpacks so that they felt they would have their family with them – at least in spirit.
But one of the most challenging and poignant conversations was with another one of the church organizations I had been consulting with when I asked the members present if there were any questions (related to the developmental issues and ideas for coping skills) I was speaking to them about. One woman raised her hand and when I called on her, she asked
“How do I cope with the fact that I can never know that my child will be safe when I send them to school?”
To this day, this question haunts me. And when I think about all of the chaos and turbulence that has and continues to take place in our country and the anger, fear and divisiveness that is present, I think that this is the issue that’s underneath all of it – the vulnerability and sadness in knowing that we are never able to know for sure that our children and families are safe. This idea haunts me – and I’m not even a parent. But the one thing I remain inspired and sometimes saddened by are the strangers who assist each other to get the help and support they need even (sometimes) at the cost of losing their own lives.
10 years ago today was the day of surgery. The Doc said “I think we’ve got it all.”
The “it” was the Melanoma that had showed up as a spot on the back of my leg. In a place I couldn’t see, in a spot I wouldn’t have thought to check. Because I wasn’t really paying attention anyway..to that spot..on the back of my leg.
The Melanoma spread fast. The doctor said “you need to get this checked out… Now.” When I told her I didn’t have insurance she said “we can see you here” (at the NIH – where I had volunteered as a “healthy” patient for a clinical trial but slowly learned I wasn’t as healthy as I thought.
A few days later, I was in the office of the chief Dermatologist at the NIH who agreed with the Doctor who had initially diagnosed my little spot. “You need to have this removed – Now!” – same exact words, but a lot more definitive and with a tone I will never forget. She informed me that she had colleagues who would be able to see me in their office which was closer to my home. “Tell them I referred you” she said. “they will be able to assist you and I’ll call them and tell them you’re coming.”
Both Doctors were extremely compassionate and helpful in assisting me with coordinating care. If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a conversation that involves the term “malignant melanoma”, you know how great it is to have that critical blend of compassion, wisdom and a great navigational plan.
The picture above was where I was when I received the second phone call from my Doc informing me that they hadn’t got it all and needed to schedule surgery with a plastic surgeon because of where the spot was located. Sitting there at the end of the jetty in Old Harbor, Block Island (RI), I thought about the people who are most important in my life – my family and friends. My parents (who were with me) encouraged me to get back to CT via the high speed ferry and then home to MD to have the surgery. It was a no-brainer decision that was the right one. Financially however, not having insurance and having the diagnosis that I did and the surgery that I needed was costly. I lost a lot financially but gained my life and a fresh new perspective about that which is most important.
10 years ago today, I was really, really lucky that my itty bitty teeny tiny spot, located in a place I would never check, was found really, really early.
Need to know where to start with checking your skin? Start here
It wasn’t easy for me to leave New England to start a new job for a few reasons, but the one that was most bothersome for me was not being able to see the flowers at mom and dad’s grave site.
I’m not really sure what started this idea, but I think it was the fact that I wasn’t ready for mom to go when she died. And I know that the time of anyone’s death is not anything you can ever control; but mom’s death just took the wind out of my sails for a bit.
So after their burial service, when everyone had gone and my brother had flown out and I was on my way back home to New Hampshire, I stopped into the cemetery to say good bye and take one last look at the flowers we had left knowing they would be gone the next time I was there. As I stood looking at the tombstone I thought “nope, can’t do it”.
I felt like I needed to leave something a little more “in line” with our family so I got back in the car and drove down to Chaves where I found this little cat who has been “guarding”… okay maybe “watching over” mom and dad since their burial service.
In a way that I really can’t explain, there’s something reassuring about this teeny little kitten just hanging out with mom and dad that always makes me feel a little bit better and more reassured. This is especially true now that I am now in Maryland and can’t stop in to see the flowers or speak with them as much as I had when I lived in New Hampshire.
As mom had always loved planting flowers in the cemetery, we left a few bulbs thinking no one would really notice and when they came up, they would help shade the kitten that was watching over them. It was the perfect plan. And yes, I thought of leaving a Christmas tree with blinking lights but even I know that there needs to be a little dash of tact when dealing with the “things to leave at the cemetery” issue.
So this week, my brother went to meet with our accountant and stopped into the cemetery to check on things (as instructed by me, his neurotic sister, who wanted to make sure the cat was okay and the box of greens left at Christmas had been moved so the flowers could come up in time for Spring).
But today, he called me to say there was a huge sign posted at the entrance to the cemetery that said that on April 10th they were going to remove everything from the cemetery except for flags for veterans. This news made me a little apoplectic – not only because of our guardian kitten but because I still haven’t heard from the person responsible for making sure there is a flag in the cemetery for dad on veterans day and Memorial Day.
Anyhoo – Luckily my brother noticed the sign and called me with his report.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got the cat!!” he said.
It was funny in that he also realized the importance and significance of its presence at the cemetery. It’s like “if anyone in our family is anywhere, there must always be a cat”. “I’m taking it with me to Florida” he said “its not like it’s going to take up a lot of extra room in my luggage”.
“You should probably give it a little bath” I told him.
“Already did” he said. We both were reassured our little guardian kitten would stay with us instead of being absconded by someone removing everything from the cemetery.
Sometimes when I go to the cemetery I can almost hear mom: “you know we’re not here right?” – which I understand. But there’s something about having an access point that’s a little more tangible than a prayer or a quiet walk on a beach.
Maybe that was the point of it all – to get families out of the cemetery and talking to each other instead of standing in a cold, quiet New England church yard staring at a slate tombstone. Now if I want to see the cat I have to go to Florida to see Scott and Trey (his Maine Coon cat).
But there’s something about the transition of our “watch cat” that has disrupted my true north.
We’re touring around our over 55 living community in Florida in our golf cart looking at all the homes. It’s the beginning of summer and most of the winter residents have already left. The people who live in the neighborhood year ’round have been working on fixing up their homes.
There’s one street where several small bungalows have been renovated. As we drive up the street slowly to make sure we don’t miss a thing – a door that has just been painted or a decoration that has just been installed, I say to mom “I would buy one of these homes in a minute if I could afford it.”
“They are really nice” she responds, but then scoffs at a home which has just been painted a color which is somewhere between pea green and olive. “Ugh, that’s awful,” she says, “I would never live there”.
“Come on, it has a nice yard”, I tell her.
By then, we’re further up the street. She looks over at the wooden door of one of the larger bungalows that has a pool in the back. “Nice blue color”. I say.
“It’s delft,” she responds.
“Delft? What the hell is delft?” I’ve never heard of this color. As I drive the cart a little further, I quickly scan my mind looking for the place that has all of the colors in a Crayola 64 pack of crayons. I’m thinking midnight blue, navy blue, sky blue, blue-green, periwinkle and then off to the land of lime green, bubble gum and burnt sienna.
“There’s no such thing as delft”. I tell her. I am certain of this. Yet I’m also wondering how she would know this and more importantly, how she would remember. By the time of this tour around our neighborhood, my mom had been diagnosed with vascular dementia which had progressed rapidly. If you asked her what we had had for dinner the night before, she may have been able to remember but it would have taken her a while and she wasn’t a fan of being “quizzed”.
But the more I thought about it – back in time to several years before, I remembered that she loved designing the rooms in our home and had spent many times picking out paint, fabric, and wallpaper for not only our home but for the boat as well. Of course she knew about this color “delft” and I regretted that I had forgotten about her passion for decorating and designing.
“It’s a color that is prevalent in the Netherlands,” she tells me. “We saw it in a lot of places when we went there, and in Denmark and Sweden as well.”
I had forgotten that she and dad had traveled to Scandinavia; I think it was one of their anniversaries when she and dad had decided to go – just the two of them.
This was the blessing of being able to care for her for the three years before she died. We were able to reconnect with each other and laugh and have great conversations like this one; but at the same time, it occurred to me how sad it was that I hadn’t been able to spend the time with her and dad that I would have loved to. And I wished that we had had more time to reminisce about the extensive traveling she and dad had done instead of worrying more about upcoming appointments, medications and making sure she had the care she needed.
As we continued to drive up one street and down the next, she continued to point out everything she could spot that was delft. By now, we were both laughing but I remember her conviction as she pointed each door or set of shingles out to me upon saying “that’s delft and that’s delft… and so is that!”
Suddenly it seemed that the entire neighborhood had transcended to Delft.
Not only was it a colorful lesson for me, but I think the #Crayola people may have some serious catching up to do as well!
On my way to Portsmouth, NH, the Lexus RX SUV I have been driving (Dad’s car) officially crossed into the land of 100,000 miles.
After I received my master’s degree, I had the opportunity to work in hospitals as far north as Vermont and as far south as West Virginia. Whenever I moved, dad would always encourage me to find a good auto mechanic in case anything ever happened to the car. “You need someone you can trust,” he told me “and if you do, and they’re good, you can keep driving that car”.
Did I listen to him? – No. I didn’t find a good mechanic. Instead, I found the best pizza restaurant and the best Chinese food delivery service along with the best restaurants and theaters.
No, I did not seek or locate an automotive mechanic.
At the time dad gave me his automotive recommendations,I had a really cute little Honda Civic sedan that I loved.When I moved to Vermont, I went with him to trade it in for a Toyota Camry as he wanted to know I was in a bigger, safer car.When the Camry was totaled (after I was hit on route 95 just north of New Haven, CT), it was time for us to go exploring for yet another car.
Because I had a really great job, I could afford a better car on my own so I asked my dad to accompany me while I test drove every car I have ever wanted to drive or own in my life. And like the good sport that he was, he took it all in stride and came with me.We drove Honda’s, a VW Jetta and yes, I even subjected him to a really cool Jeep Wrangler; no, not a hardtop, the one with the side windows that you could unzip during the hot summer months when a drive to the Cape was in order.
The last car we drove was a brand new, bright red, Acura Integra which we found at Acura of Newport.Once I started driving it, I was smitten. I told him – “I LOVE this car!” as we drove and drove all around Newport. We were at the tip of Ocean Drive when he said to me “You know, we’re going to have to take this car back to the dealership right?”
“Why?” I asked him, jokingly – as we continued driving past the mansions along the drive and then toward Bellevue Avenue. Did I tell you I loved the car?
“You have to pay for it”, he said.
When we returned to the dealership, we negotiated the cost of the car and then I thought that because I had driven the red one for so many miles (and because red cars tend to get pulled over a lot), we purchased a nice navy blue Integra instead. More conservative; less likely to be pulled over.
Every car I drove from that point on was an Acura – some of them were owned, many of them were leased but I absolutely loved driving them. I also loved the fact that they had everything already in them when you picked them up: a nice sunroof, heated seats for those cold, late nights coming home from the hospital, space for my bike, a great sound system, the way they hugged the road when you drove them and the fact that the mileage was really, really good. The other thing I loved about them is that you could talk to anyone on your phone through the sound system of your car just by pressing the small black button on the steering wheel as you drove. If I was listening to music, it would be immediately disrupted by the call coming in with information about who was calling displayed on the screen in front of me.
The last Acura I had was a white “Bellanova pearl”ILX – very beautiful (and very fun to drive).
I arrived in Florida in September of 2014 (when this picture above was taken).
Sadly, Dad died after his long battle with cancer a month after I arrived at which point mom’s memory declined severely. As we adjusted, she and I realized that it was better for her not to drive. We also decided that it would be better to reduce the number of cars we had. Because the Acura was leased and the Lexus was fully paid off, the Acura was the one we (okay – Mom) decided to let go of (honestly, I wasn’t ready to let it go as it was such a beautiful car). The fact that it was a newer lease also made the decision difficult. But we also knew we needed to be practical with our decisions.
In trying to figure out the best solution, I knew it was better to be honest and open about our situation. So I drove to the Acura dealership in Sarasota, told them that dad had died and I would be caring for my mom and that we only needed one car as mom was not driving and asked if they could help.
The dealership was immensely supportive and purchased the car back from me. Their customer service and management was nothing short of phenomenal (which is also another reason I always went right back to Acura whenever I needed a car – their customer service is phenomenal).
After they purchased the car, mom and I resorted to cruising around in dad’s Lexus which (at the time) only had about 60,000 miles on it.
Mom was pleased with this low mileage and used to tell everyone “it’s a nice car driven by a little old lady who never takes it anywhere”. If you knew my mom, a very analytical, quick-witted and astute retired ER Nurse, you would know the term “little old lady” was not quite the way people described her. But as her memory was fading and her steps were not as lively as they had been previously, our pace did slow down a lot.
If we drove around the neighborhood, we would usually use our golf cart. And we only used the Lexus when going to doctor’s appointments, to the grocery store or out for lunch. After some surgery on her legs, she would also start using her cane more frequently and would often have trouble navigating the high step into the Lexus.
After 3 years in Florida, I was offered a job in New Hampshire and mom and I decided to return home to New England. She found a nice apartment in an assisted living place close to our friends in Rhode Island so we packed our belongings in the Lexus and headed north. While it was a fast trip, driving with mom (and our cats – Nate, Callie, and Trey in their carriers in the back seat), was a fun ride. Mom had wanted to go slower so we could stop and see friends along the way but because I could not defer orientation with the new job, we only had three days to get “home” to New England.
Once we arrived, mom settled in to her assisted living place while I continued on to New Hampshire to start my new job.
As I relocated to my new city of Manchester, I thought again about what my dad had told me: “Make sure you find a really good auto mechanic”.
And yep, again, I didn’t listen.
It was during the second week of orientation at my new job that the transmission of the Lexus (which had been repaired a month-ish earlier in Florida before we left) decided to stop working. When the light went on, I found the nearest automotive repair place closest to me (using AAA) and drove to see if they could help. I immediately assumed this was going to be a very arduous and expensive endeavor which would cause me to miss a full day of orientation.
But what actually happened was that I walked into a really good automotive repair shop that not only agreed to repair the car, the mechanic also drove me to work so I ended up missing only 5 minutes of orientation instead of a full day.
And as the subsequent months progressed, the guys at AutoCare Plus not only fixed the transmission, they also changed the oil and told me what the best tires would be to put on the car so that I would have no problems driving between New Hampshire and Rhode Island so I could spend every weekend with mom. If I ever had any glitch with the car, I would take it to them and they would explain everything from what needed to be done, to their recommendations and the cost. I trusted them and they did really great work.
In the 2 hours and 6 minutes it took for me to get to mom’s apartment from New Hampshire, I frequently would sense the “I told you so!” coming from my dad as I drove, feeling safe in the knowledge that everything that needed to be done with the car was done.
6 months after relocating home to Rhode Island, mom passed away. I spent the next month packing, donating and subsequently moving everything out of her apartment. Having such a large car was a blessing, but the more I drove it, the more I thought it was too big for me and time to go back to driving a smaller car.
At the same time, I also realized that the car has some great memories, is in very good shape and is completely paid off so, since that time, I have continued to drive it. And while I miss not being able to press a button and talk to my friends from a button on the steering wheel, I have come to enjoy the quiet rides and beautiful scenery along the New England roads whenever I am driving.
When I first arrived in Florida, the car (which at the time was 10 years old) had 60,000 miles on it and because mom and dad were so proud of this, I tried to go easy with adding additional mileage to the car, so going over the 100,000 mile mark as I did yesterday, has been quite an occasion filled with good memories of conversations in the car along the way and the benefits of the message that dad always tried to convey that I finally did listen to – “Find a good auto mechanic whenever you move to a new town”.
It happened again just as it always has. 6:00 am, I have just fallen back asleep after getting up and there’s Mercy, your friend, walking into a room where I am sitting and looking down at me with a big smile and a warm hello.
She asks about you and I tell her you have died. Slowly it occurs to me that she has died before you so technically, both of you are in heaven.
I walk downstairs and find myself in a hospital where I have once worked and there you are, with a strange hand held pad thingy in your hand telling me you’re trying to find your appointment. “It’s at 9:00am,” you say.
“It’s 11:00”, I tell you, sadly realizing that again, we have missed an appointment and I’m angry at myself for scheduling it too early because you always told me that you preferred all of your appointments to be scheduled at 11:00am. “We won’t have to rush in the morning, then we can stop for lunch and I can be home in time for my nap”, you said.
It made perfect sense. But unfortunately, there were those few times that no appointments were available at 11:00 so we had to adjust for the appointment with the financial planner at 10:00 am or the outpatient surgery on a Friday afternoon at 2:00pm.
Seriously, who does surgery on a Friday afternoon at 2:00pm? End of the week, everyone’s tired; why?
The surgeon struggles to stitch your skin but it breaks and you keep bleeding. He tries again and again and again before he finally gets it. You are in pain. Normally you’re one heck of a brave trooper but not this time. “Ow!” you say, loudly. I can’t even look at all the blood but as he cleans and covers your wound with bandages and talks to you about infections, debridement, and wound care, I look back at your leg and see it braced against the cushion on the seat below you as we are sailing close-hauled to Martha’s Vineyard on a beautiful sunny day so many years ago.
“I’m paying for all that fun we had out in the sun and on the water,” you tell us. I don’t know that our young surgeon understands the joy of sailing to the Vineyard as he continues to stitch your skin.
I feel your hand on mine as we look at the pad you have with the appointment time on it. I can’t believe I have screwed this up again by scheduling it at 9. But you say “it’s okay we’ll reschedule” which often meant you didn’t really want to go to it anyway. You were done with the surgeries and the pain with the subsequent bruising and scars.
And then I realize that you’re in heaven with your friend, Mercy, and I don’t know why you’ve come to visit me in this 6:00am dream I am having…in New Hampshire, still under a year since you have died.
This is Nate. He’s my guy, named after the author Nathaniel Hawthorne. For the last threeish years, Nate and I had been living with my mom in Florida and taking care of her. She had two cats of her own, Trey and Callie (pictured below). Trey is the oldest, a Maine Coon cat who thinks he owns the world, Callie is a little diva (who’s a year younger than Nate) and then Nate, who sort of has a personality of his own and is probably one of the most affectionate cats you will ever meet. He is a master at headbonking.
Mom and I had made a deal that if I found a new career endeavor in New England, she would move back with me as she wanted to see her friends and watch the leaves change in the Fall. Hearing her discuss this made my job search more focused as I wanted this wish to come true for her.
A few months later, I was hired and we made plans to move. Initially, she wanted to live with me but then decided that it would be better for her to be in an assisted living place closer to her friends in our hometown. I decided I would stay in the town where my new job was and then commute back and forth to visit her on the weekends.
Originally, because it was only a few days, I left Nate at home to guard the fort on the weekends I would visit her. But as mom became iller and I was spending more time with her, I decided to keep Nate with me. Together, we would drive to and from Mom’s normally listening to books on tape or podcasts along the way. He seemed to be a lot more relaxed everytime we listened to “This American Life” so it became a thing.
From our visits and conversations during the week, I thought mom was getting better. This thought was short lived however as, on a Friday when I spoke with her, I heard her coughing and realized this wasn’t the case and that the pneumonia she had developed was still present. I decided that Nate and I would head out earlier than we usually do the next morning and also called the staff and asked them to check on her that Friday night.
Early on Saturday morning, her nurse called to tell me that when she had arrived to give mom her medications, she had died.
It was news I never hoped (and wasn’t ready) to hear.
After making calls and asking for help from a friend, Nate and I got in the car and headed south to mom’s.
The next month was a foggy blur as I emptied out mom’s apartment while taking time to have a few big ugly cries as I wasn’t ready for her to leave. And while Nate and I spent time getting things together, Callie and Trey were definitely struggling.
Callie is a rescue cat (her story is here). A beautiful and also very affectionate little girl who had a tendency to sleep with mom on her pillow above her head. Mom would go to bed and she would tell me “the next thing I know, Callie’s on the pillow kneading before settling down and purring while finding her comfortable spot to spend the night”.
And because she was a girl, every time one of the guys got close to her, she would growl wanting to make sure she had her space and her “mom time”.
Trey was the master of the house. He was “mom’s cat” and had been part of our family for several years. Even before they settled in Florida full time, Trey had traveled with them back and forth to Rhode Island. At one point, during one of their flights, she had opened his carrier to pet him during a layover at Dulles International when he decided to push by her hand and take a nice long walk along the concourse.
Mom, not wanting to scare him, followed him from behind until she could finally get close enough to grab him. Hearing her tell the story was hilarious and Trey had many events like this but usually did really well between living in Florida during the winters and on their boat with them during the summer.
But when mom died, he was lost. And while I knew that cats grieve when their owners die, I never realized how bad this grief process could be until I watched Trey for several days after her death.
The morning I arrived, mom had died but was still in her bed. What was reassuring to me was that she looked the way she always had whenever I arrived early in the morning; resting quietly looking content.
Trey was lying across the doorway to her room. It almost seemed like he didn’t want anyone to enter and didn’t want her to leave. And he didn’t move – as the nurse, and subsequently, the funeral home director went into and out of the room, he stayed exactly where he was – lying fully sprawled out, blocking the doorway, watching everything.
When the funeral home director came back with the gurney, I picked Trey up and took him to mom’s chair in the living room. I think he liked that he could still smell her presence so he stayed there… watching everything like a hawk with those big Maine Coon Cat eyes of his.
Callie, initially had hid under the bed but then followed us into the living room where her “people” were.
The following days were the worst as Trey and Callie realized that mom was no longer there. I’d watch as Trey jumped from the top of her bureau (where the clothes she had worn most recently were still in a pile) and then to her bed; he was clearly looking for her. Callie had settled into the floor of her closet where she slept on top of her shoes.
A day later, it was early in the morning when I decided to take a shower. I had closed the door when I could hear the feverish scratching of paws against the door and loud yowling. When I turned the shower off, I grabbed a towel and opened the door to see Trey – it was like you could actually see the sad, disheartened, “oh, it’s only you” look on his face.
A few days later, my brother arrived. Together we discussed Callie and Trey and keeping them together or separating them. Because Trey had been the only cat my parents had had for several years before rescuing Callie, we decided that Trey would go back to Florida with Scott and Callie would move in with Nate and I as they seemed to get along pretty well.
The next few weeks also seemed trying for Callie and Trey as furniture was donated (along with antiques and books and other belongings). What had been their home had transitioned to suitcases, duffel bags, and boxes which subsequently were taken to different places. The emptier the room became, the more confused they all appeared to be.
Because of this transition and the grief they had, I paid a lot more attention to what I was doing and made sure that we developed as consistent a routine as possible for them regarding spending time together, feeding and bedtime. I also made sure that some of mom’s clothes were available for Trey to lie down on.
On the last day, I put Callie and Nate in their carriers and took them to my car. Trey and I were the last ones to leave mom’s room. I made sure we had a conversation and a prayer about mom watching over us in heaven and then thanking Trey for being so brave before we closed the door behind us.
A few weeks later Scott returned to take Trey home with him. Watching them together going through security at the airport, I knew that both Trey (and Scott) would be happier together but I cried as I watched them leave. Trey had endured probably one of the toughest times in his life but I knew he would be happier having all of Scott’s affection to himself and being in warm, sunny Florida where he could watch the birds play outside while watching the world go by.
And Callie and Nate have settled in well together here in our home – adjusting to their new place.
The title “home is the sailor, home from the sea” is from the poem Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson. This was how my mom would greet me whenever I would return home after being away at school.
When my parents sold their house, they asked me if there was anything I wanted to take. The one thing I really wanted was a picture (this picture above) that had been in the attic and had a huge slash in it where the moonlight is reflected.
When I was younger, I had spent many years carrying sails up the stairs to the attic so I could hang them up to dry after an evening of sailing. Every time I would hang them up, I would turn and see this picture leaning against a table, torn and in rough shape, but reminding me of the awesomeness of sailing home in a storm.
Home to the comfort of a safe harbor.
When I discussed wanting the painting with mom, she hesitantly said she didn’t think it could be repaired. But on Christmas of that year, she and dad gave it to me (fully restored as shown here) as a Christmas gift. Mom told me she had taken it to a friend who was an antiques guy who knew a painter who restored art.
It’s still here with me – with a little extra light from the moon to find our way home.
Two years ago, when my mom died, the assisted living facility where she lived gave me 30 days to pack her belongings and move them out of her small apartment. As much as it seemed like 30 days was a long time, it wasn’t. As we had relocated to New England from Florida, a few months prior, some boxes remained unpacked as we struggled with the transition. I felt like I had completely lost my sense of “home” and couldn’t imagine how, at 86, she must have felt during this challenging transition.
But I realized I just needed to stay in her room at the assisted living place and finish everything while we also planned a memorial service for her and my dad. Some boxes were easy. Sometimes, I knew immediately what to keep and what to donate. Other times, when I would open a closet or a drawer or look at a picture, I felt the immense sorrow and grief that went with missing mom.
Every time I opened the door to her closet and looked at her clothes, I felt sick.
My sadness went on for another week and became more uncomfortable until I knew I had to do something because I was running out of time.
I took all of her clothes out of the closet and separated the ones I could donate from the ones I knew I needed to keep because of all of the memories they carried with them. Slowly and meticulously, I went through piles and piles of clothes.
When people die, I heard that there are websites listed on the internet where you can make quilts out of clothes. As I skimmed from site to site looking, they all seemed robotic and impersonal. When I told one of the staff members at the assisted living place that I was thinking about this, she said: “I have a relative who makes quilts.. all by hand.. they’re beautiful; let me ask her”.
A few days later, she returned with a phone number and said, “she hasn’t made a lot of quilts but would be willing to help you; just call her.”
So as I sat on mom’s bed among the piles of clothes, I called her and introduced myself and asked her about her willingness to help me with a quilt. She agreed and told me about the quilts she would be able to make and asked: “are her clothes dark colors?”.
I looked around at the piles of (mostly) shirts alongside me. “No,” I told her, “there are mostly bright colors; mom loved bright colors.” I hadn’t realized how bright the colors were, or how distinct some of the patterns were. But as I looked at them, my memories came flooding back. I saw the shirt she had on when we sat on the back deck of the boat cooking dinner as we looked out over the harbor in Block Island, and then one she was wearing more recently when we cruised around the neighborhood in our golf cart in Florida. I saw the one she was wearing when we sat together on a bench eating lunch as we looked out over the intercoastal waterway watching the dolphins. That shirt was a “must-have” in the quilt because of how beautiful that day was.
Looking at the pile of clothes and remembering those days, I realized that, as sad as I felt, everything would eventually be okay. I wasn’t sure, I felt a little better, but I still really missed mom.
“What should I do with the remainder of the clothes that I use or the ones that I don’t?” she asked. “Keep them,” I said definitively. I couldn’t explain why but the thought of some of mom’s bright colors going into making a quilt for another person – another family, seemed like a perfect idea.
Aristotle once said “the whole is more than the sum of its parts,” I felt that spreading all of the bright and dark materials, colors, and textures that mom wore broadened the perspective she brought to us all.
When I ended my conversation with my new quilter friend, the intense sadness I felt became a little more manageable.
A friend had told me about a “fluff and fold” place about a mile away, so the next morning, I filled two large duffle bags with the clothes for the quilts and dropped them off. A few days later, when they were ready, I took them to FedEx and sent them to my new favorite Quilter in Virginia.
There were only two additional emails from the Quilter which followed our initial call. When she asked about an idea for a pattern, I sent her a photo I had of a quilt that mom’s grandmother had made for her. When we discussed size, I told her that a 60-inch by 60-inch quilt would be perfect and asked if she could make two of them, one for my brother and one for myself. I also told her to take her time as I wasn’t in a rush and knew that our loss’s most difficult memories were in good hands.
Six months later, I received an email informing me that our quilts were ready and on their way to my home in New Hampshire.
“I hope you like them,” she wrote.
Since sending her the two duffle bags of clothes, I had consistently thought the day I received them would be like Christmas morning. I knew I would receive a beautiful gift but had no idea how they would look.
They would be sent by a woman I’ve never met, who had agreed to preserve the legacy of someone she has never met whom I loved very much. Sometimes the world is impressive.
The quilts arrived in October. It was precisely like Christmas morning, and I couldn’t help but stare at them because of how beautiful they were (and are). I took pictures and sent them to friends as I was so impressed with the result. The hand stitching was lovely, as was the juxtaposition of color and texture in the materials used.
I told one of my friends, “it feels like I’m looking at a legacy in color and texture.” I remembered that poem, “The Dash,” about the quality of your life from when you are born until the time you die but in the form of the colors, textures, and fabric we wear.
When I think of all of the decisions I’ve made since mom died, having our two quilts made is one I will never regret. I challenge you to consider where your thoughts go the next time someone mentions the importance of “living your dash.” If you’re like me, maybe the subsequent thoughts you have will be more related to colors, texture, and the time you had that shirt on when you did that thing that you remember because it was such a great time.
This is Nate. He’s my 10 y/o cat named after Nathaniel Hawthorne. He’s extremely affectionate and is wonderful at giving head bonks whenever you pick him up. When he sleeps, he snores, and it is one of the most soothing sounds I have ever heard. He’s a wonderful little guy.
“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind” – Nathaniel Hawthorne
The last face to face conversation I had with my mom was about Nate.
Once after visiting her, I gathered my bags to drive back home to New Hampshire. On this day, she said she wanted to help me carry my bags downstairs. I thought this was strange as normally I always gave her a hug and a kiss and left her in her room – sitting contently with her coffee and Sunday New York Times. But this time, she wanted to walk downstairs with me. I told her that she didn’t need to, that I would carry my bags and Nate in his carrier, but she insisted. I told her “No I have it”, “No, I have Nate”, “No, you can’t carry that, it’s too heavy” (I know how I pack – mom not so much). But she continued to persist so I gave in and handed her my boat bag with the computer, some clothes, and food in it. It was the lightest of everything I had.
Once we were downstairs I reached for the boat bag she was carrying and said “Okay, I’ll take it” as I was going to carry everything to the car and say goodbye to her at the front door. But again she said, “no, I’ll wait here with Nate and the bags, you go get the car.” I was thinking “what the heck?” – never in my life did it occur to me that this would be the last time I would see her.
The worst part about the memory I have of this day was that throughout my 25-year career in healthcare, I saw this all the time! – People waiting for their loved ones to leave and then the next thing you knew, they would die. That there always seemed to be this strange dynamic with the way they interacted with each other that would make you (or them) think “wow, that was weird..” and then they’d be gone.
One time, during the early 1990’s ish, I was in my office at the addiction treatment center where I worked in Connecticut. The phone rang and it was one of my patients, William, calling to tell me he was going to be in the hospital for a few nights longer then he thought. He had an “opportunistic” infection. He was a most amazing and insightful young man who had developed an addiction to cocaine, which along with his anxiety and depression had compromised his AIDs – symptoms, care, and medications.
As I listened to him on the phone, I was amazed by how much he was telling me about what he wanted to accomplish once he had completed our program. “I want to be an AIDS educator,” he told me. “I think I can really help a lot of people and the thing that I really want to tell them is ‘don’t ever think that it can’t happen to you’.” I was inspired by our conversation and told him “don’t worry, just feel better and I’ll hold a place for you”.
The next morning I arrived at my office and listened to the voicemail from his nurse at the hospital who informed me he had died around 4:00am that morning.
I knew that dynamic – and missed it – again and again and again.
So on a bright, sunny Sunday morning in early February of this year, mom helped me load Nate and my bags into the car and watch as I wrapped the seatbelt through the handles on Nate’s carrier while I told her how quieter he was when he sat in the front seat next to me. I didn’t even think about how strange this all was – which still baffles me.
I gave her a hug and a kiss said goodbye and never saw her alive again.
“Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne
Nate had not always come with me when I initially went to visit mom on the weekends but I when I started driving back and forth more frequently and staying a little longer, I decided not to leave him alone. So back and forth we drove to and from Rhode Island every weekend.
A few times mom would ask “why don’t you leave him here with me?” “Mom – I’ll be back next weekend,” I said. I think for her it was like being able to visit with the grandkids and spoil him while the parents were away. But the more significant thing was the fact that she also had her cats, Callie and Trey staying with her. As the Assisted living facility where she was staying only allowed one pet, we had to negotiate for the other.
I said to mom “really, the last thing we need is for the med nurse to come in in the morning and see three cats… the goal here is not to get evicted”.
“They won’t evict me”. she said, defiantly.
But Nate always traveled with me, sitting in his carrier quietly as we’d listen to audiobooks while trying to avoid heavy traffic during the Sundays when the Patriots played.
And together we were all settling into our more comfortable routine and it seemed like mom was settling into being back on the island – her home and spending time with friends she had not seen in years.
I never expected her to leave so soon and I miss her every day.
I’ve seen post after post about gun rights. Who should own a gun and who shouldn’t. Here’s the thing: I will never, ever, ever own a gun.
Yeah, I know – you’ve owned guns because you’ve used them hunting in the state where you’re from. And that’s an acceptable reason to own and use a gun and yes, it’s your 2nd Amendment right and I support that. Not a fan of automatic assault rifles that can shoot several bullets in a few seconds is all I’m sayin’
But as we sit on the eve of having anyone in the world able to create an unregistered weapon from a 3D printer recipe on the internet – whelp, that’s where I’m stepping off of this train of the second amendment debate.
I grew up with guns (several of them) in our home. Every single day, I only had to look up at the wall in our family room to see my father’s very extensive collection of guns. From the early 1800’s on forward, he had several guns, pistols and rifles and swords. He hunted as a young boy, joined the Navy and knew (was taught by his dad and trained by the Navy) how to use his guns. The ammunition was kept separately and far away from the guns he had (Mom – an ER Nurse – made sure of this).
The picture above is a photo of my grandmother – she didn’t hunt. She was a fisherman who used a drop line to catch fish. See a fishing pole in this picture? – It’s because there isn’t one. The Northeast is known for fishing. Watch any fisherman head miles out into the North Atlantic during the late summer / early Fall months when hurricanes and strong Nor’easters are prevalent and you will know how tough fishing can be. In our family, our freezer was filled with frozen fish that helped keep food on our table through the winter months. Ask me to join you for a dinner consisting of bluefish or mackerel and I will politely turn you down because I have had far too much… okay, maybe Cod.
My grandmother’s mom died shortly after giving birth to her. A few years later, her father was struck and killed by a cable car when he was crossing the street, leaving my grandmother in the care of her older sister and her sister’s boyfriend. They didn’t have an easy life. But my grandmother made it through to marry my grandfather and give birth to my mom and her brother (my uncle).
To this day, I have never met a woman as firmly grounded in her values as my grandmother. How do I know this? – Because I tried to buy a gun.
It didn’t go over well and it wasn’t even real.
Once when I was visiting my grandmother, she gave me some money and said to go to the little store down the street to get whatever I wanted. So off I went and walked down the street trying to decide what I was going to purchase.
Upon reviewing all of the toys available to me, I selected a very small, bright orange squirt gun. (Nope, not kidding, it was a squirt gun). It was about two inches long and seemed to hold a lot of water in it. It wasn’t even one of those semi-automatic super soaker squirt guns that you see today; it was an “old” one (yeah, you probably weren’t even born yet so just keep reading..). Happily, I walked home, ready to fill it and squirt people – aka my grandmother (who was taking care of me while my parents were away).
When she saw the gun I had purchased she became apoplectic. “Take it back!” she demanded. I couldn’t understand why. “Take it back!” she said again. “Little girls do not use guns!” (I was six or seven years old at the time).
I walked back to the store, sad and dejected because she did not approve of my hunter / gatherer & squirt decision. I traded it in and returned with a super ball which I played with outside until it was time for dinner.
Over dinner, my grandmother explained to me that yes, some people owned guns that they used for hunting but that I did not need one. She also explained that police officers carried guns to protect those of us in our community and again affirmed that I would never need a gun. If there was a conflict that needed to be resolved, she explained, then this was what our brains were for. That we used our ability to communicate with each other tactfully and in a way that reduced any potential for violence.
“Use your head”, she said “that’s what it’s for; to communicate with each other and resolve arguments and misunderstandings. And if you ever need help, ask us!”
To this day, I have never forgotten the conviction she had during that conversation. 3 degrees and 2 graduate certificates later, I know for sure that I have enough knowledge, conviction, empathy, tact and compassion to know that I have a keen ability to resolve a lot of different conflicts. Guns will not be playing a part in my life (at least not of my choosing anyway).
As much as I often miss my grandmother, I’m glad that she is not around to see what the internet and 3D printing have produced as it relates to guns.
And while I will never know if guns in the possession of someone else will ever affect my life or the lives of my family and friends, I have learned that there are just some things in life that you can’t predict or control.
After 9/11 and United 93 (the flight that crashed in Shanksville, PA), I also learned that you can’t predict what will happen if terrorists take over your flight and try to fly it into a building or something else. And that you certainly can’t predict who will stand up and try to overpower them, even if there is the potential that they will also die.
But this is where my head goes whenever there are increasing discussions about guns and gun violence:
Sometimes when I’m sitting by myself at a gate in an airport waiting for a plane, I look around for “that guy” or “that girl”. The one I think looks like they have the ability to stand up, fight back and overpower the terrorists and try to save those who are on the plane. I look at their posture, stance and non-verbals – trying to find the heroes among us – the ones you don’t notice and don’t know who walk among us every day. To me, these are people who don’t need guns. They have a keen, MacGyver like sense to figure out what to do and how to do it, quietly and collaboratively in a tribal, patriotic “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers” sort of way – no matter who they are, no matter where they’re from, no matter what their gender, religion, education, nationality, socioeconomic status or sexual orientation is.
They’re just caring, compassionate people looking to help those who need help even though they don’t know them and even though they may die themselves.
They may use guns for hunting or drop lines to fish and / or their brain to communicate. But what’s equally as important is what Martin Luther King once described as the “content of their character”.