More x 12.

It's close to 8. 

As I'm writing, I'm enjoying this gorgeous evening; it's still warm outside although the clouds have stolen the last few minutes of the day's light. The smell of chlorine wafts on the faint breeze as the kids splish-splash and giggle... they're working hard to get themselves extra tired before waking up to another busy summer's day.

"Look at me, I'm a dolphin!" Mads directs Jimmy as she glides through the water. She is quite the actress, that's for sure. She is so creative and funny, sensitive and thoughtful, but boy can she be feisty. Sounds like her GeeGee, doesn't it?

And your grandson, the one who kicked my belly to remind me life was meant to go on while I was watching you float into what comes next... well, he is in his "pee corner" in the yard - guess we gotta give him props for not going in the pool. Ha. He surely must have some of that resourcefulness you did. 

I can't help but glance over to the lights just beyond the golf course and think of us gathered around you in your last few hours. The 12th anniversary of the worst moment of my life is upon us in just mere minutes now. Those lights in the distance are oddly comforting to me - on June 24th and the other 364 days of the year. And each year, on this particular date, I tell myself I won't cry, but my eyes are leaky anyways. Oh well, I tried. 

The kids and I talked about you so much today. How if you wrote your own eulogy you would have told people that M&M's really DO melt in your hand and that you should put them in a plastic up and "drink" them instead. How we should all stop crying because it made our faces puffy and no amount of Cover Girl Pressed Powder would be able to cover that up. How if you like something, buy three identical ones of it. How to not save the Chanel No. 5 for "special occasions" because we need to find the everyday special occasions. How when there was lightning, you would turn on Tom Skilling and not let us shower until the storm passed. So much of who you are is instinctively and organically part of who we are.

You have taught me that no words should be left unspoken. And while it wasn't always easy finding my voice again, it is easy to live authentically and I know you'd be proud. 

I took a play from the Ma Playbook you wrote, and had a heart to heart with Jimmy while I was driving. It didn't hit me until literally today that you used to do this to me because 1) As a preteen, I could talk and not have to look at you if the topic was uncomfortable and 2) I was too lazy to walk, so I was stuck talking about whatever topic you turned down WGN 720 to discuss. Well played, Ma, well played. Today, as Jimmy and I were driving along I said, "I just wish she was here so she could see me, finally me, finally happy," to which he replied "She does see, Mama. She does. I believe that."

I do too, Buddy.

Tonight, we toasted you at a beautiful outdoor dinner and visited the flower park. Mads held my hand while we were walking to your stone and Jimmy noticed the gorgeous fresh flowers Papa left for you today. We hugged and they told me "it's alright, Mama." 

And it is. 

So while they swam this evening and I wrote, the cardinal bird who camps out in the yard sings overhead and sure as shit, thunder starts to rumble out of nowhere. I had a momentary flashback of you running out of the Waverly house screeching "beep, beep, beep," and we quickly closed the pool up for the night. Mads refused to hop in the shower because of the lightning outside and protested loudly at the audacity of the suggestion.

I guess it all really does come full circle. 

I love you, Ma. More.

This One’s for Me.

I’ve been called a lot of things over the course of my life: Miracle Baby. Da. Daughter. Girlfriend. Best Friend. Favorite Niece. Teacher. *ex* Wife. But far and away the most important title I have ever held is simply “Mom.”

For whatever reason, Jimmy and Maddy never really called me “Mommy” - just “Mama.” I’m okay with that. In fact, Maddy programmed her watch to call or text me as that, and I hope that never changes. Once in awhile, Jimmy will throw in a “Mother,” usually when I’m asking him to pick up his dirty chonies off the floor, which I’m pretty sure in his head is followed by another colorful sentiment, but I can’t really be so sure. 

Often, I tell Jimmy and the Mads that I learned how to be a Mom from the BEST. To me, the BEST that ever was. Sure, my Ma aggravated me from time to time, mainly when it came to her stubborn ways and required pantyhose adornment, or the fact that she was “stupidly right,”  but Ma? She always, always put me (and Deb) above herself. Always and in all ways.

For years, I thought I was doing the right thing by putting what I thought was the best interest of my children above my own. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Turns out the old adage “If Mama ain’t happy, nobody is happy,” is rooted in non-fiction…and us 3 are the living proof of that. We are finding that laughter comes easy, tears are few, and mostly that life is short, so we make it as sweet as we can. We choose happy every day, and there is no regret in that. Not one. Not ever.

Mother’s Days I have celebrated as “Mama” have been spent as a daughter searching for her Ma, whose residence in Heaven makes it difficult to find the “happy” in the day; this year is the year that all changes. Sure, I will still go on what I lovingly refer to as the “Cemetery Circle Tour,” and have my customary Gene and Jude’s hotdog picnic…but as I write, I’m sitting in the quiet safety of my patio, surrounded by a faint sound of a 40th birthday party band playing great music a few yards down, and I’m waiting for those floating lights in the sky which somehow I feel are for all the “Mama’s” out there celebrating without their Ma’s, too. But this year, instead of tears, I am smiling. And that is the feeling I have been waiting for, for a long, long time.

So this Mother’s Day is about me and all of the things Ma taught me that I’m sharing with J and M. Tomorrow I will remind them of some of her gems:

1) Find the beauty in every one and in every thing, even if that’s really annoying.

2) It’s okay to cry, but laughing until you cry doesn’t make your face as puffy as if you’re crying because you’re upset, so focus on the happy tears and not the sad ones.

3) If people are assholes or mean, there is something wrong with them, not you. 

4) Keep moving forward, but never forget where you’ve been.

5) M&M’s really do melt in your hand.

Love you, Ma. More. 

Now send me some damn purple lights so I can go to bed.

Xoxo

Of All the Things I Know to Be True

2016.

One of my closest friends hugged me tight and whispered: "Nothing good or bad lasts forever," a sentiment I knew to be as true then as it is now. It wasn't particularly a sunshiny time for me, but I made damn sure my coworkers, friends, family, or Facebook never really knew it. I just put on my happy face, like I do so well. And I got used to life like that. 

And "like that" went on for a long, long time. 

Until it couldn't. Because... of all the things I know to be true, nothing good or bad lasts forever. 

...

There is so much I want to say, but I can't, or at the very least, I shouldn't. So I won't. But you must know this: The second half of my life will be far more rich in genuine laughter, in genuine love, in genuine gratitude and in genuine understanding of what happiness is really all about. And this notion brings me nothing but unabashed joy, like that of experiencing a summer sunset on the beach which makes you think God prepared its colors and its calm, only for you to get a quick glimpse of Heaven. 

My Ma used to say that half of your life is planning for things that never end up going the way you've planned, so you might as well just trust your gut and figure it out as you go. I would say that after spending years just stagnantly waiting for what I thought life would be or should be, I followed my gut and it was the best decision I have ever, ever made. Of all the things I know to be true, sometimes you just need some wings and a little push off that ledge, but damn, Girl, you'll fly. I promise you that. 

And that? Well, the satisfaction of knowing that you could, that you did? Hmmm, maybe some things DO last forever.

June 23½ Again.

It’s June 23½. Again.

A year ago on this night, I wrote about the tenth anniversary of the very last evening my Ma spent on this earth. Tonight, I close my eyes and I’m there. June 2022, feeling the words pour out onto the screen. I’m there now. Thinking about how Dad and I wouldn’t leave her side, and while I knew she was fading, I felt the kicks of my unborn son reminding me there was a lot of life left in that hospital room. 

A lot of life was in there, until there wasn’t. 

A year ago in this very moment, I wrote about how ten years went by in the proverbial “blink of an eye,” and how I have this uncanny ability to re-experience the raw emotions I left in hospital Room 906 - at any time, in any setting, even for just a fleeting moment. There we were: Dad, Aunty Cookie, Uncle Don, Ajax, me (and baby Jimmy of course). That’s it. The evening of the 24th, we waited, we told her to go, we reassured that it would be okay for her, okay for us. All the things they tell you to say and to do, we did. And with four distinct breaths that I’m certain were gasps of “Hi! I’m so happy to see you” during her entrance into the Next Place, she let us know it was her time to go…from us. 

Ten years was tough. I cried a lot when I could, smiled when I could, and did what I could, when I could. 

Until I couldn’t. 

But what a difference a year makes…

Tonight, on June 23½, I write in the backyard. Alone. The kids are at their dad’s this weekend. The light breeze of solitude is entertaining me, the dog, the string lights illuminated above me, and it’s keeping my beer cold. On this, the second day of summer, even with all of the trees filled in on the golf course that separates us, I can see it. The light is on in what I’m guessing is Room 906. 

But writing tonight is different. Because, instead of looking for reasons why they are the way they are, I already know. And staring out past my backyard to 906, I smile, I feel relieved, and I see them. 

Fireflies. Lightning Bugs. Debate it on your own time, but don’t for one moment forget to appreciate them. For me, they are making the dark, not so dark. And they are making the solitude not-so-lonely. They are here for the night, until the morning, when they aren’t. I’m not sure where they will land while the sun will shine tomorrow, but I will remember and will be grateful for them for being a part of June 23½. Again.

The funny thing about lighting bugs is that you forget they exist until they don’t, usually around mid-June. And that first endearing spark reminds you of begging your Ma for a glass jar with holes haphazardly poked in the top so you can catch them with your cousins after a long day of swimming in the pool and playing ghost in the graveyard in your backyard. You caught them and then wondered the next morning why they wouldn’t spark. Took me all this time to realize why…it’s because they were trapped, unable to be free. Until they were and it was all over. What a shame. 

The light just went off in what I believe to be Room 906. Hopefully just for tonight so a patient, and the loved ones who won’t leave her side, can get some sleep. Until they can't.

Ma, I miss you and I love you. More. Any tears I have on June 23½ are because the holes in the jar are so large, this firefly will surely find her way… and damn, that journey is beautiful, bright, and all hers. But only because I learned from watching the BEST, navigating through life without ever losing her spark. 

I love you, Ma. 

xoxo,

Da.

28.

 

"Happy Accident Day, Mama," Jimmy hugged me with all his might. Not to be outdone by Brudder, Mads followed in close behind with the same sentiment and maybe even a little bit of a tighter squeeze. These two... hands down, my absolute reason for being. With my eyes leaky, I head downstairs to workout, thankful for the ability to move my body the best way I know how.

Jimmy was well into his first five minutes of PS5 time and asked, "Mom, do you know what song was on while you crashed?" Me: "Yes. 'Tuesday's Gone' by Lynyrd Skynyrd... Do you want to hear it?"

"Can we, Mama?"

"Yep."

"Hey Alexa, play 'Tuesday's Gone' by Lynyrd Skynyrd."

Three bars in... I'm crying. He puts down the controller; he is crying. He says, "Mama, I love you more than anything in this world." 

"...train, roll on..."

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

I don't really talk about it much, except sometimes after a beer or six with my Brudder-Cousin, Mark, who is the only one I know who I think knows what I'm talking about. 

It was brutally cold. I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. It was noon on a Sunday. I didn't have much experience driving, but that fact didn't make it my fault.

The moments after the accident are meant to be between me, God, the ones who've gone before me, and us alone. I think that it's Divine Design that has prohibited me from being able to write about it, even after all of these years. I don't want to fill your head with how it'll be for you, because I believe we all will experience something a little different. What I saw, felt, and believed to have experienced was quiet, beautiful and everything I had dreamed it would be...but it was quick, and it was not my choice whether or not that moment was the true end of me on earth.

******
I remember hands positioned underneath me, with the imminent intent of moving my body to a safer location. I tried to speak loudly for the good samaritans to hear: "Do NOT move me, I broke my neck," when my pleas were met by a woman in charge coordinating: "Okay, on the count of Three..." at that moment I knew that was it: I was going to be paralyzed. I begged for God to take me back to where I just was because that would be better than being paralyzed from the neck down. Before three, I could hear running and hollers: "DON'T TOUCH HER: I'M A PARAMEDIC!"

He asked me my name and told me his. "Troy," he whispered. And he comforted me and cared for me so I didn't bleed out or suffer further injuries. He is the first reason I am still here.

The next thing I remember is seeing a man in a University of Michigan sweatshirt, and he told me he was going to take care of me. I think I said, "I just got accepted to MSU," and he told me "Don't worry, I am going to make sure you get there, but I'm partial to U of M." 

Then I remember being wheeled into surgery, telling my parents that I loved them and hearing Dr. Benson tell my Dad, "We won't be able to reattach the finger but we will do what we can to save the hand," and then I blacked out from crying so hard. The next thing I remember was being on a bed that constantly rocked back and forth, opening my eyes to see the end of the tube stuck in my mouth, busy doing the breathing for me. I remember spelling "Make it stop" one letter at a time with my right index finger in my Ma's palm. My Ma, who rarely cried in front of me, mustered up the strength to say, "I wish I could," through obvious tears. This went on for days.

*******
The days, weeks, and months that followed were not easy. For anyone. I tried to keep a positive attitude but I was resentful that I was missing what was supposed to be the best part of high school. I remember drinking a lot of milk to heal my bones, and eating a copious amount of pudding pops. I had a halo brace screwed into my head, a large bandage on my arm, a full leg cast and then about 80 stitches in the other leg. It was a 1% chance of me walking again after the injuries I had to my neck alone - and I was determined to tackle the situation and lead a life all would be proud of. I owed that to all who cared for me, and to the second chance at life I was given. 

*******
I think I've written about how some anniversaries are harder than others. Twenty-Eight isn't a significant milestone or number, but 1995, as I have recently learned, has much more significance to me than just this accident. Today, however, my eyes are leaky - but as a loved one told me this morning, "but you made it." And I did. I made it. And I will make it again.

Until that time, though, I need to thank a few key people in my life. 

*******

Dear Troy,
I do not have the words to thank you enough.  I'm so grateful for the uncanny timing you had that day, and I know that that made all the difference in the quality of my life from that moment on out. I love that we have built a friendship over the years: having you at my high school graduation, and dancing with me at my wedding will be two of my all-time favorite memories. Since that day, I have long-carried the belief that I, too, will stop to help someone. It's part of my purpose - one of the reasons I lived. I hope you know how much you mean to me.
Forever Thankful,
Dana


Dear Dr. Perlmutter,
I'm guessing it was probably a bummer to be on call on a Sunday, away from time with your own family. I have thought of this often since having children of my own. My life would not have been the same without you, and all you have done for me, from those early moments on in the ER until now. 

Your kind and composed demeanor kept me calm, in the most un-calm situation. I remember you trying to talk to me while there were tons of other nurses and doctors hovering over me with wires and tubes in hand and you asked them to give us a second. They quieted, and you had to lean over the rails of my bed to meet my eyes to tell me, "You broke your neck, Dana," and I tried to respond "I know that."  I remember talking so people could understand me was so hard, and so utterly exhausting. You must have seen the panic in my eyes and knew what I was trying to ask, when you instinctively responded, "We will take care of you," and I felt at ease. That's exactly what you did - you more than took care of me - you made a miracle happen. While taking charge in all of my care, your decisions were made in my best interest. You beamed when I made it through the first week and eventually when I started to thrive. I try to live each day to make you proud, to show my appreciation for all you have done to afford me the life I have so very much loved to live. 
With Love and Gratitude,
Dana 


To all of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins,
You all stepped up when you didn't have to. Those dizzy first days that you came to visit, to offer love and support for me (and Ma and Dad) have never been forgotten. When I got home from the hospital, and you stayed overnight to give my parents a break, we appreciated it then as we do now. You will never know how much you all mean to me. 
Love,
Da

My Dearest Friends, 
I found out quickly who you were after this experience - at seventeen it's so silly to think I needed a life-changing experience to see what was already in my heart. You stood by me, cheered for me, and loved me through a difficult time. You made me laugh when I needed it most, and let me cry when I needed to vent. A special thank you to Shane and Jimmy Key... two of my most cherished friends - we didn't allow a bad experience to simply define a friendship... we allowed it to sow the seeds a lifelong friendship.  
Always,
Dana


Dear Jimmy and Maddy,
Someday when you read this, I hope you are in a place in your life that you can understand that even though bad things happen to good people, we have to take a moment to find the good in those bad situations. I often say that my accident was the "best worst thing that could ever happen to me," and I mean it. Mama may look a little different than your friend's moms, and that's okay. It's just like I always say: Everybody's body is different. I know you respect that and appreciate that, and even at your young ages, you understand that. I need you to now understand this: I thank God for you every single day, and I know the road to your life on this earth began with the help I had from others the day of my accident. I also know that YOU are the reason I am here. So many things could have been so different - and if they were, chances are you'd still be on the other side of the rainbow. I love you more; I love you most; I love you always. 
Love,
Mama

Dear Ma and Dad,
Not a day goes by that I don't think about the agony I put you through - and I'm so incredibly sorry. You deserved to be happy, not to endure another heartbreak. Both of you have always done so much for me and I owed you so much more gratitude than what I gave you in return. Nevertheless, you cared for me and loved me and forgave me. You recognized it was an accident, that it wasn't my fault, and it was a journey we would take together. You told me we would make it through, and we did. Sure, there were good days and bad days, but they were all days God granted us together. I am who I am because of who raised me, and boy, am I ever thankful I was raised by the best. You gave me strength, you gave me hope, and you gave me love, even when it was hard to love myself. 
I love you more.
Da

******
They say time heals all wounds, but I'm not so sure about that. The wounds maybe haven't all healed, but they sure have changed. I have changed, and I'm not done. Tomorrow, I will take time out of class and finally explain the full story of how exactly twenty-eight years ago, a girl just three years older than they are now, beat the odds to build a life she loved to live with the help, love, and support of so many.


Infinitely grateful... 
Dana

29

July 16, 2006

Dear Dana,

29 years old today. Happy Birthday, Girl! Tonight, you're going to have an absolute blast at Howl at the Moon with all of your friends - they'll come from every aspect of your life: college, work, childhood - it really doesn't matter, because you're the glue.  They'll come together like they're all old friends too - for laughs, for shots, for dancing and for some really, really bad microphone takeovers that will almost get you kicked out of the place. Tomorrow, you'll pay for it with a raging hangover that will piss off your Ma, but she'll get over it quickly like she always does because she thinks you're something to celebrate, too. She may even give you some Pedialyte to take the edge off. Maybe.

Enjoy every gift of a sunrise in this trip around the sun - I'm sorry to tell you, but it'll be the one of the last that seems easy-breezy for ya. Maybe for a long, long time. But you won't know this until much later. But like Ma always says, "life is a series of peaks and valleys," you'll have your shining moments in-between - not really knowing if you're in a peak or in a valley at the time  - and you'll wear them well. You'll live, you'll learn, and you'll reflect on the moments that will test your soul. That is how you are built and that is all you know how to do. You got this. And deep down, you'll know you do, too.

My birthday gift to you is the reassurance in knowing you will once return to the You you are tonight. I promise you this. Back to the girl who laughs loudly and loves with reckless abandon. To the girl who celebrates others and seeks those who celebrate her. To the girl they say, "There she is" when you are seen. You may bend, but you won't break. Some days you will feel like it, but you won't allow yourself to. After all, you are your Ma's daughter and you can't let her down. However, along the way, you'll allow parts of your life to evolve into something that doesn't even look like a life, purely out of survival. And that's okay. You'll forgive yourself for that someday. And you always find a silver lining, because silver linings are all you know. And on those days that you have doubts, look down at those wings, Girl, and fly.

In a few years, you'll teach all of these things to your babies, who will be like you in so many ways. More ways than even you can recognize. He will be your heart; She will be your soul, and you will realize that your world begins and ends with them. As it should. In your early years as a mother, you'll forget all about who you are tonight, at 29 years old. But that won't always be the case. Just remember that when you're ready, you can reopen the birthday gift I just presented to you, and it will mean more to you the second time you take the bow off. 

One day, you'll dream about this night - and in this dream, you'll even be wearing the new tube top and necklace you got today at Express. You'll take the microphone from the piano, and you'll sing Dreams by Van Halen, louder than you can remember your Ma singing it when she thought nobody could hear her. But this time, everyone can hear you - and more importantly - so pay attention now, you will hear yourself: "and in the end, on dreams we will depend, 'cuz that what love is made of..."  You'll awake and just know: It's time to love yourself again. And you will. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. It will take time. Stop doubting yourself: be brave, be strong, be the 29 year old you are.

One last thing:  tonight, when the blaring rendition of Forever Young is played, grab that mic and sing with those friends, "Whatever road you choose, I'm right behind you, win or lose" like you're literally singing for your life, because, really, you are. You are singing to your future self and let me tell you something: she is dancing her ass off. How do you know I know what I'm talking about? Because everything will be okay in the end - and if it's not okay, it's not the end. 

Because when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you will see is you. At 45. 

Love, 

Dana

January 22, 2023

p.s. - I love your hair.

Bye Mom

It’s late. Like, really late. I should be so asleep that I have gotten up to pee twice already, but I’m not. I can’t. It’s June 23 ½. 

Ten years ago on this night, I camped out in Room 906 of a building I can see from my now new-ish home (an intentional part of this home purchase). I look outside now, wondering who occupies 906 now. Covid? Car accident? Pancreatic Cancer? Not sure which, I search the predawn sky for the planets the news told me that were supposed to align, right before the sun hits the horizon. Nope. Nada. Can’t see a damn thing, except for the light on in a hospital room I imagine is Room 906, wishing that the family of the person resting there tonight doesn’t suffer the same heartbreak I felt at this very moment, exactly one decade ago. 

Dad and I had decided that we weren’t leaving and we needed to be with her. We sobbed as we signed the papers nobody ever wants to sign for someone they love. We watched. We waited. We pretended this wasn’t really happening. But it was. And on June 23 ½, it happens all over for me again, and the reality of time and space won’t ever change that - an uncomfortable truth I have come to expect.

But that night, we weren’t sure what was in store, except we had lost enough people we loved that we understood there was no leaving. So there we were, Dad in a chair, me six months pregnant and camped on a love seat, hoping she would make it til the 24th, when Aunty Cookie, Uncle Don, and the rest of the family made it in to say goodbye. 

The sun rose swiftly on that morning and I remember I couldn’t wait for my family to arrive, but also hoping the clock ticked more slowly and its hands pushed the people we loved further away from 906. Once they did arrive, I knew that she would know then know it was time for her to move on. In her transition, or what I call the “float,” between here and the Next Place, she was slipping away from us, but not until I got her last word spoken on this earth, “More.”

More. More is all I ever wanted, but it’s something I will never, ever have - and that is the single biggest disappointment of my life.

So there we were, at about 8:30 in the evening on the 24th of June, “More” was going to be out of my grasp until “More” is the last word I will utter to my own children someday when it’s my time to go. Ma took four distinct breaths, the kind you make out of awe and surprise at what your eyes have just glimpsed, and that was it. She was gone. 

In the years that have followed, I have tried very hard to keep her memory alive, but there are no more pictures, no more one-lined emails, no more pantyhose (if you know, you know), and no more memories. A friend of mine, Bobby, who lost his mom very young once told me, “Life is divided into two time periods: Before Ma and After Ma,” and I can attest to the absolute truth of that sentiment. I hate that. Sometimes, though, I think I have memories of my Ma with my children, and then I realize that none of it happened, but somehow I find comfort in the lies I tell myself to just keep going, strong and steadfast just as she taught me to do.

I have found over the years that the days leading up to the anniversary are worse than the actual date itself, but the gravity of double-digits overwhelms me today and everything sucks. I have found that the pain doesn’t get different, you just get different, and today, that sucks, too. I wonder if I am even a tenth of the mother she was, because today I will make them clean their rooms and floss their teeth and they will think that I suck. Today, I do, and I’m allowed that. But just for today.

Tomorrow, I will get up and get Maddy ready for her dance recital and secretly record her on stage and later, I will be the loudest Mom at the baseball playoff game, cheering on Jimmy and his buddies. I guess that will be my “More.”

Bye Mom. Until we meet again. More.

An Imperfect 10.

One of my favorite ornaments sits atop my tree - it’s a picture of my Ma and Dad, on the last Christmas she was here. 

Isn’t that the bitch of life? Never really, really knowing when the last of things will be? The last “I love you,” the last hug, the last words said in anger, the last laughs, the last birthday candles, the last time friends or family get together before one is taken from this earth.

I’ve stared at that ornament now for ten Christmas seasons. Ten. This is the tenth Christmas I will spend without my Ma. You'd think it would get easier by now; it hasn't. It just got different. I. Am. Different. Everyone around me is different. And with that (in)difference, each Christmas gets a little more imperfect than the last. 

---

My Ma was the BEST, most thoughtful gift-giver on the planet. Not that Christmas is about getting the gifts, but well, you know. So many Christmas mornings were spent unwrapping things that I had mentioned I had liked, maybe one time, in April of that particular year. And. She. Remembered. I know now it's not the gifts I miss - I miss being heard; I miss being understood without having to explain myself. I miss being a consideration. I just miss her and the way things used to be.

Sometimes, though, she would give you the most practical, yet ridiculous gifts: like the headlight, for example, she gifted to Jim on one of his first Christmases with us. He was like, "Ok thanks" in more of a questiony tone. But alas, that damn headlamp came in handy more times than you could even imagine. Or how about the time she gave me the head scratcher - which was purely ridiculous but helpful when I had a migraine. Or the dream violin that I thought I was playing but instead hit the "demo" button. Or even the time she wrapped up 3 of the same cardigans because that is really how she shopped. I could go on but I think you get the picture. 

There was never a Christmas that went by that once all the gifts were unwrapped, Ma would turn to one of us and say, "Hmmmm... did you open...? Uh, hang on," followed by a quick trip to the depths of her closet to find the missing item, met with laughs from all of us. 

---

My kids are getting older but still believe in the magic of Christmas. Watching their eyes light up on Christmas morning as they open gifts that they pointed out to me 8 months before the 25th of December makes my heart smile and reminds me that I learned from the best. The. Absolute. Best. 

And as indifferent as I have become to some aspects of this life I cannot change, the Imperfect 10th Christmas without The Best will have some smiles, some tears, and definitely some laughs (but definitely no headlamps). 

More.

 "More."

I've sat here and stared at this screen for a good twenty minutes thinking about how today marks the 9th anniversary of the last word my Ma spoke to me: "More."

"More." A tiny word with such astronomical implications. 

More money, more love, more happiness, more cookies, more sleep, more freedom, more memories, more days on this earth. I imagine this is just a simple list of what people want more of. I know what I wish I could have had more of: time. 

...

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, I have come to the realization that I am moderately good at a lot of things: teaching, essential oils, crafts, and being a good daughter and friend come to mind. Please don't correct me after reading this because it's simply reality - I'm just proficient in these things and that's okay with me- I've learned to embrace the "moderately good" parts of who I am.  I do like to think I am great at one thing, though, and that's being a Mom - because I learned from the best. When my kids come in from playing in the snow, I have a warm blanket straight from the dryer handy. When they snuggle in close, I ask them, "Are you snug as a bug in a rug?" When they least expect a surprise, one is awaiting them, just because. When they have a fever, I put a cool rag on their foreheads. Through all of this and so much more, they have learned who their GeeGee was, because it's more than imperative to me to keep her memory alive: something I will never stop doing for them, for me, and for anyone who ever loved her. 

In the years since Ma has left this earth for what comes next, nothing and everything has changed. There is a school of thought that speaks to the idea that grief gets easier; it doesn't. You just get different. I'm different. Dad's different. Jim's different. Jackie's different. 

I'm different in that I have learned to let go of what I cannot control.  Sure, I still am allowed a five minute meltdown sometimes, but then I force myself to accept whatever "it" is. I have learned that people will make choices I don't agree with, but it's not me who has to live with the consequence of those choices (although this is not entirely true - see my first sentiment).  I have learned that not everything will make sense, the triumphs and disappointments included. But the single biggest thing I have learned is that nothing will surpass the biggest disappointment of my life: that my Ma didn't get to spend time with her grandchildren, and that will never be different. That? That I will never accept. She deserved more. I deserved more. Jimmy and Maddy deserve more.

...

When I tell you, "I love you more," it's because I probably do... because I learned that from my Ma. To love hard and with everything you have, but not to forget where you came from, what you've been through, or those who have gone to the next place before you. When I tell you, "I love you more most," it's because I want you to shut up because I am right and you are wrong, something I also learned from my Ma. 

No one misses you Ma, more, than me.

Copyright 2021 More Seasoned Then • Dana Prezembel Hackett

Because... Dad

Wednesday marks the 8th year since I hugged my Ma before she changed her residence to Heaven.
Eight freaking years.

In the days leading up to and in the days after her passing, I spent time writing a eulogy to send her off in the most appropriate way possible: one filled with laughter, tears and hope. I read what I had prepared for her memorial around the kitchen table to my Dad, my Aunty Cookie and my Uncle Don. I commented afterward that I had hoped I had captured everything I had ever wanted to say to her and that it was a shame that Time often steals the opportunities for sharing what is on your heart.

In that spirit, and knowing that Father's Day is upon us, I felt it appropriate to share with the world some thoughts on the other person who made me, well, me. Dad.

~

Because... Dad

My earliest memories of my Dad begin with the sound of the riding lawnmower and the smell of fresh-cut grass on an early June day. Some of the most precious memories of time with my Dad for "C the G," which, in Dan the Hammer speak was: "Cut the Grass." He held me on his lap for the quarter acre ride from the first peaks of green grass until the last leaves had fallen - Saturday after Saturday, year after year, for the first decade of my life. One day, I was big enough to "C the G" on my own, which lasted about two Saturdays after Dad discovered I couldn't drive in a straight line. More on that later. Nevertheless, our Saturday tradition taught me consistency. Consistency. Because... Dad.


Wherever Dad went, Dana went. I think our strong bond began (with an oft-told story, lovingly shared by Ma) on the day I was born. Back in those days, fathers didn't go into the delivery room, and once Ma was ready to introduce me to Dad, she said, "I hope you're not disappointed she is a girl!" followed by:  "Oh my God she has your nose!" If Dad was sad he never had a son, he certainly didn't ever act like it. I went with him everywhere. Handy Andy. Luke's Hot Dogs. I even asked once if I could go to the Library with him, not knowing he was referring to going to the potty. My sense of belonging? The courage to rock the nose? Belonging. Nose. Because... Dad.

Some of my most treasured memories are held in the back of 406 E. Waverly. I loved watching Dad shotgun a beer and jump into the pool, or try to balance on one of those crazy inflatable horses. Or the one time he was playing softball with me and decided to slide into home plate during the drought of 1989 and the rock-hard earth caused bruises down his entire leg. My love of home? Memories. Because... Dad.

Being Dad's Girl meant watching sports my whole life. Sundays were for the Bears and summers were for the Cubs. I loved going to games with my Dad and one of my fave memories was a "Ball or the Beer" moment in section 107 of Wrigley - prime foul ball territory. A full beer was balanced atop five empty cups and Dad had to make a choice - grab the ball for his 12 year old or preserve the full cup of Old Style. "Sorry, Da" - I think you know how that one ended. Cubbies. Beer. Because... Dad.

In 1995, when I got into my car accident, he never made me feel bad about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. On February 12th, one week to the day and the time that it happened, we cried together knowing that I was going to make it. On the days I didn't want to go on, I did so because he told me I had no other choice. He read me my cards and mail every night once he got home from work and he made me smile when I didn't want to. The drive to persevere? Strength. Because... Dad.

My Dad is the hardest working person I have ever met. One year, he had 52 work trips to take. 52! He never once complained because he was always grateful to have the jobs he has had and always grateful that he could provide for his family. Then, get this, on the weekends, he would be up at the crack of dawn to work around the house or on a project. He never stopped! That drive? That gratitude? Because... Dad.

Back in the day, you didn't have to go to college or have to get your MBA to be successful in the business world. Dad rose in ranks because he had the smarts, the drive, and a work ethic that college simply could not teach. So, when it came time for me to go to college, it was important to Dad that he sent me there without me having loans to repay or worry. My job was to graduate with honors. After I crossed the stage, I handed my honor cords to my Dad because he was the reason I earned them. This incredibly over-priced brain I have? Because... Dad.

When it was time for Ma to cross the Rainbow Bridge, we held on to her together. Although we had always been close, Ma's passing brought us even closer. As we forged on to find our "new normal," we had each other to lean on and figure it out. "We'll get through this," he would say. And we did. And we learned to live without her. And some days that sucks harder than others, but we go on. Because... Dad.

A few years after Ma was gone, Dad was ready to open his heart to someone else. It was hard at first but Dad's happiness means more to me than anything. After meeting Cheryl, I quickly got over any reservations I had because as Aunty Cookie says, "Life is for the living," and because... Dad.

Dad takes care of all of us. He was the one who fed my babies their first bottles, the one who let me cry to him when life got tough, and the one who bailed us out of countless jams. He loves us when we are down and he loves us when we are up. Dad shares in our heartbreaks and in our happiness. Dad is every part of us. We are so very grateful for who he is and for what he stands for. We are the lucky ones.

And with that, we are who we are because... Dad.

This Teachable Moment

When I started teaching middle school twenty years ago, I remember one of the more seasoned teachers urging me to embrace any "Teachable Moment." You know, that moment that you could never plan for, that moment which usually occurs at an inopportune time, that moment that you put everything on hold in order to teach the life lesson the universe has presented you. That lesson is one that oftentimes usurps what you originally thought was more substantial or important. Teachable Moments.

This. This is the Ultimate Teachable Moment.

The uncertainty, the unfathomable, the unreal... as unsettling as it is, we must seize this teachable moment. We must step up as a parent, a spouse, a child, a friend, and most importantly, as a teacher (even if not by trade) to all. If we do, we are going to get through this. If we don't, we have lost out on modern history's (or our own personal history's) most Teachable Moment. And of all things to worry about, that is the biggest and scariest disappointment of all.

We learn best by doing... I believe that we learn best by doing what is right. Some may say that what is right for some is not right for all, but we are all living through the unimaginable...together, we need to do right by each other. Let's start with the basics, shall we?

Share.
People are freaked, I get it, but share your damn toilet paper. All that's left is the decorative-dyed-pink sandpaper type shit tickets that can only be found at the Aldi. I saw you at the Meijer today: I know you don't need 60 two-ply double mega rolls. Nobody needs that much TP. Nobody. Stop it. You are making others panic by simply over-buying what you think you need. You know what you need? A knuckle sandwich, a deep breath, and a break from technology overload. Open a book, read a little, and share with us something new you've learned... not only from the words on the page, but also about yourself. If you'd like, you can even read in the bathroom amongst the rolls and rolls you've been hoarding that you're now regretting not sharing because you just got called out.

Love.
Show your neighbor some love. Check on the old lady across the street or the man you pass on Kirchoff Road who you know has no home.  Just a "hello" as you pass or a "What can I help you with?" is often just enough to show others that they matter. Snuggle with your kids, because as much as you want to water down this situation for them, they, in fact, know what is going on. Be calm, be honest, and most importantly, be present and loving. Dance with them to silly songs, not only for the movement their bodies crave, but also to show them that love never fails.

Teach.
Teach yourself how to be flexible. That is one of the biggest problems I see with the world today: inflexibility. I mean, who really, really likes change? Not many of us. We are too inflexible to see benefits change can bring. Maybe a year from now we will look back and see the benefits the changes from this experience has brought all of us. Be a role model for your children as you work from home and make sure they follow your lead... your child is still a student and you, the parent, are the teacher responsible for them: make sure they shower, brush their teeth, and get dressed daily. They need to exercise. Then, make sure they complete their e-learning assignments.

While you do, sit with your child for five minutes and guide him along (as a student). Then take a moment to reflect on that nasty email you sent to his teacher about a month ago, criticizing how she handled a situation or how your accusatory "not MY kid" has now become, "Oh crap, it was MY kid." Guaranteed. You'll be astonished and terrified at most kids' work ethic (yep, I'm talking about your Precious Prince); you'll be horrified at the constant tapping of pencils or flipping of tabs on the Chromebook. Don't believe me? You will. Recreational technology should always be earned (it's not a right) and it should only be entertained after the assignments of the day have been completed. Remember, you're the parent. Right now, you're the teacher. Hmmm...Teachable Moments.

We are all living it. Together. Share. Love. Teach. Teachable Moments always carry an "I told you so" undertone, and a month from now maybe you'll tell me I'm wrong...or maybe you won't.

In summing it all up, I thought about the days of school my children will miss - their teachers most of all -but also their friends, the structure, the routine, the familiarity. And then I wondered, will missing this many days of kindergarten matter when Mads is 18? I won't let it. Then I started thinking of this gem, one my Ma loved, and today it's more apropos than ever:

All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten

by Robert Fulghum

Most of what I really need
To know about how to live
And what to do and how to be
I learned in kindergarten.
Wisdom was not at the top
Of the graduate school mountain,
But there in the sandpile at Sunday school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don't hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life -
Learn some and think some
And draw and paint and sing and dance
And play and work everyday some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world,
Watch out for traffic,
Hold hands and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.

I think now we need to put everything on hold and live like we are in kindergarten. This...this is the Teachable Moment that will redefine all of us. Let's hold hands (then wash them for twenty seconds, lathering twice and following up with hand sanitizer) and promise to stick together, k?

Twenty-Five.

Isn't it funny how a song can transport you to another place and time? Next time that happens, take a second to notice how the cadence of the bass and drums can take your breath away, yet simultaneously fill you with a constant reminder that in a moment, you'll have to return to the absolute here and now. Instant heartbreak.

Just the other day, while scanning the stations in the car, a song came on that did just that. I cranked it as loud as it could go, and found myself in the front seat of my Mom's car, in my 17-year-old body, listening to the same tune as we were passing Memory Gardens on Euclid Avenue.

"Ma, when I die, please play this song," It was more of a tell than an ask.

"Huh?"

"When I die, this is the song. It's Peter Gabriel (eye roll like she should know). I love it. It's one of my faves."

"Okay, fine.  Do you think you're going to die?"

Annoyed teenage silence.  

Five days later, I did just that. 

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

I don't really talk about it much, except sometimes after a beer or six with my Brudder-Cousin, Mark, who is the only one I know who I think knows what I'm talking about. 

It was brutally cold. I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. It was noon on a Sunday. I didn't have much experience driving, but that fact didn't make it my fault.

The moments after the accident are meant to be between me, God, the ones who've gone before me, and us alone. I think that it's Divine Design that has prohibited me from being able to write about it, even after all of these years. I don't want to fill your head with how it'll be for you, because I believe we all will experience something a little different. What I saw, felt, and believed to have experienced was quiet, beautiful and everything I had dreamed it would be...but it was quick, and it was not my choice whether or not that moment was the true end of me on earth.

******
I remember hands positioned underneath me, with the imminent intent of moving my body to a safer location. I tried to speak loudly for the good samaritans to hear: "Do NOT move me, I broke my neck," when my pleas were met by a woman in charge coordinating: "Okay, on the count of Three..." at that moment I knew that was it: I was going to be paralyzed. I begged for God to take me back to where I just was because that would be better than being paralyzed from the neck down. Before three, I could hear running and hollers: "DON'T TOUCH HER: I'M A PARAMEDIC!"

He asked me my name and told me his. "Troy," he whispered. And he comforted me and cared for me so I didn't bleed out or suffer further injuries. He is the first reason I am still here.

The next thing I remember is seeing a man in a University of Michigan sweatshirt, and he told me he was going to take care of me. I think I said, "I just got accepted to MSU," and he told me "Don't worry, I am going to make sure you get there, but I'm partial to U of M." 

Then I remember being wheeled into surgery, telling my parents that I loved them and hearing Dr. Benson tell my Dad, "We won't be able to reattach the finger but we will do what we can to save the hand," and then I blacked out from crying so hard. The next thing I remember was being on a bed that constantly rocked back and forth, opening my eyes to see the end of the tube stuck in my mouth, busy doing the breathing for me. I remember spelling "Make it stop" one letter at a time with my right index finger in my Ma's palm. My Ma, who rarely cried in front of me, mustered up the strength to say, "I wish I could," through obvious tears. This went on for days.

*******
The days, weeks, and months that followed were not easy. For anyone. I tried to keep a positive attitude but I was resentful that I was missing what was supposed to be the best part of high school. I remember drinking a lot of milk to heal my bones, and eating a copious amount of pudding pops. I had a halo brace screwed into my head, a large bandage on my arm, a full leg cast and then about 80 stitches in the other leg. It was a 1% chance of me walking again after the injuries I had to my neck alone - and I was determined to tackle the situation and lead a life all would be proud of. I owed that to all who cared for me, and to the second chance at life I was given. 

*******
I think I've written about how some anniversaries are harder than others. With Twenty-Five looming over me this week, I have been quieter than normal and obviously introspective. I had the intent of handwriting letters to certain people and sending, but time got the best of me. I think I put it off long enough, because I knew that if I just sat down and wrote, the anniversary was much closer than I thought it was. I don't know where life will lead me in twenty-five more years, so here goes:

*******

Dear Troy,
I do not have the words to thank you enough.  I'm so grateful for the uncanny timing you had that day, and I know that that made all the difference in the quality of my life from that moment on out. I love that we have built a friendship over the years: having you at my high school graduation, and dancing with me at my wedding will be two of my all-time favorite memories. Since that day, I have long-carried the belief that I, too, will stop to help someone. It's part of my purpose - one of the reasons I lived. I hope you know how much you mean to me.
Forever Thankful,
Dana


Dear Dr. Perlmutter,

I'm guessing it was probably a bummer to be on call on a Sunday, away from time with your own family. I have thought of this often since having children of my own. My life would not have been the same without you, and all you have done for me, from those early moments on in the ER until now. 

Your kind and composed demeanor kept me calm, in the most un-calm situation. I remember you trying to talk to me while there were tons of other nurses and doctors hovering over me with wires and tubes in hand and you asked them to give us a second. They quieted, and you had to lean over the rails of my bed to meet my eyes to tell me, "You broke your neck, Dana," and I tried to respond "I know that."  I remember talking so people could understand me was so hard, and so utterly exhausting. You must have seen the panic in my eyes and knew what I was trying to ask, when you instinctively responded, "We will take care of you," and I felt at ease. That's exactly what you did - you more than took care of me - you made a miracle happen. While taking charge in all of my care, your decisions were made in my best interest. You beamed when I made it through the first week and eventually when I started to thrive. I try to live each day to make you proud, to show my appreciation for all you have done to afford me the life I have so very much loved to live. 
With Love and Gratitude,
Dana 


To all of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins,
You all stepped up when you didn't have to. Those dizzy first days that you came to visit, to offer love and support for me (and Ma and Dad) have never been forgotten. When I got home from the hospital, and you stayed overnight to give my parents a break, we appreciated it then as we do now. You will never know how much you all mean to me. 
Love,
Da

My Dearest Friends, 
I found out quickly who you were after this experience - at seventeen it's so silly to think I needed a life-changing experience to see what was already in my heart. You stood by me, cheered for me, and loved me through a difficult time. You made me laugh when I needed it most, and let me cry when I needed to vent. A special thank you to Shane and Jimmy Key... two of my most cherished friends - we didn't allow a bad experience to simply define a friendship... we allowed it to sow the seeds a lifelong friendship.  
Always,
Dana


Dear Jim,
You never once hesitated or flinched when we first started dating as we talked about my accident (and the obvious finger). It meant the world to me that you saw me for me beyond all of my scars, hurts, worries, and anxieties. I never thought I would be lucky enough to find someone who loved me for me. Thank you for supporting me always and never thinking it was funny to put an engagement ring on my right hand- I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you. 
More Most,
Me.


Dear Jimmy and Maddy,
Someday when you read this, I hope you are in a place in your life that you can understand that even though bad things happen to good people, we have to take a moment to find the good in those bad situations. I often say that my accident was the "best worst thing that could ever happen to me," and I mean it. Mama may look a little different than your friend's moms, and that's okay. It's just like I always say: Everybody's body is different. I know you respect that and appreciate that, and even at your young ages, you understand that. I need you to now understand this: I thank God for you every single day, and I know the road to your life on this earth began with the help I had from others the day of my accident. So many things could have been so different - and if they were, chances are you'd still be on the other side of the rainbow. I love you more; I love you most. 
Love,
Mama

Dear Ma and Dad,
Not a day goes by that I don't think about the agony I put you through - and I'm so incredibly sorry. You deserved to be happy, not to endure another heartbreak. Both of you have always done so much for me and I owed you so much more gratitude than what I gave you in return. Nevertheless, you cared for me and loved me and forgave me. You recognized it was an accident, that it wasn't my fault, and it was a journey we would take together. You told me we would make it through, and we did. Sure, there were good days and bad days, but they were all days God granted us together. I am who I am because of who raised me, and boy, am I ever thankful I was raised by the best. You gave me strength, you gave me hope, and you gave me love, even when it was hard to love myself. 
I love you more.
Da

******
Outside of my classroom is a sign with "25" on it, and a little note: they say time heals all wounds, but I'm not so sure. The wounds maybe haven't all healed, but they sure have changed. Tomorrow, I will take ten minutes out of class and finally explain the full story of how exactly twenty-five years ago, a girl just three years older than they are now, beat the odds to build a life she loved to live, with the help and love of so many.


Infinitely grateful... 
Dana

Goodbyes are Hard.

Hi...I'm still here. Some days just barely. Some days held together with Scotch Tape. Some days like the wind blowing through your driver's window when "Livin' on a Prayer" comes on (what's now the oldies station, by the way). Whatever day I've had when I hit the pillow that night, the sentiment stays the same: Thank you, God, for all of my blessings.

Seems like summer had just gotten started when that pesky August arrived. The bucket list the kids and I created for 2019 had marks all over it, indicating all of our goals had been accomplished: carnival, beach, fireworks, picnic, gross jumpy places, baseball games, craft camp, acting camp, baseball camp, vacation Bible school... we were busy. Tired and happy, but busy. And blessed.

On tap for the last day of summer was Toy Story 4- just the kids and me. Small "cozies" (blankets), "pets" (stuffed animals), and our little popcorn bags were prepared and off we were to our favorite AMC. Everything about the day and the movie was just perfect: until the closing scene. I hope I'm not spoiling this for you, but the ending is one that makes your throat get all fiery and tight... I looked next to me at Mads, a little side frown painted on her pretty little face, maybe she wasn't understanding what was happening. Then I looked to my Little Old Soul and there it was: the full-on ugly cry. Dammit, I forgot the tissues.

Jimmy just gets it, and if you know him and know him well, you will agree when I say he has gotten it since the day he was born. At this moment, all I could do was outstretch my arms for my tender-hearted boy, and hug him (thank goodness for the oversized theater seats). After the lights came on, and the cleaning crew appeared to get started, I asked him what struck him as so sad, to which he answered, "Goodbyes are hard, Mama."

We walked in silence to the car, and sat in the lot for a moment. Jimmy was still crying. "Wanna talk about it," I would ask occasionally, which was answered with a headshake "no." The moment was so sweet and endearing, so poignant and so raw, so Jimmy and so... Life.

Goodbyes are hard. We have said goodbye to quite a bit in the last seven years - so many people, things, ideas, dreams... I just don't know where to begin if I had to make a list. In that time, we have said hello to equally as many new people, schools, things, ideas, dreams... It's a matter of chance and choice - such is Life, I guess. Such is Life.

Notice the things that make you tired, happy, busy and blessed. When you stop to think about it, these are the things that make you, well, you. It's what we give thanks for at the end of each day, and it's what gets us through Life's Cycle of Goodbyes.

Just don't forget the tissues.






Copyright 2019 More Seasoned Then, a blog by Dana Prezembel Hackett. 

The Uncomfortable Truth.

Hello, my friend, hello.

Try reading that without singing it in your head just like Neil Diamond would, I dare you.
If you're over the age of forty, it can't happen.

It's been awhile. A very, very long while. I have thought about writing a thousand and one times, but again, just like Ma used to share a quote from John Lennon: "Life is what happens when you're making other plans..."

So, here goes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day it finally happened was no different than the day before. I peered through the glass to get a glimpse of my children with their friends, typically snacking before pick-up time. Today, though, was different. At the door, Ms. Maureen held out a sandwich baggie, a tiny tooth inside. Behold, the very first lost tooth.

Jimmy was quiet and steadfast in his walk to the door, careful not to make eye contact. But I know my boy. He put on a brave face when "it" happened, but once he saw me, all bets were off. My Little Old Soul knew the gravity of this milestone. I knelt down, arms outstretched, and waited for it. Once he melted in my arms, I could feel the tears hit my shoulder. Mads rubbed his back as I questioned him, "Did it hurt?" head shake 'No'. "Was it scary?" again, head shake 'No'. "What is it, Buddy?"

"Growing up is hard, Mama." 

And there it is: The Uncomfortable Truth.

I carried him to the car that day, all 53.2 pounds of him, partly because I knew there would come a day that I wouldn't be able to, and partly because I knew that he just needed me to. Shuffling down the hallway with him in my arms, I couldn't help but think how much life this six-year-old has experienced, and how much of The Uncomfortable Truth he just "gets."

To me, The Uncomfortable Truth is just that: truth that doesn't lie, that doesn't spew sunshine and rainbows, even though that would, frankly, make things much easier. The Truth that everyone doesn't (and shouldn't) get a trophy. The Truth that you're not everyone's cup of tea. The Truth that life goes on and sometimes that just freaking hurts. The Uncomfortable Truth unveils the raw folds of dog-eared pages in your book of life: chapters of good, bad, and downright ugly.

...

On a random Tuesday a few weeks ago while on our way to school, Maddy asked: "Mama, how did GeeGee go to Heaven?" The hard, proverbial lump in my throat prohibited me from answering. Noticing the pause in the conversation, Jimmy took care of it for me: "Maddy, she had the cancer." Which then led to her next line of questioning,  "Mama, what's the cancer?"
"Well, Mads, it's when one tiny cell in the body decides to change and it makes a person sick."
"Oh, okay, but I don't want to get the cancer" she says, to which I counter, "You don't necessarily have the choice." Choice is not always a luxury afforded to us. Again, The Uncomfortable Truth.

...

What is for you, will not pass you. This holds true for friends, opportunities, employment and especially in the mundane moments which allow you to move from who you once were to who you are now meant to be. The last few years for us Hacketts have been far from a whisper on the wind; I like to think of the time more like a palmful of glitter held in front of an ordinary table fan. One minute, sparkly and organized, and with the turn of the dial - a glistening mess all over the damn place. You know what, though? In picking up the pieces, we found strength in each other and in those who raised us up. Those who believed in the beauty of our mess helped us persevere, helped us become all the better for it.  I've always thought glitter was a pesky art form, but it sure does sparkle, doesn't it? You have to see it for what it is, in this case - opportunity. You can either grab the dustpan, tidy up and toss it, or you can bust out the Elmer's and make it into something else. In the end, it was not all so bad - just make sure the glue dries on your new project, and be sure to entitle it The Uncomfortable Truth.

...

It's the close of my nineteenth year of teaching. In the last few years, I have given a "Señora's Top Nine" bits of life advice to my graduating eighth graders, on our last day as a class. Here is number three:

Be of service to others. If you think your life is so bad, I can tell you, there are others out there who have it a heck of a lot worse than you. Be grateful for what you DO HAVE, and the more grateful you are, the more the world will give you things to be grateful for. Do something nice for people less fortunate, because there may be a day your life will turn and you’ll be on the receiving end. That is what makes life beautiful and scary at the same time...you just never know.

And there you have the most undeniable Uncomfortable Truth of all- you just never know.

You just never know. You never know when you'll have the last conversation with someone you love. Never know when the "best worst thing" that has ever happened in your life guides you to become the very best version of yourself. You'll never know when that tooth will finally fall out. But what I hope you do know, deep down to your very core, is that The Uncomfortable Truths of life serve to help you grow, persevere, and carry on (preferably with glitter in tow).

And that's the truth.

And maybe, just maybe, a $20 under your pillow from the Tooth Fairy could make things easier, too.




...
As a side note, I googled "The Uncomfortable Truth" after writing.  As it turns out, Mark Manson wrote a book encompassing these ideas in a book about Hope. You can find it here, perfectly summing it all up; although his version includes a spin I wish I could have put into words myself. I give credit where credit is due, and so should you. All ideas copyright 2019 More Seasoned Then, Dana Prezembel Hackett

To My Daughter, On the Eve of Her Fifth Birthday.

My Dearest Madelyn Marjorie,

Tomorrow, when the world is adorned in green and orange and shamrocks and Guinness and revelling in all kinds of Blarney, I will quietly be raising a glass… to you.

Cheers, Baby Girl, to you, on your fifth birthday.

Cue the ugly cry.

I will cry knowing that 5 years ago, I held you for the first time and kissed your forehead - the same way I have done every night since God carefully chose me to be your Mama. I will cry when I tell you “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” and “I love you most,” at bedtime. I will cry when I close your door for the night, knowing that the next day you will be 5 years and 1 day old.

I used to laugh at your GeeGee for her constant commentary on time and here I am… praying for it to slow down. I beg you almost daily to “stop growing so fast.” Time and time again, you hold my face into your little hands and whisper, “I can’t...but no matter how I look on the outside, I will always be your Baby Girl…” and to me, that is what you will always be.

Mads, I have so many wishes for you as you begin your fifth trip around the sun. I wish you grace for when you stumble, I wish you hope for when you’re heartbroken, and I wish you strength for when you’re up against the odds… But most of all, I wish you peace for when the world wants to show you how ugly it can be.

Know that this peace begins with you: from every morning as you greet the sunshine with “Good Morning, Sun,” to your last words of the evening: “Thank you, God, for all of my blessings…” and every single moment in between. From the exciting to the mundane, you will find your peace in the little things most take for granted and in the love that’s already inside of your heart. It’s the wonderment and love you have of the little things that make the big things that’ll try to break you but a mere wrinkle in the fabric of your being. So keep whistling to those birdies every morning, Mads, because I do believe they are singing their song just for you.

A few weeks ago, while trying to get out the door for the day, you didn’t want to wear your shoes to school because “Hailey* won’t talk to anyone who doesn’t have laces…” and do you remember what I told you? “Hailey sucks and she is not your friend. Not everyone has the

same heart as you, Madelyn, and that’s okay.” And then we hugged. Tight. And it was the kind of hug that was more of a hold - long enough for us to miss our daily “target leave time,” but it didn’t matter - you needed me and as promised, I was there. As the tears streamed down your face, I thought about how to go all Mama-Bear on Hailey but you know what? The people in this world who do not have the same heart as you will just make you stronger. They will hurt you on purpose, they will talk about you, and they will take advantage of your sweet nature. Know that this will happen at 5, 25, and even 95; it doesn’t matter how many candles are on your cake. Just know the problem lies in something that is in them, not something that is in you. So take that, Hailey. Laces are so 90’s anyway.

…

Just the other morning, after hearing your pounding piggies hit the ground while running to my room to greet me for the day, you pointed out and petted the scar on your upper left abdomen. “Here’s my scar, Mama, it makes me beautiful.” “It’s just a little part of what makes you beautiful, Mads,” pretending there were remnants of sleep in my eyes instead of tears, “Your beauty starts on the inside.” That scar is just a little reminder of how lucky we are to have you - and how you overcame your first obstacle at eleven weeks old. I fought hard for you, Mads. Someday I will tell you the whole story, but somehow I think you already know.

You asked for a locket with our picture in it for your birthday. What a “Very Maddy” request. I’m not sure how at five you already recognize the bond of our family, but you do... and for that, I’m the lucky one. As your Mama, I will never have to worry about you feeling the love and the enchantment of a happy home. We are far, far from perfect, but together we are a perfect family. Together we write our own narrative as we move forward through time. While including our own rewrites, rereads, and redos, our experience is uniquely ours and ours alone. And it’s just getting started. I can’t wait to see what lies ahead for you, your brother, your dad and for me.

My Sweet Mads, you are the the sign I needed to affirm that Heaven does exist - your GeeGee told me you’d be mine long before you were even a thought. So thank you for being here; thank you for being you. Even 90 years from now, (when I’m up in Heaven watching over), know you’ll always be my little girl. By that time, maybe you’ll even be sitting in a rocking chair, enjoying a glass of Guinness, thinking of me, too.

But don’t be sad:  I will be too busy up beyond the rainbow, decked out in green and my Irish orange, sporting all kinds of shamrocks, hooting and hollering while crappily dancing a jig and proudly raising a glass: “Cheers to my Madelyn Marjorie.”

And that is no Blarney.

Happy, happy birthday. I love you...most.

Mama

*Names have been changed to protect the jerks.

The Lost Post

I stumbled upon this post in a draft form. The times have changed; the sentiments have not.

...

I love happening to you.

Every night, I whisper a “secret” into my children’s ears. It’s the same “secret” every time but I treat it as though I’m sharing it for the first time: dramatically pushing away the cozy blankies, moving in closely so they can hear the quietness and deliberateness of my voice as I confide my not-so-secret…

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Once in awhile Jimmy gives me a “ Aw, thanks, Mom,” but more often than not it’s a “Yah, that is the same thing you told me last night”… But Maddy, my sweet baby who is no longer a baby, mimics me and tells ME a secret right back from time to time. “Thanks for the cupcake,” “Tomorrow I want to watch Ariel,” and “I love lunch bunch,” are just a few of her secrets.

But then, one night, this gem: “I love happening to you.”

Cue the ugly cry. Silent, ugly tears ran down my face as I quietly exited her bedroom, so as not to bother the Big Guy, studying on the couch.

It’s no secret the last year and a half have been some of the toughest moments of my life, aside from losing my Ma before she got to meet her grandson (this side of the rainbow at least).  While we’ve been through a lot, to me, nothing can top that. Losing my Ma was the single biggest disappointment of my life.

But these last 18 months… yikes. Reflecting on the last 18 months sometimes make me want to scream fu-- at the top of my lungs, but then I worry y’all would have me sent to the crazy house. But it’s true. Life has changed in what seems like a thousand ways some days; on others, it seems like I haven’t skipped a beat. Eighteen months of the longest days of uncertainty, unexpected change, unanticipated growth, wins and losses, and just Life. Happening to me. Everything and nothing -- all at once. To get through, I keep moving. Moving more than I have ever moved in the last 41 years. That’s why I’m the skinniest I’ve ever been… ha ha.

“I love happening to you” brought my world to a screeching halt at the intersection of Self-Reflection and Let it Go.

While all of the things happening in my life that I can’t control can bring me down at times, I can’t let it define me or my family. I’m sure things that are happening to me are at the hands of the Big Man Upstairs, or at least I like to think so.  So I will let things happen, the way they are intended… and just let it “God”.