Written By Rose

 This was written for this blog by my mother in the summer of 2008.



Hello,
   It was December of 1996, almost 12 years ago when I was first diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer.  Jeff had just proposed to me, when we found out two weeks later that I had cancer.  January 6th of 1997, I had a mastectomy, followed  by reconstructive surgery. that took 7 hours. After that I had some more reconstructive surgery. I started  chemo 3 weeks after that. So for 3 months I took it every 3 weeks. Since my tumor was so big they wanted me to do a stem cell transplant, which was fairly new.. So I waited 3 weeks to build up some strength and then I went in the hospital and did my harvesting in which they took some of my platelets out and then they froze them. The next week I went in and they gave me chemo for 4 days straight and then on the 5th day they gave me my platelets. Then I stayed in the hospital for 3 weeks to build up strength, When I came home a nurse came out to the house every day, cause they thought I had a staff infection in my port that was in my chest.
   After I came home from that Jeff and I decided to get married, So on August 2nd we did. It was just a small doing. With all our kids, our brother and sisters and moms. Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Bill, who brought mom down from the U.P. And Jeff’s buddy Scott, who stood in the Wedding.  And Jeff’s buddy Pete Clark  and wife Pat. Also there, was Jeff’s friend Jim Grant and his wife Diana.  It was a nice day,
   Two weeks after we got married I started radiation. I went every day for 6 weeks at flower hospital.  After that I did well, it took me a long time to get my strength back. Today’s day they don’t even do the stem cell transplants for breast cancer anymore. It didn’t prove to save a lot of lives.
    Well after 11 years its back. In March of 2008, this year, I went to check out my back, cause it was hurting me, and it ended up to be bone cancer. My breast cancer metastasized into my bones.  I was very surprised. I never thought about cancer. But anyway I knew I had another battle on my hands.
   My Oncologist is up in Ann Arbor, at St Joseph hospital. So she started me on Radiation right away on my spine, cause I had a mass in it. They wanted to get rid of it as much as they could. So I did that for 6 weeks.  Then she started me on Estrogen Blockers, cause the type of cancer I had usually will disappear when using it. But It didn’t work for me. So now I’m doing Chemo again. But it is not the kind that usually makes you sick. I’m so glad... The Chemo I took the first time, made me very sick. Right now I just get very tired and fatigued.
   I couldn’t have done all of this if it weren’t for my family. I have been so blessed.  Jeff has been so good though all of this. My mom who lives with us helps out a lot. She loves keeping busy by doing dishes and doing the laundry. My sister Sharon comes over almost every day. My daughter Jessie came out from California with her kids, Shelby and Hayden. She has been here for over a month now. Jessie has been busy since she has been out here. She is producing a movie about her grandpa on the naval ship the Laffey, which was in World War II. My son Jeff, has come home from Maryland 3 times to visit. He’s a supervisor for a golf course that there building out there.  Joe lives in Point Place in Ohio, which is a 35 minute drive from here and he comes out a couple times a week. He’s a financial advisor. My stepdaughter Kelly and her husband Jimmy have three kids, Grace, Bryce and a new addition Reece. Kelly is a Manager for Aramark food service and Jimmy is an Engineer. My stepson Sam lives with his sister Mandy and Tyler. Right now he is in construction and is a manager for valet parking for a hotel in Maumee Ohio. And then there’s Mandy and her fiance Tyler, Mandy also works for Aramark food service and she is a accountant and Tyler works as a millwright.  I love our family, the grandkids are just wonderful. I adore them all.
    All I can say is enjoy life as it comes. Laugh, Live and Love, and of course remember God ‘s in charge !!
  
                                    Love to All, Rose

Putting Cancer On Trial

If I’m ever at a dinner party and someone says...‘Geesh, how long has it been since Michael Jackson died?”... I’ll be able to answer quickly without hesitation. That’s because he died a few months after my mother, and there’s no way I’ll forget how long that’s been. For two and a half years, the Dr. whom everyone saw as the guilty party in the death of Michael Jackson, has been on trial.
Late in the evening on November 7th, he was found guilty.

Tuesday morning, November 8th, I was at the gym doing cardio on a spin bike while I was watching the news. They showed us over and over and over the reading of the sentence and the Dr. being handcuffed, presumably to be taken somewhere where he’ll spend some time away from society. We saw Michael’s family elated with smiles on their faces saying ‘justice was served’ and other things that eluded to the fact that they were happy. Now, I know, they’d give up any and all of this to have Michael alive and well, but ‘justice was served.’

I was angry...for a moment. I think I pedaled a little faster for a while and thought about how nice it would be to put cancer on trial. I thought about how nice it would be to see Breast Cancer in its best suit sitting at the defendants table...see its face when a guilty verdict was read in the death of Rose Marie Hunt...see its face as it was hauled away in handcuffs to be taken out of society deemed “not worthy to be among us.”

That would be nice.

But obviously, this Law & Order scenario is something that will happen only on paper, for now. In the meantime, the ‘trial’ we have cancer on, is one we all have to participate in. We are all prosecutors. Our genetics and choices among other things certainly influence the outcome of anything that may happen to us...as is the case of Michael Jackson...my mother, myself and the neighbor next door.

Although we know breast cancer is the culprit...the guilty party...the enemy and we know our society would be wonderful without it, this trial will not end in a guilty verdict until we find a cure. My prayer is that it happens in my lifetime....so I can say on camera to the world that ‘justice was served.’

Rediculously Optimistic

Several months ago, I signed up for my second triathlon. I then should have promptly changed my middle name to “ridiculously optimistic” Or better yet, “stupid.” I have no idea why I like to punish myself in these kinds of ways, but I do. And it seems to be a pattern for me. I had full intentions of (using my best and most forceful air quotes) “training” for this one. I had completed my first sprint triathlon in 2008 while visiting Michigan during my mother’s chemo treatments. I say completed, but what I really mean is “didn’t die.” (Again with the air quotes.) I consider myself an athlete, so the first time around I thought, ‘oh, well, I can swim…and ride a bike…and run…so, let’s do a triathlon!’ 


Wrong.

I found out how wrong I was 50 feet into the swim portion of that very first triathlon. The only person I beat out of the lake was an 80-year old woman…and not only was she on my heels, but she started two or three waves behind me. Luckily, the part of the country where I participated in that initial Tri was as flat as any performance Rene Zelweger has done. With the exception of Chicago, actually. I really do like that movie. The flat land made it easy for me to catch up on the bike and trot through the run to cross the finish line under 2 hours. I was completely satisfied with myself but floored at how difficult that triathlon thingy was.

Not again! Oh, no. ‘Not again’ I told myself this time around. I will train for this. Oh, yes I will. I will train and lose the weight of baby number three….and the weight of Oreo cookies…and the weight that comes with the depression of grief. I will train and be amazing! I will look amazing…I will conquer and get there!

Then I discovered my left ACL reconstruction was torn. And the meniscus in that knee was deteriorated leaving my bones from my femur and tibia to make nice together in a little dance we call arthritis. Oh..and having three children really puts a damper on any regularly scheduled exercise. And… I still couldn’t swim. 


Hmmm….I’m not sure how, exactly, I thought this was going to go, but the ridiculous optimist in me thought it would ‘all work out.’ So, I borrowed a road bike from a friend, I started getting up at 5am to sneak in a jog or a ride and a really sweet neighbor offered to go to the YMCA with me to give me instructions on how to swim effectively.

All good in theory, yes. But the 5am workouts only happened when my knee cooperated and I wasn’t completely exhausted from the day before. Those celebrities who go to rehab for ‘exhaustion’ have nothing on mothers. Nothing. I say they’re wussies. Ok, not wussies…actually kind of smart, really. I’d totally go away for a while due to ‘exhaustion,’ if I could. Going to the YMCA with my neighbor happened only about four times due to schedules. It was enough time for me to learn what to do, but not enough time to actually practice doing it. Those pesky kids and their needs…if they hadn’t gotten in the way, I’d have reached my goal! Grrr.

Cut to this past Sunday morning. Event day. Five months after I signed up, I packed my bag and left at 5am with all of the things you need for a triathlon… towels, running shoes, shirt, bib number, visor, chip timer, helmet, water bottles, protein and carbs. I was prepared. I had even switched to clip in shoes on the bike and was comfortable using them. From the outside, I totally looked like I knew what I was doing. On the inside, however, I was terrified but ridiculously optimistic. 

Donning a purple swim cap signifying I was between the ages of 30 and 39, I stood surrounded by other purple caps who were surely going to leave me in the dust. Why was I here? I had no business doing this, I certainly didn’t train and saying I’m not a strong swimmer is an understatement. Here’s the thing… I didn’t care. I just wanted to finish alive. There was no way I was going to quit, because well, I just don’t ever quit. When the horn sounded and the mass of women ran into the water, I prayed to God to give me the strength to finish. Within just a few feet of the start I knew, once again, how difficult this was going to be. And it was.

I was comforted by the fact that I was not the slowest one. Five other purple caps struggled right along with me. I went from swimming on my belly to the backstroke wishing I could just float in on the waves from latter heats of women passing me. No such luck, but what actually happened to kept me going, was the drop out of those other purple caps. One by one, they all yelled for help and were escorted via lifeguard to the side of the lake for an exit from the event. By the halfway point, there were two of us left.  I had a lifeguard on a surfboard following me the entire time asking every 4 minutes if I was ok. So, other than looking like I needed help, I didn’t drown and I managed to keep the vomit down.

Yes, vomit.

Somehow, in my struggle to swim, nausea set in. But still… I didn’t quit. I couldn’t. Oh, dear Lord, why did you give me the father I have? There was no way I would ever be able to tell my Dad that I quit. Curses. I had to finish that swim. After I turned around the last buoy, I had a clear sight of the finish. And with God’s good graces, I did not die in my 22 minute swim. Yes, 22 minutes. Most finished it in 12. 

It took everything I had to walk up out of that water and not stop. I wanted to sit down right smack dab in the lap of that event photographer who was probably getting the absolute most unflattering picture of me. Somehow my mind convinced my legs to move in a fashion that could be considered a jog… or a seizure, call it what you want. I had plenty of room to get ready for my bike, since everyone around me was already gone. I put on my socks, grabbed my shoes, clipped on my helmet, took a big bite of a protein bar and with bike in tow, ran out of transition.

I mounted the bike thinking this was going to be the easiest part, as if sitting on a seat the size of a Kit Kat for 11 miles was somewhat of a rest before I had to run a 5k. I was shaking, tired, hungry, wishing I had a pillow and a blanket and the pain of having to pee was overwhelming. Why was I here? I had no business doing this. 10-year old boys and 80-year old women were passing me on BMX’s and mountain bikes.

I have never, ever wanted to stop moving so bad. You see, a Southern California event is full of lots of things that make me cringe, including very fit people and hills. I actually used the first half of the bike to rest and ride easy and once I caught my breath and had water, I found my second wind. I was able to change the gear and speed up, passing several people who had left me behind a while back. But I still had to pee. I tried to convince myself to just pee in my pants. “Just let it go, Jess.” is what I was saying over and over. I would have peed my pants, intentionally, if I could have. My body was so mad at me already, cooperation was not happening. Darn that potty training.

After 50 minutes and a beautiful ride over Hansen Dam, I was back at transition. I dismounted, shook out my body and headed to get my running shoes on. On my way out of transition and into the run, I was hoping to stop by a porta potty, but it was in an area I couldn’t get to. Those first few minutes of running were hell. Absolute torture. What was I doing here?!

My bladder felt like my stomach does normally on Thanksgiving. I tried to pee my pants again, but it just wouldn’t work. The 5k was a trail run and at many points we were running in sand. As if I weren’t moving slow enough, now I had fight with sand to make it look like I was moving backwards… or in super slow motion. I was so exhausted that I was getting annoyed at the shoe prints I was following. Have you seen those barefoot shoes? The one’s that hug your toes? Annoying. Someone in front of me had them on and I was disgusted. Who actually wants to wear something in between your toes?!

Ironically the pain in my bladder was soon replaced with the pain in my right foot. Apparently, one of my toenails was a wee too long and started scraping the inside of the toe next to it. Have you ever tried to run while clenching your toes? And I thought sand was my problem. Suddenly, those huggy barefoot shoes that would keep my toes separated seemed alright. The run turned into a run/walk/run/putter/walk until the midpoint when I felt rested enough to continue. 45 minutes after I started the run, I saw the finish line.

Hallelujah. Amen. Done. Thank you Jesus.

I promptly took my medal, ate an orange, a banana and a bagel, said bye to a few new friends (who made it all look too easy) and headed for my bike to pack up. As I walked back to my belongings, I was absolutely satisfied. My knee never gave out, I had not quit and for being 30 pounds overweight with very little training, I didn’t do as bad as I expected. I suppose being ridiculously optimistic pays off.

Me...the triathlete.

Dinner and Conversation

Sitting down to a quiet, intimate dinner with someone is probably one of the greatest bonding experiences you can have. Casual talk starts as menus are handed out. Drinks are soon on their way and after you’ve decided what to eat and place your order, the distraction of printed words is removed from the table. Now, you can toast, fold your hands and sit back to have a moment with someone…a spouse, a friend, a brother, sister, a date, a lover, a great dinner does not discriminate.

If I could sit down to dinner with anyone right now, the obvious answer would be my mother. There’s no doubt we’d end up at Taco Bell sipping on pop and finishing up her favorite tacos. A conversation wouldn’t even be necessary, actually. I’d be perfectly happy just staring at her face. Forever.

I started thinking about what a great dinner would be this week, as I was reading Time Magazine in the Pediatricians office. I opened to an article on the current exhibit at The Philadelphia Museum of Art, Rembrandt and the Face of Jesus. They had a few printed examples of this exhibit and my eyes found and stuck with one image in particular.

This one.

I must have stared at this image for a good bit of time because Courtney, who was in for her 15-month appointment, had made her way through all of the toys in an enormous bin.

This painting is titled Christ At Emmaus and it’s dated from 1625. The men in this print have just realized whom they had been sharing bread with. One of them is thrown back and the other immediately falls to his knees. It made me envious of any man or woman who was able to sit down at a table with Jesus and have an actual, real-life conversation with him.

I honestly think, if I were given the chance right now to see my mother’s face again or to sit with Jesus Christ of Nazareth himself, I’d have to go with the latter. Sound crazy to you? Yeah, me too. Rembrandt has projected so much love from this work; I am on the edge of tears every time I examine it. This painting fully speaks to me about the longing I have to talk directly to this man who fills me with so much love… so much strength… so much confusion.

Yes, confusion. I must confess, I am a skeptic at heart.

I have many daily struggles. I struggle with how not to throw any combination of kids out of the window at any given time. I struggle with NOT eating the entire bag of Oreo’s. I struggle with getting the laundry done before any one of us runs out of clean underwear and also with keeping the floors shiny so all of our feet...and baby’s hands don’t stay permanently black from filth. But the whopper of all daily struggles for me… is my faith. The foundation of what I believed to be true was shaken when my mother died.

So, if I had the chance to meet this man at a dinner table, I think I’d order a glass of wine, listen intently and stare at his face. Forever.

The Mother Of All Comfort

Can we talk comfort food?

Thank the Lord above for gifting me with a mother who could cook anything, and cook it well......and probably with butter and salt.
I know how lucky I am to have had a mom who could delight us all in the kitchen and who taught me how to as well. I'm not saying, by any means, that I'm any kind of chef. But I do alright.
One of the best, and most simple things, my mother ever made was Chicken Noodle Soup...always from scratch.
It's easy, it's cheap and it's comfort.
I had just made a big batch of Chicken Noodle this past Monday for dinner and then my dear friend Lindsay went and had her third baby this week!  I'll be making it again this morning for her and her family. You see, if you've had a baby, or have been sick, or have lost a loved one....I'll make you soup. Soup is good. Since I have these pictures, I'd love to show you exactly what Lindsay will be getting when she gets home from the hospital.


The main ingredients:

Chicken, Onion, Carrots, Celery, Salt & Pepper & Water

Place the chicken, chopped up veggies, salt and pepper in a roaster or crockpot and let it go!

A nice big roaster. You can certainly use a crock pot as well. I cook the chicken at 325-350 for a few hours.

I use 1 large onion

I use as many carrots as I can fit. I love carrots in my soup!

I use 1 stalk of celery

Chicken covered in yummy goodness ready to be cooked for hours. Be sure to put enough water to cover chicken.

I cook the chicken  for at least 2 1/2 hours, depending on what else I've got going on that day. Easy!

Chicken...which makes your house smell delicious...is done.

I remove the chicken from the roaster and place it into a shallow pan to cool. It should absolutely fall apart!

You're left with this delicious stock, which I then transfer to a soup pot on the stove, because I make a very large pot of soup.

Thank you Mervyn's Going Out of Business Sale for this amazing soup pot!

Since I like to make enough soup to feed an army....or freeze for a second meal in a few weeks, I do add a bit more stock. I find that liquid stock is better tasting than bouillon of any kind. But this is just a personal preference. Either one of these are ok! 

This next part is where I've deviated from my mother's plan. She always loved Kluski Noodles for her soup, and they are very delicious indeed, but when I was a child, my paternal grandmother made some homemade noodles that were just as tasty as they come. So, a few years ago, I asked her how to make them. Ever since then, I've been making the homemade noodles instead of store bought. 

Oh yes...my mother would be proud. 

Here's how to make the noodles:

Beat 3 eggs

Then take one half of the egg shells and fill it three times with cold water. Beat. After this, add about a tablespoon of salt. Then beat again

This next step is a bit of guesswork. You need to add flour to make the dough. I start with 2 cups of flour and if I think I need more, I add more.

There is only one way to mix this...by hand. You'll know if you need to add more flour by the consistency of the dough. Mix and knead by hand until the dough bounces back after pushing it down. If your dough is dry, just add a little bit of water until you're good with it.

This is the dough ball I'm left with. I like to work with half of this at a time, so I'll just tear this in half and roll out one part at a time.

The tools you will need: A cutting board, a roller and a pizza cutter or knife.

Cover your rolling spot with plenty of flour. I mean...plenty of flour.

Roll out your dough to your desired thickness. I try to get it as thin as possible because the noodles do get thicker when cooked.

After they are rolled out, I pull it up on my cutting board and start cutting. You can cut them any shape, length or thickness your little heart desires.

Place the cut noodles in a colander and when you're ready to place them into your boiling stock, give them a quick rinse in cold water. I mean quick....they will get mushy and start to stick together if you're not quick enough. 

Simply add your noodles to boiling stock and let them cook for a few minutes, that's all they need.

At this point, all there is left to do is tear apart your chicken (Which I do by hand) and add it to your soup.

Voila!

Chicken Noodle Soup. Delicious.

Some of the best part of this is letting the kids help....and play. Flour is easy to sweep up, so I let them go to town!

I'm not sure why he looks so angry....he was having a great time. 

Lindsay will also be getting chocolate chip cookies, but that's a recipe I don't feel like sharing just yet.

Bon Appetit!

Rite Of Passage

When I was six, I got my ears pierced. For it being so very long ago, I actually remember the day quite well. I was with my mom in the Northtown Mall in Toledo, Ohio…long before it is whatever it is now… and as we passed Claire’s Boutique, I remember telling her that I wanted to get my ear’s pierced. She didn’t hesitate for a minute. She smiled, she told me it would hurt and led me by the hand into the store. After picking out some ruby studs and using a marker to dictate where the earrings would go, a nice young lady quickly pierced the first one and I immediately teared up. Mom had to hold my hand and calm me down a bit so I wouldn’t have to leave there looking lopsided. The nice young clerk then pierced my second ear. And that was it. I had pierced ears.

As mom was paying at the counter for my newfound body jewelry, I firmly wrapped my arms around her right thigh and hung onto her jeans while a few tears fell down my 6 year old cheek. She rubbed the back of my head and looked down at me.
“See, that didn’t hurt so bad, did it?”
I smiled, “No.”
“Does it still hurt now?” She asked.
“No.” I giggled, realizing she was right. They had stopped hurting.

I remember all of this. It was a great day and I’m thankful for the memory.

This summer, just before Shelby turned six, she asked me if she could get her ears pierced. I had been waiting for her to ask. A lot of people pierce their little girls’ ears at infancy, and I’ve had plenty of Latinas in the neighborhood ask me why I hadn’t done it to my girl. My answer was always the same.

“I’ll wait until she asks.”

She did ask, and I was excited. I made her patiently wait until our summer vacation was over and yesterday I took her to the mall to get her ears pierced. She was so excited as expected. I was definitely more nervous than she, but I had been telling her that it would hurt to try and prepare her. Shelby picked out a very pretty pair of pink flower studs and as she sat in the chair waiting for her step into earrings, I was extremely emotional myself.

 This is what my mom did with me. I remember this day for myself and I pray that she’ll remember it too. I thought of how important earrings are to girls..Middle school…High School…College! Earrings are fun and make girls feel special. Shelby was sitting right in front of me, growing up. Literally, right before my very eyes, she was growing up.

Shelby asked me to hold her hand, and I did. My only tweak was to ask if they could do both ears at the same time, just to be done with it. They did, she giggled in the reality of it….and now she’s got pierced ears. She never cried.

 I am so happy for her. She’s been talking about them nonstop…to anyone who, well, has ears.

Lessons we're learning

This morning at an award ceremony at Shelby’s school, she won a few awards that would make any parent proud. She got perfect attendance and perfect Bible verse memorization. But one in particular had me in tears…it had my heart beating strongly and it had me questioning what kind of faith I’m living right now.

 Since she was young, I’ve always told people that Shelby was ‘sensitive’ when it came to God and spiritual things. I know God has spoken to me through her on more than one occasion. For example, a couple of months after my mother died, I was in the kitchen on the phone with my dear friend Angela. I was completely distraught and I had called her to talk about God and my faith…and its sudden disappearance. The kids were in another room occupied and I was speaking lowly as to not worry them, since I was verging on blubbering mess.
In walks Shelby tugging on my shirt, “Mom!.” She screamed.
“Shelby, I’m on the phone."
“MOM!” she persisted.
“WHAT Shelby?” I responded realizing it wasn’t very nice.
“God is here mom. Jesus is here.” She said calmly. Very calmly.

Too calm.

As Angela was listening on the phone, she said, “Did she just say what I think she did?”
I was beginning to cry again and was chuckling at her timing. But I knew it wasn’t timing that was happening.
I bent down so I wouldn’t misunderstand and so Angela could witness the words that came out of her mouth.
“What did you say, Shelby?”
“Mom. God is here. Jesus is here. They’re both here, Mom.”
And with that, I said thank you, I kissed her head and moved her out of the room. I cried more.

For her to walk into that kitchen and say those things to me, well…it was unreal. She was 3, and we weren’t exactly talking about God that much, let alone Jesus.
Cut to the award ceremony this morning. Don and I knew Shelby was going to get an award, but we were not let in on which one. So, when her Kindergarten teacher started describing the child she chose for The Best Christian Attitude, I thought that it could be Shelby…maybe…yes….and then she stated that this child held a lemonade stand and gave her earnings to the missionary fund at school.
It was Shelby. And I started crying.
Shelby had done things throughout the year that clearly showed the love she has for God with her words… her leadership… her friendship and her ability to love unconditionally.
Oh, my heart was joyed, beyond belief. Almost to the point of disbelief. I sit here still and think that I cannot possibly claim any kind of credit for her Christian attitude, when my faith has wavered and my own attitude has fluctuated. And I realize that it most definitely isn’t myself or her father’s Christian attitudes that are rubbing off on her…it’s God at work…on us.

The End Of An Era

I love breastfeeding. I do. I really, really do.
Now, don’t get me wrong…the initial weeks of nursing make you wonder if putting the child back in the womb is really an option. The sore nipples… the exhaustion… the aching back… the uterus shrinking contractions… all of these things really let you examine the whole “natural” thing, and question if people were really pulling your leg on how it’s supposed to go. Even with child two and three.

But here I am, three children later and I am at the end of breastfeeding.
Forever.
I’m done being pregnant…unless God seriously intervenes to let me know three gorgeous children are simply not enough for our family, and in that case God would also be telling me that I would no longer have a husband, because there is no way our marriage would survive a fourth child.

I’m also finished carrying an ‘infant’…as the youngest is on her way to walking and toddlerdom. She is also on her way to bumps, bruises, breaking things, tantrums, emptying shelves…cupboards and pantry’s too.

But, what I’m dealing with today is the end of breastfeeding. It became clear to me a few weeks ago that my sweet one-year old was no longer interested in the night feedings prior to bedtime. So I stopped those.
And two days ago it became clear that she no longer needed the morning feeding either.
So, yesterday, I picked her up from her crib, passed up the living room couch where our previous mornings for the past year have landed us to nurse…and headed straight for the kitchen to put her in her high chair for cow’s milk and toast.
And all was fine. She didn’t cry…she didn’t bat an eye.
She was fine…but I wasn’t.
I’m still not.


I’ll deal with it, I’m sure. I’ll have to give myself  a few more days to let my chest heal, both literally and figuratively. But, knowing how much this has been paining me, I’m afraid of the mess I’ll be when this youngest one heads of to kindergarten.

Yes, this is how awful I felt with Shelby in the beginning of nursing.

Sweet baby Hayden...holding my thumb while nursing.

Moments after Courtney's birth, just before our first time nursing.

Taking The Kids Out And About

This week, while Shelby was in school, I took Hayden and Courtney to a place we’d never been before. It was close, it was cheap…and it happened to be a cemetery.

I know, I know…what in the world is there to do with your young children at a cemetery? Well, over by the Burbank Airport, you can see a beautifully sculpted building from the outside of a fence at a park we frequent. I’ve been noticing it for years but never knew what it was. My curiosity finally got the best of me and I drove up to it only to find the fence locked with a sign saying there was an aviation museum inside and telling you where to enter. The entrance is a place I’ve seen plenty of times, about a mile and a half away…The Valhalla Memorial Park. 

So, I drove to the entrance, pulled in very slowly and immediately had a strong urge to leave, and if there had been a clear exit marked, I just might have. Right ahead of me was a funeral service in process. My hands went to ten and two on the steering wheel and grasped for dear life. I felt a small rush of blood go to my head and I tried to tell myself that I was just being dramatic, but the truth was, I wasn’t. I wasn’t over exaggerating how I was feeling at all.

I proceeded slowly through the parked cars of those attending this service, my eyes gazed upon the sea of people in black sitting and standing under a green canopy. They surrounded a casket, with presumably someone they love lying on the inside. I could hear my son asking me a question over and over in the back of the van, but I was sincerely unable to answer him as I was processing the fear going on inside of me. This scene is probably the absolute most horrifying part of death. Once you’ve lost someone, whether it sudden, expected or tragic…this last, final part of standing over a box and a deep hole is terrifying.

“Mom!” Hayden shouts. “Where are we?!”

I told him we were at a cemetery, and he was silent for only a moment. But in that moment, I saw a grave dug for a second funeral, I assumed was to be held later that day. The canopy was set, the chairs were out and the pile of dirt was visible. Beyond that was a man sitting cross-legged near the headstone of someone gone. I could see his lips moving as he read out of a small book to this person lying below him. Even farther down the beautifully landscaped road I saw a young girl, with her bike parked, lying on her side next to a grave. She had her headphones on and seemed to be sleeping.

“Mom, is this where Grandma Rose is?” He said softly. 
“No, honey. We’re here to go look at something. This is a different cemetery. Not the one where Grandma Rose is”
“Your mom died.” He said.
“Yes, she did.” I confirmed. Every time the kids say this, it takes everything I have not to yell. "You shut your mouth. I know she died. I was there! I saw it! She was my mom and I know she died.!!!" But obviously I never say that.......
“Why did she die?” He asked.
“She was sick with cancer.” I explained, regretting that this was not the first time my little boy had heard me explain cancer.
This is where people DIE?”
I chuckled a bit, not sure why. His infliction on the word die was comical.
“No, sweetie. They don’t die here. But when people die, we bury them here, remember?” I asked him if he remembered expecting a 3 year old to actually remember.
“We bury them in the grass?” he asked.
“No, we bury them in a pretty box under the grass.”
“In the DIRT?” Again…the inflection made me laugh.
“Yes Buddy. In the dirt” I replied.
“But why?”
“Well, Hayden. When we die, our souls are gone and we don’t need our bodies anymore. So we put people’s bodies in the ground to go back to the Earth.”
“Oh, yeah.” He said, as if he really did remember.

We moved on and I found my way to the building I was looking for. It was beautiful. It turns out it is a shrine to those lost who marveled the aviation world. There was charming scenery; beautiful headstones and evidence that loved ones had just visited a few of them. I spent a good amount of time looking around the building while I let the kids play in the grass and sit on the big rocks surrounding a pretty fountain. I suppose the location of this shrine didn’t quite get my attention until a large plane took off from the airport and I realized the flight path was directly overhead. Courtney, Hayden and I were all struck silent as we watched these planes fly feet above us honoring these men and women who spent their lives in aviation.

On our way out, I saw a young man with a child. He stood solemnly still, hands folded in prayer with his head low over a grave while the child seemed to be picking grass. The other man was still there reading aloud to his love one lost and I drove as slowly out as I did in with respect to that funeral service that seemed to be coming to a close. Oh, what a terrible, final part of death that is…the funeral service and burial.

Setting aside the extreme sadness I encountered upon entering, I have to say, I had a nice time with my children. It really was a lovely cemetery.