Milestones
Thursday, February 21, 2008, by Sherra
Today is a day I choose to celebrate my dad.
Indulge me as I take a little trip down memory lane with some good times with my dad…
It was one of the proudest days of my life when I birthed The Grunter way back in 1989.
He is our only child born in the Midwest. Upon learning I was pregnant just seven months after the car crash in Florida, we moved to Illinois so I could be close to my parents.
We didn’t know the sex of the baby and I was quite sure it was a girl.
Ah, but life is full of surprises and we were the proud new parents of a baby boy. Grandma and Grandad got to come to the hospital hours after his birth. We kept the name we picked a surprise too. So when Grandad arrived at the hospital, it was a moment that is frozen in time for me. I introduced him to his first grandson and his namesake (in reverse).
Grunter The meet The Grunter. Okay, not really but I can’t reveal The Grunter’s real name here on the internet. So you’ll just have to imagine. (Something like PhilBillPaul meet PaulBillPhil–say that three times fast.)
We stayed in the Midwest for 8 months after The Grunter was born and we made the most of our months there. We enjoyed Friday night fish dinners at the local restaurants, Bears football and played euchre on the weekends.
My dad and PhilBillPaul always got along great. Such a rare gift when the in-laws love your spouse. Together they had a wicked sense of humor and loved to make my mom and me squeal.
But then we moved to Georgia. Our weekly visits became two or three times a year. We added two more grandchildren to his growing brood which topped out at eleven.
The twins were as big a surprise to us as was having a son! It took him a long time to attempt to hold the girls together–admittedly they were a handful. He was almost as overwhelmed as we were with two babies and a two year old.
We spent several Christmas holidays in the Midwest when the first three kids were babies and toddlers. Later, we opted to stay in Georgia and create our own family holiday traditions but I look back at those years fondly.
He was always genuinely excited when we visited. One year he waited patiently for our arrival so he could show the kids his new hair. On our previous visit, The Grunter had asked him where his hair went. When we walked in the living room, there was Grandad donning his new hair.
My dad always made time to be with my kids. He got down on the floor and read books. He colored with them and he played games with them. He almost always adjusted his schedule when we visited so he could spend time with us. I got to watch my dad love my kids unconditionally.
He taught them to play chess. It took a lot of patience to get Roger Leroy to sit still. Luckily, he had lots of patience.
For six years in a row, we traveled to the Midwest for a Labor Day family reunion in Indiana and would spend some time in Illinois with my parents. It was an easier time to travel without the ice and snow and the chaos of the holidays. And if there is a good time to be in the Midwest, September is a glorious month!
My dad loved golf. Absolutely LOVED golf. He played every day that he could and sometimes twice a day. At his best, his handicap was 4. He was an excellent golfer.
He taught us to play in the 5th grade and made us count every single stroke. I was very proud of that first round score of 56…on THREE holes. In spite of my score, he was also an excellent teacher. He didn’t just teach us how to hit the ball; he taught us the etiquette of the game which was every bit as important to him as a good drive off the tee box.
Out of the four kids in my family, my brother and I are the ones who still continue to play. I have improved a little. My brother has improved a lot.
When my kids got big enough, he promised to take each one to ride in his red Harley golf cart while he played a round. He waited until they were old enough to understand how to sit and watch quietly and enjoy the beauty of the course. It was a magical thing to witness.
This day was Wizzy’s turn. Excuse me, he never let us drive the cart?! In fact, he usually made us walk.
Roger Leroy never got her turn…
Today marks eight years ago to the day that he died. He had just turned 60 in December of 1999.
He passed away 2 short months later in the home he loved with just me and my mom there. We promised we wouldn’t take him back to the hospital he hated so much.
It was my privilege to be there in those final days.
Life is made up of challenges and chaos and of moments and milestones. Every once in a while, there is a perfect moment. Sometimes you don’t get to take a photo of that moment.
But sometimes you do.
My favorite photo in my life is this one.
My favorite video is my dad sledding with my kids when we flew up to Illinois spontaneously for the weekend because The Grunter said he “wanted to make footprints in the snow.”
Be here now. Stop and make footprints. It is so worth it. Make sure you make the time to tell those important people in your life how much you love them. Visit them. Hug them. Call them today.
Treasure the moments. Take lots of pictures. Learn how to use that camcorder. I just cannot express how priceless those moments on film and dvd are to us.
Treasure each other in the recognition that we do not know how long we shall have each other. –Joshua Loth Liebman
This is the last grainy, poorly lit photo I have of my dad. It is one of only two photos I have of him with Scary Baby. She was just one month old when he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma–a particularly painful and hideous cancer.
She was five months old in this picture. Five months later he was gone.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. If you’ve lost a parent or loved one, then you already know this.
Love and time – those are the only two things in all the world that cannot be bought, but only spent. –Gary Jennings
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him and miss him.
Some day maybe I’ll tell you some bad, funny stories about him.
As I smile and celebrate his life, especially today, I thought this would be a fitting close.
Two years after his death, I made a small tribute album with all the pictures of him with my kids that I could find. The album helps us to
always remember and here is what I wrote on the last page…
I thank God that he was able to see each of my children and he knew that Daddy and I made a good and happy life for our family. Most of all, I am at peace knowing that this man who raised me as his own daughter since I was three years old…this man who I never referred to as my step-dad even though that is what the world might call him…this man who made a life for my mom and me, supported us, paid the bills, created a home and made us all a family…this man who never judged me and quietly believed in me through those tough teen years…this man who taught me the game of golf and so many other things about life…this man knew in his head and his heart through my words and my actions that he was the only dad I’ve ever known and loved with all my heart…
Thanks for indulging me today so I could remember and celebrate
a kind, funny, patient man. My dad.
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Categories: Life Lessons, Milestones, Moments
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Wednesday, February 20, 2008, by Sherra
PhilBillPaul was on his way home–presumably to take me to the hospital or some facility that could help me. The kids were hiding somewhere in the house listening to me cry.
I called my friend Ann to tell her my passwords and important information she could take care of while I went away. Apparently, I was thinking I might be away for a while and someone should answer my emails and take care of other details I wouldn’t be able to while I was hospitalized. Because I’m a planner like that.
I still could not breathe.
I never, ever felt so out of control in my whole life.
Ann told me to take one of those new anti-anxiety pills right then while she was on the phone with me and she insisted she would stay on the phone with me until PhilBillPaul got home.
When she was sure PhilBillPaul was tending to me, Ann then called my OB/gyn and my therapist.
Have I mentioned that my friend Ann lives in Illinois? She was doing all this for me three states and 820 miles away–I hope you all have a friend like Ann in your life…
The OB/gyn offices said to take me to the emergency room. The therapist said to try to wait until Monday because the ER would do very little and might make it worse. It’s always helpful for the professionals to agree and make good decisions on your behalf when you are no longer able to. (sigh)
I had already screamed announced I was not going to the ER to be strapped down and sedated. I have BIG issues about being pinned down.
I took a shower. I crawled into bed and talked to Ann on the phone again because she seemed to be the only person who could calm me down. PhilBillPaul brought me something to eat. I fell asleep.
I slept fitfully and never really calmed down. The exhaustion was indescribable.
Maybe it was the rhythmic snoring that brought me to this place or maybe I just needed something to blame because no one could tell me why I felt this way. I do know that the snoring had become like nails on a chalkboard, or for me, like when someone scratches their jeans and I have to slap them to stop it.
Come to think of it, his breathing had become quite annoying too.
In the morning, PhilBillPaul left to take the girls to a basketball game and The Grunter was still sleeping.
All I remember thinking is this: I cannot stay in my own house another minute. I must find a quiet place where I can sleep. I must not be where dogs bark or kids say “Hey mama” or my husband asks me every half hour “Is there anything I can get you?”
I know that last one sounds really sweet and it was. If you weren’t me.
It was also smothering and infuriating. He just couldn’t fix me no matter how much he wanted to.
So I did what we’ve all threatened thought about but only in our head. Or shared privately with girlfriends but always with a little uneasy laughter because none of us would ever really act on those unspoken or private thoughts…
I ran away from home.
Literally.
I left a note that said I would call when I got to where I was going. I packed a bag of dirty clothes and left.
I had no idea where I was going.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I was pretty sure I was going…
CRAZY.
To be continued…
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Wednesday, February 13, 2008, by Sherra
The nurse at my doctor’s office encouraged me to see the midwife who is well-versed in women’s sleep deprivation, depression and hormone issues. I wholeheartedly agreed. I love the midwives. I delivered all four children with midwives. Sign me up. I need to see a midwife.
She listened. She empathized. She laughed. (I’m still funny even when I’m depressed.) She pointed out anyone would be depressed at the stage of life I’m at with the ages of my children. (That made me kind of sad.)
She sent me home with a NEW prescription that she was SURE would work for me. It was in a different family of drugs than the other two I had taken in the past. I had been properly weaned from the first med and could start the new med the very next day.
She also sent me home with a sleeping pill prescription. I was craving sleep in a giant way.
I took one and lay in bed all night waiting for it to work. No such luck.
Have I mentioned that PhilBillPaul snores like a stuck pig? He has done this for all 20 years of our marriage. I’ve been incredibly tolerant if I do say so and I am saying so now. But at this time in my life, his snoring, or more accurately, my newly developed extreme sensitivity to noise had wreaked more havoc on my sleep patterns.
12 weeks later. Still exhausted. Volatile. Witchy. I called the doctor’s office and talked to the nurse again. She said I should definitely be feeling better by now. Time to start weaning off this drug that wasn’t working and make another appointment. They wanted me to come in and talk to the midwife again.
She was baffled. She couldn’t believe that neither med worked. I asked about hormone levels and doing other blood work to test everything that seemed to be going wrong with my body (and mind). She thought it might be time for a pysch evaluation. I volunteered to check in to a facility where I could sleep for a week or two. She laughed…again.
I left with the names of two psychiatrists she recommended and a new anti-anxiety med that might help on the “really bad days” (until we could figure out what was wrong with me).
Two days later, I had The Grunter pinned to the wall and I was screaming till my throat hurt. I literally fell apart. I could not breathe. I called PhilBillPaul and through my hysterical sobbing I begged him to come home and take me to a hospital that would help me…
To be continued…
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Wednesday, February 6, 2008, by Sherra
I went home from that appointment and I’m pretty sure I crawled into bed and took a long nap. Sheesh, it was a big day for me–showering and driving to the doctor and all. I might have had to stop and put gas in the car. I can’t really remember.
I spent another month in bed considering taking the pills but knowing if I just got a little more quality sleep time, I would snap out of this and everything would be okay.
I made weekly appointments for some talk therapy. I went. The therapist gave me words of affirmation and quality time (my main love languages).
Side note: If you haven’t ever read Gary Chapman’s book, The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate
I highly recommend it. It has been extremely helpful in all my relationships, not just marriage.
Okay, I do know she was getting paid to give me quality time and words of affirmation are really part of her job description. But I did feel better for at least an hour or two. She also thought I should seriously consider taking the medication.
I went home from those appointments and climbed back in bed to sleep because I was exhausted from actually going somewhere. And not sleeping at night.
Another month went by and nothing much had changed. So I made the decision to try the pills.
Please understand my hesitation in taking the pills was not because I am anti-meds. If it works, give me two! My hesitation was in my previous experience of taking a short six month ride on another anti-depressant when my dad was dying and Scary Baby was just 8 months old.
That prescription certainly took the edge off and kept me functioning at a time in my life that I really needed to be “present and accounted for.” But it also made me very, very flat. I am the first one to admit that I like to FEEL my emotions–I love to laugh and I’m not opposed to a good cry. With the drug, I did neither.
Side note: I was very, very agreeable and PhilBillPaul liked that a lot. He could barely get me to argue or squeal about anything. Very sad for me. I missed that part of me.
So I decided to make the commitment and started to take the pills as instructed. It takes at least 4 to 6 weeks to get the drugs into your system at the proper dosing.
Nothing…no change. Except I was more tired which seemed almost impossible. Not being able to sleep at night, I was staying up till the wee hours of the morning and then having vivid, 3D dreams that were not peaceful or soothing in any way.
That was the single most disturbing side effect because even though I’m aware that I have many, many issues–sleep was never one of them. I could get a job as a professional sleeper. It is a skill I have carefully honed. I know I need a minimum of eight hours with a nap or two if possible. I’m the person who can sleep standing up if there is no place to lie down.
Except then I was freaking out because I was not getting any uninterrupted sleep. It was much, much worse than the “new, crying baby, no sleep” mode. Why? Because I was a lot younger then. And my babies were put on an excellent sleep schedule and adhered to it. And because if there was one time I was a really good mother, it was when they were infants.
Ten weeks later. I’m not sleeping, I’m farther down in the black hole and it was time to call the doctor again.
To be continued…
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Wednesday, January 30, 2008, by Sherra
Back in 1988, my new friend, Mr. Psychologist, who was helping me cope with the side effects of the head injury recovery process, shared a word picture that helps me even today.
He said, “Everyone has a sack of pebbles they carry on their back. Some have larger pebbles than others. Some have more pebbles. Some have less.”
I then announced “if everyone has pebbles then I have BOULDERS in my sack. ” Remember, head injury patients are prone to ill-timed emotional outbursts and I was a textbook case. These days when I act out I just yell “Coma” so everyone remembers it’s not my fault. It doesn’t really work all that often but can you blame me for trying?
Focus, Sherra, focus.
Okay, so the real lesson here is not that I have boulders and you don’t. I believe we all have pebbles, rocks and boulders and we all cope with them in very different ways.
Your boulders may be bigger and heavier than mine. They come in all shapes and sizes and weights. (Hey, just like people.) We’re not here to judge anyone’s boulders so please, let’s start by not judging mine. We are not in a boulder competition. I repeat, this is not a competition!
Rather, we need to look for ways to help each other see past the boulders, move them, chip them away - do whatever it takes to get that other human being around, over or out from behind the boulder.
Upon realizing that The Black Hole (TBH) was a giant boulder and it was getting in the way of my day-to-day life, I knew I had to do something.
The first thing I did was to make a doctor’s appointment with my OB/gyn. It conveniently coincided with that extra-special annual appointment that we all love so much. I did feel a tiny bit productive multi-tasking like that.
I’m pretty verbal (as if you haven’t already figured that out) and I know the importance of being my own medical advocate. I shared with my doctor who I had been seeing since just after the twins were born, that I was having a hard time “coping” at home and my PMS seemed to be lasting, on average, about 28 to 30 days every month.
Hindsight flash: I wish I had known about this cute little chart I found on the internet recently. I might just order one today. I really believe that knowing the rhythm of our bodies is crucial for our health and well-being.
My doctor listened, nodded, and made some notes on his new hi-tech laptop that held my new paperless medical records.
Then he sent me home with the latest, greatest anti-depressant and patted me on the back and said to call if I needed anything else…
To be continued…
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Friday, January 25, 2008, by Sherra
My journey into The Black Hole was not as easy to summarize as I first thought. Here is the beginning of the story that I will continue to share in the coming weeks. Not because I think the details are fascinating or I am trying to be more depressing, but because if my story can help just one woman who is going through something similar, I want to reach out to her…
I have discovered that I have the ability to muddle through even when life gets hard. It’s part of who I am. A stubborn, hardworking, Midwestern girl who knows bad things can happen to good people.
I have also discovered that it really takes a lot to send me spiraling into “The Black Hole” but spiral is what I do when faced with boulders. (More on boulders on another day.)
So far, three boulders have been put in front of me that have overwhelmed me enough to warrant intervention, professional counseling and/or drugs:
Boulder #1: The car crash, coma and learning to live with a head injury. May 1988
Boulder #2: Helping my mom take care of my dad when he was dying of multiple myeloma. February 2000
Boulder #3: An explosion with a flash fire at our house where PhilBillPaul and I suffered severe 2nd degree burns. September 2006
Lest you think I’m whining, I share these things with you to give you a bit more insight into who I am and let you know that I don’t typically fall apart when life gets hard.
I now realize that the fire was really a post-traumatic stress trigger. It brought up feelings so similar to the car crash “boulder” that it was almost eerie.
Except this time I had three teenagers and a 2nd grader and two dogs and I could barely function. It took all my strength to get out of bed and get cleaned up to “appear to be fine” at a school function or sporting event or anywhere in public.
My semi-rational brain knew that old adage of “surround yourself with positive people” is usually true.
Unfortunately, my irrational brain was working overtime. Positive people were the last people I wanted to be around. They can be very irritating to those of us who are not feeling so positive. Positive people were not invited into The Black Hole. This was a private party for one, thank you very much.
So I started avoiding doing anything that required me to get out of bed or get cleaned up or basically interact with other humans beyond my immediate family.
I was anti-social and preferred to be in my bedroom (in my bed) whenever possible. I answered the phone as little as possible.
I was a barrel of fun to live with.
To be continued…
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Tuesday, January 8, 2008, by Sherra
“I’m not the ‘me’ I used to know.”
That sentence sums up for me how I’ve felt since I woke up from a coma in June 1988.
The quote is from another traumatic brain injury survivor. I have since lost that little scrap of paper I carried around in my wallet for many years.
In one moment my world was turned upside down.
We were hit head-on by a drunk driver. I was driving and the most seriously injured. I was airlifted to Bayfront Medical Center and was in a coma for eleven days.
Something happens when you have been to the edge of death and have been given a second chance at life.
Phillip and I had been married just seven short months and we lived in Tampa, Florida. The crash happened on Friday night, Memorial Day weekend at about 11:30 pm on our way home from Clearwater to Tampa. I was driving. Phillip was in the passenger seat. An old friend and my roommate before we got married was in the backseat. We had actually driven over to Clearwater to feed her boss’s dogs. I volunteered to drive as they were both tired from a long week of work.
We never made it home.
I have always known that if I had not been wearing a seat belt, I would have died that night. (Airbags or automatic seat belts did not become mandatory in passenger vehicles until the next year.)
Phillip was the only one who was able to get out of the car and get help. The drunk driver had crossed the center line and I took the brunt of the impact. A two lane highway with water on the right side. No one could have driven out of it. It took me many years to really understand that.
My friend was trapped in the backseat with a crushed hip. I had grand mal seizures and I stopped breathing on the helicopter. I was put on a ventilator at the hospital and the next night, my heart stopped beating.
Believe me when I say it is a miracle that I am typing this today. That I can walk and talk is nothing I take for granted.
I’ve lost count of the life lessons I’ve learned from this experience.
Maybe, in the coming weeks, I’ll start by sharing the things I did in the hospital when I woke up. Let’s just say I was very, very busy…
It will be 20 years on May 27, 2008.
It is a date we will never forget.
It is an anniversary we do not celebrate.
It is our life and the people we love that we treasure…
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