Mother's Day Hospital Visits

This Sunday was like most others I could assume. Aside from the fact that I was home for summer, and the day had much more freedom to it. Not like the other Sundays where the “evening drive” back up to Harrisonburg somehow tainted the entire day.
“I’m hungry…” whined, Austin.
He always was the one to be hungry on trips such as these. Not trips that took us out west or up north or down south, but rather to the hospital, to visit Pop. This was his second heart attack with not much time in between the first and the second. I, as I have the tendency of doing, tried desperately to hide my anxiety with surface jokes and witty comments. Austin and Trent although concerned, were moreover enveloped with the constant stream of text messages flooding their inboxes.
We pulled into the hospital—Riverside. I had always wondered why it was named that for the nearest river was nowhere near the hospital. No matter now.
Ding Ding Ding Ding – I always hated the noise that an elevator made when going up all those different floors. It always gave me that ominous feeling that something was waiting for me when the doors opened up
“Seriously, stop it Austin!” Austin loved picking on Trent. He was the older brother. It was basically his job. And the small confinement of an elevator made it too easy.
“Haha, I’m not even doing anything, Trent, chill out, dude.”
“Boys, stop it.” My mother’s three words always had the immediate effect of putting all sibling rivalry to a halt.
As the doors opened, the smell of antiseptic and latex filled my nose. There was no other color insight apart form white and mint green. This was always the part that made my stomach churn a little bit. I always hated the sterile smell of a hospital. There was a false cleanliness about it. My palms got a little sweaty as we neared room number 411. I gripped Papa’s early birthday gift and Grandma’s mother’s day gift even tighter in my hand.
That’s right… Today was Mother’s Day. I had almost forgotten.
“Hey Dad, looks like they got you back here again, huh?” My father always had a way of greeting someone with anything but “hey.”
“Hey Pop.” Was all I managed to get out for the time being. I never remembered him looking so…sick. He had always been the one to hold my fishing pole when the fish was too strong. He taught me how to ride a bike. He was there for almost all the “big stuff” I can remember. And now, he was in a bed, hooked up to an array of different wires. Smiling ear to ear, like he always did—that made me feel like I was home.
“Well how are ya feelin’, Dad?”
“Oh, much better this morning. Those doctors finally gave me some food to put in my belly. I couldn’t eat, ya see, because of all them tests they run on me.”
Grandma interjected—“well Bobby, no worryin’ about it now, eat your lunch.”
“I’m full…” Pop murmured under his scruffy voice. They always did have a way for looking out for one another. I loved that about their relationship.
“Hey Papa, nice panties” blurted Trent. I never understood how Trent was the only one who could ever get away with making remarks like that. Everyone laughed out loud, and you could feel the tension lighten in the room.
“Oh Papa, nobody wants to see that mess.” My mother was always one to joke on Pop. Maybe that’s where Trent got it from. I could not help but giggle as Papa, using most all of his strength, pushed himself off of the bed, and bent over in front of Mom and Trent.
“How ya like that?”
How could such an old fragile man keep such a juvenile spirit? Then again, there was nothing about my Papa that was fragile. All the way up until now that is.
The room got quiet.
“Is that blonde I see coming through in that dark hair there, girl.” I quickly looked over at Papa after realizing that he was addressing me.
I smiled gently, “no, Pop. I paid money for the blonde to be put back in… thought I would lighten things up for summer time.”
“Well good. I like it better that way. I don’t like your hair that dark brown coluh.”
“I know ya do, Papa. I think I’ll keep it blonde for a little while.” I always was his favorite grandchild. Kristin and Chance were famous for changing their hair as frequently as mine, but Pop never seemed to notice as much as he did with mine. Thinking about the kinship that I shared with the man over 20 years now made my heart swell.
“They run so many tests on me today; I swear… one test made my heart speed up like I was on one of them treadmills. And another made me real real sleepy. The Doctor said that there is an artery blocked in the bottom of my heart, but it shouldn’t be a problem for now.
Blocked artery? My first lecture on the heart I received my freshman year of college sprang to my mind.
I immediately looked over to see what Papa had eaten for lunch. Chicken with some type of marinara sauce (most likely coming from a jar, packed with sodium), vegetables that looked muted in color, and orange Jello… I sighed as my trust in the almighty medical field further diminished.
Another brief stint of silence hung in the air.
“I brought you a gift, Papa… I believe it’s your birthday coming up.” I chuckled as Pop rolled his tired eyes.
“Yeah yeah yeah... Don’t remind me.”
I handed him his gift, not even knowing myself, what the bright colored birthday bag contained. He smiled as he pulled out a bright red, long sleeved, plaid, button down shirt. It looked like something he would wear.
“Oh how nice. What a lovely shirt, Bobby. That’ll look real real nice.” I love how Grandma made any gift sound like it was exactly what was needed.
“Mhm, real nice.” Pop all of a sudden looked worn out.
“Don’t worry, Grandma. We didn’t forget you… Happy Mother’s Day!” I handed her another brightly colored bag.
She pulled out a large rod iron sand hill crane with a flat base to it. “I thought it would look nice in your Florida room, Grandma.”
“Oh yeah, this is real real nice. How pretty.” It made me happy to see that she liked the gift. I could always tell when Grandma liked a gift. She just had a way about her.
I looked over at Pop. He was tired now. I looked at his wrinkled soft hands and his feathery, white, messy hair. I couldn’t help but stare at him as I thought about how much I was going to miss him. It’s not like he was dying, but to me, he was. I never imagined getting to a point where my Grandfather would die before I did. In that moment, I was all too aware of my naivety. It is only natural that he would pass before I, but there was something so sad and forlorn about it all.
I would have to certainly adopt my Grandmother. She has spent the past 50 years with him. How could she go on?
I realized that all of these thoughts were too heavy for a Sunday afternoon, and before I knew it, we were hugging and exchanging farewell kisses.
“See ya, Pop… Keep your panties on.”, smirked Trent.
“Bye, Pop… I love you.” Austin and his sweet temperament always had an effect on Pop.
“Bye Dad, we’ll be back to fish in a couple weekends.” Much like his greetings, my father could never leave with merely a “goodbye.”
I leaned down and hugged my sweet Papa. He still smelled the same… “I’ll see ya soon, Papa… if you need someone to help ya bust out of this joint, just give me a call.” I caught how my wittiness once again covered up my anxiety brilliantly.
As we walked to that terrible elevator once again, Austin and Trent began their antics, my mother and father held hands and discussed maybe spending the afternoon on the boat, and I, I fought back tears with everything I had in me. Why did I feel this way? He is 81 years old I thought to myself. All of this is natural and is supposed to happen… Right?
Ding Ding Ding Ding….

Peace, Love and Change

It is most certainly unconventional. It causes us to move and shift, often pushing our limits to the absolute extreme. It is the only thing that the media, the weather, and our waste size have in common. There are countless songs written about it. It can bring unexpected joy or unexpected sorrow, and in its rawest form, it is one of the most terrifying things of this natural world… change. We, as mere mortals, from the time we can reason, to the time we breathe our last breath, are planning. We don’t merely plan for the big things such as college, marriage, or children; we plan for the most menial of things… lunch, next Tuesday, or what to wear three weeks from that current point in time, or even, and most ironic, change. Seriously… if one were to take a long enough moment to thing about it, it is made obvious: The fact that every person in this world at some point plans for change. As a society, we are constantly facing it down in an eye-to-eye standoff. It is as if our Blackberries and schedules are defensive ammunition to Change’s unpredictable ways. The battle is won before we can even draw our weapons. Change always wins. Trying to plan for change is a very radical way to think, and in most cases, is a complete waste of time. It’s ok. We all do it.

My life has changed more in the past 24 months than I can recall in its entirety. I know it is an odd comparison but it is honestly amazing to think that I am 20 years old and have attended two colleges, one being in a state, that prior to educational purposes, I had never even been to, moved three times. Yes. Three. I have broken and mended a single relationship more times than I really care to think about, I have had three different hair colors. I have made friends, and lost friends. I have started a job that I never saw myself doing in a million years. I have changed my major. I have had to come to terms with my first love going to a dessert far, far away to fight a war that I don’t believe in. and currently, as anyone could predict, I am planning; planning on attending my third school… all in a measly two years. How is it that so many people, roughly ages 18-24 think that a silly, fragile, practically futile plan could possibly map out some 4-6 years of life. It is never that easy and I’m figuring all of that out the hard way.

` At times, I completely contradict myself, and my funny little plans. There are days when I love putting on black tights, chunky jewelry and the latest trend of leather sandals. There are days that I absolutely look forward to scrubbing a slew of different women’s feet and picking out superficial nail polish colors, all while congenially debating the features of The Nook vs. The Kindle with my clients. There are days when I get irritated having to wait 5 minutes for my grande-unsweetened iced coffee… simply because I have somewhere to be. There are days when my very soul would surrender itself to only own an authentic Louis Vuitton Monogram Back-pack. Then, then are those other days. The days when I want to take off all of my make-up, put on my keens, and buy a plane ticket to the farthest place I have ever been to, for the sole reason that it is far away and unknown. There are days when my heart nearly bursts with jealousy for my big brother and the fact that he has hitch-hiked across this beautiful country… twice. There are days when I want to build a tree fort and not allow any boys to enter. There are days when I want to sell everything I own. Love with my hands, not my words, and be so much more than what I am. It is at this torturous place located somewhere between a $500 bag and dreads that something beautiful is awakened in a sleepy part of my spirit. My heart’s natural desire for change… imagine that… the very thing that scares most people in this world half to death is the one thing that our bodies cry for without our brains ever detecting it.

After all, every human at the end of the day wants the same things out of life: beauty, love, truth, and change. Today, embrace change… for in doing so, you are quite possibly opening up doors for lovely and wondrous things.d

Bam. Just like that.

Friday night. Kiki and I, spirits soaring, drive up Port Republic Road. With Jimmy Johns Vegetarian subs in our laps and Burnetts riding in the back sat covered by the ominous paper bag, what could possible go wrong? The promise of another crazy weekend was surely in store.



We scarf down our sandwiches in nearly record timing as we sit "Indian style" at my toque wood kitchen table. As i heaved my sandwich in my mouth, i wondered how many Jimmy Johns sandwiches had been eaten at that same table this semester. No matter now...



As we wash down our subs, we lightly whisk ourselves to my closet where the fashion show begins. On such a night as this (no particularly special night at all) we needed to look, as some would say: "hot". We giggle, and squeal at the various wardrobe combinations sprawled out on my living room floor before us as if we were children gazing into the window of a candy shop. We, as women do, compliment each other on each and every outfit that is put on, boosting each other's self esteem with each gratifying comment.

After our hours of primping, prodding, tweezing, and applying all of our silly makeup, we looked in the mirror, feeling like 'a million bucks'. Then, come the sister shots... with Lil' Wayne as our personal entertainer for the evening, we began laughing, throwing back pomegranate flavored vodka from Tye-dye shot glasses. I consciously laugh at myself as Kiki teases me for my need of a Diet Coke chaser... She always was tougher than I...The night was, as to be promised, filled with fun, friends, and dizzying dance sessions...So how did all that fun result in waking up at 5am shaking uncontrollably, skin, hot as molten lava, though feeling like i was freezing? Simple answer, my friends:



A lethal combination of pomegranate flavored burnettes, stress, lack of sleep, and poor sources of nutrition... this all boils down to one culprit...



college.

Indian Rocks

Soft barren feet

leave dusty tracks

in that once, so familiar place.

an echo resounds.

Head turning melodies in her mind take her back

to the vast ocean covered by a cool palet of brilliant blues and greens.

She plays, feels, floats, in its fairness.

grasping for what is not hers to share

White grape juice

and grilled cheese sandwhiches,

one thousand riches cannot compare.

An infinate, aching in her bones.

Longing

to return.



Her soft blonde hair fades in time,

whimsically, her white sun dress follows.

She searches

and searches for innocence lost

amongst optimism.



His eyes do not hold hers.

A death is evident.

Charades begin. Yet,

Hope lurches as a child to a raft.

Standing on bended knees,

from time to time.

She is free.

You might say, I'm a dreamer.

Today, fall asleep. Today, take a nap and dream about your entire life in a flashback type of style. Dream about your first bike, and the day your sister popped the screen out of your window to play "drive-through" with you and your big brother. Dream about your mother taking you to your first musuem and being in awe of the larger than life figures that stood as sky scrapers around you. Stop and look at them. Dream about your first lie and the way it made your tummy feel a little different than it had before. Dream about your first love, and your first heart ache. Dream about your first day of high school as that photograph of the pretty girls with blonde hair on the lacrosse team freezes in your brain for a split second. Go back to the day that you were dissapointed for the first time. embrace with your whole self what that felt like. Dream about what it would be like had you made another choice, taken another route. Dream about your first real friend. Dream about your regrets and your accomplishments. Dream about the first time you broke a 30 second 50 meter freestyle on your swim team. Dream about the sun on your skin and the how the water felt rushing past you on the day you were so angry and swam out into the ocean untill you couldn't do anything but just float... Breath it in and remember how it made you feel so very small, yet not insignifigant. Dream about a life of beauty as the colors flash and replay like an old film reel in your mind. Then........ open your eyes, take a deep breath, and today, change your life to what you want to see the next time you fall asleep and dream.

What is beauty?

Disclaimer: This was originally a journal page, but i felt the need to blog it... so here it goes:

Beauty is everywhere. Beauty is something held deep within each and every soul. This is not to say that every soul is beautiful, but rather we all possess beauty. We own it inside of us and reveal it in ways that are beautiful to some and just plain ugly to others. Beauty is transparent, raw, and candid. Beauty has no eyes or ears. It feels, radiates and pierces to the deepest parts of our core. Beauty is essential to the survival and health of the human spirit. Beauty has the power to create life and destroy life. We so often recognize it all around us and deny it to ourselves. We give it and receive it. We let is pass us by. Beauty is in a voice, a look, an action. It is a disease that feeds but can deprive the essence of who we are. Beauty intoxicates and lures. it warms the hearts of some and hardens that of others. Beauty is a canvas that holds a different painting in each individual mind. Beauty is a single mother, a sun rise, a supermodel, a man who abandons all to love his partner, and a woman who does the same. It is a child who recklessly embraces play time, a drawing, a widow's silver hair, and a joyful spirit. Beauty is all of theses things and more. It captivates, entices, heals, changes, accepts, and is everlasting. Anyone who denies beauty, denies themselves.

(Special thanks to Kiki Batten for provoking such thought.)

Love...ew.

My life is so full of love. It is devastingly tainted by it as well... I have come to realize that love is something that is so vast, so wide, and so frustratingly complicated, that when you come across it, you don't know what to do with it. I have never come across more versions of love in my entire life than I have in the past year. I have seen love blossom and grow so organically, and I have seen it stripped from some of the people that deserve it the most. I am under the impression that everyone who knows exactly what they would do when they come across that "divine" love are the very people that let it slip right through their fingers. I am, tragically, one of those people. I allow myself to feel, and touch, and play, and embrace such a beautiful love with someone... and like clockwork, I allow it to become damaged and scarred. I will not be one to take full responsibility, however, I am indeed, my own worst critic. Some of the very people i love the most are the ones who are the best at giving love, yet they don't recieve it. I, on the other (less desirable) hand, am given a love some people would die for and... I yawn... Life is chuck full of irony... I want to become a lover, a best friend, and a life partner to one person in my life... so why in the world would I be so apathetic to someone who wants all the same things I do.