I am going to be 22 in 3 months. To a senior citizen, that might seem blissfully young. To a pre-teen, that might seem tragically old. To me, it's just ... twenty-two. Another year gone by.
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Stop the Cycle of Violence
I've been seeing a lot of anti-bullying posts on Facebook lately. Normally what I would do is edit for spelling, and then post it on my own status, but it doesn't seem like that's enough. Sure, it's easy to copy and paste - we all do it. But, does the message really sink in?
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
My Heart Hurts
Today, a very special woman died. I didn't know her very well, but she was very important to my sister, to my mother, and to many other people whose lives she touched. My sister knew her as "Auntie Joan". She was her favorite babysitter, and a woman she respected and loved. My mother knew her as "Mom". My mother's parents died when she was very young, so Joan became a surrogate mother to her.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My "Letter to the Editor" of the Calgary Sun
Perhaps it is my youthful naivety, but I could hardly take the “To Serve and Offend” article seriously.
Let’s take a moment to reflect on how police officers as a whole are treated by the public, so-called victims of “rudeness”, and profanity.
I can’t walk through the downtown bus terminals without hearing some gaggle of boys with their pants below each buttock referring to how some “pig” was hassling them over some “totally bull---- problem“. How many movies today use donut stores to mock police officers? How many police officers are sworn at for pulling over a speeding car? How many men and women officers are spat on and cussed out for ticketing a car that was parked illegally? How many of them are told to “get a real job”, when they are DOING their job?
I would love to see any member of the average public attempt to do the civil service that police officers do; deal with the stress of protecting and serving the public, and then receive their own “tongue-lashings” when they don’t portray an utterly perfect and unquestionable image.
As Ald John Mar said, “The vast majority of our complaints are in the ‘He pulled me over and wasn’t very nice’ category”. Why does a police officer pull anyone over? Because they are endangering themselves or others, because the officer has observed questionable or dangerous behavior that needs to be addressed, or because the driver was breaking the law. Why do you, Joe Public, believe that you deserve to be treated like a god/goddess when you are disobeying the law that everyone is expected to follow? Should the police officer say something like, “Good afternoon, sir/ma’am. I hate to be a bother, but I couldn’t help but notice you were going 12 kilometers over the speed limit. I know, I know, it might not seem like much, but shucks if it ain’t against the law. I hate to take up too much of your time, but the law says I have to write this here ticket up. I thank you for your patience, good sir/ma’am, this will only take a moment. And please, when you’re done, feel free pay it at your convenience. Oh, thank you, thank you for your patience. You have a good day, now, and please try your best to keep it under the speed limit.” … Really? I think not.
The plain truth that no one seems to be mentioning is, more often than not, an “F-word” gets a lot more attention than “please and thank you”. I would rather have a less-than-pleasant officer on the streets prepared to save my life if need be, rather than a goody-good whose top priority is public appearance.
Let’s take a moment to reflect on how police officers as a whole are treated by the public, so-called victims of “rudeness”, and profanity.
I can’t walk through the downtown bus terminals without hearing some gaggle of boys with their pants below each buttock referring to how some “pig” was hassling them over some “totally bull---- problem“. How many movies today use donut stores to mock police officers? How many police officers are sworn at for pulling over a speeding car? How many men and women officers are spat on and cussed out for ticketing a car that was parked illegally? How many of them are told to “get a real job”, when they are DOING their job?
I would love to see any member of the average public attempt to do the civil service that police officers do; deal with the stress of protecting and serving the public, and then receive their own “tongue-lashings” when they don’t portray an utterly perfect and unquestionable image.
As Ald John Mar said, “The vast majority of our complaints are in the ‘He pulled me over and wasn’t very nice’ category”. Why does a police officer pull anyone over? Because they are endangering themselves or others, because the officer has observed questionable or dangerous behavior that needs to be addressed, or because the driver was breaking the law. Why do you, Joe Public, believe that you deserve to be treated like a god/goddess when you are disobeying the law that everyone is expected to follow? Should the police officer say something like, “Good afternoon, sir/ma’am. I hate to be a bother, but I couldn’t help but notice you were going 12 kilometers over the speed limit. I know, I know, it might not seem like much, but shucks if it ain’t against the law. I hate to take up too much of your time, but the law says I have to write this here ticket up. I thank you for your patience, good sir/ma’am, this will only take a moment. And please, when you’re done, feel free pay it at your convenience. Oh, thank you, thank you for your patience. You have a good day, now, and please try your best to keep it under the speed limit.” … Really? I think not.
The plain truth that no one seems to be mentioning is, more often than not, an “F-word” gets a lot more attention than “please and thank you”. I would rather have a less-than-pleasant officer on the streets prepared to save my life if need be, rather than a goody-good whose top priority is public appearance.
Hospital Nightmares and Blessings
...
A Traci/Jerry comfort fic.
...
Disclaimer: Don't own Rookie Blue.
...
A/N: To be honest, I kind of hate myself for writing this fic, but I can't really think of anything else to do right now, and writing keeps me calm. I just got a phone call from my mom telling me that my thirteen-year old brother tried to kill himself, and now I'm stuck here waiting for her to pick me up so we can go see him. I have some feelings to vent, so here it is.
...
Traci Barber-Nash barreled her way through the hospital, seeking the nurses' station she'd been directed to. Her husband was racing along behind her, gripping her hand tightly, trying to let her know silently that he wasn't going to leave her side.
They finally reached the desk, and Traci slapped her hand down on the counter when she stopped. "My son!" she almost shouted at the nearest nurse-looking person. "My son was brought in almost an hour ago. Where is he?"
The nurse couldn't have missed her anxiety and worry if she tried, and put on her most passively-assuring face. "What's your son's name?"
"Leo. Leo Nash. Please, tell me where he is?"
The woman behind the desk typed into the computer, reading silently for a second before looking up at two worried faces in front of her. "He's in the children's ward, room 214 -"
She stopped when Traci turned immediately in that direction.
"The doctor will want to see you!" the nurse called out to her, accepting a short wave from the husband before he followed.
Traci ignored the woman, rushing to the children's ward and searching for the room number she needed. She was out of breath when she finally made it to the room, and gasped at what she saw when she looked inside.
Twelve-year old Leo was hooked up to an IV drip, with various cords running from his body to the machine, and telltale white bandages wrapped around his wrists.
Traci gripped her belly in shock, a whimper escaping from her mouth.
"He's okay," Jerry told her, breaking through the din of her motherly heartbreak. "He's okay, Trace."
Traci walked into the room, moving to her son's side and gripping his hand with one of hers, while her other hand came up to settle over his forehead. She felt Jerry step in behind her, his hand squeezing her shoulder; his attempt at comfort. "I don't understand ... he was happy. I thought he was happy."
Jerry didn't know what to say to that, so he just moved even closer to her, pressing a kiss down on her other shoulder.
They watched over the sleeping boy for a few minutes, before someone cleared their throat behind them, causing them to turn.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nash?" the doctor inquired.
"Sort of," Traci commented offhand, her eyes still stuck to her son.
Jerry caught the look on the doctor's face, stepping in to explain. "I'm Jerry Barber, Leo is my stepson. Traci is Leo's mother."
The doctor nodded in understanding, walking into the room. "Your son suffered a lot of blood loss, but he's recovering well. He'll need to stay at least two nights before I'm comfortable with him leaving. And he'll need to talk to a Crisis Worker."
"What happened?" Traci needed to know. "Why did he ...? The school called, but all they said was that he was here, and he tried ..." She couldn't finish.
"From what I understand, Leo found a broken piece of glass, went into the boy's bathroom, and cut a small gash across each of his wrists."
A pained sob escaped Traci's lips, her body lowering to drop her forehead against Leo's.
"He's stable, but we'll continue monitoring him through the night. If you have any questions, feel free to page me. I'm on shift until 6:00 am." The doctor waited a moment to see if they had any further questions, and then departed from the room.
Jerry moved back to his wife's side, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on her back.
...
It was closing in on nine o'clock pm when Leo began to stir.
Traci sat up immediately, brushing a hand over her son's face. "Leo?"
The boy blinked several times, groggy and weak. "Mom?"
Traci breathed a sigh of relief, that was quickly replaced by anger. "What were you thinking?"
Leo frowned sadly, unable to meet his mother's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom."
Traci shook her head. "Why would you try to ... kill yourself? Aren't you happy? I thought we were happy."
Leo shrugged. "I don't know."
Traci brought a shaky hand to Leo's smaller one, holding it tightly in her grasp. "What were supposed to do without you, huh? What about your baby sister? Do you think she'd want to grow up not knowing her brother?"
Leo's face fell even further at that, looking over at his mother's enlarged stomach. "You would've gotten on fine."
Traci's eyes widened. "What?"
Leo sighed, glancing at Jerry before explaining, "You're starting your own family now. You'll have a new baby, and she's both of yours ... you won't need me anymore. I'll just get in the way."
Traci couldn't speak, she was so astounded. She couldn't believe her son thought that.
Jerry came around the bed, stopping on Leo's other side. He brought one strong hand to Leo's shoulder, rocking it a bit. "Buddy, you know I love you. You're just as much my son as Beth will be my daughter. We love you both the same."
Leo didn't look convinced.
Jerry sighed, leaning over so that his face was close to Leo's. "You know what your mom asked me before we got married?"
Leo looked into Jerry's eyes, shaking his head. "No."
Jerry glanced at Traci for approval, and when she nodded, he continued. "Your mom was worried that I only loved her, and not you. So, she asked me a question. There I was, down on one knee, ring in my hand, waiting for her to answer my question, and she said, 'What if the house was on fire?' Now, I looked at her like she was completely nuts, and she went on, 'Jer, what if the house was on fire. Me and Leo were both trapped in different parts of the house, and you could only save one of us. Who would you save?'" Jerry fixed Leo with a serious look, his gaze unwavering. "You know what my answer was?"
Leo shook his head again, absorbed in his step-dad's story.
"I said, 'I'd get Leo out of the house, and yell at you to get your ass in gear and meet us outside.' She laughed, and told me that she'd love to marry me."
Leo's eyebrows furrowed into a confused expression, trying to understand the moral of the story.
"What that means, Leo, is that you mean the world to me, even though you're not one-hundred percent my biological child. I would walk through fire for you - your mom would too - and there is nothing you could do to make us love you any less," Jerry informed him.
Leo's lips pursed together, trying to stop himself from crying.
"He means it, Kiddo," Traci confirmed. "This new baby is going to bring us all so much happiness, and I know that you're going to be an awesome big brother. But, how about we make a deal?"
Leo blinked the wetness out of his eyes, meeting his mom's eyes at last. "What kind of deal?"
"Well, how about after the baby's born, we'll have a special day every week, just for you and Jerry, and you two can go and do whatever you want. You'll have the whole day to yourself. Does that sound like a plan?"
Leo considered that. "You won't be mad at me?"
Traci coughed out a laugh, wiping her own tears from her eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far right now, mister. But, I think we'll manage. You gotta promise me something, though."
Leo nodded. "Anything."
"You can never do anything like this again," she stated seriously, her eyes hard and determined. "I don't ever want to get a call from anyone telling me that you've hurt yourself."
Leo nodded, ashamed at the disappointment in his mother's eyes. "Promise. I'm sorry, Mom ... Dad." His eyes flickered to Jerry after he said, waiting for a reaction.
Jerry grinned despite himself. "That's the first time you've called me that."
Leo nodded, unable to say anything more.
"Thanks, buddy. You know I love you." Jerry ruffled the young boy's hair.
Leo smiled back. "I love you, too ... Dad."
Traci was crying different tears now, brushing a hand over her son's cheek. She halted after a second, her body going rigid. She looked down at her belly with a smile. "The baby kicked."
Jerry came back around the bed, placing a hand on Traci's stomach. After a few seconds, he felt the little bomp of the baby girl's feet. "Leo, give me your hand."
Leo slowly reached his hand up, staring at his mother's stomach with uncertain eyes.
Jerry took Leo's hand, placing it on Traci's stomach and holding it there.
"I don't feel anything," the boy stated sadly.
"Just wait," Traci whispered, looking down at her stomach, and the three hands that covered it.
Four Mississippi’s later, a big kick came.
"Wow!" Leo gasped, shocked at the feeling.
"That's your sister," Traci commented with a grin. She would give her son a hell of a lecture later, and probably end up crying on Jerry's shoulder while Leo was sleeping ... but right now, she just wanted to enjoy this moment. Standing there, with her husband and son holding onto her pregnant belly, while her little girl kicked hope into their lives.
They would make it ... everything would be okay. It had to be.
...
The end.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for bearing with me.
A Traci/Jerry comfort fic.
...
Disclaimer: Don't own Rookie Blue.
...
A/N: To be honest, I kind of hate myself for writing this fic, but I can't really think of anything else to do right now, and writing keeps me calm. I just got a phone call from my mom telling me that my thirteen-year old brother tried to kill himself, and now I'm stuck here waiting for her to pick me up so we can go see him. I have some feelings to vent, so here it is.
...
Traci Barber-Nash barreled her way through the hospital, seeking the nurses' station she'd been directed to. Her husband was racing along behind her, gripping her hand tightly, trying to let her know silently that he wasn't going to leave her side.
They finally reached the desk, and Traci slapped her hand down on the counter when she stopped. "My son!" she almost shouted at the nearest nurse-looking person. "My son was brought in almost an hour ago. Where is he?"
The nurse couldn't have missed her anxiety and worry if she tried, and put on her most passively-assuring face. "What's your son's name?"
"Leo. Leo Nash. Please, tell me where he is?"
The woman behind the desk typed into the computer, reading silently for a second before looking up at two worried faces in front of her. "He's in the children's ward, room 214 -"
She stopped when Traci turned immediately in that direction.
"The doctor will want to see you!" the nurse called out to her, accepting a short wave from the husband before he followed.
Traci ignored the woman, rushing to the children's ward and searching for the room number she needed. She was out of breath when she finally made it to the room, and gasped at what she saw when she looked inside.
Twelve-year old Leo was hooked up to an IV drip, with various cords running from his body to the machine, and telltale white bandages wrapped around his wrists.
Traci gripped her belly in shock, a whimper escaping from her mouth.
"He's okay," Jerry told her, breaking through the din of her motherly heartbreak. "He's okay, Trace."
Traci walked into the room, moving to her son's side and gripping his hand with one of hers, while her other hand came up to settle over his forehead. She felt Jerry step in behind her, his hand squeezing her shoulder; his attempt at comfort. "I don't understand ... he was happy. I thought he was happy."
Jerry didn't know what to say to that, so he just moved even closer to her, pressing a kiss down on her other shoulder.
They watched over the sleeping boy for a few minutes, before someone cleared their throat behind them, causing them to turn.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nash?" the doctor inquired.
"Sort of," Traci commented offhand, her eyes still stuck to her son.
Jerry caught the look on the doctor's face, stepping in to explain. "I'm Jerry Barber, Leo is my stepson. Traci is Leo's mother."
The doctor nodded in understanding, walking into the room. "Your son suffered a lot of blood loss, but he's recovering well. He'll need to stay at least two nights before I'm comfortable with him leaving. And he'll need to talk to a Crisis Worker."
"What happened?" Traci needed to know. "Why did he ...? The school called, but all they said was that he was here, and he tried ..." She couldn't finish.
"From what I understand, Leo found a broken piece of glass, went into the boy's bathroom, and cut a small gash across each of his wrists."
A pained sob escaped Traci's lips, her body lowering to drop her forehead against Leo's.
"He's stable, but we'll continue monitoring him through the night. If you have any questions, feel free to page me. I'm on shift until 6:00 am." The doctor waited a moment to see if they had any further questions, and then departed from the room.
Jerry moved back to his wife's side, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on her back.
...
It was closing in on nine o'clock pm when Leo began to stir.
Traci sat up immediately, brushing a hand over her son's face. "Leo?"
The boy blinked several times, groggy and weak. "Mom?"
Traci breathed a sigh of relief, that was quickly replaced by anger. "What were you thinking?"
Leo frowned sadly, unable to meet his mother's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom."
Traci shook her head. "Why would you try to ... kill yourself? Aren't you happy? I thought we were happy."
Leo shrugged. "I don't know."
Traci brought a shaky hand to Leo's smaller one, holding it tightly in her grasp. "What were supposed to do without you, huh? What about your baby sister? Do you think she'd want to grow up not knowing her brother?"
Leo's face fell even further at that, looking over at his mother's enlarged stomach. "You would've gotten on fine."
Traci's eyes widened. "What?"
Leo sighed, glancing at Jerry before explaining, "You're starting your own family now. You'll have a new baby, and she's both of yours ... you won't need me anymore. I'll just get in the way."
Traci couldn't speak, she was so astounded. She couldn't believe her son thought that.
Jerry came around the bed, stopping on Leo's other side. He brought one strong hand to Leo's shoulder, rocking it a bit. "Buddy, you know I love you. You're just as much my son as Beth will be my daughter. We love you both the same."
Leo didn't look convinced.
Jerry sighed, leaning over so that his face was close to Leo's. "You know what your mom asked me before we got married?"
Leo looked into Jerry's eyes, shaking his head. "No."
Jerry glanced at Traci for approval, and when she nodded, he continued. "Your mom was worried that I only loved her, and not you. So, she asked me a question. There I was, down on one knee, ring in my hand, waiting for her to answer my question, and she said, 'What if the house was on fire?' Now, I looked at her like she was completely nuts, and she went on, 'Jer, what if the house was on fire. Me and Leo were both trapped in different parts of the house, and you could only save one of us. Who would you save?'" Jerry fixed Leo with a serious look, his gaze unwavering. "You know what my answer was?"
Leo shook his head again, absorbed in his step-dad's story.
"I said, 'I'd get Leo out of the house, and yell at you to get your ass in gear and meet us outside.' She laughed, and told me that she'd love to marry me."
Leo's eyebrows furrowed into a confused expression, trying to understand the moral of the story.
"What that means, Leo, is that you mean the world to me, even though you're not one-hundred percent my biological child. I would walk through fire for you - your mom would too - and there is nothing you could do to make us love you any less," Jerry informed him.
Leo's lips pursed together, trying to stop himself from crying.
"He means it, Kiddo," Traci confirmed. "This new baby is going to bring us all so much happiness, and I know that you're going to be an awesome big brother. But, how about we make a deal?"
Leo blinked the wetness out of his eyes, meeting his mom's eyes at last. "What kind of deal?"
"Well, how about after the baby's born, we'll have a special day every week, just for you and Jerry, and you two can go and do whatever you want. You'll have the whole day to yourself. Does that sound like a plan?"
Leo considered that. "You won't be mad at me?"
Traci coughed out a laugh, wiping her own tears from her eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far right now, mister. But, I think we'll manage. You gotta promise me something, though."
Leo nodded. "Anything."
"You can never do anything like this again," she stated seriously, her eyes hard and determined. "I don't ever want to get a call from anyone telling me that you've hurt yourself."
Leo nodded, ashamed at the disappointment in his mother's eyes. "Promise. I'm sorry, Mom ... Dad." His eyes flickered to Jerry after he said, waiting for a reaction.
Jerry grinned despite himself. "That's the first time you've called me that."
Leo nodded, unable to say anything more.
"Thanks, buddy. You know I love you." Jerry ruffled the young boy's hair.
Leo smiled back. "I love you, too ... Dad."
Traci was crying different tears now, brushing a hand over her son's cheek. She halted after a second, her body going rigid. She looked down at her belly with a smile. "The baby kicked."
Jerry came back around the bed, placing a hand on Traci's stomach. After a few seconds, he felt the little bomp of the baby girl's feet. "Leo, give me your hand."
Leo slowly reached his hand up, staring at his mother's stomach with uncertain eyes.
Jerry took Leo's hand, placing it on Traci's stomach and holding it there.
"I don't feel anything," the boy stated sadly.
"Just wait," Traci whispered, looking down at her stomach, and the three hands that covered it.
Four Mississippi’s later, a big kick came.
"Wow!" Leo gasped, shocked at the feeling.
"That's your sister," Traci commented with a grin. She would give her son a hell of a lecture later, and probably end up crying on Jerry's shoulder while Leo was sleeping ... but right now, she just wanted to enjoy this moment. Standing there, with her husband and son holding onto her pregnant belly, while her little girl kicked hope into their lives.
They would make it ... everything would be okay. It had to be.
...
The end.
Let me know what you think. Thanks for bearing with me.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Late 'Osama bin Laden'
Breathe in … Breathe out. Osama bin Laden is dead.
"Tonight I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al-Qaeda and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." - Barack Obama.
Nearly 10 years ago, the entire world as we knew it changed: the World Trade Center was destroyed - an attack masterminded by Osama bin Laden. On the morning of September 11, 2001, Al-Qaeda-affiliated hijackers flew two 767 jets into the complex, one into each tower, in a coordinated terrorist attack. After burning for 56 minutes, the South Tower collapsed, followed a half-hour later by the North Tower, with the attacks on the World Trade Center resulting in 2,752 deaths.
Certainly his crimes go beyond the 9/11 attacks:
- He was involved in the December 29, 1992 bombing of the Gold Mihor Hotel in Aden. Two people were killed.
- He and three others are believed to have killed 2 German citizens in Libya on March 10, 1994.
- He funded the Luxor massacre of November 17, 1997. Sixty-two civilians were killed.
- He is linked to the August 7, 1998 US Embassy bombings, where hundreds of people were killed by suicide bombers.
- He co-signed a “fatwa” (Islamic decree) with Ayman al-Zawahiri in the name of the “World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders”, which declared the killing of North Americans and their allies as an “individual duty for every Muslim”. He labeled North Americans as “easy targets”.
- In 2004, he claimed responsibility for the September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States.
In his 2008 campaign, Obama repeatedly vowed: “We will kill Osama bin Laden.”
On May 1, 2011, the complex where he was hiding was infiltrated by a small group of American “special forces” soldiers. Osama bin Laden resisted the attack, and was killed along with three other men in a fire-fight. Thankfully, none of the American soldiers were killed.
Yes, one of the world’s most wanted men is now dead. Many people across the world celebrate his death. Is it our place to celebrate it? That’s not for me to dictate. You can’t help how you feel about the death of a terrorist and mass murderer. I’ll tell you how I feel: relieved. Safe. Secure. … And worried. Yes, I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that the man responsible for countless murders can no longer harm a single soul on this planet. But, there is also a heavy burden on my heart, because I don’t know what tomorrow, or the next day will bring, as a result of his death. Will al-Qaeda strike back? Will his second-in-command, Ayman al-Zawahiri, simply replace him as the world’s most-feared, and most-wanted man? I don’t have the answers to these questions.
What I have is this: Terrorism will never stop. This is a reality that I accept. There will always be conflicting super-powers, there will always be religious fanatics, there will always be clashing beliefs and values that spark the flame of war. But on May 1, 2011, the world got to breathe a sigh of relief. On May 1, 2011, Barack Obama, President of the United States, fulfilled his promise to the American people - and the world - that he would put an end to Osama bin Laden’s tyranny and mass-murder.
Breathe in, Breathe out. Sleep safe tonight. He cannot hurt you anymore.
"Tonight I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al-Qaeda and a terrorist who's responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children." - Barack Obama.
Nearly 10 years ago, the entire world as we knew it changed: the World Trade Center was destroyed - an attack masterminded by Osama bin Laden. On the morning of September 11, 2001, Al-Qaeda-affiliated hijackers flew two 767 jets into the complex, one into each tower, in a coordinated terrorist attack. After burning for 56 minutes, the South Tower collapsed, followed a half-hour later by the North Tower, with the attacks on the World Trade Center resulting in 2,752 deaths.
Certainly his crimes go beyond the 9/11 attacks:
- He was involved in the December 29, 1992 bombing of the Gold Mihor Hotel in Aden. Two people were killed.
- He and three others are believed to have killed 2 German citizens in Libya on March 10, 1994.
- He funded the Luxor massacre of November 17, 1997. Sixty-two civilians were killed.
- He is linked to the August 7, 1998 US Embassy bombings, where hundreds of people were killed by suicide bombers.
- He co-signed a “fatwa” (Islamic decree) with Ayman al-Zawahiri in the name of the “World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders”, which declared the killing of North Americans and their allies as an “individual duty for every Muslim”. He labeled North Americans as “easy targets”.
- In 2004, he claimed responsibility for the September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States.
In his 2008 campaign, Obama repeatedly vowed: “We will kill Osama bin Laden.”
On May 1, 2011, the complex where he was hiding was infiltrated by a small group of American “special forces” soldiers. Osama bin Laden resisted the attack, and was killed along with three other men in a fire-fight. Thankfully, none of the American soldiers were killed.
Yes, one of the world’s most wanted men is now dead. Many people across the world celebrate his death. Is it our place to celebrate it? That’s not for me to dictate. You can’t help how you feel about the death of a terrorist and mass murderer. I’ll tell you how I feel: relieved. Safe. Secure. … And worried. Yes, I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that the man responsible for countless murders can no longer harm a single soul on this planet. But, there is also a heavy burden on my heart, because I don’t know what tomorrow, or the next day will bring, as a result of his death. Will al-Qaeda strike back? Will his second-in-command, Ayman al-Zawahiri, simply replace him as the world’s most-feared, and most-wanted man? I don’t have the answers to these questions.
What I have is this: Terrorism will never stop. This is a reality that I accept. There will always be conflicting super-powers, there will always be religious fanatics, there will always be clashing beliefs and values that spark the flame of war. But on May 1, 2011, the world got to breathe a sigh of relief. On May 1, 2011, Barack Obama, President of the United States, fulfilled his promise to the American people - and the world - that he would put an end to Osama bin Laden’s tyranny and mass-murder.
Breathe in, Breathe out. Sleep safe tonight. He cannot hurt you anymore.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
My Super-Dog … or, the Luckiest S.O.B. on the Planet.
My family and I went for a two-night stay over in Calgary to visit my brother, and have some relaxing time in the hotel. The visit with my brother was fun - the first time I got to see him in over a month. We went shopping, picked up some KFC, went down by the river and enjoyed a windy but pleasant lunch, then drove back to the hotel for some swimming. The visit was nice. The hotel stay? Not entirely. First, we had to downsize our room because the one we booked had no fridge to put our Easter leftovers in, nor a microwave to heat them up. Then, my mother nearly broke her foot on a loose step in the hot-tub, and walked around with a painful, swollen foot the entire trip. Finally, when we got to check out, not only has management provided no concession for my mother’s injury - or even the hint of a sincere apology - they’ve denied us the medical rate for our room, and charged us for two nights of having a dog in our room. We didn’t bring my dog.
We should have, though. This is where my story really begins.
We were gone for two days, arranging for our neighbor to feed, water, and otherwise take care of my dog while we’re away. She’s done it before, we trust her. Copper likes her. All good, right? Wrong.
Apparently we’ve gone away to Calgary too much lately, and I’ve been staying in Red Deer too much lately, and my dog is just downright pissed off at us.
He ate: 1 loaf of bread, 1 bag of Lays Original chips, an entire box of unopened Pot of Gold chocolates that my mother got for Easter, an undeterrmined amount of Instant Coffee, an undetermined amount of Jelly Beans that were hidden in the eggs the kids didn’t find at Easter, and my brother’s Sea Monkeys & their food.
He tore up: garbage, papers in my room, coasters, the lid to the cookie jar that the Instant Coffee was in, and one of my Western Pizza cups that I collect. He also knocked over various items from the counter, and one of our upstairs bookcases.
Yeah … he’s in the proverbial doghouse.
It’s not like it’s a secret that my dog is a garbage-guts, though. When we first got him, he ate everything. I do not exaggerate. He ate anything that was left out on the counter: meat, butter, bread, candy, chocolate … whatever there was. He would take scraps of plastic, paper, and garbage outside and chew it up in the yard. He made off with my Resident Evil movie, and chewed up the case. He’s the first dog that actually enabled me to say honestly that, “my dog ate my homework”. He’s eaten our satellite remote, my hair dye, a few unfortunate stuffed animals - the only thing that has ever made him sick is Chinese food. That was a decidedly NOT FUN experience, one that was never repeated. He’s eaten chocolate, candy, and other table scraps, and it’s never made him sick. But, he’s never eaten and ENTIRE box of chocolates, and he’s never eaten chocolate that wasn’t given to him by one of us.
He is lucky to be alive. And not just because he chewed up part of my cup collection … though, if it were one of my Coca Cola cups, it might be a different story. J
Honestly, though, I love my dog. I love him more than anything, and I freely admit this. I am sure that it bothers several family members, but it is the truth. I love animals more than humans, and I always will. I love Copper, I want him to live for many, many years.
My first dog, George, died when he was eight, on August 22, from cancer. My mom left home claiming to be taking him for an appointment, and came home without him. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My second dog, Sylvia, died when she was three, on March 18. She woke up paralyzed on the lower part of her body, from a calcified disc in her back. I had to make the choice to not let her suffer any longer. My mom’s dog, Jack, died when he was sixteen. He had a heart murmur, cataracts, arthritis, and finally died in my arms from a stroke at 5:30 in the morning on November 30.
Copper’s birthday is in July. He will be seven years old. He’s already beaten the 3-year mark, I want him to beat the 8-year mark. I’d love him to beat the 16-year mark. More than that, I want him to be healthy. I want him to live a long, full life, with as little pain as possible. He will be my last dog for a very long time. I don’t want him to suffer through old age, like Jack did, but I want him to live a long, long life.
My dog is a medical marvel. He’s eaten chocolate, which is supposed to be like poison for dogs. He’s eaten a full bottle of hair dye, and the conditioner that came along with it, which should have killed him. He’s eaten paper, plastic, garbage, cardboard, and various human foods. He’s eaten the equivalent of 12-14 days worth of dog food in one sitting when he snuck into the room where we kept his food. He is not a fat dog, nor do we force this food on him - he gets into it all by himself. As of yet, he has survived.
Does that mean I’ll let the box of chocolates, Instant Coffee, or Sea Monkeys sit on the counter when we go out anymore? Nope.
We should have, though. This is where my story really begins.
We were gone for two days, arranging for our neighbor to feed, water, and otherwise take care of my dog while we’re away. She’s done it before, we trust her. Copper likes her. All good, right? Wrong.
Apparently we’ve gone away to Calgary too much lately, and I’ve been staying in Red Deer too much lately, and my dog is just downright pissed off at us.
He ate: 1 loaf of bread, 1 bag of Lays Original chips, an entire box of unopened Pot of Gold chocolates that my mother got for Easter, an undeterrmined amount of Instant Coffee, an undetermined amount of Jelly Beans that were hidden in the eggs the kids didn’t find at Easter, and my brother’s Sea Monkeys & their food.
He tore up: garbage, papers in my room, coasters, the lid to the cookie jar that the Instant Coffee was in, and one of my Western Pizza cups that I collect. He also knocked over various items from the counter, and one of our upstairs bookcases.
Yeah … he’s in the proverbial doghouse.
It’s not like it’s a secret that my dog is a garbage-guts, though. When we first got him, he ate everything. I do not exaggerate. He ate anything that was left out on the counter: meat, butter, bread, candy, chocolate … whatever there was. He would take scraps of plastic, paper, and garbage outside and chew it up in the yard. He made off with my Resident Evil movie, and chewed up the case. He’s the first dog that actually enabled me to say honestly that, “my dog ate my homework”. He’s eaten our satellite remote, my hair dye, a few unfortunate stuffed animals - the only thing that has ever made him sick is Chinese food. That was a decidedly NOT FUN experience, one that was never repeated. He’s eaten chocolate, candy, and other table scraps, and it’s never made him sick. But, he’s never eaten and ENTIRE box of chocolates, and he’s never eaten chocolate that wasn’t given to him by one of us.
He is lucky to be alive. And not just because he chewed up part of my cup collection … though, if it were one of my Coca Cola cups, it might be a different story. J
Honestly, though, I love my dog. I love him more than anything, and I freely admit this. I am sure that it bothers several family members, but it is the truth. I love animals more than humans, and I always will. I love Copper, I want him to live for many, many years.
My first dog, George, died when he was eight, on August 22, from cancer. My mom left home claiming to be taking him for an appointment, and came home without him. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My second dog, Sylvia, died when she was three, on March 18. She woke up paralyzed on the lower part of her body, from a calcified disc in her back. I had to make the choice to not let her suffer any longer. My mom’s dog, Jack, died when he was sixteen. He had a heart murmur, cataracts, arthritis, and finally died in my arms from a stroke at 5:30 in the morning on November 30.
Copper’s birthday is in July. He will be seven years old. He’s already beaten the 3-year mark, I want him to beat the 8-year mark. I’d love him to beat the 16-year mark. More than that, I want him to be healthy. I want him to live a long, full life, with as little pain as possible. He will be my last dog for a very long time. I don’t want him to suffer through old age, like Jack did, but I want him to live a long, long life.
My dog is a medical marvel. He’s eaten chocolate, which is supposed to be like poison for dogs. He’s eaten a full bottle of hair dye, and the conditioner that came along with it, which should have killed him. He’s eaten paper, plastic, garbage, cardboard, and various human foods. He’s eaten the equivalent of 12-14 days worth of dog food in one sitting when he snuck into the room where we kept his food. He is not a fat dog, nor do we force this food on him - he gets into it all by himself. As of yet, he has survived.
Does that mean I’ll let the box of chocolates, Instant Coffee, or Sea Monkeys sit on the counter when we go out anymore? Nope.
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