The Happiness Project

While it feels in many ways like a lifetime ago to me now, the reality is that it was only a few short years ago that found me at a very dark time in my life. I had been diagnosed with major depressive disorder, and depression was my unwanted, yet continual, companion on a daily basis. As hard as I tried and as desperately as I wanted to, I couldn't shake free from the darkness that permeated every part of my being. I began taking antidepressants which led to what seemed a never-ending journey of doctors trying to find the right cocktail of medications to fix my broken brain before the darkness swept me away for good. Thankfully, the right blend of medicines and weekly counseling sessions with a head doctor in combination with the unconditional love, encouragement and prayers from my family and friends eventually pulled me back from the brink of calling it quits for good. To say that I'm grateful for the people who loved and cared about me through the darkest time of my life is indeed the greatest understatement ever made. I know that I can never repay them for all they did, but I hope that seeing who I am today shows them that all they did for me was not in vain.

During those dark days, one friend in particular had the idea that if I tried to focus on the things that brought me even a glimmer of happiness, I could perhaps find my way back to who she called "the real Terrie." The Terrie who loved her children and grandchildren so very deeply and would never hurt them in any way ... the Terrie who cared for others ... the Terrie who was always willing to help where and when she was needed ... the Terrie who was filled with joy, happiness, compassion, love and humor. If I had a nickel for every time my friend said to me during that dark time, "We all want the real Terrie back," I could probably buy myself a vacation home in the mountains 10 times over.

My friend's idea began with a list ... a list she asked me to compose and then share it with her. Accountability, you know. Which, by the way, I was definitely not a fan of back then. I'd be lying if I said I went into the happy things list-making project with a good attitude ... far, far from it. Truth be told, I was angry that my friend even suggested I make the list in the first place. I mean, come on ... who was she to be telling me that making a list of happy things could possibly help me escape the darkness? I did it, mind you, because I valued the friendship we had ... I did it, but I did not in any way believe it would help me. Nope, nope, nope. But I did it and over time, my friend and I deemed the list "The Happiness Project." Probably not the most original or catchy name we could have come up with, but it adequately reflected the ultimate goal of the list ... helping me get back to me and even more important, helping me to focus on all the good in my life. The good that was being overshadowed by the darkness ... the good that was there all along ... the good that deserved all the hard work it took for me to find it again.

I'd really like to be able to tell you that the list was an overnight fix in helping to rid me of my depression, but that wasn't the case. I've come to realize that The Happiness Project was a part of the entire journey toward me breaking free from the darkness ... a very important part of breaking free. In reality, it took years ... years of hard work ... years of prayer ... years of following doctors' orders ... years of listening to the people who loved me ... and yes, years of trying to understand the importance of The Happiness Project before I could finally say (and really mean it) that I'm happy. Deeply and genuinely happy and ready for whatever life may bring, knowing that even though the darkness may try to raise its ugly head, I am determined to do everything in my power to never let it take over again ... never, never, never.

I could fill a million blog posts with all the reasons I'm happy now, but there are some that are definitely front and center. My children ... all six of them ... my children, my children, my children. I cannot say enough about them ... about the way they love me, the way they care for me, the way they honor me every single day. My eight grandchildren ... they are each absolutely perfect in every way and you'll never convince me otherwise. My sister and brother ... each day they remain such a big part of my life is a true blessing. My nieces and nephews and great nieces and great nephews ... I know how much they love me and I love them double that. My friends ... near and far, young and old, ones I've known only a short while and those I've known for decades ... I believe with all my heart that friends are such a gift from God and I am beyond blessed to have so many in my life. My doggos Ollie and Finn ... they make me smile every day, give the best cuddles and keep me moving on our daily walks. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention my new life in the country ... I completely love small-town life and my little house on the prairie. I have so very, very much to be happy about, friends ... so very, very much indeed. 

Since The Happiness Project first became a part of my life, I've made a point of going back every now and again and reading through my original list. Over the years, I've added to it and I've taken a few things away, too. You see, I've learned that some of the things on the original list weren't as critical to my happiness as I thought they were at the time. I've come to understand that happiness most often isn't about the external things in life as it is about what's inside of me ... what's inside my mind, what's inside my heart, what's inside my soul. Though I wasn't at all happy about The Happiness Project in the beginning, I know now that it was one of the best things anyone ever did for me. I will be forever grateful for the push my friend gave me all those years ago and forever grateful for the reminders from the people all around me to continue on The Happiness Project until the day I draw my last breath.

So here's the thing ... it's a new year and I know that for some of you, that simply means a change in the calendar. I know that some of you are struggling, some of you are hurting, and some of you are even near the end of your rope. I want to encourage you to talk to someone ... to make your own list ... to never ever give up. I can promise you beyond the shadow of any doubt that there's a light at the end of the tunnel ... a bright, glorious, happy light.

Happy New Year, friends ... make it the best one yet!

My Little Old Man

If you're a dog owner ... or maybe a cat owner, though I've never had a cat so I have no frame of reference as to the bond between human and feline ... if you're a dog owner, you know how very special those furry creatures can be and what an integral part of your life they become. I've been blessed to have had many dogs during my 61 years of life, dating back to when I was two years old and my parents owned a beautiful collie named Lady. I don't remember Lady, of course, but I've heard many stories about her from my family and I've seen an old photo taken in our backyard of me dressed in an adorable red and black velvet coat with matching hat, standing beside the quite regal Lady.

From Lady the collie to Frisky the chihuahua to Peaches the poodle to Rocky the mutt, I have many wonderful memories of the dogs that graced my childhood home. From an early age, I was taught to love dogs and to appreciate the love that dogs could give me, and I think perhaps that was one of the greatest gifts my parents ever bestowed upon me. Well, the greatest gift that mainly my dad bestowed ... Mom was never much of a dog person, but she loved Dad and Dad loved dogs. A precious gift that has followed me throughout my life ... a gift I've been blessed to pass along to my own children and that they are they're passing on to their children as well.

I'm convinced that the love of a dog is one of the purest forms of unconditional love a human can ever experience, if not the purest of all. Dogs don't keep track of wrongs done to them ... even those who are horribly abused want only to love and be loved. They don't see our faults or failures or flaws. When we are sad or sick or suffering, their greatest desire is to comfort us, to care for us, to console us. I've often heard it said that as humans we don't deserve dogs, and I think there is much truth in that statement. I also think, however, that perhaps that's the very reason God gave us dogs ... because we don't deserve them. What better way for Him to teach oft times quite unlovable people about love than by pairing them up with a furry, wet-nosed, tail-wagging, lap-sitting, kiss-giving creature who loves us so completely and so unconditionally? A love that is steadfast until the moment they draw their very last breath ... a love that never fades or wanes or gives up. Never ever ever.

I've been abundantly blessed to be able to work from home for more than a year, and without question one of the greatest blessings of having my office at home is being able to spend all day every day with my little wiener boy, Ollie. It took less than a week for me to realize that if I'm working at home, Ollie has no intention of sleeping in his regular dog bed on the couch. After a few days of him whining and constantly gazing at me with the saddest puppy dog eyes ever, I finally realized that he needed another dog bed ... not on the couch but down on the floor by my feet. Since I had just gotten him a new "on the couch" bed, I did what any dog-loving mom would do. I pulled out my AmEx card and ordered him a new "by Mom's feet" bed ... next-day delivery of course. And by my feet in his new bed with a fleece blanket is where my sweet wiener boy has spent almost every hour of the workday since March of 2020.

Ollie has a multitude of nicknames, as do most well-loved puppers. Wiener boy, Doodle Bear, Wolliver, Squiener, Little Dude and Buck are just a few of the monikers he responds to. Spending all day every day with him over the last year, however, has given rise to two new nicknames ... names I find myself calling him quite often. While Ollie is still quite active and doing well physically, he is getting older (my little guy is around 13ish years old, or at least that's the vet's best guess since he was a rescue), and with age comes changes, for humans and canines alike. Perhaps the most notable of those changes for Ollie is the color of his fur. What once was solid red now has more than a slight sprinkling of white mixed in. In the case of his sweet little face, that white has pretty much taken over. His paws are getting quite gray, and he has a definitive white stripe down his back as well. Hence the reason his newest nicknames are Ollie the Gray and Little Old Man. And yes, he does indeed respond to both of them.

I've learned to be thankful for so very many things over the last year. My children and grandchildren and most of my extended family have remained healthy. I've remained healthy. I work for a company that cares about its employees' health and well-being, and has allowed us to work from home long-term. I haven't had to shop inside a store for groceries or anything else in more than a year ... thank you, curbside pickup! And then there's the smaller, but equally important, things like masks and video chats and trying new recipes and learning to cut my hair. That last one is questionable ... how the heck do people cut the back of their own hair anyway?

Not the least on my thankful list is the precious time I've had with my Ollie boy over the last year. I certainly hope we have many, many years left together, but in my heart, I know he's beginning to enter into his twilight years. He's considered to be geriatric by veterinary standards, but he still loves to go on walks and play with his squeaker toy and race up and down the wooden sidewalk to our apartment when I say, "Whose bridge is this? Is this Ollie's bridge?" And despite having the beginnings of cataracts, he can still see a rabbit or squirrel or his pal Randy from a mile away. You bet I'm thankful for the gift of all this extra time with my little old man, and I try not to take even one moment for granted. That's the most important thing I've learned over the last year, you know ... not to take one moment for granted that I'm blessed to spend with my kids and grandkids and extended family and friends and yes, even my little Ollie the Gray. And you know what? I hope I carry that lesson ... that abundant lesson of gratitude ... with me for the rest of my life. 

Take care of yourselves, friends, and take care of each other.

Seven of My Seven

It wasn't until my first granddaughter Coraline was born that I suddenly understood what so many of my friends had told me after they became grandparents. There is something extra special and, in many ways, indescribable, about the love between a grandparent and their grandchild. It's an enveloping love ... a love that fills you to the very brim, a love that truly is like no other. And here's the thing ... the love I felt for Coraline the first time I held her in my arms is the same love I now feel for all seven of my grandchildren. The youngest of those seven isn't legally my grandchild yet, but in my heart he most definitely commands the same strong love I feel for my other six. That's another wonderful thing about grandparent love, by the way ... all seven of my grandchildren, biological or not, invoke that same extra special, indescribable love between this grandparent and her seven most precious, most amazing, most incredible grandchildren.

As some of you know, four of my seven grandchildren recently became "official" members of our family when they were legally adopted by my daughter and son-in-law on April 28. In all the ways that matter most, the kids became members of our family the day Meghann and Barrett got the phone call almost two years ago from social services asking if they would be willing to foster the kids with the intent to adopt them. I'll never forget Barrett's words the Saturday before they picked up the kids when we were out shopping for minivans so they would have a car big enough to transport everyone. He showed me the only photo he had at the time of the kids (for like the 100th time that day), and with tears in his eyes, he said, "Look at them, Terrie. Aren't they beautiful? I love them so much already." So, yes, those four beautiful and wonderful kiddos were members of our family from the day the phone rang all those months ago. It was awesome when the judge finally made it official, but they were my grandchildren long before the gavel came down.

Last night, I went to bed to the sound of countless sirens wailing through the darkness as police and protesters clashed here in Kansas City. Even though my city is far removed in miles from the city of Minneapolis, the outcry for justice in the death of George Floyd is strong in KC just as it is in cities not only across our country but in cities around the world. I have only watched the video once ... the video of a white policeman forcibly pinning Mr. Floyd to the ground by holding his knee against the 46-year-old black man's neck for almost nine minutes. I haven't been able to watch it again ... Mr. Floyd saying, "Please, I can't breathe ... please, officer, I can't breathe," remains steady in my mind after only one viewing. Nine minutes, friends ... that policeman held his knee against George Floyd's neck for nine minutes as he drew his final breaths. And just as criminal, in my opinion, is that three other policemen stood silent and did nothing to stop the brutality. No, that's not right ... the other policemen stood silent and did nothing to stop George Floyd from being murdered in the street right in front of them.

It's not right that my daughter and son-in-law have had to have conversations with their children, especially their 15-year-old son, about the dangers they may encounter simply because their skin is black. But they have to ... they have to talk to them about how they must behave should they ever find themselves in a situation involving law enforcement or racists. They have to tell them they must be careful of their body language and the clothes they wear and the way they speak. They have to tell them that the rules for them, especially the three boys, are very different than they are for young white males. Not because our family believes any of these things are right or just or deserved ... absolutely, most definitely not ... but because there are people in this world who will hate them or harm them or harass them only because they are black. It is wrong that four of my seven grandchildren are held to a different standard by the world than the other three. It is wrong that they have to deal with racism. It is wrong that they are judged unfairly. It is wrong that they have to be ever vigilant lest they find themselves in a situation that puts their very lives in danger. It's wrong that all of these things are true only because of the color of their skin.

When I was Skyping with my Canadians this morning, we talked about the protests happening across the U.S. I've long said that Coraline is wise far beyond her eight years, and this morning her wisdom came shining through as she asked question after question about what a protest was and why the people were doing it. As my daughter-in-law explained to her that a policeman had killed a black man and that people were upset about it, Coraline sat intently listening and I could see the wheels turning in her little brain. When Becca explained to her that the lesson for her in all of this was that we all need to be respectful of everyone, no matter the color of their skin or the country they come from or what philosophy they adhere to or how they dress or who they love or what kind of body they have, Coraline quickly said, "It's ridiculous to be mean to someone just because they are different. Mom, that's just ridiculous." And she's right ... my wise little granddaughter is absolutely, totally and completely right. It is ridiculous to hate or judge anyone because they are different from me.

Four of my seven grandchildren are black, and three are white. One of my grandchildren has blonde hair, one has brown and one is a borderline redhead. Four have brown eyes, and three have blue. One is a very tall 15-year-old young man, and one is still a baby just learning to crawl. Four of my seven grandchildren are boys, and three are girls. All seven are beautiful and healthy and smart, and as they grow up, all seven will have special qualities and gifts that make them uniquely wonderful and special humans in their own way. And all seven deserve to live their lives free of fear and full of love. Not three of my seven grandchildren, friends ... all seven of my seven grandchildren deserve the same opportunities, the same respect and the same equality. And it's up to each and every one of us to make sure we change the world so that they can.

It truly is up to each one of us, my friends ... it truly is indeed.

On This the Eve of Christmas

The holiday season last year looked a lot different for me than it does this year ... quite literally. On Thanksgiving, I was trying to kick what I thought at the time was a bad migraine. The next morning, I finally caved in and called my son Brad and asked him to take me to a walk-in clinic. I'll spare you all the details, but I spent the rest of Black Friday in the hospital. After a bunch of blood draws, a million questions to determine if I knew my name and my children's names and the difference between what an elephant and a banana look like, my head was strapped into several restraining devices and I spent an hour or so that night inside a tube getting a very loud MRI of my brain. The next morning, a neurologist who reminded me very much of Mary Poppins entered my room and explained to Brad and I that it wasn't some weird kind of migraine causing my vision issues and sensitivity to light but rather a stroke in the lower right occipital lobe of my brain. Not exactly the way I had planned to close out the year, but I was abundantly thankful to be alive. 

I spent the remainder of November and December visiting multiple doctors, being chauffeured to the grocery store by family and friends (because of my vision issues, it was tough at times for me to tell if I was buying dog food or chicken breasts), greeting visitors who often brought me lunch or dinner (in addition to being wonderfully caring and giving humans, they may have been concerned that I was eating the dog food and feeding Ollie the chicken breasts) and sleeping ... and sleeping ... and sleeping. That's one of the things I remember most vividly about the first month or so after the stroke ... sleeping. I think I probably slept more in the weeks following the stroke than I had in my entire life.

With all those giant sleeps (that's Canadian speak, by the way) came some of the weirdest dreams I've ever had. Crazy, insane dreams that have continued to visit me during my extended sleeps even now a year later. Think Ollie standing on his hind legs in a boxing ring going up against a towering coyote (also on his hind legs), duking it out to become the world heavyweight boxing champion, all while dressed in satin boxing trunks, boxing gloves and those super-cute, sneaker-like, little lace-up boxing shoes that the pros wear. Get that image in your mind and then sprinkle in a few others like the male co-CEO of the company I work for selling Girl Scout cookies outside of Hy-Vee in full Girl-Scout uniform or my companion proofreader being knighted by Queen Elizabeth while wearing a suit of armor (just to be clear, my fellow proofer was wearing the armor, not the Queen) or being inside an Egyptian pyramid talking to Barbra Streisand about what I was planning to cook for dinner for her and her husband James Brolin.

If you picture all those crazy scenarios and sprinkle in a bunch more, you'll have a good idea of the sheer craziness of my post-stroke dream world. In the beginning, the weird dreams frightened me a wee bit. That's actually an understatement … they terrified me because I feared what they might mean in regard to the instability of my newly wounded brain. These days, however, I look forward to them, perhaps in small part because I know the extent of my stroke-related after effects and I know the dreams are nothing to be afraid of and in reality, they are just plain old fun. I mean, come on … I've had some pretty righteous adventures over the last year when I'm in sleep mode, dudes and dudettes. Just last night I dreamed I was ripping some big waves and catching some epic tubes in Hawaii with all my Santa hat-wearing kids and grandkids. I can think of no better way to spend my sleeps, friends … no better way at all.

So why on this the eve of Christmas am I sharing some of my unusual post-stroke dreams with you? Because I've learned to be thankful for every single one of those crazy dreams. I'm thankful for them because each one reminds me of how far I've come over the last year, both physically and mentally, and how blessed I am to be alive. I'm thankful for those mixed-up, off-the-wall, often-hilarious dreams because they make me remember to keep my eyes and my heart open to all the wonderful things I can see rather than focusing on those I can't. If I tried to list all the things I'm thankful for this holiday season, you'd be reading for a very, very long time. You'll just have to take my word for it … I have so much more than I ever could have imagined to be thankful for this year, my friends. From big things like family and friends to small things like a drink of cold water and everything in between, I am truly thankful beyond measure. 

In closing, I'd like to tell you about a young man named Anthony and in doing so my prayer is that his story will encourage you to find ways, big or small, to become someone's Anthony in the coming year. Some of you may recall that my great nephew Kevin was diagnosed a little over three years ago with ALS. Over the course of those short three years ALS has ravaged Kevin's body, leaving him unable to move, speak, chew or swallow. For the last year or so, his only nourishment has come through a surgically implanted feeding tube and his only means of communicating with his wife and two young children was a special computer that spoke the words he blinked onto the screen. Anthony and Kevin have been friends since they were in junior high, and not even ALS could break the bond between the two young men. When Kevin's wife Rachel could no longer care for Kevin alone, Anthony came and helped. And when I say helped, I mean he bathed Kevin, shaved him, cut his hair, brushed his teeth, helped to feed him when he could still eat, took him to doctor's appointments and treatments, lifted him in and out of his wheelchair, stayed with him so that Rachel could continue to be involved in her kids' lives and attend their activities, took care of sick children, helped with repairs around the house, played with the kids when Rachel needed a break and spent countless hours doing physical therapy exercises with Kevin to help him maintain some flexibility and help reduce any pain he might have.

There really aren't words to explain the brotherhood that exists between Kevin and Anthony, but I know that every single person in our family is beyond thankful for the day all those years ago when their friendship was born. We are beyond thankful for Anthony's commitment to Kevin and his family, for his willingness to be there through the darkest hours of their lives, for his selfless, giving and compassionate heart. I told Rachel when I visited in October that I was convinced that Anthony was more angel than man. What a tremendous blessing and gift he is … how sacrificial his spirit … how caring his heart … how steadfast his love for his friend. Rather than sending a note or giving Kevin a call now and then to say he was thinking of him, Anthony stepped up and he does everything he can to help. Not for a week, not for a month, not for one year mind you … Anthony has been there day in and day out for years and he will be there until the end. To say that our family is thankful for Anthony … well … words just simply are not enough … words really and truly are nowhere near enough.

So on this the eve of Christmas, here's my wish, my hope, my prayer for each of you in the coming year … be thankful. Be thankful for what you can see and don't worry about what you can't. Be thankful for every breath you take and know that each one is a gift. Be thankful for the people you are blessed to love and who love you, and never take the time you have with them for granted. Be thankful for dreams that make you laugh, for children who give you hugs, for dogs that love you most, for another day of life. In big ways and small ways and all the ways in between … be someone's Anthony every chance you get. On this the eve of Christmas, be thankful, my friends … be thankful indeed.  

More Than a Building

It's been loud in the office the last few days with sounds that signal our upcoming office move next week. The clacking of packing crates as they are hefted from the stacks in front of the reception desk. The thuds and clinks as people begin filling said crates with items from their desks. The multiple questions ringing through the air ... "Should I go ahead and pack this or will I need it this week?" ... "What if all my stuff won't fit into two crates?" ... "Will the movers take my trash can?" … "What about my chair?" … along with countless others. I've overheard people talk about how excited they are that we're moving to a new building in a new area of town, while I've overheard others speak of much-treasured memories and a distinct sadness about leaving.

The truth is that moving, whether it be from one home to another, one place of business to another or one geographical location to another, is most often both good and bad. Moving … really, change of any kind … can cause all sorts of conflicting feelings and emotions. One minute you're excited and the next you're overwhelmed with anxiety. You're happy and afraid, filled with anticipation and dreading what's to come, ready to embrace the next chapter and terrified that the past that made you who you are will be erased from memory … all jumbled together within the course of 60 seconds. I heard someone say yesterday that his heart had been up and down and all around this week, feeling much like his stomach does when he rides a roller coaster. I couldn't have said it better myself … so many emotions and so many memories with one pulsing mantra that refuses to leave … 

"This is more than a building to me."

From the early days of walking through the gutted, dust-filled empty shell of the building that eventually became the Kansas City home of Sullivan Higdon & Sink (oh, and by the way, we're now Signal Theory) to seeing everyone packing up their desks today, I can't help but acknowledge that I've lived a lot of life over the past 15 years within these brick and mortar walls nestled in the Crossroads District of KC. Many of the young people here have been asking me throughout the week about my memories of this place … perhaps because I'm one of the few people remaining who's been here since move-in day, or perhaps it's just because I'm older than dirt. I'd like to say it's their questions that ramped up my walk down 2000 Central memory lane over the last few days, but that just wouldn't be true. The truth is that I didn't need any help at all in getting me started on walking the path of remembering things that have occurred inside of these walls … the truth is I've been jumping on and off that path ever since the leaders of the company announced we were moving. Like I said … I've lived a lot of life over the past 15 years in this building … I've lived a whole, whole lot of life within these walls, friends.

When I first had the idea to write this post, I had a vague sketch in my mind of what I would write but my actual post is shaping up to be far removed from what I originally thought I would say. It seems fitting, though, that my direction shifted and my focus in this post changed so drastically … I've experienced a ton of life changes over the past 15 years, some of which played out right here in this building. Some of the biggest events in my life took place during the time I worked inside these walls, both happy and sad alike. Two of my three children were married. My sweet mom passed away. I welcomed a great gaggle of grandkids into my life. I came out to a senior vice president in a conference room. I found out I was diabetic and lost of ton of weight. I lost my little fat buddy J.R. and found my sweet Ollie boy. I met Nate Phelps and became the executive producer for the documentary "Not My Father's Child."  My eldest child became a Canadian and I overcame my fear of flying. I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and planned to end my life. We filmed "Ears Wide Open?" and I got real in my blog. The historic line "It's time to walk the wiener!" was uttered for the first time. I embraced my love of bow ties. I learned the undeniable importance of forgiveness. I had a stroke that left me with a blind spot and an eye patch and earned me the title of "The Pirate Proofreader."

Sights and sounds of days gone by filled my mind as I walked the halls of this old building today. Lynell's whistling and him saying, "That's a great fire you've got going there, Miss Ter."  Rand's toilet costume and his phone call to me the morning after Mom died. Donna's patient instruction and faithful friendship. Joann and Ali being terrified of the birds that occasionally got into the building. JJ's flowers from his mom that arrived each year on his birthday. Impromptu lunches at Manny's with my kids. Making sugar cookies for parents to take home for their kids to decorate. Beer thirties in the kitchen and Stretch Your Stomach at Thanksgiving. Tear-filled goodbyes with friends who left for new jobs or retired. Introducing new employees to life at SHS. Listening to young people tell me their troubles and letting them quite literally cry on my shoulder. Shooting Nerf hoops at my desk with Henry and Janie. The first time I met Yosef and his man bun. Dirty Costco trips with Hilary. Being the office mom and the official baby whisperer. My beloved quote post. Cookouts in the parking lot and Talon trying his best to teach me how to tie a bow tie. White elephant parties, wedding showers, baby showers, new business wins, flooded entryways, broken ice machines and dishwashers, ice cold bathrooms, Ollie running like a wild thing down the main hallway. The main hallway … the fireplace … the conversations … the friendships … the love … the family … the memories. The oh so very sweet memories that will stay with me forever.

I haven't seen the new building yet, but I hear it's pretty awesome … it better be because it has some big shoes to fill, at least in the memory-making department anyway. Tomorrow is our last day at the old place, and I'm sure I'll shed more than a tear or two. I'm excited for what's ahead but I'm also sad to leave the old place behind. So cheers to you 2000 Central … you've been more than a building to me, old friend … so much more than a building indeed.

If Salami Grew on Trees

Remember that one time last December when I said a dear friend told me I was one of the good guys and that the good guys team needed me to get off the bench and get back in the game of writing? If so, hopefully you also remember I said I wasn't promising I'd be back to writing hundreds of posts like I'd done in the past, but that I hoped to write more than I had in the last couple of years. Even though I haven't posted since the end of January, I want to assure you that I haven't regressed to my prior bench-warming status and that I fully intend to follow through on my "I hope to write more" statement. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my last two months of writing silence, I'd very much like to share with you the reasons why I've been on another short hiatus from posting.

By the way, lest some of you might jump to the "Oh my gosh, the depression wolf broke throughTerrie's window," way of thinking, please know that most of the reasons I haven't been writing are quite positive ones. In fact, some of my whys ... or why nots, as the case may be ... are downright, totally flipping awesome. While a couple of the reasons for my recent lack of wordsmithery aren't exactly wonderful, they are far from being awful or life-derailing and I'm doing my absolute best to see them as opportunities to grow and learn rather than allow them to fill me with despair or cause me to lose hope. Now that we've gotten that little bit of housekeeping out of the way, let's talk about what a wonderful world it would be if salami did indeed grow on trees.

Let's start with February … ah, yes, let's definitely begin by talking about the month of February. For those of you who don't know, my oldest son and his family have been living in the small town of Jena, Germany, since last July. My extra brilliant professor son was invited there to work on a research project with a German university for a year, and they'll be heading back to Canada in a few months. So … drum roll, please … I spent almost the entire month of February in Germany! Thanks to a brand new sabbatical program that was rolled out at the beginning of the year by my employer for those of us who've worked at the company for eight years or longer (I'm coming up on 17 years in October, by the way), I didn't have to think twice about how and where I wanted to spend my extra four weeks away from the office … fully paid, I might add, along with a $750 stipend for travel expenses if I left the U.S. and immersed myself in a new culture. So that's exactly what I did … I hopped on multiple airplanes and spent almost a whole month in Germany. Not a small feat for an old gal who spent most of her life afraid of flying … one leg of the trip had me in the air for 9 1/2 hours … and who was only a couple of months out from having a stroke. Not a small feat at all, and yes, I'm pretty darn proud of myself for making the trip.

Honestly, traveling to Europe was never on my bucket list, but now that I've gone, I definitely want to go again. I saw things I never dreamed of seeing, like the Dom Cathedral in Cologne … an experience that has taken on even deeper meaning in light of the devastating fire at the Notre Dame Cathedral. I stood in a field where Napoleon led his troops into battle and tried to imagine the emotions he must have felt. I ate sausage from a street vendor and lived to write about it. I walked my granddaughters to and from school on cobblestone streets and beamed with pride as they introduced me as their "Oma." I spent a day with my son walking the grounds of Buchenwald … a concentration camp where thousands of Jews, gypsies and homosexuals lost their lives during the reign of Adolph Hitler. I blinked back tears each time I saw Stolpersteines on the sidewalks in front of houses or businesses… brass stones honoring Jews who were removed from their homes or places of work and taken to the concentration camps. I went to a museum that houses the world's third largest collection of Picassos and spent a day at the largest inner city zoo in Europe. I played pirates and hide and seek and make-believe. I read bedtime stories and snuggled with my two favorite little Germadians and laughed until I cried with my son and daughter-in-law. It truly was a grand adventure, friends, and I will be forever grateful I had the opportunity to go.

Now let's talk about March and the first half of April and why I didn't rush right home from Germany and write my little heart out. These are those not exactly wonderful reasons for my lack of writing that I mentioned earlier … not the most fun to talk about, but like I said, I'm determined to approach these stroke-related issues as opportunities to learn and grow rather than letting them become things that make me want to burrow inside a cave and hide. While I've made great strides in my post-stroke recovery, it seems that I may be a reading pirate a while longer than I'd originally hoped … which, for some reason, my grandkids have decided is totally cool. Personally, I'd certainly prefer not to have to patch my left eye when I read, but at the same time I'm extremely thankful for my pirate patch as it enables me to continue to work full-time at my job as an editor. By the way, that's a giant life lesson I've learned since having a stroke … never take anything for granted. Proofing and editing used to be so easy for me and now … well, suffice it to say that it's a bit harder for me now. Not that I'm not still the best proofer/editor ever … I just have to work at it more than I did pre-stroke. Which in some ways is actually good in my particular line of work because it makes me more determined than ever not to overlook any errors. So what does that have to do with my lack of writing? After I work all day, my brain is tired of looking at words, and that includes writing them, too. When I come home in the evening now, all I want to do is take Ollie for a walk and not read or write a single solitary word.

I know what you're thinking … you completely understand why I'm not up to wording after I work all day, but why in the heck haven't I been writing on the weekends? Two reasons … one awesome and one not. First the awesome ... I've been spending more time than usual with my U.S. kids and grandkids on the weekends. Heck, I even spent one whole weekend babysitting my granddogs Chewbacca and Jabba at Brad and Shelby's house (so much fun, by the way, for me and Ollie, too!). I've been to movies with friends and last weekend Ollie and I went for several long, relaxing, peaceful walks. And now the not … sometimes I have a little trouble pulling my thoughts together these days. It's hard to explain, but maybe the best way to put it is that it's like my brain is still in recovery mode and I have some difficulty doing any extracurricular thinking. Or maybe it's that the creative section of my brain is sort of in "sleep mode" and needs a bit more time to fully wake up. As much as I'd like to tell you it isn't so, the truth is that I get a little frustrated now and then that I'm not fully back to normal yet. But when that impatience starts creeping in, I'm learning to stop, look in a mirror and to remind myself just how incredibly blessed I am to be where I am today and remember that every moment … every breath … every smile is a gift.

For those of you who continue to send me notes of encouragement, well wishes and support, I truly can't begin to thank you enough. Please know that I'm still here and that I have no intention of giving up on writing … I'm working on it, I promise. And for those of you who send me not-so-nice messages … well … well … well … poop on you. :)

One last thing … about the title for tonight's post. While I was in Germany, my youngest granddaughter asked me a bunch of crazy questions, not the least of which was, "Ghee, does salami grow on trees?" When I told her I was pretty sure that salami didn't grow on trees, her reply was precious. So precious, in fact, that I'm seriously considering incorporating it into my newfound "be thankful" motto for living.

"Well, Ghee, I think salami should grow on trees because salami is delicious and it would be good to be able to just go outside and pick as much salamis as I want off the trees and eat them right there and say that is so yummy."

Love and hugs to you, my friends … have a blessed Easter … one filled with love and gratitude for the greatest gift of all.

The Living List

Since all the weather forecasters here in KC seem to be on the same page regarding the frigid arctic blast that's heading our way tomorrow, and considering the fact that last week was bitterly cold as well, I decided to take full advantage of the balmy 40-degree weather  we had today and take Ollie the wiener dog for an extra-long walk. Though we normally pass at least a few other residents from the apartment complex where we live, both human and canine alike, today was one of those rare days when we didn't see another single person or dog as we walked. Which meant I had plenty of time to think as Ollie and I sauntered along, and I do mean plenty of time and I do mean sauntered … Ollie was extra determined to take his sweet time and be super diligent in peeing on every post, tree, curb and lingering mound of snow that we passed. He was pretty much the happiest wiener dog on the planet today … the happiest tail-wagging, air-sniffing, peeing-on-everything, meandering little wiener dog on the planet. And truth be told, I was pretty doggone happy myself.

I thought about a lot of things as my faithful little dog and I walked today … big things and little things and more than a few in-between things. But most of all, I thought about the new list I recently started. It's not a bucket list, though in some cases I suppose maybe it should be. It's more of a recognition list, I think … a list of all the people and things I recognize I'm thankful for that I used to take for granted. That's definitely a positive outcome I've noticed since having the stroke … I'm so very much more thankful and grateful than I was before, and it's changing my life in a good way. In fact, I've told several folks, my kids included, that in many ways I think the stroke was one of the best things that could have ever happened to me. I know that sounds weird, but it's true. Having said that, let's get on to my list … the beginning of it anyway. This will absolutely, totally, completely, beyond the shadow of any doubt be an ongoing project … a living list, if you will … a list to be built upon and expanded … very much a "too be continued" project. Some of my thankfuls are big and some are small but they are all worthy of gratitude. But for now, here's a sampling … a jumping off place just in case you want to get started on a living list of your own.

My children … all six of them
My grandchildren … all six of them
Flannel pajama pants
Flannel sheets
Flannel shirts
Warm fires on cold nights
Kisses from my grandkids
Laughter
Hugs
Electricity
Toothbrushes
Soap
Hot showers
The sound of the wind
Wiener boy
Compression socks
Comfortable shoes
Iced tea
Cheese
Blue jeans
Converse sneakers
Shorts
The smell of coffee
My job
Friendship
Tree houses
Markers
Blankets
Rain
Snow
Giant glasses of cold water
Ice cubes
Eggs over-medium
Grandkid art
Photos
Neighbors
My apartment
Music
Medicine
Compassion
Doctors
Nurses
Blackberries
Raspberries
Blueberries
Not being blind
Learning to see around the blind spot
My car
Stocking caps
Gloves
Airplanes
Grocery stores
Forks
Breathing
Knowing how to type
Notes from friends
Presents
Trees
My bed
Love
The squirrels that sit on my deck and make Ollie go crazy
My toes
Having legs
Kindness
Being able to walk
Windows
Knowledge
Breakfasts and lunches and dinners with my kids and grandkids
Every moment I'm blessed to spend with the people I love
Forgiveness
Grace
Mercy
Backpacks
Awesome white hair
Wrinkles
Creeks
Sunsets
Chirping birds
Eyes
Ears
Talking
Sleeping
Clean towels
My pillow

Like I said, big things and small things and more than a few in-between things … and absolutely, totally, completely, beyond the shadow of any doubt, as long as I'm alive and breathing to be continued ...

You See That, Right?

First off, I'd like to thank the many of you who've reached out to me since my post on December 27. I'm deeply humbled by your messages of support and encouragement, and am incredibly grateful for your prayers and well wishes as I continue to recover from the stroke I had in late November. It really and truly is a wonderful life, friends, and I am so very, very blessed to have you sharing the journey with me.

Last week was my first full week back to work since Thanksgiving, and I've got to admit I was more than just a wee bit nervous. I was glad my return to the office the week before happened to fall on a three-day week since my energy level isn't quite back to 100 percent just yet and I sure didn't want to fall asleep at my desk. I won't say I've never dozed off for a few minutes during all the years I've been in the workforce, but let's be gut honest here ... falling asleep at my desk the first week I come back to work after having a stroke would not have been good. Not good at all. You know as well as I do that someone would have seen me with my head down on my desk or slumped back in my chair with my eyes closed and immediately thought, "Well, that's it. Terrie's dead." So yes, I'm thankful, both for my sake and that of the co-worker who would have suffered untold emotional distress had they found me sleeping, that I did indeed stay awake upon my return to work.

Believe it or not, it wasn't until last weekend that I actually began reading about the type of stroke I had. Weird, I know, and definitely out of character for me considering my usual insatiable quest for knowledge. I'll attribute my lack of research regarding my stroke to the fact that my vision was significantly impacted in the first few weeks after it happened. You only get a smidge of information when you say "Hey, Google, tell me about lower right occipital lobe strokes" ... certainly not enough for an extraordinarily curious mind such as mine ... which is why last weekend I decided it was time I learned more about what had taken place inside my head, and I was finally feeling brave enough to read up on what's ahead for me regarding my continued recovery. So ... after sleeping in until 12:30 p.m. last Saturday, I spent a good part of the remainder of the day curled up on the couch with my wiener dog and my laptop gathering as much info as I could on the fascinating and glorious thing that is the human brain.

Don't worry, I'm not going to wax on about everything I gleaned from what I read last weekend ... that would take way too long and involve way too much risk for yours truly with regard to misspellings and incorrect wording. But I would like to share just a bit as to what I've learned. I'd never even heard of the occipital lobe of the brain before my recent visit to the hospital ... hey, I flunked biology in college, twice, so back off with the science jokes, OK? Since what prompted my ending up in the hospital was the fact that I couldn't see very well, it wasn't exactly surprising to learn that the occipital lobe of the brain is dedicated to vision. Technically, it receives information transmitted via the eyes, processes that information and then sends it on to the frontal lobe which formulates a response. Of the four major lobes of the brain, the occipital is the smallest but the one most used in our daily lives. 

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "Small rudders guide great ships," and that's very true when it comes to the occipital lobe. Trauma to that little section of the brain, whether from injury or infection or stroke or tumor, has the potential to wreak a lot of havoc in regard to what a person sees or doesn't see. A person could lose their sight completely, be unable to recognize people or objects, experience significant issues with depth perception and balance or even have hallucinations. In my case, I have what's called congruous homonymous hemianopia. In laymen's terms, I have a fried fuse in my brain that's messing with my field of vision and causing me to be more sensitive to bright light than I was before the stroke. I'm currently going to brain rehab a couple of times a week where some really awesome folks are teaching me how to retrain that small piece of gray matter in my noggin to quite literally see things in a different light. And bonus ... I get to wear a totally cool pirate eye patch when I'm reading.


If you've been reading along with me for a while, you know that I've gone through some dark times over the years ... times when I was ready to throw in the towel and be done with living. Which is why when the doctors and nurses started talking to me about there being a high risk of depression following a stroke, I made up my mind before I ever left the hospital that I would do everything in my power to keep that from happening. The weird thing is that, for now at least, the stroke has had entirely the opposite effect on me. It's made me appreciate things I used to take for granted, to slow down and enjoy life, to not be afraid of new adventures and  to spend more time with the people I love. And it's made me determined to find the good ... and the funny ... in this part of my journey.

I'm so thankful, friends, to be alive and to have only a small blind spot as my "stroke leftover." I will admit, however, to having a little fun with some of the young folks in my office after explaining to them that some people have hallucinations following an occipital stroke. When they ask me if that's happened to me, I smile and say, "Oh, no. Absolutely no hallucinations for me, thank goodness." Then the next time I see them, I say something like, "Tigers aren't really my thing, but that one over there by the window is gorgeous. You see that, right?"

Have a great week, friends ... remember to keep your chin up, your sense of humor intact and your grateful meter in tip-top shape. Stay tuned for my next post ... I kind of like this whole talk-writing thing. 

The Lost Crayon

Many of you probably have no idea what year Crayola first introduced its new crayon packaging that contained a built-in sharpener or how many crayons said history-making packaging held. It was 1958 (one year before I was born), and the box had a whopping … wait for it … a whopping 64 Crayola crayons. That's right … 64 crayons … 64 different colors … AND a built-in crayon sharpener on the back of the box.

I totally remember the day I finally convinced my mom that I really, really, really needed her to buy me one of the super-awesome boxes of 64 Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener on the back. I had been begging for the then "biggest box of crayons ever" for months, and Mom finally said yes. Right smack dab in the middle of the Zayre Department Store in downtown Chattanooga, Mom finally said yes to buying the crayons for me. I remember that day like it was yesterday ... the slight smile on Mom's face as she handed me the green and yellow box of crayons ... the feel of the box in my hands as we walked through the store ... the anticipation bubbling inside of me to color in my favorite Batman coloring book ... the smell of the crayons as I opened the box when we got home. You bet I remember that day, friends ... I remember that day because it was, without a doubt, one of the greatest days of my little girl life.

All was well and life was good for my young self until the fateful day when I came home from school, opened my beloved box of Crayola Crayons and discovered that one of the crayons was missing. And not just any old crayon, mind you ... it was, and still remains, one of my all-time favorite colors. That's right, friends ... I opened my beloved box of 64 Crayola Crayons with the built-in sharpener on the back to find the Brick Red crayon was missing. Of all the crayons to disappear, why, oh, why did it have to be Brick Red? I managed to remain relatively calm as I searched every nook and cranny in my little bedroom for the missing crayon, but when I realized it wasn't anywhere in my room, sheer and utter panic engulfed me as I raced through the rest of the house trying desperately to find my dear friend Brick Red. I won't admit to how long I looked for that crayon or to how long I was consumed by an overwhelming sadness over its loss, but I will confess to crying myself to sleep over losing my very special crayon friend … not only that night but for more than a few nights afterward as well.

I bet you're probably thinking the same thing my mom and dad did regarding Brick Red's sudden disappearance … it was just a crayon for gosh sake's and I still had 63 others, including at least 10 variations of the color red. But none of those 63 crayons were Brick Red … Brick Red was special. It was my go-to crayon … my one crayon that somehow managed to give even my ugliest coloring projects a spark of beauty. And believe me, friends, I had some really, really, really ugly coloring projects back then. Brick Red was the crayon that seemed to never get dull or need sharpening, even though I colored with it almost every day ... it was like the Energizer Bunny in the world of crayons. But the most special thing about my old pal Brick Red? The thing that made it so important to me? That one crayon somehow made me believe I was capable of creating a masterpiece. In many ways, that crayon made me believe I was a masterpiece.

By now you're probably scratching your head and wondering why in the heck I'm writing about losing a crayon 50 years ago, especially on the first day of a new year. But I do have a reason, and even a legitimate one at that, for my subject choice for this the first day of 2019. You see, friends, Brick Red's departure from my crayon collection was about more than just losing my favorite crayon. When I lost that crayon, I lost my desire to color at all. The truth is I didn't even open the box of crayons for a very, very long time. Why? Because I was so afraid of losing another crayon that I didn't even attempt to create anything with the crayons I had left. I was terrified by the thought that my masterpiece-creating days were over. I cringed in fear as my once-held belief that I was a masterpiece fell in shards all around my scared, lonely heart. I was afraid ... plain and simple ... I was afraid. I was afraid of once again losing something that had been so special ... so dear ... so precious to me.

I'm guessing many of you agree that fear is an extremely powerful emotion, one that's capable of sidelining a great big bunch of us ... at least I know that's true for me. In my 59 years of life, fear has kept me from doing or saying or being lots of things far more important than coloring in a Batman coloring book. Fear is one tough cookie, let me tell you, and once it's sunk its claws into my mind about a certain thing, it's harder than soap scum in a teenage boy's bathroom to get rid of. Take flying, for example ... I'm not nearly as afraid of getting on a plane as I once was, but I can promise you that the day before I know I have to board the sky monster, that old fear comes marching right back in and tries to convince me not to get on the flight. Fear tells me I'm sick and shouldn't fly. Fear tells me there will be a hijacker on the plane and I shouldn't fly. Fear tells me I'll get motion sick and have to puke in one of those tiny bags ... oh, wait, that actually happened to me once so that disqualifies that one as fear and slides it squarely into the category of reality. But the truth remains ... fear is a powerful emotion, one that can absolutely knock the life out of me if I let it.

A lot of folks use the beginning of a new year as their springboard for change, or at least they say they're going to change some things in their lives anyway. We all know that oftentimes those New Year's resolutions fall by the wayside far more quickly than we're willing to admit. With each new year, we proclaim that things will be different ... we proclaim that we'll be different and I think most of us sincerely believe that will be the case when we set forth our proclamations, myself included. Which is why I'm not making a specific list this year of what I would like to change in the coming year. Instead, I've decided to cover my desires for self-improvement in this new year with a "No Fear" blanket. No fear of living life to its absolute fullest. No fear of what tomorrow may or may not bring. No fear of judgment from others. No fear of loving and caring and doing for others. No fear of doing me the very best way I know how.

Who would've thunk a lost crayon from so many years ago could still be teaching me lessons today? Who would've thunk it indeed? Happy new year, friends ... cheers to creating and being masterpieces of your very own.

It Truly Is a Wonderful Life

I'll explain later, but I need to begin with the following disclaimer: Author shall not be held liable or responsible for any misspelled words, typos or incorrect wording that may occur in the transcribing of this post. Now that I've taken care of that important information, let's begin, shall we?

In 2017, I posted 35 entries to this blog ... a pretty substantial decrease from the previous seven years, which included an all-time high of 266 in 2013. And this year? Well, if you include the post I'm penning right now, I'll be up to a whopping 12 entries for the entire year. That such a prolific and fairly well-followed writer as myself could relatively disappear from the literary world with nary a mention from "Entertainment Tonight" or "Good Morning America" or, gasp, "The Ellen Show," boggles the mind. Thankfully, so many of you from my loyal and unwavering fan base have written and continue to write expressing your desire for me to get back to it ... to pick up the pen, so to speak, and share my thoughts, stories, struggles and victories with you once again. You never gave up on me and for all your words of encouragement and support, I thank you, truly and deeply, from the bottom of my heart.

I can offer no valid reason for why I stopped writing, but rather only an excuse, and some of you most probably will consider it a flimsy one at that, for my departure from the thing I once so deeply loved. As much as I hate to admit it, I allowed the words and actions of a few other people to ... well ... to put it bluntly ... knock the living crap out of my heart and cause me to lose the tenuous sense I had of self-worth. It made me doubt the goodness of my heart and obliterated my ability to believe I could contribute to the greater good of anyone. I distanced myself from everyone, afraid to trust or open up to others, fearing not just being hurt again, but of not being able to survive the pain if I was. Well, guess what? I'm not afraid anymore. Nope, I'm not afraid and I sure hope I won't ever be again. At least not afraid of getting hurt by other people anyway ... I will always, always, always be afraid of thunderstorms. I'm not afraid anymore because even if other people try to make me believe otherwise, I know I have a good heart. I know I'm a good person. I know there are lots of people who love and appreciate me. And most important of all? I know there are plenty of folks in the world for me to help. Whether that's handing out PB&Js to my homeless friends under the bridge or writing something that might make a difference in someone's life or being a listening ear to a young person who's struggling or telling my wonderful grandchildren how very much I love them ... I know there are plenty of people in the world for me to help. As a dear friend so kindly reminded me recently ... I'm one of the good guys and the good guys team needs me to get off the bench and get back in the game.

Having said all of that ... and yes, I know it was a lot ... I'm not saying I'll be back to writing hundreds of posts next year. What I'm saying is that I'm hoping and planning to write more next year than I have for the last couple of years. I'm saying that I'm hoping and planning to not let the naysayers get to me the way I have in the past. I'm saying I'm hoping and planning to be better ... to do more ... to help more ... to see more ... to laugh more ... to love more ... to live more. Which leads me to the reason for my disclaimer at the beginning of this post, along with at least a partial explanation as to my newfound perspective on ... well ... on life in general.

Instead of shopping on Black Friday as I had planned, I ended up spending a couple of days in the hospital. After running several tests, including snapping some illuminating photos of the inside of my noggin', the doctors told me I'd had a small stroke in the lower right occipital lobe of my brain. I know stroke is a scary word ... I know it scared me when the doctors told me that's what had happened to me ... but I assure you that I can walk and talk and laugh and cry and think and crack jokes and give hugs and bake amazing chocolate chip cookies just like I always have. Other than getting tired much faster than I did before, I only have one lingering aftereffect from the stroke and that involves my vision. It's improved a great deal in the last few weeks, though, and the neuro ophthalmologist is confident that time and brain retraining therapy will have me back to seeing clearly in no time. The glitch between my brain and my eyes continues, however, to make typing and reading a bit hard for me so I'm using the newfangled talk to text technology to "write" tonight's post ... hence the reason for my disclaimer.

As far as the partial explanation for my new outlook on life, simply put ... strokes kill people every day, and I'm still alive. If my stroke was caused by a blood clot that traveled from another area of my body, I could have easily died from a heart attack or a pulmonary embolism. But for a reason or reasons I may never know this side of heaven, I'm still here. And if I haven't learned one other thing in the last four weeks, I've learned this ... life is a blessing and I deserve to have my butt squarely kicked for taking even one moment of it for granted. Life is precious ... life is a gift ... life is something to never ever be wasted. God has granted me another chance at life, and I intend to spend the rest of my time on earth ... however many days or months or years that may be ... being thankful for every second, every breath, every person. I am beyond blessed to be alive, my friends. I have the most amazing kids, grandkids and extended family who love me to the moon and back again. I have friends who will be there for me through thick and thin. I am indeed beyond blessed to be alive.

Yesterday was my 59th birthday, and without a doubt I can promise you this ... it truly is a wonderful life. Without even the tiniest shred of doubt, my dear friends, I can promise you this ... it truly is a wonderful, wonderful life.