And Then There Were None

She would have been 98 years old yesterday. Born the second of four children to James and Bessie Mae Waddle in 1919, my mom would have been 98 years old yesterday. I often wonder what Mom was like as a child ... I have a picture of her as a little girl cemented in my mind based on a story from her childhood that she told me over and over again. She was wearing a long cotton dress covered by an apron, and high leather boots that Mom claimed took her a half-hour or longer to lace. As she did most days, Granny sent Mom to the hen house to gather the eggs, one of Mom's least favorite chores because it meant she had to get close to the chickens ... she never was too fond of animals. Mom always threw her head back and laughed when she got to that part of the story as she said, "Them derned chickens flapped their derned wings and tried to kill me every time I went in that derned hen house. Lord, help, I'm surprised they didn't manage to do it one time along the way. Them derned chickens were evil, I tell ya ... just plain old evil birds they was."

I'll spare you the details of the middle part of Mom's story, but on that particular day after gathering what she termed "a whole mess of eggs" into her apron, she carefully made her way back up the dirt path to the house. Not carefully enough, however, because, in her words, "Before I knew it, my derned feet had gone and slipped right out from under me and there I was just a layin' on the dirt with every derned one of them eggs broken all over me and my apron to boot. There was egg yolks just a drippin' everywhere and I just laid right there in that dirt and cried." I have a theory as to why that story stuck with me all these years and why it was the one that provided me with the picture of my mom as a kid that is seared into my brain. You see, most people who knew my mom knew that she was a tough lady ... many even referred to her as "a tough old bird," and I'd have to say that was indeed an accurate assessment. I think the reason why I've hung on to that image of Mom in her little long dress and her prissy white apron sprawled out on the path covered in goo from the broken eggs is because it's one of the rare glimpses I ever had of my mom being vulnerable. Even if that glimpse of her was one conjured up in my mind based on her recounting of the egg story, it's been a lifelong reminder to me that even the strongest, toughest old birds among us have times when they're weak ... times when they lose their footing on the dirty paths of life and suddenly without warning find themselves covered in egg goo.

For many years, most nights on my way home from work I'd call Mom and chat with her during my half-hour or so commute. We'd talk about all sorts of different things, and sometimes she would even tell me a story or two while I sat in rush-hour traffic. I didn't call her out of a sense of duty or because I was trying to be the perfect daughter ... I called Mom all those evenings because I wanted to call her. I wanted to hear that smile in her voice when she answered the phone and said, "Well I just knew that was you a callin'." I called my mom because I wanted her to know I cared about her ... that I loved her ... that I missed her. I called Mom because I wanted to know she cared about me ... that she loved me ... that she missed me. I called my mom because I wanted to call her ... I wanted to call her for her, and I wanted to call her for me.

I was wondering yesterday what Mom would be like if she were still alive ... no doubt she'd still be a tough old bird. She'd probably still be wearing those ugly track suits she loved so much ... she'd still be getting her hair permed ... her eyes would still squeeze shut when she laughed ... she'd still be waving her cane at me when she didn't like something I said ... she'd still be eating ice cream and tomatoes and fried okra and liver and onions. I miss all of those things about Mom but without question what I miss most are the conversations we had. Whether it was in the car on my way home from work or way too early on a Saturday morning ... "Well, Lord help, I done gone and forgot that you're on a different time zone than us here" ... I miss being able to talk to my mom. I had all those precious opportunities to talk to her, and then, in the blink of an eye ... and then there were none. No more chances to tell her how much I cared about her ... no more time to say, "I love you" ... no more moments to tell her how much I missed her.

As I left work this evening, my mind swirled with memories of another evening when I left work after a long day of proofing. An evening when I was already dialing Mom's number as I climbed into my car ... an evening when I told her I loved her and she said, "I do you, too" ... an evening when I had no idea that would be the last conversation I had with my mom. I couldn't help but think as I climbed into my car tonight how much different my life is now than it was on that evening a little more than 12 years ago, and I couldn't help but think of how much fuller my life would be now if Mom were still alive. There's something else I couldn't help but think about as I drove home tonight ... I couldn't help but think about how I would give everything I have to be able to talk to Mom just one more time. One more chance to say all the things I should have said to her before it was too late.

The bitter truth is that I had plenty of opportunities to apologize to Mom for the things I said and did that hurt her ... plenty of chances to be there for her and prove my loyalty ... plenty of times when I could have made sure she knew what a difference she made in my life. Plenty of opportunities ... plenty of chances ... plenty of times. And then ... and then there were none. Look around at the people in your life ... family, friends, co-workers, neighbors. Say the things you need to say while you have the opportunity... while you have the chance ... while you have the time. Don't wait until the then there were none, friends ... don't wait until the then there were none.

  

A New Guestie

There are some things in life we can't fully understand until we experience them ourselves. I can read every word ever published about ALS, but I can't comprehend the battle my great nephew Kevin is fighting every day of his life. I can hold someone's hand who is grieving the death of her child, but I can't grasp the depth of her loss or the extent of her sorrow. I can gaze into the eyes of a person who has Alzheimer's, but I can't fathom the terror that engulfed him when he realized he was losing his mind. I can listen to and cry with and hold a friend who has breast cancer, but I can't feel the dread that washes through her on chemo days. I can't possibly understand the feelings and emotions that accompany those things (and many others) because I haven't, thank God experienced them myself. I do, however, know firsthand what it is to have diabetes and as much as I wish I didn't, I understand to the core of my being the nasty beast of depression and the vicious stigma that is its ever-present companion.

The following words were written by a dear friend of mine whose long-term battle with depression makes the wolf who has taken up residence outside my window in recent years seem more like an adorable wiener dog puppy than the snarling, growling, always ready to devour me creature that it is. There aren't adequate words to convey the respect I have for this strong and courageous woman, nor can I begin to describe the amazing and unfailing love and support she receives from her precious family. Those of us who are blessed to know her caring and giving heart and have witnessed her desire to help others even when she's nose-deep in her own struggle know that this gal is a warrior through and through.

National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month is drawing to a close, but the need for compassion and understanding is not. I'm not just asking you to read the words written from the soul of my friend ... I'm asking you to let them create within you a desire to learn more, to ask more, to see more, to say more. I'm asking you to care more, to listen more, to reach out more and to love more. I'm asking you to be kind to one another, friends, for that's what matters most of all. Be kind to each other, dear friends, please just be kind.
   

"When a person tells you they have cancer, what's your first response?  When a person tells you they have depression, is your first response the same?  When a person has battled cancer and they tell you it's back, what is your response? What about when a person's depression comes back in full force?

"My experience is that cancer is seen as the enemy and people need outside help to beat it.  Depression is the devil and people need to look deep inside to figure out what they need to do to beat him out; pray more, exercise, eat better - whatever but it's the patient's responsibility to fix it.

"Why is it when the cancer is back and is aggressive, the patient has the option to refuse treatment and live life until the cancer takes them? It is definitely not acceptable to give into depression no matter how many times it returns, no matter how fierce it is, no matter what bad side effects that come from the meds that are prescribed to help.  The "benefit" is always better than the cost.  

"When a cancer patient can't go out or struggles to be social because the chemo is taking its toll, people don't stop trying to reach out. They may bring food or an activity to the patient. When a depressed person goes into hermit mode, people forget about them. No one wants to hear the sad, dark stuff. They just wait for the depressed patient to get over it. It's up to the patient. He or she is only sick as long as they allow it.

"In cancer, healthy cells are attacked by cancerous cells that eventually take over.  Depression is a cancer.  A brain cancer and people need to stop blaming the patient.

"Twenty years of taking meds. Twenty years of weekly therapy sessions, and often more than that. Twenty years of learning coping skills and putting them into practice. Twenty years of Twenty years of battling the beast makes for a weary patient. People wonder why I'm generous or are simply overwhelmed by it. They wonder how I can focus on others when I battle the shit I do. The truth is, if I take a moment to focus on myself, I won't be here much longer. This shit sucks."

Was it Worth it?

There are times when I struggle to wrap my mind around the truth that a little more than five and a half years ago, I was dangerously close to becoming another statistic in the haunting reality that is suicide. My difficulty lies not in accepting the fact that I reached a point where I believed with every fiber of my being that dying was a better alternative than living. That cold, hard truth is etched deeply into every nook and cranny of my being, and I'm quite certain that it will remain so until the moment I draw my last breath. It's not the recognition or acknowledgement that the wolf of depression had broken through the panes of glass in my window and had already drawn blood that troubles me. What burdens me and causes me to lie awake in the night is the confession that, even all these years later, old Mr. Wolf remains crouched and waiting for the opportunity to come crashing through that window once again.

September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, and Sunday was World Suicide Prevention Day. The irony of where I was and the people with whom I spent that day is not lost upon me ... far, far from it. On Sunday, I stood outside of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, listening to two of the adult children of Fred Phelps talk about the abuse they were subjected to in their youth. I listened as they once again recounted the physical beatings, the mental torture and the emotional manipulation they endured within the walls of that building and I wondered, as I have so many times since I've come to know them, how Nate, Mark and Dortha managed to survive.

Sunday was the second time I've stood in the middle of the quiet residential street staring at the building and the hate-filled signs that are hung outside its doors and planted within its yard. Sunday was the second time I've gazed at the American flag hanging lifelessly upside down on a weathered flag pole in the side yard at Westboro. Sunday was the second time I've seen with my own eyes the physical building where the despicable legacy of hate left behind by Fred Phelps lives on. But there was something I saw on Sunday for the first time as I stood in front of the place filled with such hate ... something I didn't expect to see ... something I simply cannot erase from my mind or eradicate from my heart.

During the time we were outside of Westboro filming Nate, Cindi and Dortha, I noticed several cars pull up in front of the church so that the folks inside the cars could take photos. Most of the people stayed inside their cars to take the pictures, but one group of teenagers stealthily ventured out hoping to grab a quick selfie in front of the WBC sign. I offered to take the photo for them and suggested that they move in closer to the sign so that I could better frame the shot. Two of the kids thought my idea was great and quickly moved up next to the sign. There was an instant look of terror in the eyes of the third teen, however, as he said, "No, we can't do that ... I'm afraid of them coming out here." I assured the young man that Nate would gladly protect him should a Westboro member come outside, and he finally moved forward long enough for me to snap a couple of pictures before he ran back to the car and climbed into the back seat to wait for his friends.

As I drove home from Topeka last night, my mind was filled with images of the people who've been damaged by the message of Fred Phelps and Westboro. His own children and grandchildren and the children and grandchildren of other families within the church. The family members of fallen soldiers. People within the LGBT community. Those of other faiths. Those who are divorced. And so many, many others. Seeing the setting sun in the back mirror as I drove down the highway, I found myself wishing I could ask Fred Phelps a question. I found myself wishing I could ask him if it was worth it. I found myself wishing I could go beyond the grave and look him in the eyes and ask him if the hurt he caused others was worth it. I like to believe there is some form of justice that is served after this life, and if that's truly the case, then I would like to ask Fred Phelps if the damage he wreaked and the pain he caused and the hurt he meted out upon the innocent and the marginalized was worth it. 

Here's the thing ... most of us don't abuse our children or preach hate from every corner or carry signs decrying our perceived evilness of those who are different from ourselves. Sometimes I think we might as well, though. With the words we speak or don't speak and the things we do or don't do, we are just as guilty of bringing great harm to the hearts of others and wreaking havoc in the lives of those we encounter every day. Was it worth tearing apart your kid's self-esteem? Was it worth losing a special friendship? Was it worth making someone feel unnecessary? Was it worth irreparably wounding the heart of one who cared about you? Was it worth hurting another person's feelings? Was it worth causing your spouse to doubt their importance? Was it worth betraying someone's trust? Was it worth causing another to doubt the validity of their existence? Was it worth the pain you caused? Was it worth the hurt you induced? Was it worth the damage you left behind? 

Was it worth it, friends? Was it really and truly worth it?