This Old Ragged Shirt

       I pulled at the ends of the ragged shirt and examined myself in the mirror. The left side was drooping a good six inches lower than the right side.  I sighed and pulled at the right side in hopes to stretch it out; make the ends even.  The bright University of Tennessee color had faded from UT orange to a softer 'creamsicle' orange having gone through so many washes.  The neckline of the shirt was all out of whack and looked like I had been dragged around by the neck.  I frowned at myself in the mirror.  Did I wash it in hot water by accident or dry it the wrong way? I thought as I lifted the left droopy side of the shirt and turned it inside out. My stomach chilled as the bedroom fan chopped up air into cold pieces and propelled them onto me.  The tag wasn't legible as the care instructions had faded along with the UT orange and were somewhere that couldn't be found. 

       I had only washed the shirt twice myself; the other times he washed it.  I had taken his shirt as I cleaned his closet out and his dresser drawers.  I remember thinking on that day, How can I even begin to clean up after someones life? I did, though- one dresser drawer at a time.  One by one, I took posters down from his walls and threw them into a large trash bag.  All of his belongings were cleaned from his bedroom and placed with carelessness into a plastic bag to be donated to someone else in the world- someone I would probably never meet or know although I was within the perimeters of a small town.  I vacuumed his bedroom floor and emptied ashtrays in the same kind of bags his clothes had gone in.  Both trash and personal; treasured belongings could fit within the confines of a black plastic trash bag. How is that possible? Something seemed so wrong about that.  He wasn't there to defend his belongings because in a sense they no longer belonged to any man- until someone picked it up off of a thrift store shelf and bargained with the owner.  Those items would never be worth full price again whether it be material or sentimental value. 

       It wasn't my choice to clean out his room the very day he died.  I did it out of love for my Nana and that was enough reason in the moment.  All I really wanted to do was to close his bedroom door and take in the scent of him once more; run my fingers along his dusty shelves and UT posters. I wanted to sit on the edge of his bed and cry until I couldn't cry anymore. Instead, I stayed on my feet all day and emptied all that was ever his on this earth into a cheap plastic bag.  At some point between throwing UT t-shirts and UT pajama pants into the bag, I held onto one ragged shirt.  I couldn't let it go and I stuffed it into my purse that was on his floor.  Something made that shirt different than all of the rest- it was worn down to the thread and was even see-through in some places.  It was a shirt I remembered him wearing often and one that still had the scent of him embedded in it. 

       My dad didn't leave me anything of value when he died.  As a matter of fact his empty wallet was added to the thrift store pile.  It would one day possibly hold the money that would pay for father-daughter dates that we never shared.  His bedroom door was closed that day with only the smell of furniture polish and freshly vacuumed carpet left behind. He had been erased. I hauled in the heavy bags of clothes into the thrift store and hoped that nobody would buy his things; that he would be left perfectly preserved in many bags and never distributed to someone that wouldn't appreciate who he was. 

      I pulled at the shirt again and realized it would probably fall apart in the next wash cycle; the threads would end up where the worn color and words were.  His shirt was far too big for me and I looked just like a girl in her daddy's shirt.  Sometimes we associate things because they will always be true- some things can never be erased.  I walked into our office and dug to the bottom of a cardboard box;excavated the letters I had found in his room. Some letters were from him to me and others were letters I had given to him.  One letter was one I had sent to him in England- the only letter I sent him during my eighteen months there.  The letter had yellowed from years of cigarette smoke wafting against it. Letters he had written me were like hidden jewels that I found that day in the midst of erasing him.  He had never given them to me and one was being written the week of his death.  That letter was a farewell letter although he had no way of knowing it.

     I sat with letters scattered around me and I thought it wasn't by chance I had wrapped them up in his UT shirt and stuffed them into the belly of my purse.  I realized that he left me something that riches could never replace.  He left behind a story of restoration and love. An alcoholic most of his life, he had turned his life around at a time that was too late for his body but just in time to share his heart with me.  Written on every page were words of someone that had lived a rough life and found love in the midst of it all. That is something that will live in me and in my children and in my children's children. That can never be erased. I'm ok with having been left his words and his old ragged shirt.

A Fresh Start

      Those of you that have been following my blog know that for three years I have been struggling to find a diagnosis.  In 2008, I got what I thought was the common cold and never really seemed to bounce back from it.  The sneezing, coughing and congestion went away but the level of indescribable fatigue never went away.  The fatigue got worse and so did my symptoms.  The journey has been very long and extremely difficult.  The worst part hasn't been the symptoms themselves (although they were totally debilitating at times and left me feeling miserable even when I could function normally), but the worst part was not having an answer.

      Over the past three years I have seen thirteen doctors and spent thousands of dollars trying to find an answer.  I have seen doctors that were the most rude and unprofessional people I have ever met (the doctor in Boston that told me to drink more coffee was my personal favorite) and I have been blessed in seeing great doctors, too.  I have temporarily given up on many occasions and opted to just call myself crazy and throw in the towel. There was always a drive in me to find an answer and at the end of the day that is what was stronger than my will to give up.  Loved ones around me had to excavate that will in me more times than I can even count and because of them I kept making appointments and trying any regiment that my doctor-of-the-month put me on.  I have felt like a guinea pig more than a person over the past few years as I've been poked with needles, given injections and done trial doses of medications way too many times.

    When Matt and I moved to Virginia I got signed up as a new patient at a doctors' office before we even wrote our first rent check out to our land lord.  With the new move and changes came a fresh desire in me to get to the bottom of everything.  My new family doctor did something for me that very few doctors have done for me- she listened. She truly showed a desire to find out what was wrong with me.  Just since August I have been to four specialists and after having a clear and healthy MRI, I was sent to a Rheumatologist as a last resort.  My Rheumatologist ordered up a bunch of really weird blood tests (true to Rheumatology) and then, I waited for five weeks to see him again.  Those five weeks were torture as I waited because I just wanted an answer.  My symptoms seemed to be at a steady "blah" and things weren't getting better. 

   I walked in to my appointment and was convinced that he hadn't found anything.  That had been my life for three years-being poked at only to find that nothing was coming up in my blood tests.  When my doctor told me that my blood work was positive for Sjogren's Syndrome, my first thought was that maybe he had misread the results. Was it possible that he really did find IT- the reason that my body had been worn for so long? Could he really have found the thing that has kept me from feeling like myself?  He retested again just to make sure and yesterday I went for the results.  The results were a resounding positive and after I left I sat in my car, called my mom and cried happy tears violently into the phone.  "Mama, I'm so happy. I know now. I have an answer." was all that I could say.  Of course Mama didn't care for me carrying on like that until she knew exactly what I had been diagnosed with.

    Sjogren's Syndrome is an auto-immune disease that I will live with for the rest of my life.  It can't be cured, but there is medication to help manage the symptoms. There is a website dedicated to it if you would like to learn more.

http://www.sjogrens.org/

   Right now, I am still in the bliss of finally being diagnosed.  I don't believe that the realization that this is something I will live with forever has set in yet. I'm sure that there will be a grieving process I will go through.  I will save that for another day, though. : ) Thank you everyone that has been there for me during this. It has brought me to this moment and I couldn't have done it without you.

When Life Grew Shorter

      
    The lights of the stage shown on his face like a subtly placed candle in a dark window. The light partially illuminated certain features of his face but did not overtake him and expose him to the crowd. His left eyebrow arched in the light and his left cheekbone cast a shadow onto his lower lip and chin.  The crowd was silent as he stood as a ghostly streetlight; light shining downward but not up- casting a partial profile at his feet. Anticipation filled the room as tightly as his lungs were filled with air. He exhaled and waited for the words to come to him. Another inhalation and then, slowly; painfully even, he exhaled through his nostrils and let the air escape to touch whom it chose.

       A small red-headed girl sat on the front row without knowledge of what was going on beyond the perimeter of the teddy bear in her arms.  He looked at her and all he could see was the empty wheelchair sitting next to her. He moaned under his breath, but loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.  He jolted at the sound of the echo bouncing off of the walls and back onto him.  He had broken the silence by mistake. He wasn't ready to talk, but the reality was he was expected to. He was "the guest of honor" as it read in the program. The little girl smiled at him and waved then, out of embarrassment held the teddy bear to her mouth and began chewing on its right ear. He noticed that the teddy bear's ear was nearly gone, hanging only by a few frayed threads that were bright red and not the original cream. That same ear had probably been repaired again and again as it stood the test of time and habitual chewing of a four-year-old. She did not seem to care she was too old to be chewing on things, but relaxed as she chewed away at the teddy.

    The flash of a camera brought him back to his audience and as he looked out at them he could see that everyone sat in a state of anticipation and embarrassment on his behalf. He clenched his left hand tightly around his cane and stepped further into the light. As the light drowned his face in its artificial yellow he watched the crowd shift in their seats at the sight of him. He stood silently.

The sound tech behind stage whispered out to him. "Sir, is your microphone still working?"

    The little girl had been scooped up onto a woman's lap and she rested her head against the lady's breasts as she chewed on the teddy bear's ear. The woman nodded at him and smiled as she gave him a thumbs up then, ran her fingers through the little girl's hair. At the sight of them both he found the words deep within himself- like an excavation of something ancient and extravagant had been discovered. He wanted to treat the words with fragile care and not let them fall the floor broken and unappreciated. He squinted beneath the warm light and struggled with the formation of the words in his mouth before he made them audible.

"My daughter" he began "has kept the teddy bear I sent to her on her second birthday."

The words came out sluggish and nearly misformed. The injury had damaged the left side of his face- forcing him to talk primary out of the right side of his mouth and enunciate carefully. He sounded similar to someone with Cerebral Palsy. He clinched his cane tighter.

The crowd squinted and sat up straight in their seats as if their demeanor would help them concentrate and understand him better. Most people seemed to be focusing on the medals on his uniform and the camouflage pattern.

"She sent me a homemade thank you card and kissed the camera every time that I would talk to her and my wife on Skype."

The rhythm of his speech became more fluid as he looked down at his daughter sitting on his wife's lap- his empty wheel chair next to them.

"When I fought for my country, I thought of her and that teddy bear.  I wondered how worn it would be when I saw it again and how much taller my daughter would be. I would lay on my cot at night and wonder if that stuffed bear would have been sold in a yard sale and replaced by something better.  I wondered if my country would have forgotten me by the time I returned."

The little girl shifted on her mom's lap and looked at her dad as he stood before soldiers and their families.

"Time seemed to stand still over there. We were on mission every day and nothing seemed to change except for more boys losing their lives and hospitals filling up with more that were injured. Skype couldn't bridge the gap between a war zone and the life my family was still living without me. The day I got injured, I laid there somewhere between this earth and my last breath. The world went quiet and life seemed to grow shorter with every breath and the adrenaline that was pumping to keep me alert. I spent over a year in the hospital fighting for my life and standing the test of time with multiple surgeries, rehabilitation and therapy."

His speech began to slur badly and he paused to focus again on what he was saying.

"I got home and the teddy bear had endured a lot of stains, rough play and love from my daughter.  It showed me that life had gone on while I was gone, but that I was always in her arms even if it was through a cheap teddy bear.  This Christmas, I welcome you all home for good. I hope that you each find that although you have not been present in your families day-to-day lives that you've never gone unmissed.  May you  notice your faded photo that your wife has slept with under her pillow. May you find little notes that your daughter has left around the house for you. I hope you can appreciate the model tank that your son built for you while you were gone. This Christmas is a Christmas to remember because you're home among the smells, traditions and love that the holidays bring. When life grew shorter, my will to live grew stronger. Thank God for bringing you back home safely. Merry Christmas."

The crowd stood and applause filled every empty space of the arena. Soldiers stood at attention as "I'll Be Home For Christmas" came over the sound system. With assistance, he made his way down to his wheel chair and sat down- allowing the physical pain to melt into the metal frame and rubber wheels. His daughter climbed on his lap and handed him the teddy bear ear that had fallen off yet again. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, "I think it's time for daddy to buy you a new teddy bear."

A Deep Soul

   The joke around our house lately has been Matt saying "You're such a writer." to me when I say or do something weird. It seems that I'm becoming more comfortable in my pursuit of my dream and I'm not holding back like I used to when it comes to expressing myself. The past few weeks have been interesting as I've not been sleeping well and literally waking up in the middle of the night to jot down an idea or obsess over the next line I want to use in my book I can easily see myself sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle in dark-rimmed glasses and writing my heart out on paper for a few hours.

   Matt challenged me with a question the other day. He asked "Why do you want to write? What do you want people to gain from your writing?" My initial answer was "It's what I love to do." but when I saw him stare at me a bit more intensely and lean back in his chair, I realized he was looking for a different answer- the real one. Of course I love to write and it really is something that gives me a sense of purpose, but it does run deeper than that. I want to write for those that can't. God has given me a passion to express myself through writing. There are people out there that literally cannot speak up for themselves due to cultural limitations or the severity of what they're facing. There are people that do not have the ability to speak up for themselves- abuse, neglect and abandonment have left them speechless and unable to convey what they feel or what they have to say. I want to write to inspire those that do not know how to seek inspiration out.

   I plan to write fictional pieces eventually, but even in that I want to convey characters that relate to the masses. Writing is art and I appreciate it for that, but I also want to use it as a tool. I have been moving forward in the manuscript I've been writing and it feels like it has a clear anointing on it. That isn't to speak of talent or anything, but something that is bigger than me. I really do feel that there are big plans with this manuscript and that it will be on a bookshelf for people to buy and that through its pages there will be a nugget of hope offered before the last sentence is read.

   That's a HUGE dream, but hey...why not? My soul is deep enough to hold it.

And I'll Leave These Shoes Behind So You'll Remember Me

For Deborah


        I was on the display rack at a whopping 15% off when her eyes met me. She was wearing some horribly worn taupe flats that mismatched her dress-pants and made her look like she was three inches shorter since her pants dragged along the ground. She bent over to cuff the legs of her pants up and when she stood up with her heavy purse heaved onto her left shoulder she caught a glimpse of me. A glimpse was all that it took. I was on the shelf that met her at eye level- the third up from the bottom and second from the top. The showroom lights illuminated me perfectly and showed all of my best features although I had started to collect a thin layer of dust from being on the same shelf for two weeks- only having been picked up by a hopeful teenage girl that couldn't fit into me and a divorcee' that couldn't afford me.

       There I was- Black genuine leather Nine West 5-inch heel pumps with a rounded toe circa 2006. I had every quality to make her outfit both sexy and professional. She let out a small gasp at me and then looked around her to make sure nobody heard her. Her fingers ran across my toe and then along the heel. She then flipped me over to check out my price. Soon, I was snug in my box and in the back seat of her red Volvo.

     Our first night together, she wore me with a garter belt and black laced bra as a surprise to her boyfriend. I was sleek in the low light of candlelight as my "left self" spent the night at the bedroom door and my "right self" got thrown onto the bra and stockings. The next morning, I was worn with jeans to a coffee date with her girlfriend and again that evening to her corporate Christmas party with a snug yet sophisticated red cocktail dress. I slipped on ice a few times, but the compliments I received at the party was worth every unstable step.

       I was worn so often over the next 3 weeks that my insoles conformed perfectly to her feet- like Cinderella's perfect fit. The bottoms of my soles became scratched from bits of loose gravel on the sidewalk and unforgiving winter sidewalk salt. I got retired to her closet during the several winter storms and was replaced with distasteful gray winter boots. I didn't want to go out in that horrible winter slush anyway so I waited patiently and gave my weary soles rest.

        In the second week of February I was rehired to impress as I escorted her to an important interview. The receptionist complimented her on me as well as the intern, but I think he was interested more than me. She sat on the couch and waited nervously as she reviewed her resume' once more and mentally reviewed how to best pitch herself to the boss. Her legs were crossed and she moved her ankle back and forth; shaking me all over the place. He did the same thing even worse once she was talking to the HR manager. I didn't blame her since she was interviewing with the person she could potentially be replacing.

     She got the job in the end and I was worn to her celebration dinner with her boyfriend.  He was happy for her although he would be seeing less of her due to all of the business trips that were already scheduled for her. That night, I was left at the door as they danced around their town home with champagne and made love as if they wouldn't see each other ever again. She saw him again in the morning, of course when she rolled over and I sat frozen stiff from the cold air drifting in from outside through the crack that he had promised to fix weeks before.

     Over the next four years I accompanied her to PowerPoint presentations, seminars, company parties and other business-related trips to: Phoenix, Boston, Houston, L.A., Nashville, Miami, Chicago, New York City and my personal favorite- old Quebec City. My left heel tap had to be replaced in Quebec because of the combination of the extra glass of wine and cobblestone leading to the hotel. She always missed him when she was gone and I knew that upon their reunion I would be left by the front door with only the bookcase to stare at unless the dog carried me away on a whim of bravery.

      I became worn less and less by her because my insoles wore thin and my leather became too scuffed. She had fallen several times while wearing me over the past month and I think she just got tired of the hastle. I was placed back in my box and pushed to the far left corner of her closet. The only light that ever shown on me was if she happened to open my box by accident- mistaking me for a different pair of Nine West from years before.

      She wore me once more to a doctor's appointment. Her newest addition of me had been left at her office when she opted out of them and into flip-flops at a late night at work. She was in a hurry to her appointment since it was squeeze in between her second morning meeting and an early lunch with a prospective employee. She sat and jiggled me back and forth as her legs shook and she checked her watch once more. The doctor came in with her medical files in hand.

    "I'm afraid I have bad news, Deborah." the doctor began.

      He explained the reason that she had been falling wasn't me; the insoles or worn heels. She was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig disease that day and the realization that one day she wouldn't be walking with me or any other shoes on her feet would set in a lot faster than either of us anticipated. Within three months, she was only wearing house-slippers on the days that she could get out of bed. On the "good days" her boyfriend would place her old tennis shoes on her feet and help her out to the car as she leaned into his shoulder.

     One day, she had a friend come over to clean out her closet and help box up the items she wanted to give away. She picked me up; rubbed the worn rounded toe and placed me in my old box with the lid missing. I was carried out to her friend's car and I heard the most heartbreaking cried I had ever heard as I rode from my old home to a new one. Like their friendship, I had stood the test of time but couldn't change the outcome of what would be. We both had another year of function and life left in us if we were lucky.

      I was eventually given to a woman named Nikki and I traveled up I-26 and then 66 to her home near D.C. She cleaned me up some and made me look better although I'll never look brand-new again. I may never be worn by her as often as I was worn by Deborah. Even if from between the crack in her closet door, I may watch Nikki raise a child or paint her bedroom walls a different color. I may accompany her to an interview or walk across the stage with her when she graduates college. I may never be worn at all and if not, that's ok- there are still many stories to come from me. In ever scratch, scuff and worn piece of me- Deborah has left stories to be told.

Being a Cop's Wife

Today, there was another shooting at Virginia Tech. This time a police officer was killed in a routine traffic stop and then another student was found dead in a parking lot. Before I read the news I was sitting down and stressing about how I will pay for college in January and wondering what I would eat for lunch.  It's always in moments of bad news that reality smacks me in the face hard enough to realize that life is fragile and all of the worries we have are temporary. If I am honest, I usually steer clear of reading the news because it's bad news the majority of the time and  a constant reminder of how horrible people can be. I realize that ignoring the news doesn't take the bad out of the world, but makes me numb to it which is completely selfish of me. If we don't address pain head-on then how can we ever experience healing and help others to as well? I find that I am taking community out of my life when I distance myself from difficult news or personal situations. We're all in this together in some way or another, right?

Matt is still in police academy until he graduates on the 13th of January. He comes home every day and tells me about the crazy training he is having to go through. Part of his training has been to review past cases and use them to learn from other officers' careless mistakes. I try not to let stories get to me most of the time, but there is always that "what if" in the back of my mind. I worry that Matt will be hurt one day or that something worse will happen. Looking at the VT shooting today where it was a routine traffic stop and something so horrible happened doesn't put my "what ifs" at ease one bit. It made me think to myself that I would want Matt doing anything but being a police officer. My worry uncovered itself and came fully to surface for a while and I got myself all worked up. Then, something in my mind set changed making me realize that as a cop's wife I can really pray for the fallen officer's wife and family. I can take my worry and turn it into productive support to officers' families that suffer horrible loss- whether it is from injury or loss of that loved one. I realize that there is no place for me living in fear and worry when I can be actively reaching out to others that live that way because of very real things that have happened.

It's not easy being married to a cop. Worry snuggles up to me at night when Matt is out on the road. Fear takes many forms whether it is in dreams, news articles or hearing personal stories of other people. The truth is, though, above everything that I am so proud of Matt. My pride in him outweighs my worry any day of the week and I can't even imagine all of the tangible positive difference he has already made in the world just by going to work every day.

So, all of this said: I hope I can make a tangible difference in people's lives that have lost a loved one in the line of duty. If I am never able to fully help someone face-to-face then maybe through the art of writing I can share a little hope and restoration to those grieving. It's time for me to stop ignoring the news and to make myself aware of the reality in the world. Lastly, I need to encourage Matt more and more in his job. He isn't really used to hearing "thank you" in his job so I need to voice it twice as much.

Maybe there can be a new reality show "Cop Wives"? Hmmm....just maybe. ; )

Go for it or get out

I'm a little ashamed that this blog was totally inspired by Lady GaGa. Don't get me wrong- I'm a fan, but I usually don't look to her for inspiration before I jump into a writing project. I watched her latest music video that has been getting a lot of press and I loved every minute of the awkward artsy self-expression. The media portrayed the video as a waste of time and too edgy, but I really liked it a lot. I liked it because it's totally unique to her. One thing about GaGa is she she expresses herself without shame (although the whole meat suit is still gross beyond words!).

This isn't a blog on Lady GaGa so let me get to the point. The point is that we all have dreams that we want to see come true in our own lives. There is that one thing that we feel we were just meant to be or accomplish. Some of us may not know what that is or looks like yet, but it's there. My biggest dream is to be a writer. Of course having a family and everything is important to me, but I feel like I was made to write. "'Cause baby I was born this way"....I had to : )

My attitude toward that dream right now is to put all in and to go for it no matter what. I've been writing so much more now that I have taken a break from Facebook. My book is beginning to take shape and I'm writing as if I will be published instead of letting doubt defeat me. Our dreams are only as big as we allow them to be and we are the only person to blame if they never come true. I know that I sound like a total idealist, but what I am saying is realistic- go for it! Life isn't something that waits for us- it keeps going and will leave us standing in our regret if we don't move along with it.