The Birth of a Book!

So, it's coming soon! After working on this manuscript for eight years, the book will finally be in my hands in a matter of weeks. I apologize for neglecting this blog for the past few months. I've been knee deep in kid issues and editing issues. I hope to get back here soon.

But for now, keep your eyes open for the release of my book "Just One Foot".

You can see photos from my journey and find resources for amputees at the book's website -

justonefoot.com

For Two Weeks Mine

They arrived on a flight from San Francisco, two young faces, with slightly nervous smiles. The airline escort walked them out of the plane, handed me the paper to sign, and suddenly they were mine.

Not forever mine. But for two weeks mine.

These two children, my niece and nephew, who I somehow love as deeply as my own, even though I have never spent more than two days a year with them, were finally going to hang out with my family and make some real, lifetime memories.

They were both born in Wales, the country their mama calls home. My husband’s brother was wise enough to marry her, after finding her to be the lovely mix of kindness and fun. She’s the perfect kind of sister to me, all the good stuff and none of the childhood sibling baggage.

When she gave birth to Tiger, just months after I’d had my fourth child, my heart literally ached to see this child. I often received photos in the mail, of a round faced cherub, and wondered if I’d ever get to know her, really know her. I signed every card and email with the words, “tell her Aunt Judy loves her…”

And then, after a couple of years, just ‘tell her…’

A few years later a preschool Tiger got a brother. He was named Soul, a name that suits him perfectly. The day he was born his daddy called us from Wales, having just come home from the hospital after a long day filled with labor and birth. On the way home he had stopped by the pub for a minute, as any good Welsh would do, whether born there or just transplanted. So by the time he called us he was a flying just a bit, high on new life and magical moments.

His brother, my husband, was at work, with the time difference and all, so I was blessed to be the one who spent the next hour on the phone, hearing Soul’s daddy gush about how good life was, how amazing having a son felt, and how incredibly much it made him miss his own dad.

It’s a phone call I’ll never forget. One of those moments frozen in time, when you know as it’s happening that this is what life is all about. Ever since that day I’ve felt a few notches closer to this brother-in-law, because he chose to share that one special day in his life with me through a very long distance phone call.

As my niece and nephew grew up in the Welsh countryside I sent them cards and packages. Their mama sent me pictures of them camping on the beach and attending local fairs. Their little bodies grew into taller bodies and their baby faces became those of full fledged children.

Occasionally we caught up with them in New Hampshire, when they’d make a rare flight across the pond to visit grandparents and we could manage to get there ourselves on the same days. I took a zillion pictures of them, in those brief snippets of together time, knowing they would change so much before I got to see them again.

Then four years ago we got great news. The whole gang was moving to San Francisco. We lived in New York at the time. They were still three thousand miles away from us, but at least we didn’t need passports to go see them anymore.

Two years ago they came to visit us in New York. We spent a few glorious days showing them our world and soaking in all the hugs we could.

Two months ago my sister-in-law called and asked if they could come stay with us in our new home state of Colorado, while she went back to Wales to see her family. I jumped at the chance. Finally an opportunity to know these two children I have adored from afar…really really know them.

Nothing makes you know a child better than being their surrogate mom for a few weeks. There’s something priceless and intimate about being the one in charge of what they eat, how often they brush their teeth, and how they’re doing emotionally once they start getting the homesick blues.

They are eleven and eight now. The perfect ages to be independent, but still blend in with our busy household. There are no diaper bags or naptimes. Just big kids who can hang out and find their own fun when nothing is planned, and also appreciate the times when we do take an afternoon to go exploring.

Yesterday my son Isaac and I went to the airport to pick them up. After paying our dues by standing in line at the check in desk, then making our way through security with my metal leg (that always attracts attention from the TSA officials), we found ourselves standing at the arrival gate.

And then there they were. A bit taller than the last time I’d seen them, but the faces were still so familiar. Just like any mom (or aunt), I could still see every year of their growing-up faces… the two year old face, the four year old face…mixed into their smiles.

I signed the airline paperwork and we were on our way to baggage claim. It was such a joy to see these two kids, who are so photographically familiar to me, fall in so easily with my tall teenager. They became instant siblings.

We rode the tram to the other end of the terminal and stood together, sharing jokes and stories, as we watched the baggage carousel go round and round. On the drive home we stopped for a burger and an Icee, then made our way out of a scorching Denver, up to our mountain town where the temperatures are ten degrees cooler and the heat is chased off by random mountain breezes.

The afternoon was spent trying out their new world. They jumped on a trampoline with my other kids and the assorted neighbor kids who stopped by. Soul couldn’t get enough of the ninja warrior salmon ladder my older son built a few weeks ago. He also found a new use for the circular bike track my boys dug into our back yard. Forget the bikes, Soul likes to run it, hopping  through each bike jump on his skinny, nimble legs.

I love their in person smiles. I love their energy. I love their stories, of life moments I missed out on but can still experience, through their lively sharing.

Like their first day in the U.S. public school system, after attending a small school in the Welsh countryside. A new president named Obama had been inaugurated the day before. Their new classmates were hopping with excitement, the word “Obama” thrown around loosely. Tiger had no idea what, or who, an Obama was. She guessed it was maybe the principal’s name. When the class assignment was to write about how they felt about Obama’s inauguration, she had to ask for help from her new teacher.

Or when, in their first few days in America, they went as a family to Target, to get some furniture for their empty rental house. Before the shopping trip was over Soul had become separated from his family and a full Code Adam was announced. All doors were locked, every department searched, until my four year old nephew was once again found and reunited with his family. It’s a moment I’m sure Tiger will never forget.

Of course Soul’s first impressions with this new country were a bit more preschool boy oriented. He clearly remembers the small frog they found, clinging to the wall of his new bedroom. What more could a boy want in this new country, but a new bedroom that included hopping wildlife?

I had good intentions of getting them to bed early, on their first night in my care. They were both operating on very little sleep, from early morning flights and insomnia inducing excitement the night before. But when darkness fell, they were not ready for sleep quite yet. After an afternoon full of jumping on a trampoline surrounded by new friends and familiar cousins, it was time for a game of night time tag.

It gets very dark around here at night. So dark that my son nearly ran over a small deer when he was ‘it’ and quietly stalking around the outside perimeters of our house. I sat inside, writing at the computer, surrounded by darkness myself, as every light in our house had to be off to get the most serious effect for the game. But the sound of squeals and giggles lifted me.

This is what I’d waited for, for so many years. To have these two specific children under my roof, becoming real family with my own children.

Eventually everyone settled down into beds, and I’m sure the sand man came just minutes after I’d given the last hug and left their room. It was a full day, after all.

A day full of finally knowing these children I love like my own.

The Year We Survived

The day before school started, he walked into her classroom and shook her hand for the first time. Two weeks before, he had taken a bad skateboard fall and ended up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken wrist. He had a fresh cast on his arm the day he signed the enrollment form to start Wilmot Elementary.

One week before, he had driven across the country with his mom and two brothers, making their way from their old home in New York to their new one in Colorado. Life seemed upside down and fractured, since their house on the East coast hadn’t sold and their family was forced to move in shifts. He was a bundle of nerves and anticipation as he crossed into her fifth grade classroom for the first time. Her mega watt smile and friendly disposition put him at ease.

He had no real home, on the day school started. The temporary lease on a tiny condo across the street from school still had fresh ink, and Colorado life was on hold until the New York life could be wrapped up. The teacher knew of his details and kept a close eye on him the first few days, and weeks, as a favor to his mama, a woman she’d only met once.

The teacher’s own mama heart scooped up this nomad child and made him feel welcome. More than half of his classmates had shared classrooms since kindergarten but he wouldn’t know that until much later. The climate she encouraged was one of inclusion and looking out for each other.

The boy’s mama moved back to New York and left her boy with the cast to live with his daddy and high school brother. His oldest brother had been dropped off at college just days before school started. Another bit of fracture to add to a fifth grader’s list.

Through September and October he struggled in the temporary furniture-bare condo home, missing his mama, way back in New York. He snuck into his tiny bedroom closet and called her on his cell phone, asking her every day when she’d be coming back to be with them. When he’d tell her he often cried himself to sleep it broke her heart. Trying to find ways to comfort him long distance, she’d send emails to his teacher, asking her to give him a proxy hug and make sure he was okay. The mama grew to trust that the teacher was doing exactly that.

As weeks went by the boy got outside a bit. He visited bike parks with his dad and rode mountain trails with his big brother. Even through all the feelings of loss…lifetime friends he’d left behind, the family pets who were still back East, and the comforting sense of having both parents in the same house…he started to fall in love with Colorado.

The names of new friends started to cross his lips. As he’d chatter about Windham, and Luke, on his nightly calls to his mom, she started to relax a tiny bit. Making friends is one of the first steps to feeling at home.

By the end of October his mama finally (finally!) drove that two thousand mile road again, this time bringing a special cat and dog with her. Life became a bit more crowded, as another person and two animals moved into the tiny space, but the boy relaxed a bit, finally having, at least, both of his parents at the dinner table each night.

The routine of school continued. Books read. Reports written. Homework done, then signed. His mama spent her days trying to keep the long distance house in order, while making their temporary quarters as homey as possible. She saw the notes that came home in the backpack, about helping with this school project or that one, but the day to day survival took up most of her time. No one at the school, and most importantly, the teacher herself, never judged, and only encouraged. The mother was deeply grateful.

The semester changed. A new year brought new changes. A move to a more permanent house and finally all of the boys belongings showed up from far away. By the end of February his sacred Legos were once again scattered across his bedroom floor and his old familiar favorite clothes were being pulled out of boxes. Homework continued, school activities continued, and the boy started to feel more settled. Loved by a large family at home, taught and nurtured by a big hearted teacher at school.

Every time his mom stopped by the school office, to sign him out for visits to the dentist, she was met with smiles. You see, the fifth grade classroom that had been the boy’s sanctuary for the unsettled months he’d lived through, wasn’t the only place in that building where love and laughter flowed freely. The boy’s mom began to look forward to every trip through those school doors, as she knew her spirit would be uplifted by the beautiful souls who sat behind the front office desks. This place called Wilmot had a knack for attracting the best of the best.

Spring brought many school events that everyone else seemed to be familiar with. The boy’s mom would drill her boy for information he’d learned at school, and scour his Friday folder for explanations of the next big festival or school dance. Being new in a school district means having to try twice as hard to just figure out what everyone else already knows.

Many times the boy’s mom would call on his teacher, through a quick email, asking for more details and clarification. Every email was met with patient explanation.

Spring brought two big events for the boy. One cold sunny afternoon his beloved old poodle got to come visit his classroom. After promptly leaving a ‘deposit’ in front of the school (she was a nervous girl, after all), she quietly walked through the brightly colored hallways and promptly took her place in front of his class. Cell phone pictures were snapped left and right as dozens of hands patted her curly head. The boy, who had grown to feel very at home in his fifth grade classroom, was thrilled to be sharing his life’s best friend with the people he saw almost every week day.

A few weeks later the school talent show was announced. The boy was immediately ready to share his talent of song, even though the talent bucket wasn’t a deep one. His mother was a bit worried, then a lot worried, when he announced he’d also be wearing a full body morph suit for his performance.

More emails to the teacher, who promised she’d help in any way she could. These desperate emails had a different tone than the ones from Fall, when it was all about keeping the boy comforted until a mother figure could show up. These emails were more about wondering where the line was in protecting your child from laughing peers versus letting him find his own way. And although the teacher’s own child was just a toddler, she had lots of older kid experience, and successfully assured the mother that all would be fine.

And, amazingly, it was.

The teacher’s mother skills were once again brought to the classroom when the boy’s fluffy old dog suddenly died one weekend. A week after a good check up at the vet she heaved her last breath, with the boy holding her head in his arms. It was another devastating blow to the boy, one that once again needed home and school support.  The mother didn’t hesitate to email the teacher. She kept her mommy eye on the boy, as she taught math and science, and assured the boy’s mom that he was holding his own at school.

Then one day, not even a week after his lifetime best friend died, the boy was just too sad to go to school. The grief was too big, the pain grasping too tightly on his heart. The mom made one of those hard decisions and kept him home, emailing the teacher about the ‘real’ reason for her son’s absence. Instead of judgment or  criticism, the teacher emailed back, saying she completely understood, and at the end of her words she included, "Please don't ever apologize for parenting your son. We will soon be a distant memory for him; he can make up school work. He can't make up mom and family time, especially if that was what he was needing. Thank you for loving your son."

The mother was deeply touched and grateful.

And then the end of the school year arrived. The teacher announced she’d be moving from the fifth grade classroom to the second grade classroom. Either way, the boy would be moving on to middle school and rarely be exposed to her stabilizing force anymore. She’d move on. He’d move on. Both to find new adventures and new challenges.

The night of the fifth grade graduation the mom and the teacher both had tears flowing down their cheeks as the slide show flashed pictures of smiling babies who had turned into mature young students. The mom’s tears continued as the lights were turned back on, as she tried to contain all the gratitude and love that had slowly accumulated for the teacher, after nine long months of transition and neediness, laughs and smiles.

But that’s the problem with teachers. The really good ones just do what they do, day after day, caring and encouraging and loving, and never ask for praise. And the moms and dads who really need them to branch out beyond teacher duties feel bad asking for anything more. But really good teachers never flinch at such requests. They never hesitate, saying, “Of course!” sometimes even before the request is fully voiced.

Because they are people first. They are moms and dads first. They bring to the classroom their big personalities and their optimistic views of life and they pour them into our children. Fueled by an occasional mention at a graduation ceremony or a teacher appreciation day, they plug forward.

As this school year draws to a close, this year that was the single hardest year of my son’s life, I am more grateful than I can adequately express. For a teacher who recognized my son’s need, then recognized mine, and did everything in her power to help us both. She will always be one of the shining stars when I think of my son’s childhood.

The teacher who pulled us both through.  

Deep Loss

Grief is hard. I was aware of this fact long before today. It first hit me, in a small wave, when my grandfather died. I was in middle school and it bothered me that the whole world kept going about its business as we rode by in the Lincoln Town Car, on our way to put my loving, fun grandpa in the ground.

Then I felt it in a life changing way when my mom died. I was in my mid twenties, with two very little children. She was healthy one day and gone the next. I never knew what true grief was until that second day.

It’s a blessing and a curse that my own children have not known much of this thing called grief. We lost a hamster or two back when they were in elementary school. There was a lot of crying, many nights of having trouble getting to sleep because they missed him. But back then they had no idea what real sadness meant. Today, they know.

On Friday our curly haired family dog got sick and was gone within 24 hours. She’d just been to the vet on Monday, our first visit in this new state. It was a visit to just get her in the system. She hadn’t been sick. We talked about her minor ailments - a fatty tumor that was growing on her shoulder that our NY vet had found to be benign, and some patches of skin where she’d lost her hair, probably from the extremely dry Colorado climate.

Our new vet, Dr. Amy, lovingly sat on the floor next to her for the examination. She gave her treats in between her yearly shots, and made her feel like the queen my kids believe her to be.

Then Dr. Amy got real. She explained to me that Kylie was in great shape…for a dog her age. But the reality was, she was at the top of the charts when it came to longevity for her breed. I had noticed that chart on the wall when we first came into the room. It was hard not to notice that Kylies age put her in the ‘extremely geriatric’ category.

Of course we knew she was old. But loving a dog makes you wear blinders sometimes. Most of us assumed we’d get a few more years, maybe even five, if we kept feeding her the right foods and kept her active. My oldest son even admitted that he’d signed her up for the ‘Never Going to Die’ club. He’d also signed up his 84 year old grandpa while he was at it.

Dr. Amy lovingly gave me the facts. Even being in good shape, a poodle just doesn’t live to be 14. Even 13 is a stretch. Kylie was twelve and a half. Those numbers hurt my heart.

That night as we sat on the back porch having our first barbeque of the season, I told the kids what Dr. Amy had said. There was some joking around, because that’s how teens handle hard to hear news sometimes. My oldest son, who is weeks away from leaving for the military, wondered if he’d have to get a phone call about her passing, and how it might be awkward, being surrounded by all the guys in his Army unit. We made plans for things we could do with her, to make her life more enjoyable for the short time she had left.

But I think we all got it. We were all a little humbled, knowing we had just a brief time with our precious puppy, who wasn’t a puppy anymore.

Even as I stressed that it was doubly important that we feed her only dog food and keep her exercised, the teens agreed amongst themselves that if you only have a year to live, you deserve a few extra treats now and then. Kylie scarfed up every nibble of grilled chicken that her kids ‘accidentally’ dropped that night.

We all gave her more attention as the week went on. She was her normal self, as healthy as always,  and she ate up all the hugs, pats and verbal praise. We were seeing her with new, grateful eyes, and she couldn’t help but eat it up.

On Friday we got our first sign that something was up. Without getting too graphic, she started having drastic bowel troubles. This dog who normally did her business two times a day, religiously, was now visiting the yard every hour, and then six times through the night. By Saturday she had become a lot more mellow, spending long stretches in her doggie bed.

I knew it couldn’t be something fatal. We’d just been at the vet FIVE days before. She’d had the yearly blood work and examination. From what the vet could see, she was healthy. I was sure it had to be a reaction to the supplements we’d started her on. Thinking it would help her longevity, she started getting ‘treats’ to help her joints and her very dry skin. A phone call to her vet verified that this might be our problem.

We agreed to stop the supplements for the time being. The problem was, as Saturday evening came, we could see it was something more. This dog who adored food and lived for every last bread crumb dropped on the kitchen floor, had no interest in food. Forget the supplements, she wouldn’t even eat the tiny pieces of grilled chicken the kids so lovingly cut up for her.

When I’d been in Dr. Amy’s office, I’d asked her, bluntly, what were going to most likely be the signs that our dog was about to die. She’d said that either arthritis would kick in and destroy her quality of life, or a quick cancer or disease would take over and within days she’d be gone. With the second scenario, we’d notice that Kylie stopped eating as much, was drinking too much (or not at all), and was very lethargic. But, she assured me, in those scenarios, there was usually a pretty quick death, and very little suffering. That’s what we wanted most, for Kylie not to suffer.

And just five days after that little talk, I was watching it play out in front of my eyes.

Into Saturday evening she was unable to lift her head. At bedtime, Sam snuggled in next to her on the floor of my bedroom and cringed every time her breathing got raspy. I joined him as I realized this might be our last night with her.

The household had become solemn on Saturday evening. We all knew what no one wanted to say. We all dealt with it differently. Sam hovered, laying next to this buddy he’s known most of the years he’s had memory. My daughter hovered over her youngest brother, comforting him, and then, when it got to be too much, escaped to watch TV at her boyfriend’s house. Sam’s oldest brother periodically came over to pet her and remind her how much he loved her, then would disappear back to the bed, where he and dad were trying to stay distracted by TV.

My middle son, the one I call Dr Doolittle because of his bond with animals, did something that confused me at the time but makes perfect sense now. He ran off to spend the night at his best friend’s house. I should have recognized that the thought of losing her was too much for him to handle and he spent that whole night laying awake on a sleeping bag in his friend’s basement, wondering if she had died yet.

Then it happened. Her breathing got more labored. I stroked her head for hours, telling her over and over again how much we loved her, how lucky we were to have found her under that desk at the animal shelter, and how we’d never ever forget her. She looked at me with those huge brown eyes, the same ones that begged for scraps when I was making dinner every night, and eagerly greeted me every morning as she not-so-patiently waited for me to put my leg on, so she could have breakfast.

With a few last twitches, she was gone. The house seemed extra still. Sam had dozed off, after moving up to my side of the bed, but Jeff was awake, aware of the inevitable as he analyzed her breathing from across our small room. He came and said his last goodbyes, stroking that curly fuzzy head that we knew so well. Sam woke up a few minutes later, and without a word, knew it had happened. He came down to the floor and scooted himself in between his dog and me and let out a few sobs.

Eventually we covered her with some towels and crawled back into bed, the three of us huddled together in shared sadness.

The next morning the kids found out, one by one. Knowing it was coming didn’t make it any easier for them to hear the news. Immediately I felt her absence. Her food and water dishes sat empty, no one hovering over them, strongly suggesting I get busy and fill them. No one sat outside the bathroom door, right up next to the door, so when I opened it I was always forced to literally step over her.

The thought did not escape me that she’d chosen to go just in time for one of her favorite people, my soon to be military son, to be around to say his goodbyes in person.

We took turns crying. Then we rounded up the troops and went for a drive. In the past week, after getting the reality check from Dr. Amy, I’d been doing some research. It finally sunk in that Kylie would die in Colorado (at the time I thought some day) and I was beginning to make plans in my head, because when things like that happen, everyone turns to mom to see what we do next. I’d discovered a beautiful farm just down the road from us, that had people and pet cemeteries. They also did cremations. In the fields around the headstones there are wild buffalo and reindeer roaming. We decide to go see it in person.

The car was unusually quiet. As a family we’ve hit some major road bumps along the way, many of them in the past year. But we’ve never had a major death. My mom and Jeff’s dad both died either before we had kids, or when they were just babies. In their memoires, my kids have never lost a grandparent. This was their first big loss.

Someone once told me that as a parent we should respect first love, and the depth of heartache that comes with a first break up. The reasoning was that one’s first experience with love and devotion are paving the way, and they are truly the deepest feelings a teenager had had, at that point in his life. Later they’ll see that love, and grief, can go deeper. But for that moment, it hurts more deeply than they can even believe. And it’s real grief.

I feel the same way watching my kids mourn for this special dog. She was rooted into our family. She survived a cross country move with us, being adaptable along the way, despite her age and tendency to be a Nervous Nelly. The love they have for her is as deep as it gets. The only loss that could hurt more, and be more personal to them, would be to lose one of their parents or grandparents. This dog, who they saw every single day, who they interacted with every single day, who taught them to look out for someone else’s needs even when that someone had no ability to speak her needs, was a cavernous part of their lives.

And now we all have to wrap our brains around the fact that she’s gone. She’ll never again sit by the back door, begging to be let in by politely scratching the glass of the sliding door. She’ll never rub her head along the edge of my bed, desperate to wake me so she could start the day. She’ll never again visit Sam’s classroom and be the hit of the day. We will never again walk her through a dog park, attracting comments and visits from every other dog lover there, because her tendency to look like some kind of small sheep just couldn’t be ignored.

We’ll take her to the mortuary this afternoon and then decide where we should spread or bury her ashes. My Dr. Dolittle casually mentioned (in the days before we knew we’d lose her this week) that it would be nice to take some of her ashes with him on all of his mountain bike rides, so he could spread them slowly around all the mountainous places he loves to explore. I’d kind of like to bury a few of them, and mark the spot with a cairn, so that in decades to come, these children of mine can take their spouses and children of their own to that spot, and tell them stories about a great dog named Kylie.

I’ll miss those dark brown pools of her eyes and the soft curls that met my hand every time I reached out to pet her.  We all will. But as I keep reminding my kids, when the tears just won’t seem to let up, she’s happy now, romping around in some kind of paradise, eating all the dog treats she wants. She’s no longer old, no longer at risk for scary debilitating disease and ailments. She’s at peace.

It will just take a very long time for the family she left behind to feel the same.

Defining Talent

When the letter came home from school I had no idea the can of worms it would open.

A school talent show. We’ve done that before.

Last year, in fact. Sam had been a fourth grader who loved to dance. Because he is a great dancer, but is the most confident and comfortable when he feels like no one is watching, we were a bit concerned about what might happen once the curtain was pulled back and the bright lights hit his face.

He practiced with his group of friends, choreographing a simple but entertaining number that perfectly fit the fun pop song that played nonstop on the radio. On the big night his older siblings rounded up their friends and we filled the front two rows with his personal fan club. And he did great.

He was the most confident one in his group. Hiding behind his backward ball cap and dark sunglasses he lost all inhibitions and gave it his all. The crowd loved it and my son got a huge confidence boost that stayed with him for days afterward. Our big kids and their friends slapped him on the back and we all went out for ice cream to celebrate.

So of course this time around we felt like pros. We knew how this went. Sam would be ten times more confident this time, knowing he could actually pull this thing off. The only glitch was that we are now in a new state, with new friends at a new school. But Sam’s dancing abilities have only improved and I had no worries that it would all turn out well.

Then he came home and announced that he and his best friend were going to sing.

Sing.

Um, I’m all for encouraging your kids in their dreams, but we are just not singers.

My husband’s family is very musical. His brothers play many instruments and one even has a recording studio in his basement. Sam is a born drummer and has had perfect rhythm since he was a toddler. But singing. None of the relatives sing.

It’s not really our strength.

Sam loves to sing. I’ll give him that. If he’s alone in his room, alone in the shower, alone anywhere, you’ll find him humming or singing. But to say he can actually carry a tune is another thing. And carrying a tune well enough to get up on a stage in front of an audience…it just was not an option.

I sent out an email to a few friends, asking them what I should do. Do I call his school and tell them to fail him at his audition, to save him from embarrassment? Do I tell Sam that he could do the talent show, only if he chose dancing or drumming instead? Do I let it all play out and let him face the consequences? Do I record him practicing, play it back for him, and try to help him see that he was headed into possible social suicide if he was determined to go forward with his plan?

I got a variety of answers from friends. Some said to get him singing lessons. No time for that. Some said to be honest with him and pull him out of the show. Some said let him do it, and accept the consequences as a life lesson. This last one scared me the most, especially considering he is still technically the new kid at school and he has a lot at stake as they all move into middle school in a few months, dragging elementary school reputations along with them.

I finally emailed his teacher. She has been a great support to Sam as he’s adjusted to this move and has always been up front and honest with me. I told her my concerns and she said she’d have a talk with the woman in charge of the show.

Time moved on, the paper was turned in, and Sam invited his friend over to practice. His two older brothers and I huddled at the bottom of the stairs, cringing as we listened to the two of them belt out the song, a current hit song with an impossible vocal range. They had enthusiasm, there was no question. But talent? Not so much.

His teacher emailed me back. She’d spoken to the director of the show but wasn’t sure what decision had been made. Try outs were the next week and Sam and buddy were still on the list.

As I drove Sam to school on that fateful day, he was nervous. Auditions were during lunch and after school. He was excited but still a bit scared. I told him to do his best. I told him it was all about having fun. I reminded him that I was proud of him for trying, something I was never brave enough to do when I was his age. I got ready to console him when he was inevitably going to show up at after school pick up with a sad face, devastated that he had not made the cut.

But it didn’t happen. He came bounding out to the car with a big grin. They’d made it! Even though his friend, half of their act, had bailed on auditions to go play in a team soccer game, their act had made it through. I swallowed the lump in my throat, congratulated him with a big hug, and knew this was going to play out, whether I wanted it to or not.

More practice sessions. More cringing as we imagined what the future might hold.

Two days before the show I got a phone call. Since we’re new here, I didn’t fully understand how the show worked. The director called me, at my request, to explain it to me. I was relieved to hear that there were actually two versions of the talent show. The formal, night version, that was held in the auditorium for parents and the public, was only a select group of kids. My son was not on that list.

My boy was on the list for the show that was to be performed for the school population only. On Friday afternoon all the acts that didn’t make the ‘big show’, did their numbers on the stage of the gym, for their fellow classmates. This was getting better.

But then Sam came home and announced that he and his buddy had decided to wear their morph suits. You know, the clingy full body suits, all in one color, that cover your body from head to toe. And they had also decided not sing along to the song, but sing on their own, with only musical accompaniment. Now we were headed back to the ‘worse’ category.

Friday was the big day. His dad got off work early. I took his high school brother out of school an hour early. The two big kids came along too. Once again we showed up in force, ready to support our boy, no matter how this thing turned out.

We sat through many acts. Simple violin versions of Twinkle Twinkle. Basic line dances by little girls who seemed to have spent more time planning their outfits than practicing their coordinated moves. A few really talented kids, playing the cello or doing gymnastic routines that made the whole student body take in a collective breath. We counted down in our minds, and his siblings cued up their cell phones, ready to take video.

The curtain pulled back and there they were - Sam and his buddy - one fully green figure, one fully blue one. I instantly realized why they’d chosen morph suits. Even more than sunglasses and hats, in a suit that covers your whole face, anonymity is much easier to achieve. Even though their friends technically knew it was them, under all that stretchy fabric, the boys felt invisible.

The music started. My boy was first up, singing the first verse. He wasn’t perfectly on pitch, but he wasn’t terrible either. The beauty of using a song everyone already knows is that even if you’re pretty close, people will accept it as good enough. The chorus began and his blue buddy joined in.

 They slowly warmed up and did a few dance moves in the middle of their very long song. The crowd ate it up. Even the terrible, long note runs, that couldn’t even be considered ‘close’. All those six through twelve year olds saw were two crazy kids, giving it their all, and they cheered appropriately.

When it was finally over the crowd clapped and hollered and let the morph boys know they’d appreciated their effort. Then it was time for the next act.

I finally exhaled.

For the rest of the show I continued to do what most parents do at a school talent show. I forced myself to listen intently, even to the little girl who decided to sing an impossible Adelle song, acapella. I willed her my encouragement through my attentive face and bobbed my head in time to her brave attempt.

I clapped loudly for the little boy who played the electric guitar beautifully (I think….there was no amplifier so we had to imagine what his strumming sounded like as he sang along to his suddenly quiet song).

I smiled knowingly at the huge muscular dad (with tears in his eyes), as he watched his tiny girl on the stage, with ribbons in her braids that matched her frilly ballerina tu tu.

We were all in this together.

Parents who found a seemingly innocent paper in the middle of the Friday folder, announcing an upcoming talent show.

Parents of brave little kids who haven’t experienced enough of the world yet to realize you can’t just throw yourself out there and expect the world to love you.

You can’t just love something enough to make it into something worthy of sharing with others.

You can’t just decide to do something, when you have no experience with it, and expect it all to go right.

Or, like the ballerina girl and my green suited son … maybe you can.

Meredith's Easter

The phone rang at 4:40 a.m. on Saturday morning. It’s never a good thing when the phone rings that early. I picked it up and didn’t recognize the voice but understood the words she was saying.

“Mrs. Berna? I woke up to find Meredith having a seizure. We held her down until it was over but she’s not responsive now. We called the ambulance. I thought you’d want to know.”

My 20 year old had flown to NY on Friday. By the time I got the call she’d only been on the East coast for six or seven hours. She had looked forward to the trip for months, as she’s missed the friends she left behind when she moved to Colorado with us in December.

“Who is this?”, I asked.

“It’s Amber…” was the reply.

Amber is Meredith’s best friend. She’s a child I know well. She spent a lot of time at our house when we lived in NY and has been my daughter’s best friend for years. I realized later that I didn’t recognize her voice because she was so calm and in charge. She stepped up to the plate and did what needed to be done, in the order it needed to be done. Her maturity helped me stay sane as the day unfolded, knowing my girl was in good hands, flanked by her best friend as she made her way through the chaos of the emergency room.

As soon as I got off the phone I told Jeff exactly what I’d been told. We sat up in the dark of our bedroom, trying to figure out what to do next. Our daughter was two thousand miles away, in an ambulance, and we had no idea why she’d had such a big seizure.

“Who do we call?”, we asked each other.

We have many friends in New York. Many friends who would do anything to help us in an emergency situation. But most of them have little kids. If at all possible, we wanted to pick someone who would be the least disrupted by our early morning call.
Then her name popped into my head. Marion.

She was one of my best friends at work in New York and she was the exact person I wanted to be in charge of this situation. She is compassionate and intelligent, and would know exactly what to do for my girl.

I called her number, which I’d plugged into my phone on the day we drove away from New York for the last time. She picked up on the third ring and before I could say much more than, “Marion? It’s Judy…” I fell apart. I couldn’t stop the tears, so I handed the phone to Jeff.

He explained the situation to her and gave her our numbers, and Amber’s number, so we could all stay in touch. He briefly told her Meredith’s medical history (healthy girl, no known allergies, no history of seizures) and gave her permission to make medical decisions for our daughter.

Then he hung up and the waiting started. By then it was almost five a.m. I was due to be at work at six thirty. I was the only one who went in that early, it was up to me to open the doors of the Rec Center by seven.

I showered, just in case I couldn’t find someone to cover for me at work. It’s been a long time since I’ve sobbed in the shower. It was a common occurrence after my mom died, and then again when we almost lost our son to an undiagnosed medical disorder.

Anyone who’s gone through grief can tell you how therapeutic it is to weep in the shower, where the tears mix with the warm water that flows over your body, trying its best to wash away the pain. I let the water run and let the tears fall, until I finally felt calm and ready to face the next step.

By the time six thirty came we knew which hospital Meredith was in and we knew Marion was there, watching over her. Amber’s mom had also arrived and was doing all the right mom things to make Meredith comfortable. Just before the ambulance had arrived, Meredith had regained consciousness and was alert, although a bit confused. She became more coherent as they continued to run tests to try to figure out where the seizure had come from.

I went in to work, since there was not much to be done on our end, and we tend to be short staffed on weekends. I knew being distracted at work while the NY drama played out might be the best thing for me. I knew Jeff was at home, right by the phone, and would let me know of any updates or changes.

By mid day Meredith was discharged and sent home under Amber’s mom’s watchful eye. The CAT scan and blood work had come back clean. The ER doctors recommended she do follow up testing with her family doctor. Instead of going back to Amber’s apartment, they decided to stay at Amber’s mom’s house, just to have more help in case another seizure hit.

Meredith was very tired on Saturday, which I’ve found on my Google searches is common for the days after a big seizure. She slept a lot of the day on Saturday and then took a long nap after the Easter dinner at Amber’s house on Sunday. She checked in with us every few hours, letting us know she was okay, just recovering.

On Sunday night I got a disturbing text from her, saying she was ‘still in pain’. I had not been aware that she was in any pain at all, so I called her to find out what was going on. She told me that since the seizure she had a lot of pain, only in the right side of her body, and it made simple things like walking very painful and difficult. She said she felt like she’d worked out for twelve hours straight, she was that wiped out, but only on her right side. She also couldn’t seem to get enough sleep and was tired all the time.

Mixed in with that was frustration. She had a very limited time to see all of her friends, including some of her babysitting kids, and she’d already spent half her time in the hospital or sleeping. I assured her that we just needed to get her WELL, and once we got her feeling better we could always fly her back out, to finish her visiting.

First thing Monday morning I was on the phone with our family doctor here, and our family doctor back in NY. Our doctor in NY, who knows Meredith’s history inside and out, was due to come back from vacation on Tuesday. I grabbed Meredith a slot for the middle of the day.

Our family doctor here in Colorado hesitated to make any guesses as to what happened until he had seen her himself, so she has an appointment to see him on Friday, the day after she flies back home.

At this moment I am waiting for another phone call. In just a few hours our family doctor, who I deeply respect and trust, will be done examining my girl, and her emergency room records. She will tell us if it’s safe for Meredith to fly home this week. She’ll tell us which parts of this thing worry her the most and which parts don’t. She’ll tell us which tests we need to have done, even if we do them back here in CO, and what answers we need to find.

Then our priority will be getting my girl on that plane and getting her home. She continues to be exhausted and frustrated, as the exhaustion gets in the way of her visiting with friends. I keep reminding her that there will be time to see friends, after she’s well again. I know Amber is doing her best to keep Meredith at peace and help her make responsible decisions about her health.

It’s been a tough weekend, trying to enjoy the Easter holiday with the boys, always having our daughter in the back of our mind.

Every night we go to bed anxious, wondering if we’ll be getting another call in the night, if the seizures decide to come back when she sleeps again.

Every morning we wake up relieved, but immediately text her, asking, “How are you feeling?..”

Her answer is always ‘tired’.

We didn’t want to upset anyone’s holiday so we kept this information from family and friends until today. There wasn’t much to report besides, “We don’t know anything yet”.

But it’s been four days since it happened and we felt like we eventually needed to get the basic word out there. I’ll post any follow up information we get and let you know when she’s back on CO soil and in our house again (scheduled to fly tomorrow, getting home late in the day). Watch my Facebook status updates, it’s easiest to post things there.

For now we’re back to real life. The boys are back in school. Michael is back to running trails during the day and helping me with errands. Jeff is back to work, getting as much done as he can while always having his daughter in the back of his mind.

We would appreciate your prayers and good thoughts as we go through the frustrating process of getting more medical tests done and figuring out what this means to Meredith’s future.

The poor girl has had a couple of days of bad luck, after weeks and weeks of pretty good stuff unfolding for her. The day before she flew to NY (24 hours before her seizure) she was attacked by a dog at Red Rocks amphitheater while she ran the stairs for exercise. The dog was technically on a leash, but a very long one, and tripped her, causing her to scrape up her palms and knees pretty badly, as well as shattering her ipod. She didn’t hit her head and didn’t get a dog bite, so we don’t think the two events are related…only a frustrating pair of circumstances that are not fun for my girl.

Keep her, and her medical health, as well as mental health, in your thoughts and prayers.

Until there’s more news to report…I'm off to throw in some more laundry.

The Ashes

As you probably know, I'm working on getting my book finished. It's so much more work than I realized, to wrap up a project and send it out into the world, confident that it's the best that it can be.

One aspect of my story that's been hard to write about (so I've avoided it) is the story of what I did with the cremated ashes of my amputated foot. Yes, I have the ashes of the foot I got rid of, and had planned to throw them off a mountain some day, in a gesture that was to represent saying goodbye to my old life of disability and welcoming in my new life with bionics.

But with a bit of prodding from my trustworthy editor, I finally did it. I wrote about what happened with the ashes. The box of ashes I picked up from the mortuary just over eight years ago, and haven't done a thing with since.

I finally got brave enough to write about why they still sit in my closet. Here is the first draft of that chapter.

Someday it will be in my book, but today, here it is.

Just in case you were wondering what happened to the ashes.


What Happened to the Ashes

Of all the chapters, this has to be the hardest to write. Digging through the emotion of losing my mom, and then almost losing my son, was not fun. Dredging up the memories of feeling invisible and yet defined, by a body part that didn’t grow correctly, was hardly entertaining. But when the stories have been told and the book has to end, how should that happen? My story is not over, because my life continues. The toddlers I wrote about in the middle chapters are now tall teenagers, who raid my fridge and clean out my wallet.

Life goes on.

Through the years, as I’ve plugged away on this manuscript, several people have said the ashes story should be the final chapter. Many of my first readers were curious as to whatever happened to the cremated ashes of my foot. I dodged their suggestions, uncomfortable with the truth.

The truth was, those ashes remained in the top of my closet. Enclosed in a small plastic bag, which was tucked into a small white box, which was housed in a soft velvet bag with drawstrings pulled tight. They have moved with us, on every cross country relocation. From Utah to New York, then from New York to Colorado, the velvet bag was included in the stash of personal effects that I didn’t trust in the moving truck.

Even though I didn’t know what I would eventually do with them, I couldn’t afford to lose them.

So they rode along the endless highways that connected our old state to our new one, tucked in between the twenty six boxes of photos I took before I finally bought a digital camera, and our files full of hard to replace legal papers. That small blue velvet bag, that until this moment I had never realized was made of the same material as the bridesmaids dresses my sisters wore as they walked down the aisle in my wedding.

The monumental days of my life, united by a fabric.


When people would ask why I had not thrown those ashes off a mountain top already, I inwardly squirmed. The answer in my head was always, “I don’t know”, even as I came up with some different version to give to the curious friend. Sometimes the fake answer was ‘I haven’t found the right mountain’ or ‘I haven’t found the right occasion’. But in reality, I never let myself dig deep enough to know the real answer to the question.

Then I was having the last edits done to this manuscript. A very generous friend, with a journalism background, stepped up and jumped into the project with me. She and her partner gave me consistent, accurate feedback as they read through my story for content errors. I trusted them because their suggestions proved, time and again, to make my story- telling stronger. Then they asked the question I hate. “Why have you not spread the ashes?”

To make it worse, they went a step further and added, “That needs to be your last chapter. Tell us why you still have the ashes in your closet.”

When I stepped back long enough to let their suggestion reach past my instant reservations, and sink back to the place where I know that sometimes the hardest chapters have the most meaning, I realized they were right. It was time to face the question head on.

The ashes. In the blue velvet bag. Why do they haunt me so? Why do they remain in the top of my closet, year after year, tucked in amongst the folded sweaters and jeans? Why do I still have them, eight years later, when it was such a liberating idea to have that foot cremated in the first place?

I grabbed a clipboard filled with paper and retreated to the back patio. For an hour I sat in the bright Colorado sun, slouched down in my favorite plastic Adirondack chair, and had an old fashioned brain storming session. I wrote line after line of almost unintelligible scribbles, asking myself over and over again, “Why do I still have the ashes?”

I came up with three pages of convoluted reasons. Fitness level. Moves to new states. Life obligations that got in the way. Emotions related to my mom’s death. Uncertainty about which mountain to pick. Inner rumblings about what it would mean to throw my own body away.

It was not fun. It was not comfortable. But at least I had something down on paper, to sort through later. My sunny session ended as the dinner hour suddenly rolled around and I dragged myself out of the lawn chair and headed to the kitchen.

Jeff returned from a business trip two days later. We decided to claim a rare date night, somewhere outdoors. It was one of the first weeks of consistently warm weather as spring slowly chipped its way into our mountain town, and it didn’t seem right to sit in a dark restaurant or quiet movie theater.

We got the kids sorted out into their own evening plans then took the back way down the canyon, weaving our way through the rocky cliffs that still had snow clinging to the most shady spots. We ended up at the red rock formations, just west of Denver, as the sun sat low in the afternoon sky. The area was filled with hikers of every shape and size, most attached to a dog on a leash.

We picked a shallow trail, at the bottom of the ridge, and slowly made our way down its winding path. Jeff stopped every once in awhile, to survey the lay of the land, and make pronouncements about the way the hills rose and fell around us.

“This used to be the old road. See how that ridge is flat, and these concrete posts are lined up along the edge?” It’s one of the realities of being married to an archaeologist highway man. He can hardly drive down a back road or hike a trail without analyzing the lay of the land. We are constantly being educated.

“Uh huh…” I answered as I shook my head. It was fascinating, on some level, but I was, even more so, enjoying his quiet company, after a week of corralling children alone. In all the years that have passed and all the challenges we’ve faced together, he continues to be my best friend. I have never tired of his company.

We wound around the back side of a large red rock formation, jutting into the sky. The temperature dropped a handful of degrees. Some bright plant I’ve never seen before caught my eye and I stopped to examine it and take a picture of it with my cell phone. He plucked off what seemed to be a small bud and we spent the next few minutes guessing the details of this plant we had no experience with.

Then the trail wound around some more. We passed other casual hikers, and made friendly comments to them about their dogs.

As we came around a corner the hillside suddenly rose up ahead of us. Stairs had been carved into the side of the incline, with flat red bricks running up each side. The staircase border made a nice place to sit and talk for a few minutes. With the sun sinking into the sky, but still illuminating our faces, I decided to finally ask for his help.

I told him about my standstill with the ashes question. I rambled on about how I really needed to figure it out, and how I really did think it was an important question, if only I could answer it honestly.

Because he knows me so well, and lived most of the journey with me, I finally asked him, at the end of my rant, “So what do you think? Why have I not thrown those ashes off of a mountain?”

With hardly a pause, he answered. “Well, it really comes down to two reasons.”

I tilted my head in wonder and forced myself to be quiet, knowing from past experience that this was probably going to be just the insight I needed.

And then in just a few sentences, he spelled out what I had so desperately been trying to get across to myself, when I’d so frantically written line after line on my clipboard list, in my lawn chair brain storm session. It wasn’t as complicated as I’d been making it out to be.

So here it is. Here’s the answer, in case you’ve been wondering yourself. Just in case the image of those ashes, so carefully hidden away in my bedroom closet, bothers you, and you can’t imagine why I’d have such big plans for them, then seemingly banish them to long term storage, here’s my answer.

It does come down to two reasons.

The first is that, in the end, they weren’t the big symbol I had expected them to be. When I researched for this change, when I got my hopes up that it would be a huge jump in the right direction for my future mobility, I pinned a lot of expectation on those ashes. I imagined the big moment when my new life would officially kick in. Somehow, without realizing it, I painted this picture in my head that it was somehow a destination at which I would arrive.

But it wasn’t.

It’s every day, waking up, clicking on that leg, and attacking whatever adventure that day happens to bring. Maybe it will include dropping Sam off at school, an hour at the gym, then a trip to the grocery store, then a swing by the library, then an afternoon of writing, then making dinner, helping with homework, getting kids to bed on time. Or maybe it will include hiking trails with my husband and children, as we steal off on some weekend trip to some remote part of this gorgeous state we live in.

But either way, it’s just a part of the routine. It’s just a different way to get around.

Yes, it gave me mobility, and more than that, hope for my future mobility, but it didn’t give me any grand moment of arrival. There was no time that I thought, “NOW I have arrived! It’s time to throw the ashes off the mountain!”

Wrapped up in that idea is the fact that I had to put to rest the super athlete vision. Many of the rambling reasons I poured out onto the clipboard list related to fitness. I somehow thought that I needed to be at a specific fitness level to justify finding that mountainside to fling my ashes.

I’ve had pretty fit periods, since I got my new leg, and I’ve had other times when I felt a lot softer, and less strong than I’d prefer. But somehow, in the back of my mind, I thought that once I was perfectly toned and sculpted, that’s when the ash throwing would begin. That’s when I’d be able to scale that amazing mountain trail and make my proclamation to the world.

But that hasn’t happened, and that’s not the real reason I made this choice.

All along I’ve been focused on getting back basic mobility. I’ve always said I had no desire to be the super amputee athlete. I gain much motivation from those who are, but that has never been my goal.

My goal was to stop the deterioration of my withered foot and replace it with something that let me live my normal life with more energy and opportunity. And that’s exactly what has happened. So there’s no place in there for major pronouncements on the side of a mountain.

And the second reason is a bit more complicated. Somehow those ashes are a part of me. Well, in fact, they literally were part of me, at one time. But in another way, they are a very symbolic part of who I am and where I came from.

Those ashes represent the huge, scary decision I made to have my foot cut off. They represent letting go of the dream that I’d ever have two normal feet, and trusting that technology could hook me up with something better. But somehow they are also a symbol of the person I was before.

They are the remnants of the shy little girl who just wanted to be noticed, not because she had a lingering limp or a van full of foster siblings, but because she was special and cherished as her own person.

Those ashes are the preteen girl who thought she’d never find a man who could truly look past the ugliness of her left foot and give her the dream of a house full of children.

They stand for years of slowly becoming a sedentary person, as Jeff took our offspring out on long hikes and ski slopes while I stayed back and pretended to be happy sitting in the lodge with the lunch cooler.

It’s not so easy to throw all of those parts of myself to the wind.

It’s scary, in a strange sense of the word, to freely let go of all that I’ve come from.

So for now they continue to sit.

I’ve come close once. When we lived in New York for five years, and often visited Jeff’s large family in New Hampshire, I thought more than once about taking that velvet box up to a peak in the White Mountains, where I’d missed out on a special life moment more than a decade before.

One of Jeff’s younger brothers got married on that mountain, when our kids were preschoolers. He said his vows to a beautiful young lady who eventually became almost closer than a sister to me.

I did not go.

I stayed back at the house with one of the grandmas and one of our babies. I couldn’t make the climb, on my withered old foot, and I missed out on a touching ceremony where I gained a sister and a bonus of a new niece. I’d always imagined that the spot where they said their vows would be a perfect place to fling those ashes and have my moment.

It would be meaningful because it was a specific location where I could say, “I couldn’t then, but I can now”. I am sure that my sister in law and the rest of the gang would have joined me on the peak, and been there to support me through my own touching ceremony. But maybe that’s why I never got around to making those plans. I was scared of the emotion.

I was scared that if I stood there, surrounded by those people who loved and supported me in all the years when I wasn’t so able, and then cheered me on when I made my decision and began my new life, I might totally lose control of my emotions.

I had a deep sense that all the pain and sadness I used to carry around, related to the ways that foot held me back, would come flooding over me and I would collapse into a convulsion of tears.

If I’m really and truly honest with myself, I also have to admit that some part of me might weep for another reason. It might take me back to that place I’ve only been to twice in my life - once when my mom died and once when my newborn son almost did. Those are the two times I’ve cried from the depths of my soul, and I don’t relish the idea of going back there.

To this day I guard myself from seeing a movie that’s too sad or reading a book with a grim storyline. I’m still not sure where the line is, when experiencing sadness, between a healthy, soul cleansing release, and that out of control weeping I wish I’d never known.

And some part of me is sad on a new level when it comes to my decision to cut off my foot and my mom not being here to see me through it. I’m confident it would have been much harder to make my amputation decision, if she had been alive, knowing how much responsibility she felt for my disability in the first place.

But it feels so big, so life changing, and it’s hard to imagine she had no part in it. She watched all my struggling years but never got to be a part of my victory years.

Just as it pains my heart that she never saw my last two children come into existence, I feel a hole in my heart when I think about her not being able to witness my new chance at a new life. I know some tears would come, as I watched the wind carry my ashes away, related to my mom, and her absence in the process.

So as I pondered whether I should throw my ashes off a peak in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I continued to lock up in fear of emotion. Emotion that came from many different places.

The end result: I put it off so long that we no longer live on the East Coast, and I have a valid reason to go another year with no ashes ceremony.

So for now,there it is. The hard and ugly truth about the ashes.



Maybe by the time my book is ready for publication, I'll have a mountain top story. But for now all I have is some thoughtful insight from a caring spouse. And a fear of being lost in the emotion.