A Year of Goodbyes

"Grief never ends…but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith…it is a price of love." —Unknown

A year ago today, on January 5, 2020, my grandmother passed away quietly due to complications from Alzheimer's. The year was unkind and also took my grandfather on the 26th of December. He didn't want to continue living without her, and God granted him that wish.

As I did with my grandmother (mentioned here), I mustered the courage to speak at his funeral. I'm not an eloquent speaker, and I find it horrifying to stand in front of people, but it was the best way I knew how to honor him. In the vein of stretching comfort zones (hence the blog name), sacrificing my comfort level for someone I cared so deeply for felt like the right thing to do. 

My family spent the week after he passed going through the house, the children deciding what should be kept vs donated, and realizing my grandparents kept everything. In the moment, it was overwhelming and harried, but it was necessary as not everyone lives locally. The last time I pulled away from their home, I knew I was leaving behind a part of myself. When I pictured my grandparents, it was here. I knew what the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, bathrooms, office, etc all looked like. I knew where they sat watching TV or at the table. I had memories in every single room, and the idea of never seeing that home again meant I was walking away from the last vestiges of my childhood. My constants were both gone. How could that be? I wouldn't selfishly wish them back to live in discomfort and illness, but I'd love one final conversation. I'd ask them...well...just ALL THE THINGS. I'd beg them to tell me stories, ask advice, and tell them how much I love them and appreciate them being such steady, consistent, stable people during my life. But no, I wouldn't ask them to stay. I love them too much.

I'm sharing what I said that day at his quiet, private funeral in the midst of a pandemic. Where my family parted ways at the end in a way that broke my heart. I grew up gathering after funerals, everyone talking and reminiscing. But 2020 slipped away on the last day in a final blow by taking him from us during a time where that couldn't be. 

Papaw. Funeral, December 31, 2020

It’s stating the obvious to say 2020 has been a challenging year of loss for many people, and our family feels that sharply. We said goodbye to my grandmother in January, and I stood in this same spot trying to honor her in the only way I knew how—sharing my love for her. I’m an awkward introvert who would rather sit and listen than speak in front of people…so doing this is the best way I know to show how much my grandparents mean to me.

I didn’t grow up being close with my grandfather like I did my Memaw. But we grew close later in life, and I’ve spent the years of my adulthood getting to know him. He wasn’t one who enjoyed talking on the phone…but I called anyway. In the beginning he would pass me to my grandmother as soon as he could. Over time, and because it grew harder for her to carry on a conversation, I found ways to bond with him. We talked about Memaw, my own family…and books. I sent books from his favorite authors and mine and some from my own clients for him to read so we could talk about them, and I will always treasure those moments. I’ve never regretted pushing through my own phone awkwardness because I have the memory of hearing him tell me he loved me so many times.      

Growing up, I remember he would come home dirty and sweaty from his job as an ironworker or from working outdoors, which he loved to do. He would shower and join us downstairs smelling like a commercial for men’s cologne and aftershave. He knew how to work hard and he took care of my grandmother for 65 years right up until the moment she passed. The onset of Covid at the same time he was grieving the loss of his best friend created a perfect storm of loneliness and isolation as he couldn’t go back out into the world and learn to live again. But even had that not been the case, I’m not sure he would have done anything like that. He told many of us repeatedly that all he wanted was to be with her again. 

We’ve all heard stories of couples who pass away relatively close to one another because the one left behind mourns them so deeply and cannot live without the other. In this, my Papaw received his wish in the early hours the day after Christmas. They are reunited once again, both whole and healthy, and I know Memaw was waiting for him.

I’ve poured over old notes, letters, and cards this week, I had no idea my grandfather was such an eloquent writer. The things I read showed me how very human both my grandparents were, showed their unconditional love for one another, and also showed their devotion to their faith. If you wonder where he is in this moment, the end of a letter he wrote said: 

Lord make me whole, mend my spirit, take my hand that I may follow Thee. Lord I know that when my life is over on this Earth my soul will be with you in Heaven.

My grandparents were—no they are—strong in their faith. That faith gave them the peace and hope they would be together again. So while we are mourning his loss so close to hers, I know him well enough to say with confidence he would ask you to remember he is so very happy now. I can be sad for myself and still be happy for him because this is all he wanted. 

Grief is different for everyone. We must all come to terms in the way that we need to. When the darker moments crowd in, remind yourself he did not want to stay, and part of loving someone this much means letting them go. 

I mentioned this at Memaw’s funeral, and I want to say it again. Don’t wait on other people to call you first, to be the ones to stay in touch. My grandparents loved me, and I know this without a doubt, but I’ve had the relationship with them I do because I made the effort. If you constantly wait for someone else to call or text you first, you could miss out on something truly wonderful. 

Tell people you love them. While we cannot help needing to be careful about physical contact during these uncertain times, we can always tell people we love them…that we think of them…that they matter. We can text just to say, “Hi” and ask how they are. It really doesn’t take that much effort, and you never know how much someone else needs to hear you’ve thought of them.

Papaw, thank you for indulging me every time I called. Whether we talked for five minutes or forty-five minutes, I was never sorry I called. Thank you for reminding me I shouldn’t gloss over things like I had no problems. That it was okay to tell you about all the things in my life, not only the best parts. I know you weren’t perfect, but neither am I. I loved you more for those imperfections. It meant I could just be my imperfect self too.

Thank you for setting an example of love and devotion. 65 years of marriage is such an accomplishment. The two of you set an example of how to love even when it’s not easy. You both forgave and loved unconditionally even when things were hard. I hope as you are walking through Heaven hand in hand, you’ll both feel all the love we have for you and know that it won’t waiver just because you’re no longer here. You live on in all of us.

I am going to miss our phone calls more than words can express. I’m so keenly aware of the hole in my life the two of you left, so I keep filling it with memories.

 

Mom, Julia, Sandy, Chris…just because your parents are no longer here to be the glue that connects you, don’t lose touch. Texts and phone calls are free, but they are rich in their worth. It matters that you not drift apart. Your mom asked for you to all stay close after they are gone in another note I found this week. 

Even now, when the sadness creeps in, I try to replace those darker moments with happier ones because I know they're living their best lives now.

And finally…

Not long ago, Papaw and I were talking, and he told me about his favorite poem. He read it to me over the phone, line by line, and said he loved it so much. Something told me to save it. 

He said it was called a Traditional Gaelic Blessing, and if I really try, I can still hear him reading it to me.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

May the rain fall soft upon your fields, 

and until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I love you, Papaw. 

What Does Chronic Illness Look Like?

 

Receiving a diagnosis for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is only the first step in what often feels like a never-ending cycle of questions, appointments, tests, more appointments (with long wait times), and then more waiting. So much waiting…

Have I mentioned the waiting?

Looking at myself in the mirror the day after my diagnosis, it occurred to me that while I had an answer, a verification, an acknowledgment of my frustrations, I did not look any different. It was still just me staring back from the reflection in the glass.

It didn’t take me long to tire of trying to explain at various appointments what Ehlers-Danlos syndrome means, what my concerns are for that particular visit, and to realize I would still receive doubt and dismissal from people even with my official diagnosis. Because I don’t “look sick” on the outside, I need a way to explain what living with EDS means for me.

Ehlers-Danlos looks like:

• Random anxiety spiking for no discernible reason.
• Feeling weak if I admit to feeling anxious.
• Being overwhelmed and teary-eyed because I am tired but still have so much work to do.
• Brain fog when my job requires me to be sharp 24/7.
• Not wanting to slow down in case I can’t rev up the energy again.
• Disinterest in food but having to eat.
• Recalling the time I confided in a coworker I was very clumsy then being told that it would get better if I just “slowed down” more. No, she wasn’t a doctor, just a jerk.
• Being exhausted at 6:00 pm then unable to sleep at 10, 11, 12, 1…
• Falling asleep but waking up again and not being able to find a comfortable position to go back to sleep.
• Being proud of myself that I wrestled a 360 mattress cover onto the bed, then my joints hurting for two days.
• Cycling through the relief of finally having a diagnosis, then having the whispering voice in the back of my brain telling me someone will “take it away” from me.
• People questioning if I have the right diagnosis — even doctors.
• Thinking people won’t believe me because I cannot prove it with a test.
• Not knowing if I can talk about this in my everyday life.
• Then not knowing who I can talk to about it.
• Wondering if I find someone with EDS, if they will measure their EDS against mine and dismiss me because they have it worse. Why must people always measure?
• Having so many questions and no one to talk to who can answer.
• Wanting to embrace my diagnosis but mentioning it to people who promptly dismiss it like you never said it, while you’ve tried hard to be engaged and interested in their health issues.
• Realizing I have a diagnosis but don’t know where to go from here.
• Second-guessing myself on any decisions to move forward and dreading the process.
• Feeling alone because this diagnosis feels revolutionary to me, but no one else gets it… or cares.
• People turning any conversation about my diagnosis into, “Well, I have that. I’ve had that. That’s not a big deal. Lots of people have that. I wonder if I have EDS since I have that symptom.”
• Others measuring because people compare their chronic illness to yours, claiming they have it “so much worse.”
• Fighting to continue the same way of life because I don’t want to be viewed as weak and trying to prove I can still do all the things.
• All the well-meaning people who tell me to give myself grace and to listen to my body, then turn around and give me a list of things they need and want ASAP.
• Once again desperately wishing for someone to talk to about it while also not wanting to talk about it.

But most of all, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome looks like… me. Average, blending in on the outside but tired and scared and anxious on the inside. 

"You're Not A Hypochondriac. This Is Real."

"You're not a hypochondriac. This is real."

This quote accompanies several emotions varying with the moment each time it crosses my mind. Receiving a diagnosis after many years of unexplained conditions comes with a surreal feeling. Wes and several others asked me how I felt finally knowing, and the truth is...

 I'm not really sure.

The geneticist appointment originally had a six month wait. Six months, you guys. We shouldn't be waiting six months for appointments with specialists, but what can we do when there aren't other options? I asked the receptionist to *please* add me to a cancellation list without believing she would ever think about me again. I was wrong because she called me six weeks later with an opening, and I jumped at the chance. While I would normally be ecstatic for the chance at a TeleHealth appointment, some of the things required for this exam were less than ideal in this form...but I did it anyway after setting some hard boundaries with the doctor and genetic counselor. I felt like a performing monkey, but by the end of the appointment I had a diagnosis. Decades worth of issues, feeling like a hypochondriac, hiding symptoms, and pretending everything was manageable and fine culminated into two sentences that, while they didn't change the course of my life, they connected things in a way I never dreamed would be the truth. 

"You're not a hypochondriac. This is real." was the first thing he said after putting me through the paces of a TeleHealth "exam". Then he proceeded to explain the long list of symptoms I'd lived with for years—some most of my life—was due to a disorder called Ehlers-
Danlos Syndrome. The simple answer is, it's a disease that weakens the connective tissues of your body. The full answer is there's an extensive laundry list of things that vary for every person. The short version of mine are fun things like dysautonomia (a disorder of the autonomic nervous system), subluxation of joints (partial dislocations), slow healing, bruising, skin changes, adhesive allergies, ovarian torsions, interstitial cystitis, migrating joint pain, pelvic floor spasms, not sweating during exercise, interrupted sleep, nausea, and blah blah blah...I'm boring myself now, but you get the idea. 

The point of this blog isn't to drone on about my symptoms. It's truly about self-advocacy, which is the ability to speak up for yourself about the things that are important to you. Many of us are well-suited to advocate for others, yet we hold back doing so for ourselves. Why? I can only answer for myself:

• I trend towards being a people pleaser and didn't want to be labeled as that patient.  When doctors brushed off my concerns, or in my case when one refused to even look at my problems, I didn't push harder. I was so baffled and didn't want to upset her, I walked away without being able to voice even half my concerns. Come to find out, they were EXTREMELY relevant to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and she had an opportunity to be an important part of my journey. She failed because she wouldn't listen. I failed myself because I didn't push harder to make her to listen.

• I didn't want to be a pest. For many years, the only doctor I had was my OBGYN, whom I adore. She did four of my seven abdominal surgeries, always listened attentively, and she actively attempted to find answers for me. I shied away from what I saw as bugging her because I didn't want to be too needy of a patient and take advantage of how amazing she is. How much sense does that make? None. I had no idea so many of my problems were connected, so I only talked to her about the female issues.  

• I didn't have a primary care doctor, didn't know who to trust after some truly horrible experiences with a doctor in Germany, and I assumed they would all brush me off or treat me like a hypochondriac. I was dismissed more than once. It took time for me to realize I had a right to answers. But once again, my OBGYN was pivotal in continuing to advocate for me and nudge me in the right directions. She never once gave up on me even when I wanted to give up on myself. 

• I didn't want to appear weak. I'm fiercely independent and loathed the idea of being labeled with anything. Why should that matter? In hindsight, I know it was silly because suffering in silence doesn't make it go away. 

• I'm a wife, mother, and business owner with an extremely demanding job. Like many, I tend to put the needs of others over my own. I spend my days making the lives of my clients easier, so neglecting my own needs happens easily. When my kids were younger, I was busy with them. Since I already had to juggle things I couldn't ignore health-wise, finding answers for what I personally deemed the "smaller things" seemed petty and unnecessary. 

• Being told I was over 40, so this was a normal progression. Because people dismiss concerns with age excuses, I'd tell myself the breath-taking pains shooting through my abdomen weren't that big of a deal if they passed. Waking up with my joints hurting or struggling to sleep was just part of life, right? Almost passing out when I was too hot during physical activity was just what happened. Right...? *crickets*

I could continue listing reasons why I didn't advocate for myself for so long, but the points all come back to the same thing: 

If I do not advocate for myself, no one else will. 

When I was collecting information for doctors and creating timelines and a list of symptoms, I had an image in my head of a connect the dots picture. But instead of numbers you can follow and trace the path to the final picture, it's a bunch of random dots on a page. You aren't sure where to start and what dots connect to form the right picture. I feel like I have the shape now, but the details are still hazy. Sometimes I have to backtrack and try again, but eventually I hope to fill in the rest and have and create a clear-ish picture

But it's not all bad.

Knowledge is the key to understanding. Having answers provides me with a sense of peace simply because I no longer need to question or doubt myself when something feels off. It's real. 

It's important to share the great experiences along the way so the negative doesn't have a spotlight for long. As I mentioned, my OBGYN was pivotal in connecting me. It took us multiple tries to find a new primary care doctor who would take the time to work with me. Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is a rare disorder and difficult to get a diagnosis.  Ultimately, she introduced me to a program called MDVIP because I needed a PCM that would take time to sit and talk to me and help me manage what's to come. Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome does not have a cure, and it is a progressive disorder. I need help managing things in the future.

My yoga instructors deserve huge credit for leading me on the path to my diagnosis. That's right, yoga instructors! I've been flexible my entire life. Looking back, I received a few random comments from people about the way I'd stand, but I never gave it a second thought. When I returned to yoga last year, it wasn't long before a couple of the instructors pointed out I needed to be careful because I was hypermobile and overextended my joints during practice. I was baffled at first because I just believed you were flexible or you weren't. It never occurred to me I was doing anything out of the ordinary. What they pointed out as stressing my joints was absolutely normal to me. I do not know how to stand without my knees flexing the opposite direction. Their comments made me recall something a couple of doctors mentioned to me years before about the ligaments holding my organs inside were extra long. I mentioned the hypermobility in passing during a doctor visit, and she did the Beighton screening where I scored 9/9. Without my yoga instructors cautioning me, I never would've mentioned it to a doctor who suggested Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. It's ironic how a disease that centers around defective connective tissues in your body has so many connecting comorbid symptoms. I will always be thankful to the ladies at Bee Well Yoga for truly caring about my well-being and pointing out something I never knew was abnormal. 

With Covid and seeking answers about my health, I haven't had an opportunity to return to the yoga studio, which I miss greatly. Now that I fully understand why I can't participate in hot yoga classes, or why I have to keep exercise low impact, I hope to find some classes that will accommodate my Ehlers-Danlos diagnosis. Yoga not only helps me manages stress, which we all need, but my joints and ligaments FEEL better when I regularly attend.  

The geneticist told me my body is basically wearing out faster than an average individual, so I have to be cautious, make adjustments to my life, and pay attention to the signals my body gives me. After providing a list of "What Not To Do", he said it boils down to, "If it hurts, don't do it." For someone that pushes themselves a great deal, that is not an easy request. Slowing down isn't in my nature, so it will take time to retrain my "Just keep pushing" attitude. 

Finally, I found it humorous to learn the symbol for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome awareness is the zebra. There's an expanded explanation HERE, but it boils down to the concept that medical students are taught to look for the usual and the common when diagnosing...not to expect a zebra when they hear hoofbeats. However, there really are times the diagnosis does involve something rare or unusual. So EDS awareness has a saying that goes, "Sometimes, when you hear hoofbeats, it really is a zebra."

So for those of you who associate me with unicorns, I'm having to make adjustments these days. Here's a great compromise since...

 Life is a little less unicorns, and a little more zebras now...

P.S. No one knows your body and the things you experience like you do. Advocate for yourself. If a doctor dismisses your concerns, that doesn't mean they aren't important. Keep asking. Keep pushing. Keep seeking answers. You owe yourself. 

P.P.S. Did you know a group of zebras is called a DAZZLE?!?!?! Um, yes please. 

P.P.S. I was feeling a little blah and decided to make some EDS Awareness swag, and I think it turned out not too terrible: EHLERS-DANLOS SWAG

I Promise I'm Working Right Meow

Prior to social distancing, many people thought working from home was glamorous and “easier” than office life. I've answered lots of messages from people asking how they can get a job like mine. Unfortunately, I have no magical answers, but I can show you why it's not all glamour and leisure. Why? Because I don't mind to make fun of myself.

Office vs work from home both have pros and cons, but in case you haven’t had the option to work remotely, it is really more like this:

1. I need to pee (because coffee) but I don’t want to disturb them and get the younger two riled. Quiet time is sacred. They may sleep up to 18 hrs a day, but the younger two wreak havoc the other 6 hrs.

2. I’m wearing the same pajamas I have for two days. There’s a cat on my shirt—dressed like Harry Potter. I’m thankful for social distancing because I look pretty publicly unacceptable. 

3. 3 is for the number of days it's been since I washed my hair. Don't judge...the cats don't.

4. I’m sitting on my bed to work, but it isn’t the best because my back is killing me from the lack of yoga and general moving. I’m a hybrid human sloth. I cannot say human and cat hybrid because these heifers sleep 18 hrs a day, and I have to work. When I attempt yoga of any sort, things like this happen...

5. I have zero sense of work time vs non work time—it’s basically always work time. Without my youngest child’s school schedule, I’ve lost all balance. It's time to stop when my eyes can no longer stare blearily through the lenses of my glasses. That leads us to number 6.

6. My coworkers are adorable, but I found teeth marks on my glasses today. Brats. Look at him sleeping innocently. The problem is, I have no idea which of the younger two did it. It's a good thing I have more, but that would require waking them up to go find them. We already addressed why that's not a great idea.

7. I’m constantly distracted by the inherent need to DO things around the house. Laundry because I need to change pajamas. Vacuuming and sweeping because cat hair accumulates. My parents judged the cat hair situation correctly when they gave me the stellar mug Leo decided to pose with. 

8. Like any true crazy cat lady, there are far too many times when I'm distracted by the need to take more pictures of my cats because they do something funny or cute...well, at least to me.  I just drag the rest of you along on the journey.

9. Nothing is sacred. My husband is currently working remotely, so he confiscated my desk. Incidentally, this leads back to more of number 3. If I manage to extract myself from my furry fiends (yes, that's fiends NOT friends...) to make it to the bathroom, I will return to find my computer confiscated. They love to steal my computer, but they rarely produce anything work-related while they have it.

10. If you go too long without posting pictures of your cats on social media, people assume something is terribly wrong and message you to be certain you haven't fallen ill...or haven't finally been overthrown by the cats.

This may leave you wondering...who's really behind the keyboard today? The world may never know...

Photo ops by: Sir Sebastian Poof Poof Wiggle Cricket, Leo Boone McCuddle Bug, and Grayson Jack McBallsy Pants

Saying Goodbye To Our Precious Conversations

Alma Marie Davis

May 8, 1938 - January 5, 2020

In January 2016, I wrote the first blog about my grandmother entitled Precious Conversations. In it, I said, "I feel the clock ticking resolutely forward.  It's a cruel, grating tick."

The clock stopped January 8, 2020 at 10:25 a.m.

She passed away peacefully but unexpectedly. While we knew she wouldn't be with us by next Christmas, we weren't expecting it to be so soon. Sometimes death sneaks in quietly. 

When I wrote the first blog post four years ago, I explained, "...logic is my coping mechanism, and I've been thinking a lot about my perspective on what lies ahead.  So many diseases exist that could leave her suffering physically, in pain and fading away.  She could have to endure chemo and radiation for months/years. Maybe Alzheimer's is a way the rest of us can bear the burden for her.  She won't be aware, or so we hope, as her memory slips further. I hope we can carry the weight of sadness for her..." I pray that was the case for her. It's worth every ounce of sadness and grief if it means she didn't experience it herself.

The obituary was written, the service planned, and we met with the pastor who would conduct the service. He asked a question that broke through the numb feeling I'd surrounded my heart with since the moment my dad called to give me the news: Would anyone like to speak at the funeral about her? I didn't say anything, but my heart stuttered in my chest as I kept my lips firmly shut. By the time I made it back to the hotel, I felt absolutely sure I should say something, but I was terrified. Despite my pounding heart I spent time that evening writing the words I wasn't quite sure I could stand in front of others and say without completely losing my composure. In case you don't know, I'm a terrible introvert. And the idea of speaking in front of anyone made me want to crawl into the nearest hole and stay there. That very reason was why I did it. Because I felt like doing something very hard for her was the sort of thing she deserved. Rereading my 2016 post, I came across this line:

I can't change what's to come, so I can only change my perspective.

So that's exactly what I did—I changed my perspective. I decided I needed to do it, that I SHOULD do it. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't all that I wanted to say...but it was only about saying goodbye in the best way I knew how.

My mother later asked me for a copy of what I said. So, mom...this is for you:
I’m Jamie Elizabeth Davis. I am the oldest child of my grandmother’s oldest child, Terrie. It’s been my privilege to have my grandmother in my life for 42 years. As the oldest grandchild, I was the first, and she always told me I was also the first to call her Memaw…because I couldn’t say Mamaw or Grandma.

My middle name, Elizabeth, is after her mother who I was fortunate enough to have in my life until I was 13. I’ve always been thankful my parents gave me that middle name. Ironically, despite being born a Kenoyer, my last name has been Davis for almost 24 years. My husband, Wes, comes from a family of Davises. I always loved the fact I had the same last name as my maternal grandparents. But don’t worry, the family tree forks…

My children are obviously both Davises. And Papaw, the best part of it is my son, Caleb, will also carry on the Davis name and represent both sides of his family.

As a grandchild, I was fortunate to have the very best parts of my Memaw. She wasn’t responsible for raising and disciplining me because she had already raised her children. It was a lucky spot to have. So, thank you for going first, Mom, Julia, Sandy, and Chris—for paving the way. 

My Memaw and I shared a love of the colors yellow and purple. And she loved to tell me how I couldn’t say yellow when I was little, and it would come out “yeddow”. She told me that story so many times. 

There was a couple of years where both worked at Eastland Mall. I would look for her on my breaks or take Wes over there when we were dating to look for her. I absolutely loved the beautiful smile on her face when she’d see us walk into the store. She had such a beautiful smile. It was the sort you knew reached all the way to her soul.

My Memaw was consistent. No matter how chaotic my life was, I always knew she would be the same when I saw or spoke to her. That has always been such a source of security for me.

She was full of grace and had a rod of quiet strength. But I always knew she could be fierce if she needed to be. I never believed she was perfect, but I always believed she was sincere and had the best of intentions. 

I watched her as I grew up, and my grandmother had a way of loving and accepting people who came into her home without judgement. No matter who came to the house, which of us brought someone new, they were welcomed without question and treated well. I watched her care for people without expecting anything in return.

Memaw would wait at the door or standing in the open garage as you pulled away. She did that until she was no longer physically able to...Papaw, you were there as well. When I think about her, I often picture her standing there, waving, blowing me a kiss. Mom, when you stood at the door waiting as I backed out of their driveway last night, you reminded me of her.  

I called over the years, even at the nursing home, and tried to catch her awake though there came a time I greatly doubted she remembered me so I could tell her I loved her repeatedly just to hear her say it back to me. I treasured each one. 

Papaw, thank you for always being patient and chatting with me during those calls even when she wasn’t awake to talk to me. 

The relationship I had with my Memaw began when I was a baby, through my childhood into adulthood, and continued until I had to carry it for both of us. But it lasted because her love was unconditional…and because I pursued it. I didn’t wait for her to call first. I called her because I wanted to hear her voice, and I knew she thought of me even during the times we didn’t speak for awhile. 

I sat in the floor next to her chair Christmas day and held her hand. One of the last things I heard my Memaw say to me was that she loved me. I told her I loved her about a dozen times that day, and she repeated it back to me in her quiet voice. 

Part of growing up is learning to say goodbye to the people we love as the cycle of life continues. But I was so fortunate to live at least half my life hearing my Memaw’s voice, talking to her, making memories, and hearing her tell me she loves me.

I know I will see her again one day. Her love for Jesus was evident in the person she was…and IS STILL, and one day I will hear her tell me she loves me again…and this time, I bet she will say it first. 

I almost didn't make it through the last two lines. I prayed many times before that moment that God would let me get through it so I could give her the tribute she deserved. I held tight to the faith He would as I choked back the grief lodged in my throat and finished.

I wrote a second blog post in October 2018 called More Precious Conversations. I wanted to forever remember a conversation we had on the last evening I spent with her in her house:

"She stroked my hair when I laid my head in her lap. She told me she loved me, and at one point she said, 'I love you, Jamie Elizabeth.' I will never forget that.  I've recalled it a thousand times already. Before I left that evening, after my aunt and grandfather had her tucked away safely in the hospital bed, she told me she loved me again. She looked so small, and as I walked away, I wanted to run back, hug her, and not let go."

Someone gave me food for thought while I was in Indiana. She said it's better to ask people how they are in that moment during something like this. It stuck with me, and I've used it repeatedly since then. In this moment, I am heartbroken. In this moment, grief bubbles up in random moments and burns my eyes with unshed tears. Some moments I can't keep them from spilling over. Some moments I look at her pictures and want to sob because I can't call her. I know a time will come when remembering brings more smiles than tears. I'll look forward to those moments. Until then, I'll just keep living in these moments. Because I'm not sad for her, I'm sad for me...my family who are all hurting. Because...

I'll gladly endure the sadness of it means she doesn't have to...

This Isn't Goodbye

Subtitle Option: Opinions Are Like Buttholes

You might be curious about the optional subtitle, but you'll have to keep reading in order to find out why. 😉

Fair warning, incoming personal life stuff. Ew. If you've read my previous blog posts (HERE if not), or follow me on social media, you know I'm a diehard introvert. Sharing in depth details about my personal life honestly doesn't occur to me most of the time unless I feel like it pertains to a conversation with someone in the moment. When I have to explain things umpteen times, I feel like my energy reserves are being drained beyond belief. So let me apologize ahead of time if you're someone I should've filled in by now. It's not intentional, it's nothing personal, I've just had my hands full with a (more than) full time job and half my family leaving. I told Wes I was going to take care of it in one fell swoop with a blog post. So, here goes...

In March of this year, Walmart went through another round of their famous layoffs at the Home Office. They are sneakier with it these days to avoid media backlash, so they just go a department at a time now instead of hitting everyone at once. Am I a little frustrated with them? YES. I'm human. But we aren't going to bash Walmart. They provided us with a great life for nearly 12 years. Period. That's the end of my thoughts on that. Keep in mind, opinions are like buttholes...

Long story short, Wes was laid off. His department was hit, and he was one of the people impacted this time. He's avoided so many of the cutbacks over the last decade, and this was just his—and several others—time.  I'm very thankful we have a paid off house, and my own business was capable of sustaining us while he looked for a job. 

After some misleadings, a million applications, and lots of interviews, he landed a new job a few weeks ago at Century Link. He was hired to be the Director of Talent Development North American Operations. Yay, right? Well, the job is in Louisiana. Always a catch, isn't there? The problem with that is our youngest just started her junior year in high school. She's in a special program through her school where she goes to the local culinary college every day for classes before being sent back to her high school for core classes. If we move her, she loses that program, and it's a great opportunity for her. Not only that, but it's less than ideal to move a child midway through high school if you can help it.

Part of being a parent is sacrificing for your children. Sometimes what is best for them is hardest for us, but it's part of our job to set them up for the future in the best way we can. Obviously, the children have to contribute to their own success, but we can provide the opportunities and pray they take full advantage. So that's what we're doing.

We have a game plan. Wes's new job is about 6 hours from here. Caleb goes to school about 3 hrs from here—the halfway point. We're planning to meet one weekend each month in Conway. The bonus is we shouldn't have to go more than a month without seeing Caleb. Wes hopes to eventually be established enough in his job to come home once a month to work for a few days. Katlyn and I will go down there if we have a chance with days off from school now and again, but we can't be gone too long at a time since we have 3 cats—2 of which are crazy kittens. (How on Earth did I end up with 3 cats? Oh yeah...*cough*...Wes...)

Now for some clarification...

Wes was in the Air Force for 7 years. This is not the first time we've been apart. Wes came to Arkansas before we did so he could begin his job at Walmart and I stayed in Texas to sell our house. This isn't our first rodeo. Does it suck? Oh yeah, it does. Do we like it? No, we don't. 

Is it the right thing? Yes, it is.

Of course we've asked ourselves a hundred plus times if this is the right thing to do. We have our pros and cons list, we've discussed it at length, and we came to a decision based on what was best for our daughter. Because that's what parents do. I don't think I need to explain we don't love it, but we'll make the most of it. We have more reasons than just our daughter, but this is enough to clarify our decision, and I'm tired now, so...🤣🤣🤣

*bats eyelashes* 

The weekend the boys left was not the highlight of our less-than-stellar year. We drove to Conway to move Caleb back into the dorm Saturday, drove back and got things ready for Wes to leave, then he left Sunday. Losing both of my boys within 24 hrs left me with an extremely empty house...and a hormonal 16 yr old girl. *whispers* Send help.

This isn't goodbye. 

We've done this. We are veterans to long distance living. Heck, we spent the first three years of our relationship living in two different states. We seem to cycle back to the long distance thing periodically in our marriage, so we can hack two years of this again because it's what we need to do right now. If we absolutely hate it, and it gets too hard, we'll figure it out then. No one is forcing this on us. He's more than capable of living in an apartment and doing his own laundry while navigating a new career in a new place.  I'm more than capable of taking care of our house and mowing the grass and handling whatever comes up with single parenting. (And screw me if it's not always something.) We're all "growed up", and this is adulting. We aren't saying goodbye at all. This is just a see ya later and an extended business trip, you might say.

Now about that subtitle...

As people are wont to do, we've had a myriad of opinions about this situation. Most people are supportive and understand why we're going this route, but we've had those select few who want to crap all over it and doom our marriage and future with their naysaying. We don't want to hear that negativity. This is challenging enough. Remember that thing your mom used to say about, If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all? That's the case here for us. We have this. Neither of us have it harder than the other one. We both have our individual difficulties, and neither of us have it better or easier. But this isn't an impossible situation, and both of us are up for the task.

Questions are totally fine...awesome...fantastic...happy to answer. It's only negativity that's not welcome. It's as easy as that. 

Ugh, yuck, feelings...

Yes, I'm sad—we're sad. My house feels incredibly empty. Knowing he isn't just gone for the day or a business trip is sad. Caleb being gone is sad. They are my best friends. BUT...all of that sad is just a temporary thing in an adjustment phase. Katlyn and I will figure out our new normal—whatever that is—and I'll work on parenting and prepping her for life in the remaining two years she has in high school. I need to teach her to drive. *whispers* Send more help. She's 16 now, so we started Day 1 of our new "normal" with me introducing her to a FRIENDS marathon and playing Minecraft. Now she'll understand all the jokes and references we've made her entire life. 

Now for the subtitle...I leave you with my personal bit of wisdom. You ready for this super eloquent bit o' awesome?

Negative opinions are like buttholes. We all have one, none of them are pretty,
and no one really wants to see them.

Please don't feel offended if you're someone I should've called and I haven't shared more about all of this "lifey" stuff with you already. Wes is MUCH better at sharing than I am. I am a better listener than sharer. Just ask Ella...she teases me constantly about not sharing enough. You win, Ella...see, I'm sharing! 

How Do I Say Goodbye...

I had to put her bed on my desk so she would let me work.

We didn't tell very many people she was sick.  We wanted her last days to be filled with love and as much happiness as we could give her. We knew there would be time to grieve, and we didn't want to spend our remaining moments thinking of what was to come.

January 31, 2019

The diagnosis of lymphoma and kidney failure was not something I was prepared for as she sat trembling in my arms in the noisy vet’s office with the strange smells and sounds she hated so much.  I think I was in shock at first, asking questions mechanically, listening to the vet apologetically explain to me it was the beginning of the end. I choked back tears and held as tightly to them as I could because I knew if I loosened my grip even a little, I wouldn’t be capable of stopping them. It was my job to cope with it the best way I could, to be strong for her. And when the vet informed me it would be up to me to decide when it was time to let her go, I knew the burden was even heavier. How can I make that decision? How can I decide when she no longer wants to be here? How can I pick up the phone and make the call asking for the appointment where she wouldn’t come home with me again? How would I place her in the carrier knowing it would come home empty?

My favorite coworker

And so I brought Annie home with medications and decided to love her as much as possible for however long we had left together. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. We began the undetermined amount of time with an ache in our hearts. The vet said it could be a couple of weeks or a couple of months. Every day that went by, I tried to tell myself we'd turn those weeks into months...maybe the months into a year.

After her diagnosis, Wes said he didn't know how to describe the feeling.

I do. It felt like a piece of my heart splintering ever so slowly. The more it went on, the more it pulled away, leaving a jagged edge. The only way I knew to cope was to wrap it tightly so when it finished splintering, I could it hold carefully and keep it from poking holes in the rest of my heart. Because I lost a piece of myself, and I know I can't get it back, so I have to learn to live without it until the memories bring more smiles than tears.

Hope has a place until it's no longer viable...and so we made the most of our time until hope ran short and reality crept in.

I always loved this photo of Annie. She frequently laid like this.

April 8, 2019 
How can I decide when she wants to say goodbye?

I didn't realize she'd show us, but she did. It wasn't as hard to figure it out as I thought it would be. I knew last night, watching her, petting her, feeling the piece of my heart pull away just a little more...I knew it was time.

So I spent the day with her like we did most days. She napped in the shifting patches of sun, then curled up in my lap, purring when I rubbed her ears. I cried intermittently. As much as I hate to cry, I didn't hold back this time. I couldn't.

April 9, 2019
How can I say goodbye to my constant companion of nearly 15 years...my best friend?

Such a pretty girl.

There is no easy answer to that question because I'm not still not sure how to say goodbye...even though she's gone.

I held her while she slipped into a sleep from which she'd never wake. It happened so quickly—too quickly.

The dangling piece of my heart finally broke away. I finished wrapping it tightly, and I left it with my sweet Annie Sue.

Annie warming her paws.

Right now I'd give anything for her to stand on my keyboard and send random texts or sit next to me and meow—demand—until I move the computer to make room for her. I'd give anything for her to wake me up at 3:00 in the morning, meowing at the back door for no discernible reason. I miss her perching on my chest and bathing me until I wake up and rub her ears. I miss her trotting down the hall to follow me to the bathroom. I miss the way she'd sit in front of the fireplace and warm her face, stretching her paws and gently kneading the metal curtain.

Her favorite spot while I worked.

I still look for her to follow me every time I leave the room. I keep wishing she would come around the corner, talking to me and demanding I sit so she can curl up in my lap.

As a diehard introvert, I’m so particular about the humans I spend time with, and that sweet little girl was my best friend, my constant companion, my coworker during long hours working from home...my partner in crime. She wasn't my pet, I was her human. She loved me even when I felt entirely unlovable.

Someday, the smiles will come before the tears, the memories will be sweet instead of leaving the emptiness in my heart and highlighting the cold spot in my lap and next to me while I sleep. Right now they are so very sharp and leave me aching and constantly swallowing the knot of pain that lives in my chest and tries to work its way into my throat.

How do I say goodbye? I haven't quite figured that out yet.

I miss you, Annie. I'm lost without you, I love you, and you took a piece of my heart with you. Thank you for loving me more than I deserved.

Always stealing my chair.

Your chair is mine, lady.

About two minutes before she climbed the Christmas tree...again.

Don't let her fool you, this was always intentional. 

Sunbathing while I got ready.

Working on our last morning together.

Thank you for loving me, Annie.

Annie Sue Chicka Chicka Mow Mow
May 18, 2004 - April 9, 2019