Another Loss

Last Sunday, I wrote about the troubled times my family was experiencing. I had two uncles and a cousin in three separate hospitals in three separate states, all with serious medical conditions.

I spent a good deal of time last week talking about my Uncle Tom, who we were losing to cancer. The doctors had told us he had four to six weeks.

By Friday, that time frame had been moved up to perhaps a week. It changed later to three to five days. His multiple cancers were literally doubling in size every 24 hours.

We lost him last Sunday night shortly after 6:00 p.m. His last words were to my aunt, who had told him that she loved him. He mouthed "I love you too," and was gone.

We, his family, are exceedingly grateful that there was so little pain, so little turmoil, and that he was able to go gently and surrounded by love.

I lost both my grandmother and my grandfather to cancer. It was agonizing to watch my grandmother cry out in pain, even from what they said was a coma. She lasted six weeks in that horrible place between death and life, not conscious, not aware, but still hurting.

My grandfather spent the last six days of his life also in that horrible place of not here but not there. Some of his last words were "Hurry up, Jesus!"

This man who had been a minister of the gospel for more than fifty years was ready to go, and tired of waiting.

Because I watched my grandparents suffer, I am so glad my uncle did not have to. His family is in shock because he died so quickly. They thought he was fine, and had no idea that cancer was ravaging his body. They were able to travel extensively. The cancer was there, eating away at him, but they had no idea.

Perhaps, had they known sooner, they could have started treatment, although it’s doubtful that it would have helped in the long run. The cancers were just too many and too aggressive. It may have prolonged his life, but it probably would not have prevented his death.

Three weeks ago, my uncle was on vacation, happy and whole. Two weeks ago, he was in the hospital. He died last week.

Life doesn’t come with a guarantee, nor does it come with an expiration date. We don’t get to know the day that our world will come to a crashing halt because the doctor has discovered devastating news. We can’t keep the police from knocking at our door, telling us there has been a horrible accident and our loved one is never coming home.

It’s not something I choose to worry about, but it is something I choose to be aware of. I have a friend that lost his wife to an accident. He was haunted for years because his last words to her were harsh ones. She was going to be late for work, and he scolded her for still being in bed. If he had left her sleeping, she would not have gone to work. She would not have been killed that day. He wishes he would have told her he loved her, instead of fussing at her for being a sleepyhead.

I don’t know the time or the date of my death or any one else’s. None of us do. It’s why we have to do our very best job, love to our utmost, laugh at every opportunity; make the opportunity to laugh if we have none, and do our best to be our best.

Or, in the words of the country song, we need to "live like we were dying."

Troubled Times

They say misery loves company. I’m thinking trouble doesn’t like being lonely either. Trouble has come to my family, and has brought grief and turmoil with it.

Last Monday was a long day for us. We spent part of it at a hospital in Memphis. My Uncle Harold, my mother’s brother-in-law, is there with heart problems. Despite procedures and medications, nothing seems to be working. My aunt, the woman we have called "Sister" all of our lives, was by his side. But her mind was also on her son, who was in a hospital in Hot Springs. My cousin Bobby was in Intensive Care, from complications after brain surgery.

Sister came from the hospital in Hot Springs to the hospital in Memphis when Harold started having chest pains. They are still there, weeks later.

We also spent some time in Tupelo, Mississippi. My dad’s brother-in-law, my Uncle Tom, was in the hospital there. He has cancer. In his liver, his spleen, his spine, his lungs, and his brain. He has eight tumors in his brain. There is no hope.

Three weeks ago, my Uncle Tom and my Aunt Linda were on vacation at the Grand Canyon. All was well, and they had no idea he was sick. Then he spilled his coffee, and his balance seemed a little off. He got lost at the airport. My aunt was mildly concerned, so she scheduled a doctor’s appointment. The bottom of their world simply dropped out from beneath them.

A month ago he was fine, or so we thought. And in a month or so, he will no longer be with us.

We know life has no guarantees. We know people die. Yet it is still a shock, each time. As we drove through Tupelo, we passed the hotel we had stayed in when my grandmother was sick. We went to the same hospital, walked the same halls.

We drove through New Albany, passed the hospital both my grandmother and my grandfather died at. We passed the hotel we stayed in, the restaurant we ate most of our meals at. Although it has been six years since we lost my Mom and not quite two years since we lost my Pop, the grief was still fresh as we retraced some of those same steps.

Now, here we are again, on the brink of losing another that we love. To that murdering beast that has already stolen part of my family. Cancer. I hate that word. It is the filthiest of words, the vilest of all of the curse words in the human language.

My Aunt Linda is devastated, as you would expect. They have been married more than 45 years. They have three children, two grandchildren; a life built together since she was teenager. She simply does not know how she will function alone when she always had her partner by her side.

We, her family, have and will continue to surround her with love. It won’t be enough, of course, but perhaps it will help as much as anything can help in such horrible circumstances.

If you see my mom, my dad, or me around in the next little while, we might be a little distracted. We might be thinking about my cousin Bobby in Hot Springs; my Uncle Harold in Memphis, or my Uncle Tom in Tupelo.

We are a family, and when one part of us has trouble, we all have trouble. Our hearts are hurting, because we can’t be everywhere we need to be each and every time we need to be there.

My Aunt Linda told me she wished I lived in Mississippi, so I could help her get through this. I will help her, in any way I can. We all will, with each of them. It’s what we do, when trouble comes to family.

Bigfooot Finally Found

After years of rumor and speculation and grainy photos, I have proof. Bigfoot is alive. Not only is he alive, he is living in Blytheville. He’s a good bit younger than most experts thought, but he does exist. I know, because he lives with me.

My son’s feet have grown again. At 12, his feet are bigger than his dad’s. We are down to buying him one pair of shoes at a time, because he goes through them so fast that it just doesn’t makes sense to buy more.

Last week, his shoes fit when I dropped him off for school that morning. That afternoon, there was a hole in them. He busted out of that pair in one day, a record for him. It made me think of the Incredible Hulk. At least he didn’t turn green and start throwing things.

I shouldn’t be surprised, because we recently had to go buy all new uniforms for him. He literally outgrew the ones we bought at the start of the year within a week. They fit on Monday. They didn’t fit on Friday. This is getting expensive. At this rate, we are going to have to start a clothing fund along with the college fund.

When he saw his Grandma in Jonesboro a few weeks ago, she looked up at him and said, "you’ve done it again." He had gotten taller on her since she had seen him last. She sees him every few weeks, and he is taller every time she sees him. It’s kind of funny. It’s kind of scary. That’s my little boy, in that body that is taller than I am.

We all have the flu, courtesy of Gary bringing it home from Nucor. He got it at work, brought it home to me, and I gave it to Logan. Thankfully, Logan doesn’t have it as bad as Gary and I do.

I took Logan to the doctor at the first sign of his symptoms, hoping to head off the worst of it. It’s been a while since he has been there. The receptionist did a double-take. So did the nurse. So did the doctor.

They all used to call him "little Logan." because he was so small for so long. Practically every one in the office asked "that’s little Logan?" They wouldn’t have recognized him, this almost teen-ager towering over me.

"He’s not little Logan anymore," is what one of the ladies at the doctor’s office told me. No. Indeed, he is not. He is growing and changing right before our eyes. I don’t really mind it, for though I loved little Logan, it is time for him to be put in the past. It is exciting to see what this Logan is becoming. It’s hard to let go of the boy. But it is going to be easy to embrace the young man.

Not So Super Tuesday

I can hear the buzzing of chainsaws from my office. A crew is next door, getting the tree off the roof of my neighbor’s house. It woke her up Tuesday night as the tree crashed into her home, above the bed she was sleeping in. Talk about a nightmare.

It was a nightmare for others, too. My aunt’s son is a police officer in the outskirts of Memphis. He was out in that chaos trying to help and protect others instead of trying to protect himself. His daughter was in Jackson, Tennessee at a small Christian college, huddled up for safety. My Aunt Ruth was worried both for her son and her granddaughter, and more than worried when she knew Jackson had taken a direct hit.

Mike and Marnie are both okay. Marnie’s college is very much not okay. She’s supposed to graduate in May, but it will be without about 80 percent of her campus looking like it looked Tuesday afternoon before the storms.

It’s horrible, all over. My favorite run away spot is damaged, over near Mountain Home. We love the Bull Shoals /White River area around Gassville and Lake View and Cotter. We camp and fish and canoe over there. If we can’t get that far away from home, we sometimes run over to the Spring River around Hardy and Highland and Ash Flat.

The beauty of the mountains and the rivers may surround them, but their people have been devastated. It’s so sad, every time. There is no rhyme or reason. One home is destroyed, one home is perfect. One life is gone, one life is spared.

At Marnie’s college, dorm rooms were completely torn apart, yet clothes hung neatly in a closet, not touched at all. That closet was now outdoors, but it was in perfect order while rubble was piled up just inches away from it.

It doesn’t make sense. It never has. I guess it never will. One of the things I was grateful for last Tuesday night, other than the fact that our community was mostly spared, was our own hard working men and women of our police and fire departments and emergency squad.

They were out in force with their eyes to the sky. They saw a good bit of rotation, and made sure our community was safe by having the tornado sirens activated when appropriate. Several of them had damage to their vehicles in the course of their duties. They very well could have been harmed while trying to protect us from harm.

It was the thing my Aunt Ruth was the most worried about. Her son might have had a job to do, but more important to her was that he was her son and he was in danger. She didn’t want him to be. She wanted him inside somewhere, safe and sound.

Mike knew his job was outside, so others would be safe and sound. So did our guys and gals of our police departments and sheriff’s office, of our fire departments and emergency squad, our trained spotters and our ham radio operators.

We have emergency services for a reason, and Tuesday night made that very clear to me. Super Tuesday took on a whole new meaning for those of us in Arkansas and Tennessee and other states in the Mid-South. It was more like Super Cell Tuesday. All in all, I wish that kind of weather never happened. But since it does, I’m glad we have people that are willing to stand for me, to watch for me, to make sure me and mine will be well warned and well protected when the nightmare comes to my house.

Being well served by those who have vowed to protect and serve. It’s just one part of being from Around Here.

Boyz being boyz

2008. It doesn’t even sound right yet, does it? It promises to be an interesting year. Or perhaps, a frustrating one, considering there is a presidential election coming up. By summer, we may be watching all cable all the time at our house just to avoid the political ads.

This year also brings another monumental event. Logan turns 13. God help us all. He is already counting the days. It doesn’t happen for eight months, but he has big plans for being a teenager. That blessed, magical word "teen" will apparently transform his life.

I’ve told him all of his supposed freedoms he believes he will have aren’t going to count for much, because that magic word, while it may change his life, doesn’t impress me or his dad at all. We aren’t going to suddenly wake up August 13 and throw off all of the rules and guidelines he lives by now.

He’s an optimistic child, though, and hope springs eternal. He’s thinking life will change for the better, and his strict mom and by-the-book dad might cut him a little slack. He doesn’t know what I know though. I’ve been a teenager. Worse, his dad has been a teenager. We know what we were back in the day.

Logan doesn’t stand a chance, because there’s pretty much not a thing that child can do that me or his dad (especially his dad) hasn’t already done or thought about doing, probably bigger, longer, louder, harder, or faster.

In fact, when Logan was born, I made Gary promise me something. He had to promise me when Logan got older and got in trouble, that Gary would stick by me when it came time to hand down punishment. I had to get Gary’s word on that. Otherwise, Gary would have pulled Logan aside and said, "Now, son, in my day, I did it like this..." Without Gary’s prior promise, Logan would have been getting ideas and instructions of an entirely different sort.

We have a secret that Logan doesn’t know. We present a united front. But fairly often, one of us, silently, is quietly encouraging the boy to be, well, a boy. Sometimes, men just don’t get it. Of course, my man would say that sometimes, women just don’t get it.

My overriding concern is for Logan’s safety. Gary’s overriding concern is for Logan’s ability to have fun. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that boys are capable of having fun and being safe at the same time. They can have fun, or they can be safe, but apparently, they can’t do both.

I win when it comes to school work and household chores and learning the social graces. Logan must do those things and do them well, and if Logan dares to question my word, Gary will enforce it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But when it comes to riding four wheelers or go carts or target practice, his dad wins every time. He is a safe as he can be...a concession to me. He wears a helmet and safety glasses and hearing protection. But he does do them, all the same.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t going to get any better the older Logan gets. Gary just had a birthday too, but mentally, when it comes to the boys-doing-boy things, I’m pretty sure both of them are about the same age..

Christmas eve, we were going to have a party. The house was spotless, and everything was ready to go. Gary and Logan went out for a few hours. When they came back, an hour before the party, both of them were literally covered in mud from head to toe. They both tracked mud through the house, both had to have showers, both had to change clothes, and both contributed to messing up the spotless, party ready home that guests were going to be arriving at within minutes.

They also both had grins on their faces from ear to ear. They had a fabulous time going four wheeling with a friend through a mud covered field. The friend also had a marvelous time flipping his four wheeler over and hurting his leg to the point of probably needing medical attention.

When I was concerned, they just laughed. Yeah, someone got hurt, but they sure had fun doing it. When I called to check on our friend, he laughed too. His wife wasn’t thrilled, but he had a great time. Boys. God help us all.