Serendipitous Girl

Over the last eighteen months, I came to honestly know a man I could only dream of having in my life—my Dad. Finally, he wasn't just the Dad I wanted, but the Dad I needed. He had come and gone too many times. Now, it didn't matter why he had returned to our lives. It just mattered that he did. Through our countless hours of conversation, I finally understood why he was the man he was, which made coming to terms with our sometimes volatile relationship much easier. Yesterday, my Mom said, "Take time to process and feel what you need to feel." I told her, "I need a month or two alone in a tiny, secluded beach town where I can just listen to music and write." I've been through enough death and grief to understand that the process is anything but linear. This past week, going through my Dad's things has been a rollercoaster of emotions. He saved everything. At first, it was almost annoying, but I couldn't find it in me to be annoyed—only sad.  I kno...

The day after finding out my Dad had passed, my best friend checked in on me, "How are you holding up?" My answer was simple, "I'm not." I told him, "I am blocked. I can't write." A few minutes later, I scrolled through my music library and found my muse—the words and music of David Gilmour and Rodger Waters. As the music of Shine on You Crazy Diamond began, the tears and words magically flowed like a fountain. Today, we celebrate and remember the man, the myth, the legend—my Dad, Bill Garrett. My Dad was an enigma. Quirky even. He marched to the beat of his own drum, living life on his own terms—even until the very end. I've met many stubborn individuals in my life, but I can unequivocally say he was the most headstrong, stubborn person I ever knew. It was a blessing and a curse all in one. We often laughed about nature vs nurture and our shared traits. He was proud to claim he generously shared that headstrong trait with me and his grandchild...

Today, I received a phone call that no amount of time could prepare me for. We often laughed about nature vs. nurture. He gave me a passion for music and concerts. "If you aren't in the first few rows, you might as well stay at home and listen to the radio." Dad, you gave me my stubbornness and your smile. I will miss our three-hour minimum phone calls, being able to talk about everything and nothing at all, your pearls of wisdom, your stories, and your sense of humor. Your laugh was the best. I love you, Dad. #ForeverYoung #MyDad

Yesterday was National Coming Out Day. I cannot fathom ever forgetting the day Brady came out to me. If for no other reason than the importance of the event to my son's life. He was on his way home and called me, "When I get home can we talk?" His voice was heavy with apprehension and fear.  When he arrived home, he requested we go to my bedroom to discuss what was on his mind. I knew then this was serious. I braced myself for the worst. "Mom, I am gay." Not hesitating, I breathed a sigh of relief, "Ok." His eyes widened. He was in utter shock, "What? That's it?" "Yes. You are still the same sweet boy I gave birth to nineteen years ago. I loved you then, and I will love you until the day I die and even afterward. This does not change anything." The worst never came. Brady had lifted his anchor. I could see and feel this heavy burden drift away and disappear like a boat out to sea. Though looking back at those last words, his com...

  *Update from the 10th floor* From the windows of the 10 th  floor, I watch from above as the world continues to turn. People are living their lives, and I continue wishing that, against all odds, my daughter was one of those people. How do you help someone who is losing the desire to help themselves? How do you force someone to continue to fight when they have fought so hard, for so long, that the fight is all they can now remember. In healthcare, there can be no shortcuts. It is a long, exhausting road. Today, this is where we are. A hospital is the last place any parent wants to be with their child. I want to see my daughter dressed like a princess, going off to her senior prom. I want to see her driving off, feeling butterflies, because she is finally driving. I want to watch her walk across a stage and be handed her diploma. Covid did not postpone these events in her life. POTS, EDS, and SMAS have stolen these milestones from her past and her present and...

Chris leaned over and took my hand, "It feels good to finally make this trip with you by my side." The bottled emotions I had previously been unable to name washed over me as we turned onto Plank Road last night. They proceeded to stream down my cheeks uncontrollably. We were greeted at the door by most of the Jackson pride, who were anxiously awaiting the return of Momma and Baby Doolittle. Mommom, Poppop, and Grandmom turned Jayde's homecoming into the celebration it should be. It was not long before Jayde requested a smoothie, and I put the Ninja blender to work. Apprehensive is how I would best describe Jayde right now. Her hospital room was designed for her and her needs. Her bed at home does not have rails and buttons to raise it up and down for her ease and comfort. Laying still, she is in minimal pain; however, it is a different story when she moves. Still, she is trying to smile through all of this the best she can. The next several days will be an adjustment per...

Twenty-four hours in a day, seven days in a week, 8,760 hours in a year. It has been a little more than two months since this battle, for time, took on a life of its very own. Time is no respecter of persons. Simply put, it is a precious gift. A gift we take for granted in the routine of life, almost assuming we have an unlimited supply. For all our hopes and wishes, we cannot pause time, nor stop it. We can only cherish the moments allotted to us, comprehending the gift we have been bestowed. November 18, her birthday, another milestone; 84 years young or 735,840 hours of living. Dinner at her favorite restaurant, surrounded by the love of her family. What began in 1950 as a simple family of three, two years later became a family of four. Now we have grown into a family of eighteen. Small by some comparisons, still it is ours–mine. The few who are aware of the truth know this will most likely be her last birthday celebration. The gift of knowledge a...

Last spring, I wrote a piece chronicling the journey of my daughter's illness with POTS. After publishing it, my son lightheartedly commented, "Now it is time to write about our journey." I cringed because there was nothing lighthearted about our journey. I uttered the truth from within my heart, "I am not sure I can." While I knew I could write something, I was keenly aware of the deep trauma still tucked right below the surface. I was emotionally raw and drained from the events of the past year. If I was not careful, I was keenly aware that a volcanic disaster of pain, remorse, and regret would come spewing out, and no one could halt the explosion.  I wrestled with the uncertainty of where my writing would take us. I was unsure if we were ready to revisit the past scars jointly, knowing I would open fresh wounds and possibly old ones as well. Was Brady prepared to read my thoughts? If he was, how would he feel when I was done? As difficult as the pas...