It Is All The Dogs' Fault

It has been weeks—no change that to months, since I have been able to settle down to write or do much of anything that requires quiet reflection. Keeping busy has been the order of most days. Since returning from two weeks in Israel on May 10th, we have done a kitchen renovation as well as painting the majority of the living area of our home. Then there was the ten day trip to CA—six of which Chris and I spent taking care of the four and 18 month old grandkids so Justin and Farr could celebrate their tenth anniversary—with Melanie and Ben joining us for the last three days of family time.

With the hot beautiful weather our boat has served as a virtual bed and breakfast -- friends and family aboard cruising to destinations far and near. It has been a full time and yet I have been unsettled, edgy and, I have to admit, not easy to live with. Pinpointing the source of my malaise is not a problem. All I can say is that it is all the dogs’ fault.

If you have known me in the last fourteen years, then you probably know that Chris and I have been dog owners for that time. In 1998 we adopted our first Black Lab, Farland, from Guiding Eyes for the Blind. We called him our “flunky” although the official status was  “released”.  An eighteen-month-old feisty guy, Farland was always his own person. An incredibly handsome strong-willed soul, he became our early boating companion, earning the title “best boat dog ever.” From the very beginning, he went to work with me every day, settling down under my desk, surprising parishioners as they came into my office. Gentle with children, he became the office mascot and always knew to remind me to take a break once in a while.

Then in 2003, Chris and I completely lost our minds as we adopted a second eighteen-month-old release dog named Opal. While also a Black Lab, in many ways she was the opposite of her brother.  More delicate in stature and constitution, she was a love bug wanting to cuddle and be close while her brother kept his own space. Right away, Opal joined forces at work and it was Opal who would cuddle with Melanie when she came home from her hospitalizations. While never comfortable on the boat the way Farland was, she loved to dive off swim platform—preferably on top of Chris when he surfaced. Underway, she was happiest shadowing me as I put our fenders and lines before settling down under my feet on her pillow.

Most weekends, summer and winter, Chris and I would walk with our two pups in tow. Covering miles no matter the season, we hiked through the woods and along the harbor, often riding home on the ferry.  They boated with us everywhere, and since we only travel by foot once we hit the shore, they tagged along, swimming out to retrieve a stick or sitting on a patio as we grabbed food. And everywhere we went they introduced us people.

Farland and Opal
Waiting for dinner on the boat

Last summer, at age fourteen, Farland began to slow down, neurological problems causing him to stumble. Gradually over the fall he declined and could no longer take our long walks. Watching Farland slowly failing, we were not surprised when he died late last November, just shy of his fifteenth birthday. He was an old guy and ready to go and while Chris and I prepared ourselves for months for the inevitable, for days afterwards we walked around wondering at the shocking realization that a life could be so very present one moment and gone the next.

After Farland died, everyone asked if Opal was sad; we could honestly say that she did not seem to be. While together all the time, the two pups had never cuddled with each other, choosing instead to bond with us. In fact, if anything, she seemed to perk up. After having to slow down with her brother for so long, at nine, she became positively puppyish, prancing around with her toys that that we normally kept put away since Farland had a tendency to just chew them up. Every morning all I had to say is, “Opie, where’s your toy?!” and off she would go to find one charging back, willing me to chase her. We walked, every morning for miles, and she became my shadow. If I went into my room to meditate, I knew that within moments, she would jump up on the bed settling in for a half hour nap. When I was sitting down, she was at my feet and when Chris and I went out, she slept on the carpet beside my computer chair.

I won’t go into the details of her demise except to say that while her vet was beginning to get worried about her kidney function, on the day we left for Israel, she and I walked three mile and she seemed energetic and happy.  But four days into our trip we began to receive worried messages from Heidi, who with her husband Mark and their two boys, watched over our dogs for years. Opal was refusing to eat; as the week progressed it was clear she was getting sicker. After ten days, many emails, and phone calls with her Heidi and her vets, she had to be admitted to the hospital; Opal was dying.

Chris and I made the decision to leave our trip three days early and return home. Heidi and Mark (saints throughout this whole ordeal) brought her to their house to give her more loving until we could get home. After almost twenty excruciating travel hours, we rushed from the airport to find her curled up on their couch. Barely lifting her head, Opal gave us only the smallest of tail-wags. Carrying her home we arranged her in her usual place in our bed right next to my head the three of us sleeping fitfully through the night.  With pain overtaking her, we took her back to the animal hospital that had treated her since she was a pup. We put out the word; staff members were welcome to stop by where she lay on the floor flanked by Chris and me. Lab techs, vets and even the front office ladies drifted in to give her hugs and say goodbye. Opal died on May 11 only five months after her brother.

Now for the first time in thirteen years, we no longer hear the jingle of collars and patter of feet when we open the door. Since Opal died, a part of myself has been shut off. For weeks in the middle of the night, I would put out a hand to pet her head waking only to feel emptiness. I filled my walks with phone calls so that I would not have to think about who is missing. When the two Black Dog flags on the front of our boat shredded on a recent trip, I could hardly breathe. Even with all the hubbub of the last two months, life feels dulled and sadder.

Of course there have been so many moments of grace as friends dropped notes or just listened to us talk. Our kids sent flowers as did our animal hospital. A friend slipped me a tiny metal token with a paw print on one side and the words, “Always With You” on the other. A wise vet offered words that helped explain the deep nature of the sadness I feel saying that the death of a pet is different from so many other deaths, because the nature of our relationship with our animals is one based on dependency. Unlike other human relationships, animals are never supposed to grow up and move away. The relationship is predicated on constancy and presence; separation is not really part of the equation. But of course, ultimately separation comes with the finality of death.

It is gradually getting a bit easier now, just please do not tell me to get another dog to make me feel better or get over it. We may, or we may not, eventually do that, but right now, I just need some more time to heal. Writing this is a step. Walking quietly is another. Maybe this week I will even be able to pray again.

Happy Cancerversary—Again

It has been far too long since I have written but today I need to do that—even if it is going to be short and yes, a bit repetitive.

Chris and I leave today for fifteen days in Israel and tomorrow is Melanie’s eight-year cancerversary. Last year when I was posting more regularly here, I wrote about the journey to learn to celebrate a day that fills me with such a mix of feelings and memories. There is still sadness, anger, frustration but now, even more, there is joy. And there are prayers—prayers of thanksgiving and prayers for those who are just starting on this cancer journey. (There is a post coming but today my new friend Elaine and her daughter, Kathryn sit close to my heart.)

Just as a reminder, here is a bit of what I wrote last year.

“It has taken some years, but gradually I have come to celebrate Melanie’s Cancerversary. Her A.C. (after cancer) life has been full and rich. (Even as I know that is not so for many who live with cancer) Here is a little of what A.C. can look like.  Two years teaching; one year as AmeriCorps volunteer, doing environmental work; becoming certified as a Wilderness First Responder; leading countless Outward Bound trips and pilgrimages in Maine and WA; sailing with a crew of eight on 32 foot open scow boats from the Florida Keys to Rhode Island; becoming an aunt—twice; falling in love; earning a Masters degree in Education; helping get a non-profit, True North Treks, up and running; leading other young adult cancer survivors into the wilderness; having two more tumors removed; hiking; camping; climbing; snowboarding, writing letters that make her parents cry; starting a new life in Seattle; soon getting married.”

It is hard for me to comprehend just how full another year of A.C. can look but  check this out. Last May, Melanie and Ben did get married by the ocean surrounded by family and friends who just could not stop smiling. Then as in past summers, the two of them spent three months separated (hoping for sightings if each other on the trail) as they lead Outward Bound and other groups. The fall followed with changes for both of them as Ben began school to complete prerequisites for a career in nursing (at the same time becoming an EMT), while Melanie began a new career as the in internal guide coordinator for First Ascents International—a job that utilizes her skills AND has health care benefits that cover her Sloan Kettering visits.(Woohoo!!)

Just a few days ago, on her 32^nd birthday, Melanie wrote on FB, “Thanks everyone!!! I did quite a lot of living this past year, and it's always nice to stop and celebrate that :)” And live she did, in the wilderness telemarking, hiking, climbing, travel to Israel, camping, boarding, celebrating weddings, throwing potlucks….Well you get the idea. It was a good year—a very good year—and my heart is full to hear her say that she is celebrating life.  Is the cancer gone? I wish I could say it is, but watching my daughter thrive, I count my blessings and so does she.

So once again Melanie, I say, “Here’s to you!!” This mother could never be more proud!! Melanie, happy eighth Cancerversary to You!! 

Always, 

Mom 

The week my body tried to run away and take my soul with it...

It all started fairly innocently after catching an edge going down a laughably easy slope in Utah. Creating the classic skier’s yard sale, I splattered on the snow—popped-off skis landing several yards away.  Sprawling on the snow, poles still strapped around my wrist, my thumb wrenched backwards. Embarrassed and at first thinking only of my bruised ego, I shook off the incident skiing down a few more times before succumbing to the pain and the urging of our friends to get it checked out. At the clinic, conveniently located next to the base lodge, I was x-rayed and passed from doctor to doctor the last of whom made a splint and bandaged my right arm turning it into an unwieldy awkward appendage. Diagnosis--a torn tendon, a small fracture, and instructions to see an orthopedist as soon as I got home.

Within a few days, my thumb not hurting much, I convinced myself the clinic was wrong; it was probably just a sprain; surely the doctor would just have me wear a splint for a few weeks, at most, before returning to normal activity. Arriving home, that hope quickly shattered as an orthopedist –a man of few words—took one look at the x-ray, did a few simple tests (which hurt like hell) and began writing out instructions for surgery the following week.

Having been with Melanie during her cancer surgeries, and with two surgeries of my own in the past few years, I remembered what a difference it makes to actually prepare for any kind of assault on the body so for one week, I meditated, prayed, read about the surgery and recovery, asked around about the doctor I was using, while also clearing my calendar.  As the day approached, feeling confident with the doctor and my own ability to cope and grateful that Chris would be by my side throughout it all, I just wanted to get it over with so I could begin to heal.

Arriving at the outpatient surgical center, all went as expected. The excellent staff of nurses and anesthesiologists could not have been more professional or upbeat. Still it was in that prep time that I began to be suspicious that my body was in for something new. It began with the nerve block injected into my shoulder and arm. My arm lying across my lap, the anesthesiologist asked me to look away, which I dutifully did, until he told me it was okay to turn back. Looking down for my arm still across my lap, I found it had gone missing. I could feel it resting there and yet searching around, I spied it lifelessly hanging down beside my leg. Even with Chris reassuringly holding my other hand, it felt like my arm had decided to go it’s own way without my permission.  

A few minutes later after being wheeled into surgery the world went blank until waking to find myself being wheeled to the recovery area. Soon, fully awake I once again began searching for my wandering arm (which I still thought was lying peacefully across my body.) There it lay beside me on the bed only now it was wrapped two or three times it’s normal size in a hard cast.

Preparing to go home I had a glimpse of the challenge of the next few weeks. Getting dressed with a cast is just plain awkward but getting dressed with an arm that takes no instructions from the brain is ridiculous. It waved around going wherever gravity and inertia took it while the nurse and I maneuvered my body into some semblance of propriety.

The last orders of the day were instructions that came with the prescriptions they required Chris to get filled while I was under the knife. Pulling out two large bottles of drugs, Vicodin and Oxycodone, I was told to take them that night when the feeling started to come back into my arm.  She wanted me to “get ahead of the pain” and continue that for a few days.

The next three days were, as they say in doctor speak, “uncomfortable” but certainly manageable with the Vicodin. By the fourth day, the pain had subsided to the point where I stopped taking the drugs.  A few hours later I was not sure what was going on but there was unspeakable tiredness, watery eyes, no appetite and even more disturbing a black cloud of depression creeping over me and it only got worse the next few days. A few mornings later I woke in bed thinking I did not have one reason to get out of bed --ever. Only Opal’s big kiss and wagging tail forced me up that morning while Chris was a work.

Shaken and realizing something was very out of whack and suspecting the connection between the drugs and my feelings, I turned to the Internet, Googling “ Withdrawal from Vicodin. ”  Low and behold, I had classic symptoms of withdrawal.  It was downright scary and sad to read story after story of desperate people trying their best to kick this habit-forming drug.  After only a few days of use, I might be feeling lousy but these folk’s worlds were crumbling as they lost families and jobs and a piece of their souls. While it took several more days to feel like myself again, I was lucky to realize what was happening fairly quickly and do what I needed to do for myself in the meantime.

Now I cannot stop thinking how interconnected our minds, and bodies, and souls are.  I also realize how much my brave daughter taught me over the years about handling assaults on the body with resiliency—the need to pay attention, to know your body and honor what it is telling you, as well as when to let people take care of you as Chris did during my recent “couch days.” Knowing that Melanie is the only one who truly lives with cancer, I have learned about myself in the process of living with her disease. Of course, I would trade every speck of that knowledge for a cancer-free daughter; there are other ways to get that wisdom and knowledge, but my guess is most of them involve suffering as well. I wish I knew why it has to work that way, but that seems to be the way it is in life. So for now, I am simply grateful--grateful for the healing that has happened in her life and in mine as well.

  

 

It's the kind of news that makes you pause...

It was a short, but oh so sweet, conversation this morning.

“Hi Peeps.”

“Hi Mom, what’s up?”

“I just needed to hear your voice.”

Then there was a pause, “Oh right; we’re fine. I have to go now but I’ll call you later.”

Some days it would have been a frustrating conversation, but not this morning. It was true, all I needed was to hear my daughter’s voice something that I knew four other moms, and dads, and husbands would not hear today. You have probably heard of the two avalanches that killed four people over the weekend in Washington State. Four competent, savvy, long-time skiers or snowboarders were killed while skiing out of bounds adjacent to ski areas. They were smart and aware of the conditions but decided to go for the joy of the ride. Today, I mourn for their families.

And I don’t get it. I don’t get the urge to enter untracked steep terrain for the thrill of it, but I know that Melanie and her husband, Ben, do;  they were in skiing backcountry this weekend not far from where those skiers died.  As Ben wrote so eloquently today on Facebook,  “Heading out in the Back- or Slack Country to score breath taking turns in deep powder - the kind of thrill many live for - also means entering the kind of terrain that can kill you…. I’d lie if I didn't say I did all this too in and around Mt. Baker ski resort, not far from Stevens over the past three days. Its the kind of news that makes you pause...”   It also made this mother pause to read those words.

I guess you could say that Chris and I are at least in part responsible for Melanie’s love the mountains. After all, we were the ones who strapped skis to the bottom of her tiny five year-old feet and took her to the mountains for the first time. We were the ones who bundled her up, and with her brother, Justin, hit the slopes first thing in the morning, only leaving with the fading light and last chair lift ride.

While Justin and Melanie quickly discovered the speed, and thrills, and great beauty that is downhill skiing, I was the reluctant skier. The reluctant part came from an ill-fated ski trip when Chris and I were first dating.  Assured that lessons were not necessary, I innocently allowed myself to be taken to the top of a N.C. ski mountain. While gamely persevering all day, as only a smitten girl might, in the end my severely bruised legs were the outward signs of a very bruised ego.  Secretly (and later after we were married, quite vocally) I swore I would never subject myself to such lunacy EVER AGAIN. But as with so much in life, things change—especially when children come along. It only took a few Albany, NY winters that began in November and often did not quit until April cooped up inside with two little shake my anti-skiing bias.

Seeing families skiing happily together even when the kids became teens, I was convinced to give it a try. But I had conditions. I would take a lesson and then I would spend as much time as I wanted/needed on the smallest slope until I began to get comfortable. There would be no spousal coaching or urging to higher peaks. Period. With Justin already able to ski we set off with five year-old Melanie and my thirty-three year old skeptical self.

Of course, while Melanie took to the slopes quickly, I can only say, I was not a natural. That first year skiing several times a month, my competency and confidence grew slowly, eventually reaching the point where making it down a gentle green run typically named “Bunny Run” was almost pleasant. Still, for the longest time, my first thought driving home was gratitude that no one was hurt. We all survived in one piece.

While took a while, eventually I began to actually enjoy myself.  Progressively going higher and higher on the mountain and after safely maneuvering Melanie (whose little legs could only reach the ground by jumping) and me off the chair lift, I began to look up and out—as opposed to vigilantly surveying the trail for the least bump. The mountaintop’s vast horizons stretching for miles, whispered of joy, and freedom, and great delight.  And once while skiing fresh powder in Colorado, I swear I heard God laugh at the absurd beauty of the day.

Of course, there were also those bonding moments when a fall happened, or we got separated and spent hours finding each other, or I ended up on some icy black diamond mogul field that had me swearing at the ridiculous nature of the sport. There were days of skiing in trash bags in the rain and terrifying drives home in the fog and ice. But blessedly in all those years we skied together, none of us ever sustained any injury more than a bruised ego, until last week in Utah I when managed to break that streak tearing a tendon in my thumb requiring surgery. (Melanie was the first to say that we have skied now for twenty-five years without an injury—not a bad track record.)

It has been years since I really worried about an injury; my thumb is more annoyance than anything else, but the deaths this weekend, remind me just how lucky we have been and how desperately I want for it to remain that way. Melanie and Ben are careful and smart backwoods adventurers. (Smart enough to ask for Avalanche courses and transponders for Christmas. Just the gift a mother dreams of giving her child.) I love that they feel and share that miraculous freedom of the mountains; I want them to continue to know the joy that feeds their souls.  But today I am reminded that most of all, at the end of the day, I want them always to be able to innocently pick up the phone, “Hey mom, hey Susan, so what’s up?” That is all I need to hear.

Mother, mother mother...

On December 7, 1996 I became a Mother. It was not the first time. On that day my late teen children were present bearing witness, and support, and love, as I was ordained as a priest in the Episcopal Church making me officially Mother Richmond—even if it is a title I don’t use. Becoming a priest or embracing a religious vocation of any kind, was not something that had ever been on my radar screen until very close to my fortieth birthday when my children were in their teenage year. But even if it had reared up in my soul when they were little, I do not believe it was something I would have pursued.  I simply was not as strong, or resilient, or brave as my clergy colleagues who juggle motherhood and the demands of small children. Being ordained was complicated enough with teens who were becoming somewhat self-sufficient.

It wasn’t until I was ordained and living into the reality being a priest that I began to experience of the conflict between being a wife and mother and priest. Too often vocation and family life were at odds.  There were the big times like Christmas and Easter when family traditions had to change, continue without me present, or if I was present, deal with an exhausted, stretched thin presence in the room. And there were all the little times as well-constant evening meetings, no time off together, as my kids only free time, always conflicted with work for me.  Even church could no longer be a family affair; it was work. We all adapted and my work brought deep joy, and even once in a while, especially in this last year of retirement, being Mother and mom come together.  Family and priesthood mingle in harmony as they did the same week I was remembering the fifteenth anniversary of my ordination.

The first took place as I participated in the wedding ceremony at Riverside Church in NYC—only a few blocks from where I was ordained. The bride, Alicia, was not my child, but I had been there on the day she was born six months before Justin came along. Along with her brother only weeks different in age from Melanie, the four had grown up together. As a “friends like family” wedding, all the west coast Richmond’s all came. While definitely in the “mom” category for Alicia, I was now her minister as well—a role I had never played for her. With her brother, D.J., standing up for her, family and friends gathered together, I found myself slipping into that other Mother space as celebrant leading Alicia in her vows to Jeff, the man she loved. Standing in the cavernous ornate sanctuary modeled after a Gothic cathedral that has seen the likes of Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela preaching, I felt like a speck of dust--the towering space by far the largest church I had ever presided in.  But knowing that this day was one that would be etched in Alicia and Jeff’s collective souls, I gathered myself giving voice to the beauty and love of two people committing themselves to each other.  While not totally a foreign experience, there was a surreal quality as Mother and mom blended together to bless the occasion.

It was only a few days later, back in Boston, when it happened again but the setting could not have been more of a contrast.  On St. Nicholas Day—the patron saint of seafarers and children, our grandson, Cooper would be baptized in the small stone chapel of the Sister’s of St. Anne’s in Arlington. It is the church of my heart now –the place where I regularly celebrate the Eucharist in my ministry for Bethany House of Prayer. Inside thick-whitewashed walls, sit shiny dark wooden pews. Candlelit pictures and kneelers, carvings and niches with flower adorn the space that has been washed in the prayers of hundreds over the years. Services are generally filled with meditative silences, poetry, chant, and prayers.  Most people entering for the first time find themselves drawn into the silence, talking only in whispers. Then again, most people are not one and three year old boys.

Unlike the hundreds at Riverside, we were a small but faithful group--only with too many important folks missing-- Cooper’s other grandmother, Nancy, aunts and uncles. But the Sisters along with a handful of friends, including recent father- of-the bride, Dave who led us in prayers, a dear friend and colleague from Bethany and her son, and the Godparents and their children, formed a circle of love. At first, the service felt a bit like herding cats, squirmy children anxious to be free to roam trying to wriggle free. With the Sisters exuding love and joy and not a single concern for the chaos of little ones (thankfully), I began to relax into the ancient words, pouring and blessing water--prayer.  And finally with water dripping in a startled Cooper’s eyes, I made the sign of the cross on his innocent head, “Cooper Charles, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. ” That was all, and it was everything that needed to be said. “Marked as Christ’s own forever.” Goodness, thankfulness, loved enveloped the room.

One week in December, with echoes from a day fifteen years before, my lives came together.  Honored, grateful, blessed—Mother and mom –always.

First Time Mom

Thirty-four years ago there was a storm brewing. If you lived in MA then, you will know what I am talking about. It was the winter of ‘78 and I was waiting to deliver our first born in a few weeks. But like those unpredictable storms that year, this baby was not waiting around because some expert said that he should. Like most babies I know, he decided to begin warning us of his impending arrival in the middle of the night with contractions regular and strong enough by 5:00 a.m. to send us sliding over icy roads to the hospital.

Entering the hospital doors, the quiet drive and the gradual gray sunrise gave way to bustling staff and glaring florescent hospital lights. I was scared, but it was not about giving birth. While intimidating, subconsciously, I think I believed that my body would know what to do to bring this baby into the world, and if my body rebelled, there were experts to get the job done.

What I was not at all sure about was taking care of this new tiny life.  There was never any internal debate about having children-- that desire lay deep in my soul—but over those months while my body grew and elbows and feet began to poke and prod my insides, it began to occur to me that I knew next to nothing about taking care of a child body or soul.  There had been no younger siblings for me, and I had minimal infant babysitting experience. Fortunately one set of dear friends, Bonnie and Dave Haley, preceded us by six months so I observed carefully and took a few turns holding a newborn, but that was about it. Bonnie seemed to know exactly what she was doing while I felt clueless.

During those hours of labor, body and baby demanded all the attention I could muster in my sleep-deprived state. Chris will tell people that the labor and delivery went just like the books said it would (although saying it he made it sound so easy—WHICH IT WAS NOT!!!) All that said, Justin Marshall Richmond, arrived in the world around two in the afternoon healthy, all fingers and toes accounted for and at a good 7 pounds 3 ounces, but incredibly small to my new mother eyes.

Most of those first hours, Chris and I were together or there were nurses and other staff around, but when it was just the two of us, fear rose crept in. At the time, I think I was afraid that I would break him some way. It was all about the physical then. How could a being so tiny have every tiny part work together to keep his breath going and his heart beating? And even more, lying with him in my arms, his tiny face was a puzzle I could not solve. It would take time, for me to gradually begin to recognize the pattern that was Justin as pieces slipped into place.

And I stumbled along, Justin teaching me how to be a mom, until his sister could come along and help him with that work. It was not always an easy process, but somehow we muddle through together.  I got a lot right, even with the mistakes made. The first time fears of trimming little tiny nails or giving baths, gave way to bigger ones. How do I teach a child to be generous and kind?  What do you do when your son’s heart is broken for the first time? How do help a daughter deal with cancer? The list goes on, the fears change, but the realization comes that we help each other. Mother and child finding the way to navigate life. And of course, I was not doing this alone. Chris and I learned together to be parents—to support each other as we learned to be mom and dad, while still being husband and wife.

And so it goes, the cycle of life continues. Now married to the woman he loves with a career doing fulfilling, invigorating, creative work, and two little men to fill their hearts.  The dance continues –the dance of mystery and discovery between parent and child goes on.

So Happy Birthday, number one son. Thank you for teaching me to be a mom. Thank you for being you. So proud..so proud.

In a Heartbeat

You know how sometimes you look at your children’s lives and you wish you could do a little something—maybe even a big something-- to make their lives easier. There were countless times when Melanie was struggling with cancer when those thoughts consumed me . Thankfully now she and her hubby are in a good place in their lives—exciting career opportunities, a life of friends and the outdoors in Seattle. But for number one son, it has not been such a smooth year.

In fact, 2011 was a challenge for Justin and his wife, Farracy with Justin slogging through crunch time as director of a video game that was released on November 1. (Uncharted 3—check it out!!!)  Who knew producing video game means working seven days a week, 16-18 hours a day for months on end? When the project wrapped in mid-October, Justin had had only had one day off since Melanie and Ben’s wedding in May.  Only days after the wrap date, he left for a two-week European publicity tour adding more alone parenting time for Farracy. Don’t get me wrong, Justin is a great dad; even when exhausted, he’s up early playing with the boys before leaving for work.  (When you get up at 6:00 there are actually hours of time.)

On top of job stress, last spring Farracy’s mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. And as our family and so many others know well, even with the best medical care, cancer means stress, and worry, and uncertainty all around.  Making several trips back to Texas to cheer her mom on gave the boys got lots of cousin time and Justin unrelenting work. (After months of totally debilitating chemo and radiation, happily she is currently tumor free. Shout out to Nancy!)

All this to say that when Uncharted 3 received an award in Spain and he was designated receive it, he agreed only on the condition that Farracy could come along-- a bit of R&R for the weary couple.  The only thing holding them back was someone to stay with the boys, Jackson, 3 and Cooper, 1. The call came, could we possible go to California? Even though Chris and I had just been there, I jumped at the opportunity to help, but work obligations for Chris meant I’d be flying solo on grandparenting duty. It would definitely be a different experience because those boys do love their Papa— endless source of activities and fun. Even with just about everyone questioning my sanity, I remained determined to go. (Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? You know, you’re not as young as you were when you did this before…”) Not wanting to admit it, having a bit of trepidation about tackling this alone, I reasoned it would only be four days and I had a pretty good track record. When Justin and Melanie were small, there was a lot of single parenting while Chris worked long hours.  How different could it be?

Still as the trip approached, my confidence waned. The four day trip morphed into six,  AND I realized the time change would happen the day they departed leaving me with chirpy voices used to getting up at 6:30 beginning to peep when the clock said 5:30. Okay, I told myself, you can do this, even if it meant eight o’clock bedtime for me.

Then the day before they were leaving, one of their two cats who had been in the boys’ lives forever, died. Hmm…not the perfect timing for children who had never been away from their parents for so long.  But it wasn’t until the man who was plunked down next to me in a middle seat on the plane (put there at the last minute to “redistribute weight”) began to throw up on take off that I began to panic. There I was on my way to care for two small boys wedged between a window and a sick person for six hours. (Mortified, the poor man apologized profusely saying he was sure it was a “bad breakfast sandwich.”  While feeling for him, I was not a happy camper.)

Suspended in mid-air cross the country, I worried and fumed imagining a week of worst-case scenarios until I completely exhausted myself falling asleep for the last hour. Upon landing while maneuvering my way through the terminal, seemingly from nowhere, a peace settle in me. There was a reassuring clarity that no matter what came, it would all be ok. I’m not sure where that assurance came from; maybe simply from living sixty–two years. After being a mom for thirty-four years, surviving the death of a parent, and cancer of a child, sitting at countless sickbeds, presiding at funerals, and listening to breaking hearts,  a certain understanding gradually seeped into my soul.  No matter what, life goes on and yes, “All shall be well…”  Six days with two little men? Imminently doable.

So how did it turn out?  It was not hard in the usual sense of the word, but it was exhausting. Exhausting, challenging, and extraordinarily GOOD. Knowing that it was just six days, I could immerse myself into a child’s world knowing I would be leaving it soon. But the child’s world of wonder also came with a black eye as Jackson and I collided with a bucket on his head. (Don’t ask. All you need to know is that “bucket head” is a hilariously funny game at 6:00 at night) And I did have companions making life easier: Farracy’s friends who drove Jackson to school and invited him over for a play date along with the lovely ladies at Mother’s Day Out who took a cranky Cooper on a day when his life seemed hard. Melanie and Ben via Skype had the boys laughing hysterically and letting off steam in the evenings while Chris sympathetically listened to my tales. But mostly, I was on my own just letting the days unfold, resting when the boys napped, going to bed early—very early—every night, taking walks and watching the world through child’s eyes.

In so many ways, it felt like I was getting the gift of a “do over” as a parent. Unlike the days when I was exhausted and nervous as a first, and then second time mom, there was a perspective of wisdom and the grace to take in the goodness of the days as well as the hard times. For six days, I did not have to worry about a single thing except being with those boys—listening to them (and yes, Jackson requires a lot of listening), seeing the world through their eyes, giving into fits of giggling and silliness, kissing fingers smashed in a door, endlessly reading books, and battling bed and nap time every single day, getting to know the little men in a deeper richer way.

The gift of remembering flowed as well. My now grown children came back to me with their goodness and their trials.  The memories of the young mother I was  flooded back. The days when impatience ruled and loneliness hung on me like a shroud—days when I would hunger for adult companionship or just the chance to slip away on my own for a few minutes, or delve into a book that would take me to a more exciting world. There was a newly found compassion for the younger me, for Farr, and all who care for young ones.

Seeing the returning relaxed faces of Justin and Farr was simply a bonus. Knowing they could begin another year together remembering what if felt like to stay out late and sleep until noon. Homecoming for them was joyful as was my coming home to Boston. Both felt right and good. I was exhausted, and exhilarated, and blessed by those six days. Would I do them a “favor” of taking the kids again? The answer is  simple because “favor” turned into blessing for me. (As favors are wont to do.) Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.  (are you listening J and Farr?)—in a heartbeat.

 The little men