Someone Else's Words Wednesday: Because I'm working on this whole acceptance thing

...a garden is like life:

something is always doing well,

something is always struggling,

something is being born anew,

and something is dying.

~Edith Reed

Click to read more ...

One more of this day

Every year on June 29th, my heart pounds heavily in my chest when I write about the day my brother slightly over-corrected on his motorcycle, leading to an accident, a traumatic brain injury, a coma, months of recovery. That day was eight years ago, and still, the wound it left on my family continue to heal.

It's not easy to write about, but I feel that I must. It's not pleasant to read about, but the story is important. I wasn't there when it happened, but I transcribed the only witnesses' story. There was a couple driving along the country road where my brother and his friends were riding and they saw it all unfold, frantically dialed 911, stayed there until he was medi-vaced away in a helicopter. The image that comes to me every year on this day is one that the woman in that car shared, of she and her husband holding my screaming brother in the field next to the ditch where his motorcycle lay.

I can't type out any more details than that. It's too painful. But the picture is there with the others -- my first sight of him in the ICU, his startled look as he realized he was in the hospital as he first came out of the coma, the struggle and triumph of his first assisted steps, the fear and pride when he finally was released.

Those are the images of the accident, of the weeks that followed when none of us had any idea if or how or when he might leave the hospital.

But here is the grace of time. It kept going. Our lives, by miracle and medicine and faith and great support, unfolded. Somehow, we all started healing and even began to move on.

Those images seem to have a hazy quality to them now, as if they've been sitting on a window sill for these eight years or were taken with a long-outdated camera. Some of the details have faded and we no longer need to carry this all in our chest pockets against our rapidly beating hearts. But the record is still there, tucked away for days when we need a reminder of how scary and hard life can be and how damned blessed we really are.

I am taking those photos out -- not to make myself cry, that comes easily enough -- but to say thank you to the universe, to God, to the neuropsychologists and surgeons and nurses and doctors and and dentists and therapists, to our friends and family, to all of the people who soothed, prayed, visited, brought us coolers full of bagels and orange juice, who wrote cards and sent Maya Angelou quotes, who sang songs in Seth's honor, who were with each of us in the fight for his life. And I say a special hallelu for the two people who were there in our stead, who witnessed the real-time version of that day that I am so grateful I only have to imagine. They were so brave and I hope they know how instrumental they were in all the living that has gone on since that one June 29th.

Then there's my brother. In these eight years, he's culled a strength that's deeper than I could have dreamed. He's built a beautiful life, one that now includes a wife and a baby boy.

There are new pictures now -- seeing Seth rest his child against his own chest, that baby's surprised face with the same big brown eyes as his dad, the circle of our family's group hug that now includes his wife and our sons -- and I'm holding them high today, too. There were tears. There's still thanks. There's more healing to do. There are now many more smiles and coos and cuddles. 

And, thank goodness, there's still time.

Click to read more ...

This is his wedding dress

Once upon a million years ago, I stood upon a little stage in the middle of a bridal boutique. I was corseted, tulle-ed, crowned in netting and the most beautiful tiara I'd ever seen. In the reflection of the mirror, I could see my grandmother smiling and my mother weeping. And there I was, jaw dropped, eyes wide, blissful and stunned, surprised, an overwhelmed blur of white on white on white.

I could not believe. That day. Had finally happened. For me.

That moment came for Lil this week when, after ten weeks of after-school classes, we signed him up for full-fledged membership-in-the-association-and-a-uniform sessions of Tiny Tiger martial arts.

The stage was the little lobby of Tae Kwon Do studio. The dress was the gi, hanging over his hands, rolled up to his ankles. My mother and I were both laughing at weepy to see this boy in all his glory. And there he was, with a thrill I recognized pouring from him.

 

If it was not for his reverence for Master Raphael and Master Bryan, the bow to the flags and the "YES, SIR!" yelled just before Twin Low-Blocks and Front Kicks, I think Lil E might have squealed right then and there on the mat.

And later, he did. He also asked 487 times if he could show the gi to his friends, if he could wear the gi over to grandpa and grandma's house, if he could just hang out and play at the house in the gi, if it was OK to go commando in the gi, if he could watch the World Cup in the gi, if he could go to the park in the gi. He settled for unrolling and re-rolling his orange belt 73 times in a row and posing for this photo shoot. 

He directed. I just snapped the shots.

Then he bowed to me, took my hand and I led him out the door, down the steps and across the long aisle of sidewalk to our car. 

There goes my boy, I thought, a little teary and a lot proud of this kid on cusp of so much. It's happening, it's finally, finally at five, happening. For him.

Click to read more ...