It didn't have to happen.

My daddy at his commissioning ceremony.

Growing up without one of your parents is something that I can't explain. If you haven't lived it, you can't really wrap your head around the disconnect. It's not just that I took on a level of responsibility for my mother and sister far beyond my toddler years. It's not the feeling that I should have been able to fill my father's shoes for my little sister and failed miserably. It's not even feeling like something is missing. I guess it's more like everyone gets a 100 piece puzzle that is their life and mine only came with 99. I didn't know the difference.

For a few years, Joe and I lived next door to a beautiful family that have since become our dear friends. The couple has two beautiful children, the youngest a daughter. Parrish is a vibrant and loving child, very affectionate. She's 5 now, and watching her and her daddy has started to help me see where some of that 100th piece should be.

By all accounts, I wasn't exactly a normal kid to begin, but I'm not sure if I would have been as affectionately withdrawn if I hadn't lost my dad at two and a half. What I'm quite sure of is a daughter learns a great deal about relationships and all types of affection towards men from her father. I finally learned how to have an open, affectionate relationship with a man and married him to boot. What I can't quite grasp is a little girl sitting in her daddy's lap falling asleep on his shoulder or cuddling on the couch watching a movie. I've never had these experiences.

Pulling apart and reassembling my psyche has occupied much of my adult life. I've learned how childhood traumas, my natural thought processes and other elements have created the person I am now. It's helped me be the real me and be comfortable with it. I'm more at home in my own skin than I've ever been, but it's been a lot of work.

Good for me, but that's not really the point. The point is first, I'll never know what life would have been like or who I would have been, but possibly more importantly, it never should have happened this way.

The helicopter crash that took my dad from us didn't have to happen. It wasn't pilot error. From every source and the official record, my dad flew by the book the day he died. He was a phenomenal pilot, like he was born to be in the air. The malfunction with the tail rotor was a known issue with the Huey back then. One of the men who survived the crash said they all knew what it was as soon as they heard the loud pop. Daddy tried to catch the tail of the helicopter in a tree to slow their descent, but it was no use. They were just falling too fast. An autopsy report I found by accident years later said he died of blunt force trauma immediately from the impact. His last broadcast was the four maydays he got off before they hit.

The Army in its infinite wisdom and ability to put a price on human life declared there had to be three fatal crashes with the Hueys before they'd recall them. At least one person on three separate occasions had to die before the Army would ground the choppers for repairs. You should take a minute to re-read that last sentence before moving on.

I am 37 years old. My daddy was killed when I was two and a half. Sometimes, it makes me so angry I can barely see through the tears. I've come to understand the anger, to channel it and to keep it from consuming me. This didn't have to happen. The worst part of the anger is what it's done from time to time to my family. It's bred distrust and subsequent division between three people who have frankly lost enough.

I've ended up with some things of my daddy's that I really wasn't ready to own. I took them of my own accord to keep them safe until we can come together and decide the best way to keep them. I'm not moving any time soon, we have plenty of room and I know a little about preservation of old things at least. These things are safe with me right now.

When I came home with them, I went through all of it very carefully. I separated everything and put each in a Ziploc bag for keeping. One of the items is the stocking cap my dad was wearing the night he died. There's a picture of him wearing it at the briefing before they took off. I knew the hat existed, but I'd never seen it. I wasn't ready to be honest. Here I was holding it in my hands. It's the greatest sense of loss I have ever felt, knowing that my dad was wearing that hat at the end of his life with no way of knowing it was the end. He didn't know he'd never see his wife or daughters ever again. He was only thinking about his mission and doing the job he loved.

I have seen a lot of pictures of my dad in my life. I've had things that were his. A decade or so ago, some old family 8mm films were converted to VHS and a few years ago, some film of him playing football in high school was converted to DVD. Those are the only experiences I remember where he was moving. For almost 35 years, he's been a still image or objects pass down. I don't have any idea what his voice sounded like. I don't know what he smelled like. I can't remember the feel of his hands holding me or his whiskers on my cheek when he kissed me.

When I was putting his hat in the Ziploc bag, I found a hair of his. I held it between my fingers in complete wonder before I started crying hysterically. That hair is the only part of my daddy that I ever remember touching. I carefully put it in the bag, so my sister can see it.

I've always believed that things happen for a reason, and that we can never go back. I wouldn't trade even one bad decision of mine for fear of ending up somewhere other than where I am right now. I love my life. I've been lucky beyond measure to have had someone like my (other) dad, John Murrey to come into our lives and love us like we were his own. I know these things and cherish them all. Sometimes, I'd trade just about anything to have 5 minutes with my daddy. Then again, I'm not sure I want to know what I'm missing. I just wish I didn't know that none of it had to happen.

Headstone and foot stone at Lynnwood Cemetery (Lynnville, TN), where my daddy is buried next to his brother Jimmy

Let freedom ring

I was an uptight kid. It wasn't until I was old enough to watch the legendary film Risky Business that I found the words of wisdom that changed my life:

Every now and then say, "What the fuck." [It] gives you freedom. Freedom brings opportunity. Opportunity makes your future.
(Miles to Joel, encouraging him to take advantage of his parents being out of town)

Miles was right, and he taught me a valuable lesson. Loosen up! Nothing and no one is perfect, and while striving to be the best we can is admirable, being a perfectionist is a waste of energy. It's OK to take chances, throw things on the wall to see what sticks.

Of course, there are many things I take seriously, but I've found a way to hold myself to a high standard without the stress of having to be perfect. Some mistake that freedom for bravado, but I am confident, not because I know I'm right, but because I'm not afraid to be wrong.

Odd man in

When I was a kid, I played soccer. Only, this was back in the early 80's when there really wasn't girls soccer, at least not in the small town where I grew up, but when you're eight years old who really notices. At first I was horrible. My coaches were very patient as they tried to find a position for me. I got better over time, and if nothing else, I was tenacious and protective. That's probably how I ended up on defense. It brought out my protective nature, and I took it personally.

When I was in middle school, I had a coach who finally turned the light on for me. He spoke to my inner nerd with his more academic approach to the game. He showed me the geometry of defending the goal and taught me to use statistical advantages. At this point, we were all hitting puberty head on, and while the boys were all sprouting muscles, I was growing boobs! If I was going to keep up, I was going to play smarter and want it more than the boys.

I was fearless on the field, and by the time I was playing in the oldest rec league division, the boys were starting to complain that I was too rough. Ha! "Oh, no, they've got that girl on their team." I played within the rules, but there is no rule against a hip check in soccer, and I'd gotten a full set of hips along with the boobs. When we were eight, no one cared that a girl was playing on the boys' team. There were a couple of us actually. By the time we were teenagers, I was the only girl in the entire league. A girls' league had started, but the girls were so far behind me as a player because I'd been at it for so long. Luckily, there was a coach in the boys' league willing to take me.

I'm not sure the league could have refused to let me play on a boys' team legally, but I was keenly aware that I was an exception and made up my mind to act more as a guest. I would stay in the league as long as a coach would willingly take me and the players didn't mind. The moment I wasn't wanted or became a liability, I would quit. My coach knew this, as did my teammates.

It was at a practice when one of the guys got pissed at me and shouted that I should go back where I belonged. That was it. I called Coach that night and told him I was quitting. Even though that one guy didn't speak for them all (and he was a bit of a schmuck), I'd made a promise that I intended to keep. Coach told me not to come to the next practice and he would call me after it. He wanted to make sure the guys knew what I was doing and why before I really quit.

At the next practice, some of the guys asked where I was. I never missed practice. Coach calmly told them that given the comment made at the last practice that I'd kept my word and quit. He called me that night to tell me the team wanted me back on Saturday for the game. The guy that made the comment didn't think I'd take him seriously. I didn't want to go back because I thought the guys just felt guilty or that coach talked them into it, but Saturday, they showed me I was part of the team.

You have to keep in mind that soccer is not a high-scoring game, and we all know how teenage boys feel about scoring. (Couldn't find a way to write that sentence without implying something, so I just went with it.) Anyway, a free kick came up during the game, which is an almost-guaranteed goal. Again, I played defense, so scoring wasn't ever going to be my thing, but without anyone saying a word to each other, they guys all turned around to look at me. They were offering me the kick, the goal. Offering turned to insisting, and I jogged my way to the other end of the field to take the kick. Thank God I didn't screw it up!

After playing soccer for 12 years, that is still the only goal I ever scored.

Being one of the guys was like watching an animal in it's natural habitat instead of at the zoo. Other girls didn't want to do what I did, but man, were they curious. To them, I was the perfect spy. I wouldn't betray the guys' trust though. I had earned their respect on the field, and that meant more to me than all the gossiping with the girls in the world.

My last two years in rec league, it really grew. We started having away games and playing kids from other towns. They were all boys, and often they didn't understand my team having a girl. Some saw me as the weakest link. (Nothing gave me more pleasure than putting those on their asses!) There were a few times when I knew I'd never get the ball from another player, but I'd hang with them until I forced them out of bounds or I got some help. I think that was the most frustrating to my opponents.

If the girls gets the ball from you, that can just be dumb luck, right? If you can't get past the girl after running in circles for five minutes, it's more embarrassing. It wasn't unusual for frustration and embarrassment to lead to a guy pushing me or saying something nasty, but I took pride in holding my own. One occasion I remember like it was yesterday.

I had been frustrating the same guy every game we played each other for a couple of seasons. It wasn't that I was better than him -- he was amazing -- but he'd gotten in his own head, I think, because he could not get past me to save his life. This day was getting particularly heated, and he started running his mouth. Perhaps it's the female genes that kept me cool and unflustered on the field compared to my male counterparts, but I wasn't talking trash or making fun of this guy. I'm pretty sure my teammates were starting to take jabs though.

The rougher we played the more everyone was paying attention to our little rivalry. At one point, his mother, who happened to be sitting next to mine, yelled at him to "stop pushing that girl!" My mom's comment was somewhere between, "Rachel can take care of herself," and "I'm going to kick your son's ass." In the final minutes of the game, he got desperate because they were losing, and reared back to take a swing at me. That moment is frozen in time for me.

How so many people got around us so fast defies physics, but in a heartbeat, my goalie, the two other fullbacks and a midfielder were standing at my side, looking threateningly at my opponent as if to dare him to touch me. One of his teammates grabbed his arm and another was pulling him back from me. I just stood there stock still. I refused to back down, but I wasn't going to egg the situation on either. Refs and coaches came running and broke everything up. My team was going to defend me, and no one wanted a teenage boy melee on the field, including me.

The image above reminds me of that moment. My team protecting me when someone else threatened, even though I was different. We were a team in the truest sense. It's not often in my life I've felt so accepted and included as I did playing soccer. I went on to play on the high school boys' varsity team. On game day the guys wore ties to school, and I said I'd wear one, too, since coach was clearly confused as to how to handle that one. My wearing a tie got a lot of attention, and more students came to our games and cheered us on because of it. It helped raise awareness of a sport that back then was not mainstream like football, basketball and baseball, especially in the south.

My mom had worried at every game that I was going to get hurt. She really wanted me to switch over to the girls' league. I did get hurt a few times, some worse than others, but I refused to let my mom see it because I was afraid she'd make me stop playing. (I was probably right.) Ironically, it wasn't until I played on my high school's first girls' soccer team that I got really hurt. I'd only agreed to play to help my coach who'd so graciously let me play on the boys' team. (Technically he had to let me on the team because of Title 9, but I made sure I earned the spot.)

Boys may be rough, but I'll tell you one thing --- girls are vicious.

I got tag-teamed by a couple of redneck girls and separated my shoulder. I came out of the game for a few minutes but went back in. I spent the night in the ER screaming in pain. I couldn't play for six weeks, and a few years later, I had to have surgery on that shoulder. It still hurts sometimes, along with several other joints. I wasn't kind to my body as a kid.

Yes, I carry some aches and pains from those days, but I also carry some of the most precious memories of my young life. Those guys and my coach still hold a special place in my heart. I'm not sure that in another place and time I would have had the same experience. Another group of guys might have rejected having a girl on their team. Another coach might have just let me quit. But that's not my story.

In my story, I won the respect of my teammates, played my heart out and scored exactly one goal.

Logically speaking

When I was a kid watching Dirty Dancing, I didn't really understand what was happening in this scene. I'm sure my mom appreciated having to explain it, but it had a lasting impact on me.

I should probably qualify here that I was not your average kid. I thought things and recognized things that most kids my age did not. I was serious and slightly dark. Now, back to my point.

At first, I wondered why someone would have an illegal procedure done with "a knife and a folding table." Then realizing what a pregnancy out of wedlock would have meant back in the early 60's, I wondered why it was illegal when clearly people were going to have it done anyway. Wouldn't it be better to have it legal and safe?!

If you look at a Venn diagram of those who are anti-abortion and those who support gun rights, there is a large percentage of overlap, so I'm going to use an argument of the anti-gun control lot. "If you outlaw guns, only the outlaws will have guns." People who are determined to have guns are going to have them regardless of the law. Only people willing to break the law will have guns. The argument is that law-abiding citizens are safer because they can have guns, too.

Someone who is pregnant and, for whatever reason, cannot or will not have a child are going to have an abortion whether it's legal or not. Keeping abortion legal means it can be done in an accredited facility by a reputable doctor. It can be safe. (It can also reduce late-term abortions, which I oppose.)

I'm not even touching the issue of rights, which often comes down to ideology. Those are points that we can all argue 'til we're blue in the face without changing anyone's mind. I do think that people need to see the reality behind banning abortion. Think about it logically, even if just for a minute.

Pretty pictures

Reproduction of a Degas. Colored pencil on paper.

Jerry. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.

High-contrast self portrait. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.

Susan. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.

Blessed

When you've spent a quarter of your life -- yes, that's 25% -- with a group of people, they tend to become family. It's like a family reunion every day at work. The little brother, the loud cousin, the weird uncle, the whole gang's there. Some days you want to kill each other, but others they're the only things that gets you through the day. So it was with me at USA WEEKEND, and the day I was laid off, I felt like someone had died.

I wasn't sad to leave my job. I'd outgrown it, and I was miserable. But I got home that morning and I kept crying. I know part of that was being hurt at having my job eliminated and the delivery of the news, but that wasn't what kept the tears coming. It was the emails, IM's and text messages I was getting from my family.

The news spread like wildfire, and while I felt like I'd been betrayed by one person I'd considered family, I was worried about the effect my departure would have on others, and I was moved beyond words at the outpouring of support from some unexpected places. I also felt a large hole growing in my life. After spending five days a week with these people, I left within 20 minutes of being laid off, no chance to say goodbye.

Well, last night, I got to rectify that.

I drove over to a restaurant near the office to meet some of my former coworkers after work. I knew it would be good for me, but I had no idea how good. For a couple of hours, we laughed, drank sangria and reminisced. I told them how everything happened and how I was doing. They told me what had transpired in the office after I left. It was closure for all of us, and for me, reassurance that my family hadn't forgotten me and would stay in my life -- to some extent anyway. I felt so full and happy and warm (and no, it wasn't the sangria).

There are so many times I feel alone and isolated. I'm wired a little differently, and not everyone understands me. I scare the hell out of others. (Ha!) But last night, I was connected to people who, with the exception of my husband, have influenced my life the most for the past nine years. I felt loved.

I know it's idealistic, but I think companies would do well to realize how much like family work really is and play to those dynamics. They should certainly take them into consideration in dealing with their employees. People need to say goodbye. Criminal behavior aside, they need to clean out their own desks, send out one last email with their contact info and say goodbye to a place and people that have been integral in their daily life.

Thankful doesn't even begin to describe what I am to the people who came to see me off last night (and those who wanted to come and couldn't). My ship is now sailing on without an anchor dragging behind me, knowing I'll see my family again at the next port. I am blessed.

Cabbage and cole slaw

Being laid off is a shock to the system. Even if it's not a total surprise or if it's really for the best, it's still a shock to the system. It's like thinking, "I am a cabbage," being tossed into a food processor that's set to shred, and having to grasp the concept of being cole slaw.

Not going to work Monday morning made me a bit anxious, but like I do with most things, I made a plan. Step one, apply for unemployment. Step two, enroll in COBRA. Oh, wait, I can't do either until I get packages from the company that's managing my TPP (Transitional Pay Plan) and the Gannett benefits center. So not only did I have no control over my choice to leave my job, I now have no control over picking the pieces back up and restarting my life.

I'm not naive enough to think that caring about a person will ever outweigh caring about profits, but it's still hard for me to wrap my head around the lack of conscience or humanity in the process. Companies have turned terminations into a machine. It's not personal; it's business, and business is about the bottom line. I get it. After nine years at Gannett, I've seen some callous moves by management. It should be criminal the way they've treated some good and loyal people. (I could definitely have it worse.)

It's my warped sense of loyalty and responsibility that have kept me at Gannett all these years. I've been watching more and more go wrong, and the draw of solving a new problem kept me strung along like a drug. My co-workers and I had become a family, and I didn't want to leave them. I put everything I had into my work and my work family. I took on mountains of extra responsibility and fought the good fights for the benefit of the magazine. I made the mistake of thinking any of it would matter in the end.

At the meeting where I was laid off, I listened as the head of my department read the script in front of him. When he'd come to the magazine from another part of Gannett, he faced a neck-breaking learning curve to adapt to our business model. On more than one occasion, I removed his hind end from the fire. I helped him succeed as our leader. We'd been in the trenches together for four and a half years. We'd been through the turnover of more support staff than I'd like to recall. As the words came out of his mouth, what shook me the most was how cold they were, hollow. As he thanked me for my nine years of service and everything I'd done for him personally, I would have rather he just skipped it. It hurt more that he was saying words he should have meant ... and didn't.

Some would say I'm lucky to have gotten any kind of package when leaving, but for everything Gannett has ever given me, I can assure you they got more than they deserved in return. The nice lady from HR went through the highlights, and I'd like to think that when she said, "And you get to keep your benefits until the end of the month," that she didn't realize that was less than a week, only four business days. Four. Days.

That was a Thursday, so first thing Friday morning, I checked all of my prescriptions, and I have a few, to reorder as much as I could while I still had benefits. I took literally the instructions to apply for unemployment benefits and enroll in COBRA immediately. Since I didn't have the necessary paperwork in the packet, I started calling the numbers they gave me to see what I could do to move things along. Surely in the digital age, I could do things online. Something. Nope. I had to wait for the hard copies to be delivered via U.S. Postal Service. Really?! Two things bother me here.

First, with all due respect to the postal service, there are much more efficient, quicker and environmentally-friendlier ways to get forms to people. I already had or would have to set up accounts on the TPP and Gannett benefits websites; why not just let me download the forms or fill them out online? Snail mail, really? It's not like these papers aren't essential for me to get paid and have healthcare for the next few weeks (I hope). For a company so big on being digital, I say #epicfail!

Second, forget that someone worked for you for nine years, just focus on them being a fellow human being. Laying them off at the end of the month, and cutting off their benefits at the end of that month, is unconscionable. I called to find out how to enroll in COBRA, but I was told the benefits center hadn't even gotten my paperwork and would have to process my termination before they could send me the information.

There is no possible way that management didn't know my job was going to be be eliminated at least a few days before they did it. I'd wager it had been at least a week. It was certainly long enough to make sure my email and computer access were removed before I even came out of the meeting where I was terminated (I'm not going to get into how insulting that is.), but they couldn't manage to get my termination processed through the benefits center to get my COBRA paperwork started.

I waited for over a week to get a letter that was dated August 1, but wasn't postmarked until August 3 and I didn't receive until August 6. That's six days worried that if I got sick or hurt how on earth I'd pay for it. The real kicker is that the letter only told me what benefits I'd have available under COBRA and notified me it would take another 2-3 weeks for my enrollment papers to arrive.

I know that COBRA is retroactive to the first day I lost my benefits, but what is someone, an unemployed someone, supposed to do when the doctor or ER asks for my insurance card? How am I supposed to pay them until I can get enrolled, file a claim and be reimbursed? The standard co-pays don't exactly apply. I know, it's not their problem.

What will be their problem are the myriad loose ends I leave and the institutional knowledge that go with me. What will be my boss's problem is living with having cast someone aside coldly who did as much to help them as anyone ever will. Gannett still has a significant revenue problem, and what they saved by laying me off on July 26 vs. August 1 won't even begin to make up the difference.

So I'm cole slaw. I can live with that. It may only be a moral victory, but I'll take what I can get these days.

5 Observations from the Olympics

It's hard not to watch the Olympics, even if NBC has tried repeatedly to ruin as much of it as possible. I don't so much care about the taped delay. I'll watch to see how things play out even if I know the outcome, but I don't like how they've manipulated the story lines and ignored other important moments of the games while pandering to Americans. That's not my point though.

First, I would want them to play Rocky Top instead of the National Anthem if I won gold. (I realize this is sacrilege to many. Deal with it.)

Second, if I'd known about trampoline as a sport, my life would be completely different.

Third, my odds of my ever being an Olympian started dropping drastically when I was eight and outgrew my training bra.

Fourth, I would drown if I ever tried to play water polo.

Finally, I will always be a little girl when watching gymnastics. When I was a kid I took gymnastics and I loved it. I was not however a natural. I got too tall and too big. I could do power elements like tumbling passes on floor and vaults, but uneven bars and beam were my nemeses. A bad fall on beam ruined my back, and no one with my proportions is ever going to do well on bars. I just don't have physics with me on that one. Regardless, learning to flip around the floor and spring over the vault were the closest I'd ever come to flying.

I've watched gymnastics since Mary Lou, and I watched replays and movies of Nadia. I remember vividly Phoebe Mills bouncing wildly out of bounds, and Dominique Dawes spinning like no other. Kim Zmeskal winning again and again. The Mag Seven made me smile, and as annoying as Kerri Strugg was, I'll forever respect her for not giving up and nailing that one-footed landing. Bela smiling and cheering will always bring me joy. This year, Gabby managed to combine the graceful moves of gymnastics past with the power and athleticism it's know for now, all with an electric smile that I guarantee thrilled many more little girls.

No matter how bizarre the opening ceremonies or bad NBC's coverage, the Olympics will always hold magic for me. The pageantry and pride are awe inspiring. I love watching.

And so it goes

My career at USA WEEKEND has come  to an end. After nine years, my position was eliminated.

I started in Newspaper Relations as the assistant marketing specialist. It was a different time in newspapers, at USA WEEKEND and at Gannett in general. As time passed and the industry started changing, it became harder and harder to maintain the status quo. Gannett started merging and consolidating, and USA WEEKEND was no longer immune. Departments were absorbed; layoffs started. I watched as long-time staffers were eliminated, and our CEO retired. We slowly being absorbed into USA Today. In the past year, it started to feel like longevity was a liability. The more of the old guard that was replaced, the more I started feeling like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.

My bosses were meeting in the conference room and asked me to come in. It wasn't an unusual thing to happen, but as soon as I stood up from my desk, I knew what was happening. For no real reason, the thought just popped in my head. There's no doubt when someone you don't know is also in the room when you arrive.

I'm sure my bosses expected some reaction from me, but instead, I smiled, listened and cooperated -- hell, I was downright friendly to the woman from HR -- as the man I helped adjust to the mountainous learning curve of our business told me that as part of the restructuring of the magazine my position had been eliminated. He tried to tell me he appreciated everything I'd done for him and for all my years of service, but the words were flat and meaningless. I chose to just smile and turn my attention to the nice woman from HR who was going to tell me I had one week of pay per year of service and 5 days of benefits left.

While there were lots of things I might like to have said or asked, I chose instead to keep my head up and just roll with it. I knew I'd have a lot to deal with later, but I also knew that I could handle whatever comes. And I will.

This all happened on a Thursday. I was paid through Friday. The next week, I was going to be out of the office anyway for friends' wedding. We just got back and so tomorrow will really my first day in the trenches of the unemployed. I've already applied for unemployment benefits and talked with two recruiters. My resume is spit-shined and ready to go. The fact is I've been ready to go for a long time. I should have left years ago, but my admittedly warped sense of responsibility and loyalty kept me at a job where I no longer fit far beyond what it should. As crappy as this may be to experience, being laid off is going to ultimately be a good thing.

I've been applying for jobs and interviewing for a while, but nothing had worked out so far. I was applying for jobs online after work when I was tired and often frustrated. My job now is to spend time every day looking for the job I'll love. I have no excuse. In the meantime, I've talked to a couple of organizations about volunteering during the week, and training for my next race starts soon. My life is still quite full, and my hope is it will also have balance.

A few people know this has happened. I haven't kept it from anyone who's asked how work is going. The fact is I have nothing to be ashamed of and I see this as a good thing. I've been so touched at how many people have reached out to me with kind words about having worked with me and offers of help. Regardless of anything else, that means success to me. Here's to new opportunities for even bigger success.

Interesting timeline

Introducing Chopper

Henry has been an only child for five years now. We got him from a hobby breeder in the middle of nowhere and brought him home at 8 weeks old. He has always been ours, always had a warm home, plenty of food and lots of love. All that said, he's still a nervous little guy. He's a very typical dachshund. They're territorial, vocal, alert and full of personality. He thinks he's a rottweiler. We got a pure bred because neither of us had raised a puppy in a long time, and a pure bred gave us a better idea of the traits we'd be getting. There was no way anyone could have predicted the wild ride Henry would end up being, but he's ours and we love him as much as most people love their children.

After a great deal of thought, we decided to get another dog. Our hope was that Henry would bond with another dog and relax a bit. At the very least, he would have a playmate. We wanted to rescue a dog this time, and started working with beagle and dachshund rescues to get approval and find our new addition. It was a three year old, 15lb black and tan doxie that took us out to the Petsmart near Mount Vernon. Lost Dog and Cat Foundation was having an adoption event there at 1pm. We got there at 1:10pm to find the dog already adopted.

Ethan and his boys, Jack and Mack, were with us. Henry was along for the ride, since he'd cast his vote before we brought anyone home. We were all a little annoyed at our luck. The folks from Lost Dog told us there were a couple of other doxies at an event in Sterling -- no where near Mount Vernon or our house for that matter. We had 45 minutes to get there.

When we got there, Jack and Mack were bouncing off the walls ready for us to get Henry's brother. It didn't take long to figure out that Henry had no interest whatsoever in the other doxies or any of the smaller dogs for that matter. We were on our way out when I saw a face that melted my heart. His name was Derek, and Henry just sat down beside him. Other than the fact he was going to need a new name, it seemed like we'd been led on a wild chase across Northern Virginia to find our boy.

We filled out the application, passed our interview and walked out the proud parents of a 25lb, 5-month-old Vizsla mix. He wasn't exactly what we'd planned, but it seems like the stars aligned to bring us to him.

After about a week, we finally settled on the name Chopper because his tail wags in a circular motion instead of back and forth. It took a couple of those days for Henry to really warm up to him. Until then, Henry just kept giving us a look like, "When is that leaving?" Then, they started playing. They've only stopped to eat and sleep since.

Chopper is a chill, affectionate and smart. He is a loving and loveable creature that exudes happiness. It's apparent he wants to please and just wants to be close to us and loved. I'll never understand how he ended up in a kill shelter in West Virginia. It's tragic to think this lovebug could have been put down had Lost Dog not taken him. We were given all sorts of cautions about issues a rescue dog can have -- not eating, anxiety. Many dogs never really get over being abandoned, but luckily, Chopper seems unphased by his experience. He's slept well, eaten well and taken to his brother and the good life like a duck to water. Yes, I'm pretty sure it was meant to be.

If you're considering bringing a pet into your home, please make sure you know what you're getting into, make a commitment to loving it like a child and making it a member of your family, and most of all, please consider adoption. There are more fur babies than will ever find homes. Too many don't find their way to rescue. From the look on that face, I think Chopper knows he's one of the lucky ones.

All that matters

Joe is on his way to Newport News tonight. He's got an early morning meeting with the city manager, and it didn't make sense to try and drive down there before the meeting tomorrow, so he's staying at a hotel tonight. That's not really my point though.

Every time, Joe packs a bag and leaves to go anywhere without me it takes a great deal of intellectual assertion and mental control to keep from panicking that I will never see him again. I try to remember every detail of telling him goodbye in case it's the last memory I have of him. I'm always sure to tell him to be careful and that I love him. Nothing left unsaid.

My head knows that I am reacting to an engrained reaction to having lost my father at a very young age. I know that I'm projecting my mother's life onto my own. I know there is no family curse that puts him in danger. That doesn't keep my heart from feeling like it's being squeezed by a large hand. It doesn't mean my soul doesn't feel like it's being ripped in two. It doesn't stop the headache that I get from fighting the anxiety.

I am grateful to have the intelligence, rationality and cognitive training to handle the irrational emotions behind my anxiety, but it doesn't really matter what I think or do. All that matters is the person who means the most to me in the entire world is away, and nothing will be right again until he's home.

Never say goodbye

Heading to Nashville for the Country Music Half Marathon was surreal. I was ready. I'd been training for six months, but it always seemed like it was in the future, out there lingering. I could barely believe when I was standing in my corral the morning of the race. We had all separated by the first mile. I was hot and miserable, and this wasn't my usual quiet morning run with familiar faces. Breathing wasn't easy, and by mile 4 I was on the verge of a panic attack. I felt claustrophobic, except I was in the wide-open outside with lots of people. What was wrong with me?! It's taken a week for me to piece it all together.

Just before mile 12, I was falling apart. I realized training and the race was what was holding me together about losing so much last year. I didn't want it to be over. I was dreading finishing the race. I didn't want to say goodbye.

I kept moving my feet, and in the last mile I came to grips with the fact that the race was going to end whether I finished or not. I started running. I ran faster and faster, and I sprinted the last quarter mile. I crossed the finish line at a pace I've never run before. Most importantly, I finished on my terms.

Last night, I dreamed about Mark. It's the second time in the last few months. The first time, he was lying on a couch, unconscious and obviously sick. People were there and I kept checking on him. I was confused because I knew in some corner of my subconscious that he was dead, but I was hearing him breathe.

Last night, I showed up at this place, and Mark was standing at the door. I just grabbed him and hugged him as long and as hard as I could. I heard his voice tell me he was still here and he was fine. Then, we were back in the room again with Mark on the couch only this time I paid attention to who was in the room with me. It was Marie and Stephanie and Kim and Bethany and Robb and Jennifer and Ryan and a bunch of other people who knew Mark. We were laughing and talking, and Mark was quietly lying on the couch, awake this time, and smiling.

I went for a run when I woke up. Along the way, I found clarity. Mark is still here, and he's OK. I think he was awake and smiling in this dream because we'd all spent last weekend talking and laughing and remembering. We weren't wearing our grief like a burden; we were celebrating, and I think that made Mark happy. He lives in our hearts and our dreams now, and the more we remember and celebrate the more awake he is and the brighter he smiles. Mark lives on in Team Mark -- the runners, the cheerleaders, the donations, every person who still loves and remembers Mark.

Mark helped me find faith in myself. He helped me find my worth, when I was quite sure I had none. He fought for me, when I wouldn't fight for myself. He never stopped trying to help me find my place in this world, my happiness. In a round about way, he helped me find Team In Training, a group of people that have filled a void in my life and helped me find purpose and passion again. He did one last thing for me, I think, and that was bringing me back home.

Like Mark, I haven't gone back home much since I moved to DC. This is where I'm meant to be, and I didn't think I could go back. I thought I had to let go of "back home" to be here and happy. I've always been different, but one more time, Mark showed me I can still fit, even back home. I feel closer to my friends from high school now than I did back then. Mark brought me back to them. He'll remain a part of me, telling me to find the things that make me happy -- and telling off anyone who gets in the way of that.

I know I don't have to, but I'm going to keep running. I'm going to stay involved with Team In Training. I'm going to stay close to the people who have known me longest. I am not, however, going to say goodbye. Ever. I don't have to.

Long live the King. Long live Team Mark.

Time to go

"Coulda" and "shoulda" won't get me anywhere now, but it's obviously time to go. It has been, and I've let myself believe there was more because I was afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of new. Afraid of me.

One of my favorite movie quotes is from Fried Green Tomatoes: "Miss Ruth was a lady, and a lady always knows when to leave." Time for me to get back to being a lady, quit giving into fear, embrace the hurt and get on with what's next.

Never alone

This season has been a life-changing experience on so many levels. The staff, the coaches, and my mentor, Jenn, have made a huge impact on me. I want to do more.

I was so lost at the beginning of training, and Jenn walked, ran and hobbled along with me until I got my legs under me (literally), even though she badly needed to get her own training off to a good start. She taught me to slow my pace, stuck by me, and without her, I'm not sure I'd have gotten past my first five mile run.

The coaches have been amazing running me in on the long runs the last few weeks. The first time I ever ran 10 miles Joe Shanahan was out on the course as we tromped though ankle-deep mud checking on us and cheering us on. (Unfortunately, he was also taking pictures.) Christie always asks how I'm doing and tells me how she marvels that I'm running with asthma since she is now fighting it,too. I'm pretty sure Mike and Jim willed me to finish the last mile and a half the week we ran 12 because there was no part of my mind, body or soul that wanted to keep moving. Last week, Joe Funk ran every step of my 10 miles with me.

I've not worried about raising $3,000 (Which I will finish doing very soon, I promise.). I told Ben when I signed up that I knew how to raise money. I have to admit that I was seriously doubtful that anyone could teach me to run the distances I've been racking up week after week. I'm going to run 13 miles in two weeks, and while I'm still nervous, I have no doubt that I'll finish -- and it won't be on my own.

I've reached out to TNT to ask about being a mentor in the fall. I want to participate again, but this time, I want to lend the support to others that I've been shown this season.

Only and Just

As people were gearing up to run their races St. Paddy's weekend, the distances were really starting to look daunting. The week they were all doing their "dress rehearsal" the coaches were giving us plastic medals at the finish line. I figured I wasn't supposed to get one since I was "just" running 6 miles, not 13 or 20. Then, I started thinking that really I wasn't doing that much in comparison to the people running a full marathon. I'd gotten through my first ever 10 mile run without great incidence, so again, I started thinking I was "only" running a half.

St. Paddy's weekend as my teammates were running races, I went to training to run 12 miles. Don't get me wrong, every mile I'd run to that point had been work, but my body decided to show me just what only a half marathon could be like.

It's obvious that running will take a toll on your legs and feet, but you may not realize how much your core -- mid-section from shoulders to hips -- works when you run. About mile 8, I found out. First my chest and abs were a little tight, so I stretched and moved around to loosen back up.

Mile 9. Achy legs at this point is pretty normal, but I started noticing my hips getting sore, too.

Mile 9.5. I start huffing and chuffing because my diaphram has just about had it.

Mile 10. I'm having trouble keeping my posture because my abs have officially told me to kiss off.

Mile 10.5. I see my coaches at the final turn. I've never been so happy to see two people ever. I'm breathing like a woman in labor. I'm pretty sure my coaches can tell I'm about done because Mike decides to run my last mile and a half with me. I don't speak. Every step is excruciating because my hips are so inflamed.

Mile 11. Mike is talking to me, being reassuring me and telling me I'm doing great. I have the urge to hit Mike.

Mile 11.5. Jim passes us on his bike heading back to the parking lot. I consider knocking him over and stealing his bike. I can see the finish line, and I'm literally chanting like the Little Engine that Could. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

And I did. I apologized for thinking about hitting Mike or stealing Jim's bike. They laugh at me. Once I got home, I crawled out of the car and into the house. I was starting to get cold, so I took a very long, very hot shower, the whole time praying I'd be able to walk later. I managed to get my shirt on barely, but I could only get one leg in my pants. The other wouldn't bend enough. Thankfully, my husband was able to stop laughing at the sight of me long enough to put my sweats on me.

For the rest of the afternoon, I iced my hips, took ibuprophen and ate everything I could get my husband to bring to me. The next morning, my physical therapist worked me over trying to make sure my hip pain was only soft tissue, not bursitis or some other injury. When she was sure it was, I did muscle stem and heat. I'd shuffled into her office, and I was up to waddling on the way out.

It took a full 3 days for me to start feeling somewhat normal again. I was still sore, but manageably so, and I had a whole new perspective on the words "only" and "just." I have to give myself more credit. I'm doing a half marathon, and that's a pretty big deal regardless of what anyone else does.

I'm asking

It's not often that I ask for help, and there has to be something special behind the request for it to happen. Today, I'm asking.

February 2011 was a banner month for me. In four short weeks, I lost three people to cancer. Today is the one-year anniversary of the first. Mark King was just 37 years old. He was one of my oldest friends and my high school sweetheart. Next week will mark one year for Don Harmon, who was one of my mother's oldest friends, a man I knew from when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I had not seen him in a number of years but felt his loss in that part of me that remains a little girl. February 27th will mark one year since we lost my father-in-law. Glen was an amazing man who showed a level of strength and courage in his battle with cancer that will influence me for the rest of my life.

With Glen, I know I did everything I possibly could have for him. My husband and I went to all of his doctor appointments and procedures, all of which were in another state. The last hours of Glen's life were my shift, and I took care of his every need, administering his medication every hour, keeping him comfortable, singing to quiet him. I suctioned his throat, so he could take what would be his last breath. I have no regrets. I miss him like crazy, but I gave Glen everything I had.

While Glen fought for more than two years, Mark's fight was much more brief. Few people even knew he was sick at first. It wasn't his way to broadcast his business, and to the very end, he only allowed a very few people in his room to take care of him. I sat in DC, hundreds of miles from the nearest person who even knew Mark. I was glued to Facebook and my phone waiting for any news after he went into the hospital. I was isolated and helpless. There was nothing I could do to stop what was happening to Mark, nor to ease his family's pain. It was heart-wrenching and infuriating. In the end, Mark was gone, and I felt like I'd given him nothing. I'd done nothing.

Anyone who knows me, knows that doesn't go over so well. Dealing with the loss of Mark has been more difficult because I feel helpless and guilty. I know that in my rational mind, but it does nothing to sooth my heart.

A few months ago, I lucked across something that spurred my craziest idea ever, but that has also turned out to be my way of fighting back against the sadness and frustration of losing too much to cancer -- Team Mark. I've recruited a group of Mark's closest and oldest friends to join me in Nashville on April 28 to run the Country Music Half Marathon as a part of Team In Training to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Recruiting, organizing, raising money, these things are easy for me, and I wouldn't feel like I'd done enough if I wasn't also going to do something that will test the outer limits of anything I thought I could ever do -- run 13.1 miles.


I was not kind to my body in my youth. I'm out of shape, overweight, arthritic and asthmatic. I've never been a runner, much less a long-distance runner, and two months ago when I started training, I couldn't run a solid minute without having an asthma attack. When I signed up, LLS kept reassuring me that I'd be able to meet my fundraising goal with all the support they'd lend. I looked very seriously at the man and said I wasn't worried about $3,000 in the least, I'm much more worried about getting 13.1 miles on something besides wheels! Well, this past Saturday, I ran 6 miles.


I'm under the supervision of two doctors and a physical therapists. I have three inhalers, plus a couple of pills, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. It was one of the things that Mark most loved and hated about me. (He had one, too.) It won't be in record time, and it may be ugly, but I'll finish. And end the end, not only will I have done the easy stuff to help end cancer and care for those who fight, but also I will have left every last ounce of sweat and tears I have on the road to the finish line. I'll know I gave Mark everything I had, even if it's too late.


Whether you're cheering from the sidelines (or Facebook), offering up advice or a "Go Team!", chanting and praying or best of all donating, I hope you'll support me. Together we can beat cancer.

Battle song

Please read this post by the most amazing Bloggess.

Heaven help me

My half-marathon training is ramping up to distances I've never gone in one shot before. Saturday, I walked/ran 4.5+ miles. It was painful. Today, I ran just over 2 miles, and while I didn't hurt quite as much, my left shin and right calf were still cramping like crazy. I'm supposed to run 4 miles tomorrow.

I've got all the gear, and my physical therapist is working my legs over on a weekly basis. I stretch all the time, and I'm not sure what else to do. I'm trying to stay motivated. I keep telling myself that as long as my breathing is in check, I'm not stopping because my legs hurt. These cramps are obviously trying to tell me something though, so I'm trying to be more careful, but I don't want to get behind.

I am so frustrated!