The perfect goodbye

It was lacrosse weekend. I called you from the field during the alumni game, and you came down. It was chilly, but you had those nasty Adidas sandals on with your toes hanging off the edge and a white undershirt on. You called my name and I ran to give you a hug ... "Mitchy!" I remember that hug like it happened five minutes ago. Those long, skinny arms of yours could wrap all the way around my waist twice. The players threw a party at the lacrosse house. You didn't want to go, but I came by to nudge you along. I put on my makeup in the mirror by the door while you got ready. During one trip from the bathroom to your bedroom you stopped and told me I'd be so hot if I weren't "such a mom." Ha!

While you were getting dressed you told me about spending time with your dad. I was glad to hear you were establishing a relationship with him. You were also going to take a class in the spring to get back on track with school. You were looking at the future and making plans. It was so nice to see. I told you how happy I was and how proud. I know what a rough road you'd traveled. I'd been on some of the same ones. I was always glad to be your touchstone or sounding board when you needed me. We finally made our way to the party. People couldn't believe I got you out of the house.

You may have gone because I made you, but you had a ball at the party. The house and yard were packed. Students were running around in costumes that were interesting to say the least. The pregnant teenager costume complete with "Baby Daddy" fueled your snark all night. It was the first lacrosse party Joe and I attended as a couple officially, so there were questions and comments constantly. You kept telling everyone that you knew it would happen all along. You also walked up while I was talking to different people all night to tell them that I tried to have you killed the first time you met me. You'd then walk away to leave me to explain. You were in full effect that night.

Claiming you were an old man, you left the party a bit earlier than the rest of us. You said I couldn't bitch because if it had been anyone else you'd have never left your apartment that night. You'd follow me anywhere. I gave you a big hug, lingering to tell you how proud of you I was and I love you. You were grinning as you walked up the hill, threw up your hand to say goodbye and walked into the night. What I didn't know is you were also walking out of my life. Just like that.

We never know when the last time we'll see somebody. I'd never have guessed that would be the last time I'd see you, and once the confusion, pain and shock settled, I could not have asked for a more perfect goodbye. There was no sadness. I was going to see you the next day. We'd had such a great conversation getting ready for the party. You were more positive than I'd seen you in years, and you said you were really feeling better, like things were turning around. You had so much fun at that party -- laughing, smiling, flirting, snarking -- you at your most Mitch. I can look back at that night and smile because I remember the happy, hopeful Mitch. I can smile because the last thing I ever said to you was "I love you."

Nothing has been the same since that night. The next 24 hours were like a living nightmare. I had to call your best friend to tell him you were gone. He still freaks out when I call him, even about nothing. My voice brought one of his greatest losses into his life. I called every person anyone could think of that needed to know you were gone. The last person I told was Lindsay, and when I got off the phone, I went into the living room and cried because I was finished with the list and I didn't want to make anyone else cry.

We drove to Ohio for your funeral. Your mom and grandparents were so sweet. It wasn't very "Mitch," so we celebrated your life a bit more appropriately at a casino in Wheeling, WV, on the way home. As Ethan sat with an entire row of machines lit up and maxed out, I stared in disbelief. He just looked and pointed up and yelled, "Thanks, Skeet!"

I called my mom to make sure she knew what my final wishes would be. I know your parents were so confused and shocked. Losing you made all of us realize that we are very mortal and being young means nothing in the grand scheme of things.

We went back to Knoxville to really say goodbye. Ethan still had a key to your old apartment, so it wasn't technically breaking and entering. We met some of your neighbors who'd heard stories about us. I got your ice skates from one of them and sent them to Thomas. You'd have wanted him to have them. At the end of the night, Joe and Ethan climbed onto your roof and placed a forty and a can of dip where the three of you hung off the back side hiding from the cops. I kissed my hand and placed it on your door.

American Movie

Some things don't change. Ethan still watches movies that would have both of us bored to tears while he laughs his ass off. Joe still has the famed spaghetti pot. You'd still think I'm hot and "such a mom." I thought about you on my wedding day. I looked in the mirror all made up, wearing my red dress, and I swear I could hear you, "Damn, you're hot." I just whispered, "Thanks." I saw someone who could pass for your twin at a Nationals game once, and before I could catch myself, my heart leapt and I thought, "Mitchy!!" Then, my heart broke. Every Halloween, I remember that perfect goodbye. Every November 1st, I send Ethan a message telling him I love him. Nothing more. Joe always finds a suiting tribute. Today, both of our Facebook profile pics are of Skeeter.

I can't believe it's been eight years. I had to write this to tell you I remember. I remember it all, and I still love you, Mitchy. Forever.

File this under you get what you pay for

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my bra. Well, mostly hate. First of all, I had to start wearing a bra when I was in the 4th grade. Not many girls at age nine require a bra, but lucky me, I got started early. Can you imagine the bra strap popping? By the time I was in high school, I had the unfortunate nickname "TQ" (Titty Queen). Now, imagine 20 fraternity pledges chanting, "TQ, TQ, TQ!" in the student section during homecoming. (Quite thankfully, one of the seniors made those pledges do pushups until they couldn't move their arms.) In the past few months, my current bras have become unbearable. My back hurts; my rib cage is sore.

I gave up on Victoria's Secret years ago. The 12 year olds working there know nothing. Their products fall apart, and a girl in a B cup just doesn't understand the woes of one in a D cup. So I went to buy new ones at Macy's, and came closer to assault than a purchase. Joe found me sweating, cursing and slightly bleeding. (I fell into a metal rack!)

While trying lure me out of the over-packed department store, he told me he'd seen a store down the mall that claimed to be the bra fitting experts -- Intimacy. The store was going to be way more expensive than what I normally spent on bras. We went in, and they were booked, but a woman checking out told me to make an appointment to come back the next day that the experience would change my life. I took that under advisement and took note that all the women working in the store were, well, let's just say they could relate to my problem. I went back the next day.

Before I go any further, let me tell you that I'm not in any way (other than my current undergarments) connect to Intimacy, nor have I or will I receive any compensation for what I'm about to say.

I've been fitted for bras before, and as a conscientious adult woman, I'm long past feeling awkward about someone inspecting my breasts, much less my bra. Even if I weren't, this lovely young woman named Alison was incredibly knowledgeable and made the fitting fun. Turns out my bra was the wrong size to start. Next, I wasn't wearing it right. Who knew after 25 years of wearing one!?

I now know I'm not a 36D -- I'm an 34F. I know how they're supposed to fit, and that when they do fit, my back doesn't hurt! I felt a difference before I even left the store. I also now know that the money I'd tried to save buying cheap bras, cost me a lot more.

Honored

There are days in your life that far exceed your expectations, experiences that pay dividends beyond your dreams, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

When I was a kid, I loved my Scooby Doo and GI Joe, but I also was fascinated with World War II. I might have been the only 10 year old who had seen and enjoyed the very long movie D-Day. My dad was in the Army and died when I was two years old. My grandfather was in the Army and at Utah Beach in Normandy. They both were my heroes, and John Wayne reminded me of them. I don't think there is a single war movie with John Wayne in it that I haven't seen. I read Ann Frank's Diary several times and history books about WWII. It bordered on obsession really.

A few years ago, we went to Paris, and we took a day trip to Normandy to see the beaches. It was astounding. I said then that if there was a place this side of heaven more peaceful or beautiful I couldn't imagine it. We walked from the beach up to the first Nazi pill box. It was a clear day. I was not carrying a 60lb. pack or a gun. I wasn't running or being shot at. There weren't dead bodies every where. Surviving that hill in those conditions isn't something I can imagine either.

The soldiers from WWII, overseas and stateside, and the families left behind that carried on sacrificed in a way few of us can imagine. As a generation, they are so unassuming and humble. They just say they did what they had to do. They didn't ask for recognition and they didn't make a fuss that they didn't have a monument to their war. The memorial finally built in DC is an amazing tribute to them, and last year, I found out about the Honor Flight Network, which provides the opportunity for WWII veterans to come to DC to see their memorial. In early May, a group from Nashville was coming in, and I took the day off to volunteer with the Honor Flight group at Reagan National Airport.

We met 101 veterans and about 30 guardians (volunteer caretakers for the day) at the airport. We stood outside security -- I'd made a sign welcoming them -- and shook their hands and cheered. I was planning to take my own car to the monument to help out there, too, but they had an extra seat on one of the buses, so I went with them for the day.

In early October, I took another day off to help with a slightly larger flight from Knoxville. Their flight was delayed three hours, but they were still able to see the Korean War and WWII Memorials and the changing of the guard at Arlington. I got to ride on the bus again to help out.

On both days, I took my camera, thinking I could share the shots I took with everyone later. Helping them on and off the buses and giving them a few pictures seemed like a small contribution to make. I wanted to give them something to say thank you, to honor them. I had no idea what I'd be getting in return. The men I helped thanked me repeatedly for pushing their wheelchair or just hanging out. I told them again and again they were more than welcome. And I really meant it.

To hear their stories first hand and watch them throughout the day gave me new perspective on the most monumental global event in modern time and forever burned into my memory the faces of courage and sacrifice. It was my honor to make their trip easier, more comfortable, more memorable. I hope I'm able to do it many more times.

Lessons from Mr. Brown's 8th grade history class, Part 2

Of all the stories my 8th grade history teacher, Mr. Brown, told, there is one that has stuck with me like no other. I don't remember the exact details from the story, names, dates, etc., but those aren't the important details anyway.

I believe it was in the late 60's that the hunger crisis in India was so bad that the U.S. decided to send over someone to help the Indian government look for solutions. The U.S. representative got off the plane in India and the first thing he saw was cows everywhere. Immediately he thought he knew the solution to the hunger crisis and started preparations to slaughter the cows to feed the people of India. Of course when this grand plan was shared with the Indian government, they put the representative right back on a plane to the U.S. with a thanks for his troubles.

The man from the U.S. didn't even try to understand the root of the Indian hunger crisis. He didn't talk to the people there about what they'd tried to do, nor did he ask why all the cows hadn't been considered as a food source. A simple conversation could have averted a huge embarrassment.

How often do we fail to ask enough questions and listen? No one knows when they walk into a new situation, whether it's a new job or a new social group, what sacred cows others have. Some people can't seem to help themselves. Open mouth, insert foot. It's happened to everyone at some point. I've had some colossal instances myself.

The thing is we're supposed to learn as we get older that our ears serve us better than our mouths. It's not just a matter of social conduct, but of survival at the basest level. Watch hunters or soldiers. It's not the guy gabbing his way through the woods or the soldier broadcasting his prowess on the battlefield who catches his game or survives. It's the guy who is listening and recording all the details of his environment before he moves that has the greatest success.

If the best soldiers and hunters listen, why isn't this same principle applied more liberally in the business world? The answer, in my humble opinion, is ego. It's ego that makes people fear being wrong, assume they are beyond failure or need to hear one's own voice. It's ego that keeps a mouth open and ears closed.

To someone who is all talk, few things are as intimidating as someone who listens. 

I don't claim for a moment to have my ego mastered, but I'm mindful of it. I work incredibly hard at putting it to practice every day. (Some days I'm better than others.) I speak with confidence, not because I'm always right, but because I listen. That confidence gets mistaken for ego, when it couldn't be further from reality. It's a lack of ego (or one that is in check) that makes me all the more confident because I'm not afraid of being wrong.

When I was young I was so shy I felt like fainting in the spotlight, but no one would have ever guessed it. I defied my insecurities by doing the exact opposite of my nature. The process was painful and wasn't always pretty. It took years for me to overcome my shyness and get comfortable in my own skin. I understood listening, but I had to get comfortable using my voice. That's when the real fun starts.

Life would be easier if we only had to master ourselves, but once you start using your voice -- participating in the conversation of life, new conflicts arise. If solving the hunger crises in India had been a simple question of finding new food sources, our friend from the story wouldn't have made such a big misstep. You are hungry; here is food. It's the circumstances, the other people involved, their sacred cows, that create the curve balls.

Unfortunately, life's lessons take longer than a middle school history class. I didn't learn to hit a curve ball for a long while, and no one can bat a .1000 in this game. But Mr. Brown showed me what a curve ball looked like.

What he said

9/30-10/2 issue of USA WEEKEND

The current turmoil in American politics has had my head spinning with so many thoughts and responses to what's happening around me that I can't really even write about it. But I just read an article in USA WEEKEND where celebrated documentary film-maker Ken Burns has found the words for me, and framed the thoughts with an unexpected comparison. I am fascinated, as I hope you will be, too. Please take a moment to read and reflect: Is it the end of civility (again)?

To find a hard copy of the article, check your local newspaper.

Lessons from Mr. Brown's 8th grade history class, Part 1

Mr. Brown, a few years later

My eighth grade American history teacher, Mr. Brown, told many stories as he fooled us into learning history. He only ever asked us to remember one date, and a lot of years later, I still remember it -- November 11, 1918 at 11am. (That's when World War I ended. WWI started when Archduke Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated.) Mr. Brown's stories would have us laughing or crying on any given day. He pulled us into history in a way no other teacher has ever repeated in my academic career. It was a class we looked forward to every day, even book report day.

Mr. Brown required everyone to read one non-fiction book every six weeks and give an oral book report. For those of us who weren't ready, we always begged Chris H. to go first because he could spin a yarn about his book for at least half the class time. You didn't dare try to fake your way through the book report. It was better to tell Mr. Brown you lacked 100 pages than get caught lying about finishing. Rich learned that one the hard way when Mr. Brown backed him into a corner about why the Nazis only surrounded Dunkirk on three sides during the battle there. The tongue lashing that followed was brutal, but fair, and no one ever attempted that again. By the way, the Nazis couldn't surround Dunkirk on the fourth side "because the Nazis couldn't walk on water!" Turns out Dunkirk was a river town, which Rich would have realized if he'd read the book.

None of us really wanted to read non-fiction, and I didn't want to read anything. I was always a slow reader, so the idea of finishing anything more than a short story terrified me. I explained this to Mr. Brown, and he gave me a book he knew I'd love that was several hundred pages long. He had me read 200 pages per six weeks until I finished it. Subsequently, I lost my fear of pages and found my love of reading.

The late eighties were rife with movies about Vietnam. At least once a decade the sixties come back in style, and we were all intrigued. (That's pretty excited for teenagers.) Mr. Brown wouldn't be teaching us about Vietnam era American history. Since in 1988 was less than 20 years from the end of the war, he said it wasn't history yet. We did talk a bit about that era though, and Mr. Brown introduced us all to Jimi Hendrix. He brought in a record of Star Spangled Banner from Woodstock, and we were mesmerized. We'd never heard anything like it before. I was in love -- again, thanks to Mr. Brown.

We often did experiments in class. They'd be the product of some tangent we'd start. Once he wanted to show that personal space is relative to gender, as well as the individual and the relationship between the two people in each others' space. He started with the boys by taking two guys who were good friends, then he repeated the set up with myself and my best friend. We got progressively closer to each other side to side, back to back, then face to face. The girls had very little personal space and were not uncomfortable being in close proximity to each other. The guys were a little more distant. It was interesting.

Sometimes, our experiments were to make a point. For instance, Mr. Brown once had several of us take turns doing this endurance test. Your back is against the wall with your hips and knees bent at 90 degree angles like you're sitting very straight in a chair. It's only the strength of your legs that keeps you in that position. Then he had us put our arms straight out in front of us, palms up supporting our history book. This is not a comfortable position. He had some random people in class see how long they could go, and then, asked us who we thought could hold out the longest. One of the captains of the football team was in our class, and of course, we all picked him. Then, he asked which girl we thought could hold out the longest, and they picked me. I ended up holding on longer than the captain of the football team. It was only about three and a half minutes, but it was the longest three and a half minutes of my life, thus far. His point? You'll find the greatest strength in the places you don't expect, and endurance is as much mental as it is muscle. How does that relate to history? The projection of strength is often enough to keep others at bay, and never underestimate the little guy with something to fight for.

We were each asked to write an essay on which side we'd have taken in the Revolutionary War. Mr. Brown had been assigning this to students for years, and students were usually split 50/50 on their choices. I was the first person to ever declare themselves Switzerland though. I could see both sides and was convinced there had to be a more diplomatic way to solve the problem. In the end, Mr. Brown explained that by not choosing a side I was the enemy to both sides. It was my first lesson in "if you're not with us, you're against us." Sometimes, you have to pick a side.

I was lucky to have had a number of fantastic teachers who positively impacted my life. Mr. Brown has remained one of my favorites, and the lessons he taught have remained relevant even in my adult life.

Women, read this!

At her invitation, I've stolen @WhyMommy's post. The more women who see this the better. Please check out her blog as well.

Inflammatory breast cancer

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.


P.S. Feel free to steal this post too.  I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked.  Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care.  But I want the word to get out.  I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis?  Is it a rash?  Am I overreacting?  This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

Thank you.