When Get Well just isn't Enough

A dear friend of mine is laying in a hospital bed fighting for her life tonight. The doctors say it's terminal. Tabor says it's negotiable.
She believes in the power of prayer. She believes in herself. And she believes in miracles.
I hope with all my heart that she's right. I met Tabor as a sophomore in college. She was the managing editor at the paper, and eventually the managing editor for me while I was the EIC. Tabor has spent the majority of her life in school. She's an ordained minister with the African Methodist Episcopal church. She's an African drummer. She's mysterious and intriguing. I don't think Tabor even realizes the depth of her mind. She is a force to be reckoned with. And she's a born teacher. She's the type that teaches without even realizing it.
Tabor taught me to sit down, relax and sing when the nerves hit your stomach like a hive of bees. That's what we did while we waited for the editorial board's decision.

She then taught me composure and grace when I got the job and she didn't. She took me out to lunch, and told me I would succeed.
Tabor taught me that the right decision doesn't always make you popular, but it does make you successful. She taught me to not worry so much about what other people think.
She also taught me that she was not the best pick to have in the room when firing someone. Apparently stressful situations make her laugh. Uncontrollably. At all the wrong moments.
Tabor taught me that being different is beautiful. She would sit in her chair, editing a story on the screen and quietly gaze into space. Contemplating, she'd say. Thinking. Mulling. Very philosophical. She taught me that being weird is good. It's definitely served her well.
Tabor taught me that a look says more than a thousand words. Especially a look from her.
Tabor taught me that washing African-American hair is a weekly ordeal. And takes hours. She also taught me that Ciclids are lovely fish and deserve memorial services when they pass.
She taught me that things will get done. That it's okay to relax, take my time, and work at my own pace. What will be will be. And nothing is insurmountable.
Tabor taught me that Woodchuck on tap is far superior to that which is in a bottle. She tried to teach me to appreciate Bombay Sapphire, but, sadly, it seems that will never happen for "Thrasher" (her nickname for me).
Tabor taught me to block out all the noise. She also taught me a bunch of words I still can't remember.
Tabor is beautiful. And brilliant. She has taken the term "lifelong learner" to a whole new dimension. She's been a student at Virginia Tech since I was in high school, and will receive her most-recent degree, a doctorate, May 14.
Tabor taught me that life is a journey. And we don't have a map. She also taught me that it's more interesting that way. She taught me that thinking is a worthwhile pastime, and that the world, flawed as it is, remains beautiful.
I find myself praying constantly "Please, God. Just let Tabor wear her robes and get that degree. Please." I watch my son play, and wonder what she's thinking and how she's feeling. I watch the birds nest and wonder why her.
She may not realize it, but Tabor has spent most of her life teaching people to think and accept. To question. She certainly has taught me more than I can fully realize. And these words can never do her justice.
I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To tell her to fight. To get a Tabor look and ask her to define half of the words she uses in every day conversation. I wish I could be there to slip some of that Christmas-tree gin into her Slurpee. But I can't.
I know that whether Tabor decides to fly with angels or walk the earth a little while longer, she will bless either realm with a uniqueness most people will never know. She is one-of-a-kind, and she is loved. And she has blessed and enriched more people's lives than she will ever realize. Including mine.

The Amazing Juni Never Ceases to Amaze Me

My son won a dollar from his Me-Maw for spelling his name Monday night. I told him I'd take him to the dollar store for whatever his tiny heart desired the next day after preschool.
He reached for my hand as we crossed the street to the store, and asked me to hold his dollar so he wouldn't lose it. Juni insisted on carrying his own basket for his one treasure.
He perused the isles, debating bubbles and chalk and jump ropes and coloring books.
"Mommy! I need dis!" He says. I turn around, and his tiny tanned hands are clutching an unpainted wooden cross.
"Ummm...Okay...Are you sure Juni? Remember, you get one thing...What are you planning to do with that, baby?"
"Mommy. I not a baby anymore. I a big boy. Like Daddy. I eat beets last night, and now my muscles grow big and strong like Daddy. I want to paint this at home. I want to paint this fross at home with hearts and put it on my Nanny's head when she dead."
Okay. Let me expand. Remember, Juni is 4. Every day, we drive past a cemetery. A cemetery that seems to have a funeral at least once a week. He understands what a cemetery is, and why people are there. But he insists those people are there for a party, and he'd like to go say hi. He also has a obsession with where his Nanny and PaPa will be buried. They're 80 and 85, and I really do think he understands that they're old and will inevitably die.
So when Juni said he wanted to put the cross on her head when she died, he actually meant that he'd like to leave it at the grave.
"Ummm...Okay...but Nanny isn't dying anytime soon, I don't think. Are you still sure? This jump rope is pretty cool."
"Yes. Come on, mommy. I need to get home and paint. You get my paints for me when I get home? I not supposed to go in your drawer, you know."
"Okay....but how about you spell your name for me real quick, and you can get one of those toys you've been eyeing?"
He sings "J.....U.....N.....I!!! I fink I want dat jumpin rope, mommy. You have one of those when you a gurl?"
We get home and Juni spends 30 minutes painting his wooden cross, which is like 3 weeks in toddler time. He insists I call Nanny and get PaPa to drive her over immediately. It's 3:30 pm, which is like midnight in old people time.
They drive the 28 miles and knock on the door before the paint is even dried. I told her the story, minus the detail that one day that cross will help mark her grave.
Nanny doesn't drive anymore. She quit voluntarily about a year ago. She doesn't visit friends, and is rapidly approaching senility. And Juni is her world. She lives to visit him and play with him. And when he handed over that multi-colored Dollar Store cross, she literally didn't know what to say. And neither did I. I was so proud and touched by my son, that there were no words.

Juni's Scar

Juni visited the childrens' hospital emergency room for the first time. He'd wanted to "start and fight and play rough" with Mommy, but I'd decided that was not a good idea. He's been stranded in our home for three days because of the storm, and had entirely too much energy to play rough with me.
I startled him when I said no, he fell back, and hit his eyelid on the wooden steps. I scooped him up, said everything was okay, and then started to give the ceremonial kiss.
And that's when I saw it. Blood. A lot of blood. My head spinned, my vision blurred, and I yelled for Jasen to come get Juni before we both hit the floor. I take after my mother in that I do not deal well with blood. After the rush of adrenaline leaves, I hit the floor.
Mixing blood with tears means there was blood down Juni's chest, on the kitchen counter, on Jasen, and on me. After an afternoon a the hospital, the doctor decided to tape the one-inch gash.
I was exhausted. And it was still storming outside. So Jasen drove the car to the front. I opened the door, and turned to put Juni in his car seat. That's when, true to form, the wind gushed and the door crashed into my poor toddler's head.
I couldn't believe I'd single-handily injured my son twice in one afternoon. But poor Juni, he shed a few tears while I latched his straps, and then slapped a Thanksgiving sticker on my hand and rubbed my arm.
"Here's my ticker, mommy. You need dis. You're a good Mommy. I lub you. I get a double hamburger wif cheese?"
At that point, I would have given my little man absolutely anything.

Remembrance

I remember today for the way I sat silently with my dad and cried.
I remember today for the way my heart ached like I'd lost a family member.
I remember today for the way my stomach churned watching the images of tragedy.
I remember today for the way "massacre" made me dry heave over my toilet.
I remember today because of the way Virginia Tech is home to me in so many ways.
I remember today for the way my fellow Hokies became heroes.
I remember today for the lost futures. The lost sons, daughters, brothers and sisters.
I remember today for the lost sense of security Blacksburg always represented.
I remember today for the pain, insanity, confusion and disbelief.
I remember today. And I will never forget. Rest In Peace, young Hokies.
I remember.

My Ode to Iris

I started my pottery class today after nearly a year off. I've decided my back will just have to complain...I need the artistic outlet and my friends. The people in my class rock. They're an amazing mix of talented, outspoken women, and Ron, the brave man whom puts up with us all.
Newbies will come a go, but the core group remains the same. Iris was the mother of one of our core. She lived in Texas, but as she aged spent increasing time in Virginia.
Iris died while I was on my pottery hiatus. She collapsed from a aneurysm on her 90th birthday and died instantly in her daughter's hallway. She didn't make it to pottery class to see her party or cake.
Of course I was sad to hear Iris passed, but what landed a lump in my throat was that she didn't see her cake. Iris loved a party. On her 89th birthday, she fell asleep after eating two pieces of cake. She was still wearing her pink cardboard party hat and purple mardi gras beads. We didn't want to wake her, but also didn't want her to face-plow into her plate. So we watched, waited and giggled. Iris would have giggled, too.
Iris snoozed in class a lot. I choose to believe it was her way of telling us she was ready to go. She would sit at the table, listening to us bitch and complain about husbands, children and neighbors and laugh uncontrollably. But she'd listen with her eyes closed. Iris was tired from a hard, long life.
Iris grew up on a farm in Texas. She was no where near even 5 feet tall, but tough as nails. Her husband "wasn't a very nice man," but she didn't believe in divorce. So she endured. She endured until the doctors told her he was developing dementia. She put the bastard in a retirement home the next day and never looked back. Who knows how long ago that was.
Iris buried her son a few years ago after he died of a heart attack playing tennis. She watched her children marry and divorce. She watched her friends die. She watched the world grow.
Iris was an artist. She sculpted and painted and only God knows what else. She saw beauty in the world every day. And she told me she saw beauty in me and my work. She told me one day that my sculptures were art, and I blushed. That meant something to me. And I'll never forget it. She told me to enjoy my youth, but to not fear aging. She told me that every part of life held beauty.
Iris couldn't sculpt or throw any more. Her fingers were curled, her joints bulging from arthritis. And I'm fairly sure she couldn't see more than 2 feet in front of her. But she still painted occasionally in class, or just tagged along with her daughter for company. Iris would peruse the room, humming to herself, watching us work and giving us advice. Sometimes she'd begin talking to no one in particular, say something she found extremely hilarious, and let out the most high-pitched, barbie-esque giggle imaginable.
Iris reminded me of my Granny in many ways: beautiful, artistic, uplifting, feisty. Unique. Like Granny, Iris was a breath of fresh air. And not a class will go by that I won't remember her, or wonder if what I've created that day would make her smile and laugh that tiny laugh. I hope so.

One Deer Carcass and Two Gimps make for an Awesome Easter Egg Hunt

Every year my parents put on a spectacular Easter egg hunt for my sister and I. They are some of my fondest memories. All of my grandparents, cousins and friends, running around like crazy people searching for plastic eggs filled with candy and coins.
So when Juni turned two, I decided to carry on the tradition. Every year I order a pig, invite everyone I can think of, and stuff way too many eggs. Jasen and I spend the week before getting the yard prepared and planning. It rocks. We've had great weather, great kids, and great memories.
This year was no different, except for two key points. My degenerated disk disease and Jasen's tendinitis foot. Three days before the big event, I couldn't bend down and Jasen couldn't walk. But we were bound and determined to get everything done.
So we hobbled around, cleaning and cooking and trying to get everything done. The morning of the hunt, we realized we needed help. Jasen called Mauricio, who cleaned the garage. Jasen cooked the pig, and I was to cut the grass, clean the house and hide the eggs. Easier said than done.
Jasen could barely walk. He had to prop himself against the pig cooker all day. Mix that with 4 hours of sleep after babying the meat all night, and that makes for one pooped man and one swollen foot.
I walked out to the lawn mower only to find that the battery was as dead as a doornail. I sill insist that it was Jasen's fault. I've decided that he didn't turn the starter completely off. Whatever the case, the lawnmower wouldn't start. And it's not like we have neighbors to borrow from. They wouldn't have a mower big enough, anyway. Our lawn is a a good 1.5 acres of pure grass.
So Jasen put on the batter charger, and I went to curl my hair. That's when I hear it. The skid steer. Jasen had decided to completely redo our driveway at 9 am. The hunt began at 11. Needless-to-say, this was not the best idea. Granted, the drive looks great now, but at the time, there were plenty of other issues to tackle.
Like Sadie's giant poop. I knew I needed to do a poop patrol scan, and that it wasn't going to be pleasant. Jasen, bless his heart, decided to "help" me cut the grass. He got the mower started, and began cutting the back yard. But what he didn't realize is that Juni and I had yet to complete the poop patrol.
Here's a not-at-all-funny joke for you...What do you get when you mix giant Sadie poop and a lawnmower? A big fat friggin mess, that's what. Poop that's ground into the grass like mustard on shag carpet. You get a disaster. You get me pulling out poop-covered grass, gagging and bagging. You get a pissed off wife.
It took me an hour to get the poop and cut the grass. It took me another hour to hid the eggs, and that was with the help of Juni, his friend Kyle, my step mom and my sister. I couldn't bend over, so I just hurled the eggs onto the front yard.
When I got to the minefield that is Dutchess' preferred poop place, I stuck metal bunny signs in the ground as a signal to turn around and called it a day.
As I was hiding eggs, I noticed something odd. Duchess growling at Sadie, hovered over something in one of the front flowerbeds. I inched my way toward her treasure, and just about puked. It was a raw deer leg, no doubt the one Juni and I came across during the snow. It was the entire leg, from hip joint to hoof. And it was hairy. Hairy and bendable. It as the definition of redneck. And I had visions of screaming children running to their parents asking what a carcass was doing in the middle of all of my beautiful eggs.
I couldn't bring myself to touch Dutchess' find. So I asked Jasen to take care of it. I asked him three times. Three times should be enough to get the message through, correct? Of course not.
Two minutes after the hunt finished, I walked past the flowerbed, and there it was. A nibbled deer leg that no one had seemed to notice. Half of the hoof was gone, the remaining hair was dripping with drool, and the bone was shiny and clean.
I chose a few of my friends to share this information with, fussed at Jasen, and laughed it off. The Easter Egg Hunt was perfect. We had 20 completely happy children running through the yard, no poop reported on shoes (even though I did miss a few spots), and no injuries.
It's been three weeks since the hunt. I still find eggs that we hid a little too well, or the random piece of chocolate melting in the grass. Duchess and Sadie have found Jasen's dumping ground for the pig remnants, and drag a giant piece of crackled skin or foot up to the house daily. And there are sections of the pig's jawbone, teeth intact, strewn throughout the front yard where the dogs have chosen to hide them.
And then there's Sadie, giant poops and all. She was a very well-behaved puppy. She still has a limp from pulling a muscle or tendon (making us a family of three gimps). And of course the deer leg. She takes it to bed with her ever night like Juni and his stuffed puppy. Only the femur is left, with just a few patches of hair. It's absolutely the most redneck sight ever, but I just can't bring myself to take it from her.

What I Hate about Working Out

I've decided that dieting absolutely sucks. There is nothing about it that I enjoy. I'm irritable, deprived, always have a headache, and am just plain miserable. So I've decided to quit. And join the Y.
I love the Y. Juni loves the Y. And I actually enjoy the incumbent bike I ride. I get that high people are always talking about, and it rocks. It's also the only piece of equipment I can use until my back decided to cooperate with the cortisone injections.
But there are some thing I absolutely despise. here are a few.

1. People who wear sunglasses while working out. Indoors. It doesn't matter how cool you are. Sunglasses indoors make you look like a jackass. If there's something wrong with your eye, wear a patch. It's much cooler.

2. Eighteen-year-old bodies. All of them. I hate them. I walk into the Y feeling like I'm in decent shape. And then in walks some girl with shorts up her tanned butt with her perfect highlights in a perfect pony. There's no sign of the cottage cheese. It's so not fair.

Okay, so when I think about it, there are only two things I hate about the gym. No. 2 in particular really gets to me. I'm tired of not appreciating what I have. I'd like to live one day without being so tough on myself and my body. I'd like to live one day where I don't see someone else and think "damn I wish I had her legs."