The Mixed and Happy Blog
Words. Love.
I am usually bursting with words. But tonight, I am feeling quiet and thankful; just thanking God for the words of my students and the two nurses who nursed me physically and spiritually last week. Words of love. Their words (of my students and the nurses) have healed something in my heart that I cannot explain.
Feeling the feelings
Woke up around 9 this morning. I’ve had the luxury of doing that for the past week or so — since I came home from the hospital. Something my mind and body has needed. Although, I don’t know if waking up a few hours late is a luxury when my emotions have such a grip on me — have their claws in me.
I’m in a place where the seemingly silliest things can push my smile into a muddy puddle of tears and regrets and where the pain is so deep that I can’t seem to pull myself out of it and my only escape is no real escape, because the only thing I can do is hide in my bathroom or under my covers in hopes of saving those around me from the puddles that in a heartbeat become tidal waves.
I’m a mess. And with that, I feel kind of guilty for being a mess.
I was a bigger mess this past Wednesday at the dentist’s office. I thought I was OK when I walked in. My dentist office has this discreet row of sinks in the waiting room where you can brush your teeth before your appointment (I’m thinking more for them than for me.) So since the waiting room was empty, I walked to a sink, picked up a toothbrush and uh. What? Read the sign sitting beside the dish full of toothbrushes. What?
What does that sign say? Why would they say that about a toothbrush? Of all of the verbs in the world, they had to use that one? They couldn’t have said: saturated, permeated, filled? In the midst of brushing my teeth, I almost choked because the tears were fighting their way out.
I was like, kind of mad that the sign said that. Seemed really dumb to me. But I also knew how bitter I was feeling. I learned about the grieving process when I was 20-something and in nursing school and oh, I must be in the anger stage. Hadn’t really hit me before the toothbrush-sign incident. Stupid, stupid toothbrush sign. Making me feel … well, just making me feel.
I hadn’t even worked through the toothbrush-sign incident in my mind when I was called back by a lovely woman with an Australian accent. In her 20s. She was looking over my chart when she said this to me:
“Noooooo. You’re not pregnant. Are you?”
I held my breath for a second, and replied. “Um. No. Not pregnant.”
She giggled. “Of course not, but I have to ask.” She was actually trying to compliment me. As in, no way, you look too good to be pregnant. Or something along those lines.
But you know what was going on in my mind? You know what my brain did with that little comment? I was sitting in the dentist chair and had my hands in my lap. I turned my left palm over and studied it, and as if I had been pulled back into the moment when I saw my baby for the first time. A tiny little perfect human being who could fit perfectly into the palm of my hand.
I wanted to melt into a puddle. At the same time, I wanted to scream and say to her, “Well, since you ask, a week ago, at this very hour, I was pregnant. But, you know, I am not pregnant now, because a week ago, I found out that my baby died. So, I was pregnant a week ago. But now, now, I am not. Is there room for that in your chart?”
My head was a blurry mess of emotions. And then I heard her say to me, “So are they turquoise?”
“What?”
“Your earrings,” she replied. “They’re so pretty. Are they turquoise?”
“Oh, um, no, they are just cheap earrings I bought at Target for a few bucks.”
The earring comment saved me for a moment. Just before I left about an hour later, teeth squeaky clean, I noticed that she was wearing a beautiful silver and turquoise ring on her right ring finger. Pretty. And kind of peaceful to my heart for some reason.
I think I might like turquoise now. For some reason, it settled my heart.
The dentist visit was two days ago. Today — well, the first half of today — was a little better. I mean, I cried as I was perusing Facebook, for no apparent reason, and hubby asked why and I said I didn’t know why. But what I really meant was: “What do you mean what’s wrong? Don’t you know my baby died? Our baby died?” I chose not to pull him into that mess with me, though. That was a few hours ago.
This morning, though, my heart was happy. My family and I went to a homecoming parade where my mind was lost in a scene of colorful floats and balloons and music and cotton candy and the pure joy of having little ones at my feet. Even as they were stepping on my toes a bit.
My balloon!
On the walk back to the car, my 3-year-old let go of his balloon. On purpose. He giggled as he let it slip away and then cried and covered his eyes as he realized that it was really gone. I giggled with him in his delight one moment, and then rubbed his head and comforted him as he cried the next.
And at that moment, I could feel God slip a little message into my heart: That He does the same with me. Mourns with me as I mourn and rejoices when I am joyful. And I felt in that moment that all of my feelings were OK — the feelings I have been struggling to tame. That those feelings have purpose — especially the painful ones. The ones I don’t like. The ones I hide from, run from. Well, maybe I won’t run from them tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow, I will just feel them.
(Exhale.)
From a student.
Hubby went to my school to pick up the boys and brought these home for me. They are from a student. I love that orchids symbolize love, beauty and strength. But in his culture — he is Chinese — I believe they can be symbolic of the innocence of children. Whatever they symbolize, they translate into a smile in my heart. Thank you, M.
Goodbye, Baby Samuel
Silence as I lay in a hospital bed, its back stretched back as far as it would allow. I was just as tired and uncomfortable and achy as that old bed. Seemed as if we probably hurt together. I was hot. Thirsty. Delirious. My head hurt and did that just happen? The baby? Died. Yes, that just happened.
Hubby handed me a cold can of lemon-lime Gatorade. Cracked it open and I took a few gulps when they walked in. Doc M and Nurse M stood a few feet from my bed, huddling over a small hospital blanket — the cliche white, pink and blue garment that all newborns go home wrapped safely, tightly in.
I felt them looking my way, waiting, for me to look theirs. I looked over and nodded. I was ready. As they neared me, I was terrified, not knowing what I would see. Doc gently lifted the blanket and had not many words. “So, this is your baby,” he said quietly.
I took a last gulp of Gatorade and remember thinking, lemon-lime Gatorade will never taste the same. That flavor will always bring me back to that sad old bed, to that sad old moment — when I met him, when I lost him.
I first cried softly as I peered over him. He was so perfect. My perfect little baby with perfect tiny toes and fingers. But what got me — his tiny little knees. They melted my heart. And with that, the tears streamed down my face quickly and uncontrollably because he was my perfect little baby, with perfect little knees — who was not breathing. And from that point, I don’t remember the tears ever stopping. My soft-blue tank top was soaked with the tears and the what-ifs.
Beneath my quiet sobs, Doc began to inspect the baby. “Was it a boy or a girl?” I asked. He gently nudged a slender metal instrument in-between baby’s knees and said, “Looks like a boy, but I cannot tell you for certain.”
He couldn’t tell me because although I had given birth at 16 weeks, the baby passed away when he was just 12 weeks. He had been dead for four weeks inside my womb before I knew anything was wrong. Although, I knew. The night before I went in to the hospital, I was up until 2 a.m. because my brain and my heart would not let me rest. And the night before that, I had a dream where I was talking to an angel, and he and I kept repeating the word Kumar. I called hubby the next day, and said, “I think God told me this baby is a boy. I looked up the word Kumar and it is a name that means tiny prince or baby boy.”
So although doc was not 100 percent sure, I sure was.
“What happened? Why did he die” I asked Doc. I clung to him for the answer I needed to carry me to my next breath and the next one and the next. “Well, it’s hard to tell,” he replied. My heart became bitter in that second. His words deflated me. “Hard to tell” are words that will haunt me. Hard to tell meant that I could have possibly prevented this, right? Could have been something I ate or … or … Argh!
And then: “Ahh, here it is. This is what happened,” Doc said.
We looked together. See this. He pointed to baby’s neck. Wrapped around it tightly was baby’s umbilical cord. It was wrapped tightly two times around. Other than that, he was perfect. That moment gave me permission to exhale. “There is nothing you could have done to prevent this,” Doc assured me. “This was not your fault, OK. Do you understand me?”
I did understand, although my heart did not. I still wanted to take my baby home with me like all the other mothers on the unit were planning to. I told the nurse I wanted to see the baby one last time as it was nearing my discharge time. She brought him back in and placed him on my lap. She left so hubby and I could be alone with him. Hubby unwrapped the blanket and he looked different — almost smushy from the decomposition that was setting in.
Hubby pulled the baby from me right before I began furiously throwing up — the taste of tangy lemon-lime Gatorade stung my throat. I couldn’t stop throwing up and crying at the same time. I guess my body wasn’t ready for the reality of the moment.
When the nurse came in, I asked her for one last thing:
“I’d like to take his hospital blanket home with me,” I said.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a clean one?” (It was terribly bloody, but I didn’t care because that was my baby’s blood, so yes, hand it over.)
“Yes, I want his blanket.”
“But when you take it off,” I added, “will you please wrap him in my shirt — that purple shirt over there? It is what I came in here wearing.”
The purple shirt was folded neatly on the sink. After she wrapped him, hubby and I held him and prayed over him. I didn’t hear the prayers because I was crying so hard. I was ugly-crying. But my heart heard the prayers.
I was helpless, but it was all I could do, leave him in his momma’s purple soft shirt. I refused to leave him in that cold hospital blanket. No, this was our baby, Baby Samuel, and he needed to be wrapped in his momma’s shirt.
It was all I could do.
For the first time in my life, I was wheeled out of a labor and delivery floor with just my purse in my lap. There was no cart of baby stuff. No car seat. No diapers. No Congrats! balloons. No … baby.
Just to think that at the start of that tragic day, I pulled my favorite purple shirt off its hanger, never realizing that in a matter of hours, my dead baby would be wrapped in it. Had I known that, I would have chosen that same shirt. I loved it. He deserved it.
Meeting Baby Samuel
I’m sitting at my laptop, finally. Finally made it out of bed. Kids and hubby gone to church and the house is quiet — except for some sad taps on my laptop and some sadder notes from Norah Jones singing Rosie’s Lullaby to my empty heart. This mango-orange scented candle sitting to the right of my laptop seems to be anchoring me down in some way — its warmth; it reminds me of a summer evening filled with life.
But to the left of my laptop sits a sad blue box. One that reminds me how quickly life can be lost. It is round, with flowers hand painted on its top. In tiny white cursive letters — I would have missed them had I not inspected every inch of the box — there is a name: Judith A. MacLavey. She is the artist who cared before my sweet baby was ever conceived. Just inside the box, sits a card: “This memory box has been painted with heartfelt sympathy by a member of the Decorative Artists of Southwest Florida.” I cried the first time I read it. And every time after. I’m crying now.
Just beneath that little card is a tiny, hand-crocheted onesie. It is blue and white and a mango color, almost the color of my candle flickering its warmth and sympathies my sad way. And then there is this tiny, tiny white hat. Too small for any fully formed baby. And there are my white hospital armbands stamped with my name, my doctor’s name and the date I found out my tiny baby had died: 10/26/2011.
At the very bottom of my blue box, there is a picture of him. I insisted on having a picture — something tangible — to carry with me out of that hospital. It’s all I have of him that I can hold in my hands.
Just four days earlier, when I made it to the hospital, in great pain, what I carried with me was my fifth child, whose life I couldn’t wait to watch unfold. I couldn’t wait to see where this child’s journey would go. And I was so grateful for being his mom.This one was special for a reason I did not understand. I just knew that my sister, who passed at 24, had come to me about this one. She told me there was a connection with them. And so I couldn’t wait to meet him. Had he been a girl, I would have named him Yelena at birth.
That was always the plan — to name this child after my sister had it been a girl. I guess she knew what I did not as I made it to my doctor’s office. In my mind, my body was most likely trying to go into pre-term labor. I fully expected them to give me a shot and put me on bed rest.I fully expected baby to be OK.
With that thought in my mind, I told hubby to take the 3-year-old to our sitter because he was all over the place. Hubby had been gone about 10 minutes when they called me back. The nurse asked for a urine sample and when I slipped my panties off, I bursted into tears. Blood. It was all over me. Bright red blood. During pregnancy, it’s what we consider the BAD blood.
I called to the nurse and showed her. We both knew. Something was very wrong. She whisked me back to the sonogram room and I still believed that baby was OK. He had to be, right? Hubby was still gone, so it was just me and baby and sonogram lady. She placed the jelly on my belly and pressed against it hard. I was so scared to look, and when I did, I saw the baby. Not moving. And no heartbeat. He was dead. I didn’t even have to ask her. I just started sobbing. When she left, I picked up my phone and called hubby. He didn’t understand a word I was saying between the sobs, so finally I just shouted it. “THE BABY DIED. BABY DIED. THE BABY ….
Sobs.
A nurse wheeled me to Labor and Delivery. Yes, I know that place. I know it well. I’ve given birth there three times. I dropped my head and when I finally looked up, through the tears, I could see the sign, “New Beginnings.”
Ah, new beginnings. Bitter irony.
The nurse put me in a back-corner room and quickly gave me drugs. Hubby came shortly after that. The look on his face: confusion and hurt. But more hurt for what he saw in my face. The nurse fed me these meds that were supposed to help me dilate. They expected that, after having four children, I’d deliver the tiny being quickly.
Every time she asked my pain level, on a scale of 1-10, I’d think something like 257,000. That wasn’t my body. That was my heart.
In between newborn-baby cries and lullaby music that comes on every time a baby is born, I lay in a cold room in a sloppy blur of tears, sleeping, pain, forgetting. I woke up once at the sound of a baby’s cry somewhere down the hall and forgetting what was happening, I scanned the room for my own baby. And then I remembered. He had died. And he was still in me.
Around 4 a.m., doc came in. He couldn’t believe it was taking this long, but after checking me, he knew how close I was. He called me a warrior. And I thought, I am not. It’s just happening. That doesn’t make me a warrior. I have no choice. If I had a choice, I would choose coward and run the other way — with my living baby safely wrapped in my arms.
At 6:37 a.m., baby came. Doc explained that, at this point, they’d send baby down to pathology. And I just melted. I couldn’t stop crying. “Well, can you tell me — was it a boy or a girl? I don’t know anything about my baby.”
I was half begging, but half angry.
He rubbed my foot and said, “If that’s what you want, we can look.”
Yes, I was sure. I wanted to see my tiny baby. I was so connected to him. And so, together, we looked: Me, hubby, Dr. Marichal and Nurse Marygold.
Silence.
[To be continued. It's a lot to write all at once.]
Maybe I shouldn’t be …
But I am.
This morning, I made it to work at 7:58 a.m. sharp. I bolted upstairs and made it to the Monday morning staff meeting. I made my way to the back of the room and stared at my calendar. So much to do. So much to do. I could hear the teachers around me. Talking, laughing. I buried my nose in my calendar. So much to do. So much to … wah.
Actually, I wanted to cry. Right there. I bet everyone thinks I’m such a snob, I was thinking. But I didn’t have a word. Not one. Actually, I had a word for myself. Well, two words: Oh no.
And I couldn’t get those two words off my mind. Oh no had been on my mind since the previous night. Sunday night. When, right before bed, I felt something wet and in the bathroom, noticed blood. Blood.
Oh no. Blood!? My heart raced, because, at four months pregnant, it’s an ominous sign. I called out for hubby. It wasn’t a whole lot so I went to bed and decided I would call my doc in the morning. So sitting in the meeting, while my boss was talking kudos, I was thinking oh no.What if? Well, maybe it’s not too bad. But, still, what if? At four months, a baby is not viable. And this is my last baby. So if this baby’s not viable, then there is no another baby. Ever.
I felt better, when around 10, my nurse called. Her words (which I will spare you) settled my mind. She went down a checklist, and I was on the okay side. Until a few hours later, when it happened again. And this is where I leave you. Waiting again.
So I said that maybe I shouldn’t be. But, yeah, I totally should be. Worried. Actually, torn. I feel like it’s OK, but there’s always the what if. Right?
Half-eaten Milky Ways + As-Seen-on-TV pant buttons = I can almost breathe now!
So I teach English and writing at a small private school. I have a handful of international students who mainly speak French. One of the things I love about teaching the international students is that I get to see how they react to everyday American life. I mean, I already know what most people think about Americans, but I love getting their perspective on things.
While they love us, they think our portion sizes are huge! Many of them have commented on how they couldn’t believe the abundance of food — everywhere, in every corner. So I gave them a nice chuckle, I am sure, this morning.
The thing is, I can get my pants up, right? But the zipper and button part is getting more difficult everyday. I am almost four months pregnant and my body is in a terribly weird stage where I don’t quite look pregnant. I just look a lil’ fluffy. Like I had a few of those Big Macs the international students were giggling about the other day. So when I stopped at CVS to buy a small bottle of hair spray the other day and I was standing in the back of the line, I couldn’t help myself when I noticed these in a 90 percent off bin.
Gosh, I was almost embarrassed when I put them on the counter. Although the package says they are for people who have lost weight and for people who have gained weight, we all know who these are made for. I mean, I have lost my post-baby weight before and I don’t stick a button in my old jeans; I buy sexy new skinny jeans! Right?
So back at the CVS counter, and the cashier was scanning my shiny new As-Seen-on-TV buttons. They were 50 cents! “I’m pregnant,” I announced to her, because you know, I couldn’t have her thinking that instead of getting my out-of-shape butt to the gym, I just buy shiny new buttons. She smiled apathetically. She didn’t care — either way.
At school a few mornings later, I pulled my new purchase out of my mom purse. “Look what I bought!” I said to the kids. They reacted with a chorus of giddy laughter. “Oh my gosh! You bought those?!”But the best moment was when a half-eaten Milky Way fell out of my purse as I pulled those buttons out. I’m sure my international students half-expected that anyway.
But who cares about half-eaten Milky Ways and Big-Mac buttons when the hubby and daughter are gone! They left Tuesday on a fifth-grade field trip to a local camp. I love that they went together because I went on the same field trip when I was in the fifth grade, during a time in my life when having a father by my side was a completely foreign concept. So, that makes me smile. They will be back tomorrow! And I’ll post pics. Good night, Mixed and Happies! Wish my jeans and I luck! — S.
13 years. 13 dollars. But, priceless, timeless love.
Saturday was a special day — October 15, my niece’s birthday. Thirteen years earlier, I was sitting beside my little sister in a hospital bed. She had just had her baby. A girlfriend and I stopped by the hospital with a tiny pink and purple Disney outfit. It was tiny, just like my sister’s baby girl, D. We dressed her up like a little baby doll and marveled at how perfect she was. (We were all so young then.)
Thirteen years later and we were celebrating D’s 13th birthday. A teenager. And bittersweet. All of her birthdays are bittersweet because my sister died when D was in Kindergarten. And I always wish with everything in me that she could be here to see it all.
D lives with my mother and thank God; I think my mother would have withered away after my sister’s death had she not had D to care for.
Hubby was working Saturday morning. The four kids and I headed to D’s house. Not much money in my pocket, but we were going to make it work. We stopped by the Dollar Store and bought her some balloons. Instead of buying a card, we taped dollar bills all over the balloons — 13 of them.
It was really all I had, and I wasn’t sure how she would react. You know, teenagers. I kind of imagined that she probably had a day filled with plans. When we showed up, though, the house was quiet and my mom was making her breakfast. The kids handed over the balloons and she lit up. And hugged me. Tightly.
I snapped a pic of her and my son, C. They are just five months apart. As the kids were running around, I did what I usually do when I go to my mom’s house. I looked at the pics of my sis — scattered though out the house on the fridge and on random tables.
That house is a weird place for me. It is where my sister began to die. I remember one night I laid beside her in my mom’s bed upstairs as she screamed in pain — intermittent screams of pain and confusion. She’d forget what was happening, but her body wouldn’t give her a respite from the pain. At one point, she tore her clothes off and screamed for me as the paramedics came to whisk her away. “I want my sister!” she screamed. “My sister!”
Those screams still haunt me. Chilling echoes of some of her final, painful moments in this world. And so as I looked around my mom’s house, one picture caught my eye. I took it years ago, when C and D were infants. The only thing that is missing from the second picture is my sister.
Take a look.
Back in the moment, and my niece decided she wanted to hang with us for the day and so we all hopped in the mom van and headed to McDonald’s. I had a free coupon for a McFlurry and it was totally hers. I know how to make it work on no budget at all. That afternoon, we went to Chic-Fil-A, where they give free birthday lunches.
I didn’t pay a dime for it, but she was thrilled. I thought about my sister and felt that if I could see her face, she’d be smiling. My niece opened her sandwich with ketchup in hand, and said, “Aunt Suzy. Look. It’s a heart.”
“You know why? It’s a message from your mom. She’s saying she loves you!” I said.
It was such a perfect moment. And one I never want to forget. After lunch, we went to Target, looked at some Christmas gifts and before we made it home, stopped at Publix. We picked up a Pillsbury cake — funfetti and vanilla frosting. At home, I was feeling a little nostalgic, so we turned on NetFlix and found an 80s movie — BIG with Tom Hanks.
While the lasagna was cooking and the kids were watching the movie, I started the cake. A roar from the living room the minute I turned my back. My 13-year-old son was covering my 5-year-old’s eyes. OMG. I must have blocked that out of my then-13-year-old mind. There’s a boob scene in BIG??? Now, why’d they have to go and do that?
Nice. So there was one snag. One memorable snag.
We ended the night perfectly. Dinner, birthday cake. Each other. And my sister — who I believe somehow did see it all. That day, I counted three songs that randomly came on the radio while we were driving. They were songs from the CD I made for her funeral. Songs that I rarely hear. Special songs that helped me get through the bitterness of her early death.
13 dollars. 13 years. But timeless, priceless love.
My mom and sister. This one hangs on her refrigerator.
No juice here
I drive myself c-razy. I sat here writing for a full hour, filling the page with juicy, juicy details about a person who I decided has not yet learned to forgive and as a result is harboring bitterness. And you know what I realized? By putting her out there, I was doing the same. How can I wish her the best and give the world the dirt on her? No. No. No.
I am not that woman. And so, I forgive. I wish her the best. And not only that — I choose to think well of her. Not much juice here. But if juice means I have to carry the burden of the negative energy, I don’t want it.
Instead of proving her wrong (oh you know I had it all panned out), I sent her an email and wished her the best. Not in a condescending way either, because you know how easy that can be. (“I’m praying for you. Cause you need it!”)
Keeping it Steve
Last night, I woke up to the sound of thunder. And rain. Lots of rain. I normally love the sound of rain on the roof in the middle of the night. But not last night.
Not long ago, we took the mom van to a shop to have the transmission fixed. When we picked up the mom van, I noticed the floor board was soaked. Looked like someone (probably me!) left the window open the day we had it towed in. I was sure I had done that. How. Ever. I started noticing that every time it rained, there was a leak in the car. So last night, the beautiful rain sounded like torture because I knew that every drop. Every maddening drop. Would probably end up on my toes as I drove to work the next morning. It drove me crazy.
So I was wide awake. I nudged Hubby. “Um, you need to call those guys first thing in the morning, and let them know that our van DID NOT LEAK before we took it to them.” He wasn’t listening. “And if they give us a problem, CALL THE LAWYER.” I was ready for the fight.
And then, I made myself let it go. LET IT GO, Suzy. Right now. I said to myself what I always say when I start getting OCD on myself, at 4 in the morning: “In 10 years, will it matter?”
No. It will not matter that the mom van was flooded in 10 years. Yes, it matters RIGHT NOW. With every drop of rain. But in 10 years, no.
And with that, I began to relax. I sighed. Still wide awake though. And I remembered this article I had just read about Steve Jobs, who passed away last week. For some reason, at that very moment, I had to read it again. Had to. It felt more pressing than did the rain flooding the mom van did a few moments earlier. And so, on my phone, I pulled up the article. I was far more inspired, at 4 a.m. that I had been, you know, at a reasonable hour the previous day when I first read the article.
It struck me. And he, although he had died a week earlier, had given me some peace at four in the morning. (Thanks, Steve!) I found some answers that just made sense. Just clicked. Just fit. Right now.
I struggle because my creative brain complicates everything. Even the simplest task becomes cumbersome under the microscope of my brain. And it drives me crazy. Sometimes, I have just walk away from things because I get overwhelmed with how complicated a simple task becomes. Yes, it’s good to think outside of the box. But it’s hard when your brain figures out a 1,000 different things that you can do with that box that no one else has done before. And it all has to be done before anyone else does it.
But, Steve, who definitely was an outside-of-the-box thinker, was preaching to me late last night. (Thanks, Steve.) And here is what I got, that I’ve been needing for years. I’ll give you the main points, and I really believe these tips are a game-changer for me:
1. Do what you love — no matter what it is
2. Put a dent in the universe (my fave!)
3. Say no to 1,000 things
4. Kick-start your brain by doing something new
5. See dreams, not products
6. Create insanely great experiences
7. Master the message [READ THE FULL ARTICLE HERE]
What do I love to do? I love to write. I find it so cathartic. How do I make my dent in the universe? If ever I’ve done it, I’ve done it through my words when I blogged about a racist school policy. That became national news. And within days, the policy was reversed. SAY NO TO 1,000 THINGS. This is where I trip myself up. But I’m going to say no. Poor mixedandhappy.com has been collecting dust for a few months (ok, longer) because I had too many things on too many plates. And at the end of the day, I lost my voice in all that stuff.
And so, I’m keeping it simple. Doing what I love and saying no to 1,000 things in order to do that. Who cares if it pays? I’m doing what I love, and this — right here — this is what I love. I’m keeping it simple. I’m keeping it passionate. I’m keeping it Steve.
Rest in Peace, Steve Jobs. (1955-2011)
It takes a village; it takes you
This afternoon, after church, I laid in bed next to hubby, scanning the news on my laptop. The house was peaceful — the two older kids at the beach with their grandmother, the 5-year-old playing in his bedroom and the baby sleeping like a little angel. He looked so peaceful. It made my heart happy.
But then I stumbled across this story that pulled me in and left me literally aching. I nudged hubby, “Why. Why did this happen? I am so mad. Like, mad enough to punch these people — all of them — in the face. All of them. And the neighbors, too. I’m mad at them. What is wrong with … ugh!”
I pulled up the video and begged him to watch with me. He needed to understand, to feel the disgust I was feeling. I needed him to see the box. And the little girl who died inside the box on a sweltering summer afternoon in Arizona.
Here is little Ame, just 10 years old when she died in the box. After taking a Popsicle from the freezer, she was punished this way: First, she was forced to do backbend after backbend after backbend in 103-degree weather. After the backbends, she was forced to run. For nearly two hours, her 23-year-old uncle tortured her by ceaseless exercise.
When he was finished with her, he forced her into a box like the one below — his wife by his side — and padlocked it. He and his wife then went to take an afternoon nap as Ame lay, stuffed in a tiny, dark, hot box, dying. (The box was used regularly as punishment; one friend of the family reported hearing screams coming from the box, as Ame’s aunt sat on top of it, playing games on her laptop.)
After taking in all the details, I closed my eyes and imagined the horror this baby girl suffered. I imagined the tears, the sweat, the hopelessness. I imagined the cut on her right knee; every little detail. Her right knee had been cut by the lid of the box — I imagine, when she was forced in and the lid closed. And then padlocked.
I was disgusted with the FOUR grown-ups (pictured below) who thought it was OK to torture a child; and the neighbor who told reporters something like this, and I am just pulling this from memory: “I knew they killed her because of the terrible things they used to do to her. Make her walk up and down this hot street with no shoes for hours. They did all kinds of things to her.”
Well, Ms. Neighbor, where were YOU when she needed you? You were watching it and not DOING anything about it. Horrible. She needed you. You know the saying — it takes a village. You were supposed to be the village when her family failed her. I firmly believe that. Instead, you turned your head.
A few minutes later, after imagining the living hell of Ame’s life and final moments, my mind was wide awake. I opened the laptop again and came across a local story that just screamed at me. I was already fuming about Ame and the family who failed her, and the village that should have been but never was. So the headline stung: “Shocking elder abuse case.”
This one, in my backyard, just a few miles from my home, in a little apartment complex that I know well. Hawaiian Village is an apartment complex filled with mostly college students because of its location, pretty close to campus. And it’s older, so pretty cheap.
When I was a kid, my brother lived there with his dad. So we’d pick him up and drop him off there on the weekends. Years later, as a teen, I hung out with my girlfriend on countless weekends there. She stayed there with her dad on the weekends. We loved the location because the place was filled with college guys — who, by the way, were not at all interested in 14-year-olds from the country. Ha.
Almost two decades later, the place hasn’t changed a bit. I drive by it often. It is where, more recently, an 81-year-old man named Edward, who has no children or wife, was abused by the man who was supposed to be caring for him. Instead of caring for Edward, pictured below, evil caretaker was draining the man’s life savings, all $50,000 of it. Instead of feeding Edward, he was feeding a drug habit. He withheld meds and food. Evil caretaker also recently had Edward sign life insurance papers. You see where this was heading?
Just when I thought I couldn’t read another sentence, the story took a shocking turn. Because I wasn’t at all expecting it. I read about how Edward escaped the apartment he was sharing with his abuser. He walked to the office and pleaded for help.
And you know what Eddie found that little Ame didn’t? He found his village. His village, ironically, came in the form of the manager of Hawaiian Village. She didn’t just make the phone call to police. She became his village. From the story:
‘I need your help’
The scheme came to an end in early June when Bozarth managed to get out of the apartment and walk to the Hawaiian Village office.
“I need your help,” he told (Kelly) Garrison, the manager of the complex.
Garrison looked at Bozarth’s legs — they were almost completely black; Hawk, police later said, had stopped giving Bozarth his high blood pressure medicine and so blood had pooled in his legs and his upper arms.
Today, Garrison said (Edward) Bozarth is staying in a different unit in the complex, free of charge, and the complex owners have hired him an attorney …
Bozarth said he is terrified that Hawk is going to get out of jail, return and hurt him.
He looks out the window before he opens the door and spends most of his days with the office staff at Hawaiian Village, who cook his meals and look after him.
If you are reading this, I want you to take something away from this. We often think that a village is made up of many people. But you alone can be someone’s village. You can be what Ame needed to save her life, and what Kelly Garrison has become to Edward. You could be the village that could save a life.
Wedding Nouveau: A Magazine for Mixed and Happy brides!
‘Race Remixed’: NYT looking to feature a mixed-race family
Nicole Bengiveno/The New York Times
Just got off the phone with our fave NYT reporter, Susan Saulny, international correspondent for the NYT. Susan is looking to wrap up the NYT’s series, Race Remixed. In this piece, Susan visited one of our own Mixed and Happy families who are fans on our FB page. They ended up on the front page of the NYTs on a Sunday! What a gift to give their children.
For her final piece, here is what she is looking for:
– A larger family that is mixed over generations
– The more complex, the better
– The family should be made up of three or more ethnicities
Susan will visit your home, probably twice so you would need to be willing to open your home and your family to her. Each visit will be a couple of days, and there will be photos and video involved. This article will be a pretty in-depth one, so you need to be transparent. The purpose of the article is to take the reader inside your home, to explain your family dynamic and to tell the reader how you all make it work.
If you think you might be a good fit, email me RIGHT AWAY, suzy@mixedandhappy.com with a paragraph or two about your family and why you would be a good fit. Please also include a family picture.
Happy birthday to me!
My birthday was Sunday. It was OK. I just wanted to survive it. And I did!
It was the hardest one I’ve ever had. On Saturday, my girlfriend insisted she was taking me out for my birthday. I’d spent the entire week in bed, sweating profusely, wanting to die. I had strep. Yuck. Horrible. Horrible. Painful. Hot. Cold. Hot again. Cold again. Covers. Get off me. Get on me. My hours blurred together and every time I’d wake, my clothes were sticking to me. I’d hobble to the bathroom, gulp some Gatorade and crawl back in bed.
By Saturday, it was pretty much over. My house was disgusting. The kids, who were with me for most of the illness, had tried to help — and the result was disastrous. Oh my. God help me. I vaguely remember hearing someone asking for watermelon. Well, someone had done a fantastic job of getting that watermelon. You know what my kitchen was covered in? Watermelon juice. My feet stuck to the floor as I walked through the kitchen. When I opened the refrigerator, it was everywhere. Even in the egg carton.
My head was still foggy, but my house was quiet. The kids were with their dad. And I was alone in a sticky, gross house. The phone rang. It was C, my girlfriend who wanted to take me out. I wanted so badly to stay home and hide from the world. Birthday girl? Whatever. All I wanted was a pair of those bright yellow gloves and a mop.
Instead of giving into the gloves and mop, I gave into C and jumped in the shower. Threw on something hot — high heels, a long shirt and some tights. I felt like crap, but I knew I was right where I needed to be. At the perfect weight and height. Everything right where it needed to be. Getting skinny, actually.
I met C and her fiance for drinks. Yes — I agreed to meet her and her fiance! Normally, no way. Get outta my face. But something made it OK. After a few drinks at the steak house, we headed for downtown. We ended up at this little bar that I hadn’t been to in about 10 years. But I wasn’t feeling it.
“I just want some live music,” I said to C. “All I need. Live music and a drink in hand!”
Right before midnight, we headed across the street. The sign had us hysterically laughing. Honestly, I don’t want this showing up in some guy’s google alerts. So, do you see what the sign says? Do you see what the name of the band is?
For the rest of the night, we giggled hysterically, tried to figured out which of the guys was the dad; and which were the accidents. (We had decided, for sure, that the guy in the green shirt was one of the accidents.) We sang terribly to Last Dance with Mary Jane (Tom Petty) and as the night wrapped up, the waiter brought this birthday girl a slice of cheesecake on the house.Yum!
I woke up the next morning and was 35. Wow. It feels — like I need to clean my house! I spent my birthday money on gas and cleaning supplies. I cranked up the Tom Petty and scrubbed my cute little home from head to toe. He was so happy! And I was finally peaceful. And well.
Everything’s going to be OK.
Last dance with Mary Jane
One more time to kill the pain
I feel summer creeping in and I’m
tired of this town again!
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