Blonde Moment

I used to be a blonde. Sometimes I still am.

ME: Sunday morning, I called the church rectory to have Tyler's name added to the prayer list for the 10am and noon masses. Monsignor answered and said "Hello?" I said, "Monsignor?" and he said, "Yes, Lara." Can you believe that? He recognized my voice from just one word! Isn't that incredible?

CHERYL: Um...yeah...OR...maybe he has caller ID...

ME: Oh...yeah. Caller ID. Didn't think of that.

The Honesty of Tyler

I thought I had posted this story before, but I can't find it now, so I'll post it again.

One day, I was at home, and Ryan and Tyler were staying with us at my parents' house. For some unknown reason, Tyler started going through his family tree: "I have two grandmas and two grandpas. Actually, I have a grandpa and a granddad. And I have a mommy and a daddy and a brother and a bunch of Arthurses [his cousins]." So I started quizzing him. "What's Haley to you?" "She's my cousin," he said. "And what's Erin [my sister] to you?" Tyler thought a minute, but he looked confused. So I said, "Well, what am I to you?" thinking that he would say, "You're my aunt." Without skipping a beat, he looked at me and said, "A big jerk." I nearly choked on my tongue! The funniest part was that he wasn't trying to be a smart-aleck at all. He said it very honestly and in a very matter-of-fact manner. That was just what popped into his head first. I said, "Well, what I was going for was that I am your aunt, but I'll give you the big jerk part." After all, I had just been teasing him a few minutes before that.

Tyler and His Robo-Arm

Is there anything more sad than a kid in pain? Tyler had surgery yesterday to repair the break in his elbow. I'm sure when he cares enough to think about it, he'll decide it's pretty cool to have pins in his elbow. After all, we're talking about a kid who wanted "rocket shoes" for Christmas. Thinking that maybe they were something he'd seen advertised on Nick Jr. or somewhere, my sister-in-law asked him what they were and he said, "They're shoes that have flames that shoot out the back, and you can fly in them." When she challenged whether they were real, he insisted that they were. So I'm sure he'll eventually love his new robo-arm...after it stops causing him so much pain. Poor little guy.

Misplaced Anger

Last night, after I got the call about Tyler, I was instantly hurt and angry, but not at God. Throughout this whole thing -- from Mike's diagnosis to right now -- I have never once been angry at God. No, I was angry at Mike. Where was he? Why hadn't he protected Tyler? My hurt and anger were only compounded because just last Monday, I went to a local jewelry store and bought a locket to put his picture in so that I could keep him with me and so that he could protect me. You see, when he was first diagnosed, I gave him a St. Michael medal to see him through the battle with cancer. (As the prayer goes, "St. Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil....") When he died, I wanted to have the medal back so that I could keep Mikey with me, but then the decision was made to bury him in it. So I bought the locket instead. Mikey would be my own personal St. Michael. But then this happened. Clearly, Mike wasn't looking out over any of us if he let this happen to poor little Tyler!

When I was talking to my friend, Kristen, who just lost her mother to cancer 2 weeks ago, she said, "No, I don't think you're right. I think Mike was watching out over Tyler because it could have been much worse. He could have suffered a head injury or something else. I think Mike was there to keep that from happening." She is right, of course. So I said my apologies to Mike before I went to bed last night and begged him to be with Tyler and comfort him. I can't believe I ever doubted him.

Here is the locket. You can't see it well at all because my point and shoot, which is on its last legs, just doesn't take very good pictures in situations like this; but Mike's monogram is engraved on the front of the locket and the dates of his birth and death are engraved on the back.


The picture on the left side (inside front) of the locket is from Lily's baptism in January 2006. Mikey is her godfather. The picture on the right side (back inside) is from Christmas 2005, right after Mikey's first surgery.

And The Hits Just Keep On Coming

Please keep my nephew, Tyler, in your prayers. He was in a sledding accident this afternoon and sustained some pretty serious injuries. According to my dad, his spleen is sort of torn in two, and he broke his elbow. He is currently in the PICU. Dad said that they are going to operate on his elbow tomorrow, but they are going to leave the spleen for now. They are hoping that it will begin to heal in the next 5 or 6 days, and if it does, they can leave it. However, they are keeping a very careful eye on things right now.

If they are able to leave it, he will be very restricted in his activities for the next 6 months to a year. I can't imagine -- Tyler is constantly doing cartwheels or flips on the trampoline or wrestling around with his brother. Poor Cherie will have to sedate him. Right now, he is on morphine for the pain, so he is sleeping. Of course, before they put him out, he was telling the nurses about how he had already broken that arm twice this year.

I just wonder when we are going to turn the corner. Why do these things keep happening? And why did this happen to a little boy who just lost his father 5 weeks ago?

17 Stitches...

You'll never believe this -- I hardly believe it myself! So I was talking to the other volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House tonight, and she asked what I'd done over the holiday weekend. I told her that I'd gone to St. Mark's Saturday for a beer, and she said, "So did I. What time were you there because I didn't see you?" I explained that I hadn't stayed long because I met a real loser who practically drove me out of the bar with his weak pick-up. I said, "His opening line was, 'You'll have to pardon the 17 stitches in my face...'" and she cut me off. She said, "Oh my gosh! Was his name Brian???" Can you believe it?! We laughed and compared stories (he gave us both the same story), and she said that she had to ditch him, too. The best part: She stopped by the BP tonight to buy a drink on the way to the Ronald McDonald House, and Brian was working!!! He said, "Lisa! Hey! What happened to you Saturday night? I turned around, and you disappeared." How funny is that? We both decided never to stop at the BP on the corner of Washington and Hal Greer again.

The Blog-Worthy Bookstore Pick-Up

I was going to save this for another day when I couldn't think of anything else to write, but fate intervened, so I'm writing about it now.

So I spent 2 1/2 hours of my coveted day off today at the Subaru garage...waiting for a simple oil change! Thank heaven I had taken a book with me. When I pointed out to the service manager that I was languishing in his waiting room, suffering without lunch or a car to drive myself somewhere to get lunch, he apologized profusely and assured me that my service would be free. Ya think? Starving, but $30 to the better, I decided to treat myself to lunch out, followed by a little reading time at Starbucks. Yes, I know, that seems like an odd "treat" for someone who (a) isn't much of a reader and (b) isn't much of a coffee drinker. But my book ("Atonement") is actually rather engaging, and I do like a cappuccino every now and then. Frankly, I'd drink it more often if Starbucks wasn't so utterly and outrageously overpriced, my awareness of which was only heightened by my trip to Seattle where Starbucks is markedly cheaper!

Anyway, I drove downtown, ran a quick errand (which I'll have to write about this weekend), and then dropped in on Starbucks, which was packed to the rafters with laptop-toting, self-important pseudo-intellectuals and college kids who, I dare say, can scarcely afford a $3 cup of coffee. So I'm sitting there, enjoying my cappuccino and reading my book, when who should walk by but the bookstore pick-up, hence the telling of the story...

One day, two or three years ago, when I was off from work, I decided to take in a matinée. I got downtown a little early, though, so I went to the bookstore to kill time. I was sitting on a bench reading "Bastard Out of Carolina" (which I ended up buying -- good book), when I realized that this guy had walked past me at least 4 times. He was wearing ugly shoes -- it was hard not to notice. Then he seemed to linger in the row of books directly in front of me, looking over at me every so often. I thought to myself, "If you want to talk to me, talk to me already." But then he left the store. I couldn't believe that I had so misread the situation, but there he was, climbing into his car. I turned back to my book, and not 3 minutes later, he was standing over me. "Hi," he said, "I don't mean to interrupt, but what's your name?" We chatted for a few minutes, and he produced a card. He was a Marshall University professor. Although I found little virtue in the fact that he was teaching at Marshall, I determined that he most likely was not a serial killer or otherwise mentally deranged, so I gave him my number. I was actually kind of excited about it. It was flattering to be approached in a place as innocuous as a bookstore.

The next day, he called me and we agreed to meet for coffee. The conversation was easy and really very fun, so "coffee" dragged into dinner. We went out a few more times, and I even cooked him dinner one night. He reciprocated, asking me over to his place for beer and pizza and a movie.

I should stop here and say that he was very open and touchy-feel, which I attributed to his background in sociology and social work. I wasn't nearly as flirty and open as I would normally be, though, because I wasn't sure just what I thought of him. First of all, he was 42 -- 12 years older than me and the same age as my brother. Second of all, the man did not own a cell phone, something that I found a little backward and old-fashioned. Third, there was a cheesiness in his openness that left me rolling my eyes now and again. Still, I had resolved to keep an open mind and see what happened.

So I went to his apartment building, where he met me in the lobby with a big hug. The first thing I noticed when he let me into his apartment: there was no sofa in the living room. He quickly explained that the room wasn't big enough for both a sofa and his well-worn and much-loved writing table, so the intellectual in him had chosen the table over a place to sit. Then he ran over to the table and picked up a funeral card, which he asked me to read. It turns out that that weekend was the anniversary of either his mother's death or her birthday (I can't remember which), and he wanted me to read the obituary in the card so I'd "have a sense of knowing this wonderful woman." After dutifully reading the card, I trailed into the kitchen to offer my condolences and say that I was sure she was a wonderful woman. He then plucked a couple of pictures of his sister and nieces and nephews off the refrigerator for me to see, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist as he looked over my shoulder. He kissed me on the cheek and said, "I'm so glad you're here." I felt my self tense up a little because it was becoming clear to me that I really wasn't comfortable with his quick show of affection. We'd only just met a few weeks before and now there was the funeral card and the pictures and the waist-wrapping, which I found a little familiar given that we barely knew each other. Granted, I had always moved much faster in dating situations before, but the whole Brian thing -- which had only ended a few months before -- had made me much more hesitant.

We eventually settled onto the floor to watch the movie and eat our pizza. As I was laying on my side, he traced the outline of my figure with his finger and kissed me. I felt a little juvenile making out with this guy on the floor like two college kids when we were both grown professionals, but he had no couch. Plus, it felt a little odd to be making out with someone who could easily have been a high school buddy of my brother!

A little while later, we walked down to Starbucks for coffee where we ran into a few friends of his. He introduced me as, "Lara, the girl I'm dating," and I politely nodded to everyone. Not long after we returned, I said that I thought I should go. He walked me out to my car, and kissed me through the open car window.

Only a few days later, I received this bizarre e-mail from him. He said, "I feel like you feel like we're in a relationship, and I just don't feel it. I was just thinking that maybe we could be friends. I'm sorry if this hurts you, but I'm just not interested in having a relationship with you. Can we be friends?" Um, OK. I wrote back and said that was fine because, despite what he seemed to think, I wasn't thinking "relationship" at all. I did say, though, that I was a little taken aback by this little revelation given how touchy-feely he'd been. I said -- in no uncertain terms -- that I don't generally make out with my friends on the floor of my living room, but whatever. Then I said, "You know what, I'm not really comfortable even being friends with you because I find this whole thing to be a little...creepy." That was that.

Two weeks later he called and left me a message about some little anecdote we had discussed on our first date. He said, "I hope you're having a good week! Call me sometime." I did not call him "sometime" or any time. But he keeps turning up like a bad penny! Chilifest, Junior League events, the bookstore, Max & Erma's and now Starbucks...I cannot get away from this creep! Mostly, I try to ignore him when I see him, but when we do make eye contact, I simply smile politely then look away. God forbid I talk to him and give him the impression that I want to bear his children!

One Month

Today is the one-month anniversary of Mike's passing. It's hard to believe that it's already been a month. It feels like it was just yesterday really. I still don't feel like it's over. When I look at pictures of Mike, I have to tell myself, "He's gone, and you'll only ever see him in pictures now." I can't believe it. I can't believe that he won't be there at family cookouts or holiday dinners or football games. I can't believe that I'll never hear him laugh again or hear his quick one-liners. I can't believe that I'll never get to hug him again, and I worry that I never hugged him enough.

My parents seem to be doing a little bit better maybe. I know that they still think about Mike every single day, and I know that they still cry, but I feel like they are beginning to pick up and get on with life (albeit slowly). I still worry about Ryan, though. I wonder what he thinks about, and I worry that maybe things are moving backward for him. Does he get better day-by-day, or does he feel the loss more and more? All I can think about is him being so upset at the funeral home. And I'm so afraid that that is all those boys will remember -- the last 2 weeks and then the funeral home. Especially Tyler. He's only 6, and he was only 4 when Mikey's cancer was diagnosed. I hope and pray that they remember the good times, though, and the love that their daddy had for them.

I have decided to make it my goal to live my life more like Mikey did. I want to be a harder worker. I want to be kinder and more fun-loving. I want to see the good in everyone. I want Mikey to be proud of me. Of course, I realize that I can never really be even half the person that Mike was, but I'm going to try.

I Give Up.

So I decided to go have a beer after mass last night. (Don't get all judgmental -- Catholics are allowed to drink.) Cheryl had offered earlier in the week to throw together a belated birthday celebration, but I wasn't in the mood for all that. It had been kind of a rough day, and I just needed a beer -- no friends around whom I would be forced to act perky, no liquor, just me and Sam Adams. So I drove down the main drag and picked the emptiest bar. There was a basketball game on, so I angled my bar chair so I could see, ordered my beer, and completely ignored the other two people in the bar. It was blissful.

Of course, my seat at the bar and the angle of my chair left me vulnerable to the door -- the projection screen was hung right above it. Eventually a guy came in, and in a natural reaction, I looked down from the screen to see who it was. The guy wasn't unattractive, and I did smile, but only as a common courtesy. He sat at the bar, leaving one chair between us. Then he said -- and I swear I'm not making this up -- "You'll have to pardon the 17 stitches in my face. I fell down a set of stairs last week when I was drunk." First of all, as dark as it was in there, I hadn't even noticed the stitches, which were broken up across three cuts on the side of his face that was turned away from me. Second of all, did he really think that was a winning line? He proceeded to explain that his son had just returned from Iraq, and they had gone to Envy (a notorious co-ed club) to celebrate. Strike two. He said, "Even though I'm 40, I still like to get my party on." Strike three; technically, he was out at that point, but he continued. He explained that he "staggered" home, ate a sandwich, then went to take the garbage out and tripped on the stairs, crashing into a brick wall. All the while, he's flashing a big Crest smile, as if he honestly believes this little story is somehow impressing me.

Then he starts complaining about how poorly the hospital staff treated him. He said they talked down to him and refused to write him a prescription for pain meds. (Gee, I wonder if it had anything to do with the fact that he was wasted?) He said, "But I came out on top 'cuz all they asked me for was my name -- no address or social security number or anything. They can't bill me if all they have is a name!" He said he planned to go somewhere else to have the stitches removed to further avoid payment. But then he said, "Not that I'm crook or anything. I'm not. I'm a cashier, so I have a lot of integrity. To be a cashier, you have to be honest and moral and dependable 'cuz you're dealing with a cash register and lottery tickets and all." I started to feel a broad smile creep across my face. It wasn't that I was falling for this guy's incredibly ridiculous lines; it was that I was amused that he thought this was a good pick-up!

He climbed into the seat right next to me and said, "I'm sorry. I got ahead of myself. My name is Brian." (Another Brian!) I said, "I'm Lara." He said, "Lara, you're a very pretty girl. And I mean that." Ooooookay, Brian. He asked me what I do for a living, and I said I was a lawyer. He then asked me if a person could be extradited to another state for bad checks. I couldn't help myself, and I snickered a little. He said, "It's my brother, not me." He revealed that they had both recently returned to the area from North Carolina, where there was a warrant out for his brother's arrest. He went on to tell me that he was living with his cab-driving uncle because he hadn't found a place of his own yet.

I turned back to the ball game, and he said, "So are you from here?" I answered that I was from the Morgantown area, and he correctly guessed that that made me a WVU fan. It hadn't escaped my attention that he was wearing a Marshall shirt. In an attempt to show me his interest in sports he rattled off all of his favorite teams: the Bulls, the Reds, the Steelers, the Red Wings, and...drum roll, please...WVU. As he sat there in a Marshall shirt. It was an obvious attempt to seal the deal. At that point, I asked the bartender for my tab.

I got up to leave, and Brian said, "Well, it was very nice to meet you, Lara." I smiled and waved, and reached for the door. As I was half-way through the door, he said, "Do you have any children, Lara?" No, I said, and left. How random was that?

THIS is the sort of man you find in Huntington these days; and even when you aren't trying to be found, they track you down. Losers, lushes, and crooks. So much for my nice, quiet beer. I'm going back to my old bar personality -- the one who was unapproachable and surly and called a spade a spade. I give up on this sunny, polite bullshit because while you do catch more flies with honey, around here the flies come straight out of the trash. Alright, so maybe that is a little uncharitable of me, but it's true. I've met men in bars, bookstores, and even at the Subaru garage...and they're all single for a reason! The bookstore find is tremendously blog-worthy, but I'll save that one for later. For now I need to get ready to do my good deed for the day -- I picked up an extra shift at the Ronald McDonald House. See? I'm not completely uncharitable!

Dear Britney,

[In Dr. Phil fashion, I have decided to break my silence and make an ill-advised, inappropriate public statement on the state of Britney Spears' affairs because -- you know -- everyone gives a damn what I think about it. Unlike the aforementioned Dr. Phil, I have not personally met with or otherwise talked to Britney, nor do I plan to dedicate an episode of my show to her situation...mostly because I don't have a show. However, I don't need to be penned in a room with the girl to know that she is just completely insane. Everyday she does something that screams for help.]

Let's start with the hair. Now I'm not going to say a thing about the fact that you shaved your head all those months ago. Let's be honest here: We've all had one of those days when we were ready to just shave it all off. So that, in and of itself, while maybe a tad bit hasty, wasn't all that crazy. No, what's crazy are your K-Mart brand do-it-yourself extensions. I mean, come on. All the money you have (you just blew $10K at Kitson yesterday), and you can't find someone to hook you up with a more realistic-looking weave? For Pete's sake, I'll pay for it if you want to get one of those Raquel Welch wigs they sell in malls. Anything would be better than those stringy, plastic extensions you wear. And maybe -- just for kicks -- why don't you wash it once a week. You might even like it and decide to wash it every other day, but don't try too much at once. Baby steps.

Moving on now to the clothes. I have to be honest, you were never a good dresser. Remember the red patent vinyl unitard? Your stylist should have been taken out and beaten with a rubber hose, then dragged back in by her toenails, then taken out and beaten again. But somehow, even that was better than this:


Sweetie, darling, I get that you're under a lot of pressure these days. There was the whole beating-a-car-with-an-umbrella incident, followed by that utterly embarrassing "comeback performance," and that whole custody mess (we'll get to that, I promise). But do you really think that dressing like a homeless transvestite prostitute is the way to jump-start your turn around? Because I don't. And really...please...wear some underwear. Nobody wants to see your cat. It's unseemly and undignified.

Turning now to your choice in men. The whole Justin Timberlake thing was a little curious to me. I'm convinced that he's a closet homosexual. Maybe that's why you two weren't sleeping together, I don't know. But at least J.T. was stable. Successful. Mildly good-looking even. But what was up with that doofus from the swamps that you married out in Vegas? Did you really think that was a good idea? Really? And then you "rebounded" on Kevin Federline? Really, really? Kevin wasn't even a choreographer -- he was a lowly back-up dancer. Ever hear of a little pairing called J.Lo and Chris Judd? That one didn't work out, so why didn't you take a cue and just say no when Kevin proposed? Oh, wait -- that's right. You proposed to him. On a plane. Over the Atlantic Ocean. And you taped it all in extreme close-up with your hand-held video camera. Look, I've done the whole broken engagement thing, so I know -- it's humiliating and uncomfortable. But actually going through with the whole farce and hurriedly popping out two remarkably sweet-faced babies in a physiologically mind-numbing period of time just to prove your "love" for this man has proven to be humiliating and uncomfortable, too. (Sweetie, slow down. Believe me, we'll get to the kids.) You would think that you would have learned your lesson after ol' K.Fed, but, alas, now you're tooling around town with your very own papparazzo. *Sigh* I think it's time for someone to take a little time to learn to love herself.

And now we get to the children. Poor, sweet little Sean P. and Jayden James. You do realize that you've already mucked up their young lives, right? I mean, this will never go away. They will forever be "that crazy Britney Spears' kids," and nobody wants to be referred to that way. Here's the really sad thing: I'm sure that you really, truly did want to be a mommy someday. I'm sure that you had dreams of rocking them to sleep and gazing into their little faces while you fed them. And I'm sure that you swore that you would be a better parent to them than your stage mother was to you. (Admit it, you secretly resented her for secretly resenting you for having the success she always dreamed of for herself.) So what happened? How did it come to pass that clubbing with Paris Hilton and getting wasted at Chateau Marmont and christening every gas station bathroom between Ojai and Los Angeles became priorities over being a mother? I really, really hate to say this, but I think the most loving thing you could do as a mother is to just let those boys go, at least until you get your act together. You aren't able to take care of them right now anyway, and I'm not completely convinced that you even want to take care of them. So stop dragging this out, and let them find some stability in their little lives. (Oy vey, did I just intimate that a home with K.Fed equates to "stability"?)

Look, I don't know what your story is. I don't really buy into the TMZ theory that you have MPD, but I do suspect that you have an extreme case of bipolar disorder. Of course, I was 8 hours shy of a minor in psychology, so don't take my word for that. I'm just saying that you seem like a case study from my biopsych class. Certainly, I don't know how you make this better, but I have to think that...oh, maybe...you might want to ACCEPT SOME HELP! Get yourself into rehab! Get yourself in to see a psychiatrist! (And get yourself a new stylist!) Please, Britney, do something because I'm beginning to grow increasingly uncomfortable every time I see you on TV or in the pages of a magazine. I never thought I would say this, but I miss bubblegum pop Britney. What happened to her?



Yours very truly and most sincerely,

Dr. Lara...er, um...just Lara

My Babies...All 12 of 'Em

Ready? OK, beginning in the front, they are: Tyler (6), Elizabeth (5), Lily (2), and Haley (8); Christopher (17), Lindsey (17 -- she and Chris are twins), Alexandra (16), and Ryan (11); and Clay (21), Shane (20), Erica (20), Ashley (22), and Ashley's boyfriend Griffin. Wow, that's a mouth-full! Ashley, Erica, Chris, Linds, and Alex all belong to my oldest sister, Erin (47). Elizabeth belongs to my next sister, Andrea (46). Ry and Ty belong to my brother, Mike (44). Clay, Shane, and Haley belong to my sister, Jenny (43). And Lily belongs to my sister, Leslie (aka, Boo; 31).

L-I-L-Y...Lily!

So my time at home was very bittersweet obviously. Despite everything else, I was glad to have 3 weeks to visit with Boo and Lily and a week and a half to visit with Fred. Lily has changed so much since I last saw her in September. She talks non-stop, and she is so smart! If you ask her, she will gladly spell her name for you: L-I-L-Y, Lily! More amazing than that? One night, after she went to bed, I wrote her name in block letters on her Magnadoodle. The next morning, she came down to the living room, picked up her Magnadoodle and said, "It says 'Lily!'" She can even read her name!!! She is so amazing!

Here are a few other pictures from our stay at home...

Crackers and bread, crackers and bread...that's about all this kid ate for 3 weeks!













She definitely had the hang of this whole present thing.













Taking BunBun's temperature. She has entire conversations with BunBun. When she does BunBun's voice, it's a high, squeaky voice.












I wish this one wasn't so blurry. It's such a cute pic otherwise.













Trying out the chair Tyler built with my dad. He was visibly nervous when Lily announced, "It's my new chair!"

Bed Tread

Lily fell asleep on the couch one evening while watching her shows on Noggin. It was not pretty when she woke up. Not pretty at all...

How Sweet!

What could be sweeter than Auntie Lawa and Lily reading a book together, right? Well, don't be fooled. Five minutes after this picture was taken, she probably slid off my lap and said, "I don't like Lawa. Leave me alone!" Those were two of Lily's favorite things to say while I was home. She's very 2.

Two More Funerals

My good friend Kristen's mother passed away on Friday after a year-long battle with a very aggressive form of cancer. She was only 60 and left behind 3 children and 4 grandchildren, one of whom was just born 12 days ago. She was always so optimistic and sunny, even when faced with certain death. I was unable to go to her funeral due to work, but I did get to go to her wake last night. She really was a wonderful woman.

Then just this morning, my cousin Kelly's husband, Richard, passed away after his own battle with cancer. He was close to my brother's age -- far too young to die. He had suffered terribly in the last few weeks, as had his family. He leaves behind 2 teenaged children. He, too, was a wonderful and kind man. I just pray that Kelly can finally find some peace. The last few weeks have been so hard on her.

I never dreamed I'd be attending 3 funerals in a matter of 4 weeks. I have to say, though -- and I hate to say it -- that it all offers some sense of relief. I feel like we can all start to move on now. We won't have to hear reports of Richard's condition, which only reminded us of our own loss and rehashed those last few painful days with Mike. And I don't think we felt like we could find peace in knowing that Mike wasn't suffering anymore knowing that Richard was still suffering. Now that they're all at peace, maybe we can be at peace, too.

The Lobster Letter

Don't get your knickers all in a twist. It's not a letter from the lobster; it's a letter about the lobster. So you remember this summer when my friend from high school, Brandy, called about the lobster's mother's attempt to fix us up, right? She and I had played phone tag, but never actually spoke to each other. She left a message...I left a message...and then I got the rest of the story from my sister, Andrea. Well, the other day, out of the blue, I got a letter from Brandy filling in all the blanks. According to Brandy, the lobster had told his mother that I was the only girl he could really talk to, but that he was disappointed because I had started to set my roots, buying a house down here. Brandy said that the lobster's mother went back and talked to the lobster about me, but that the lobster was worried about "the distance between here and there." Brandy went on to say, "One of you needs to tell the other how you feel."

I was sort of perplexed about the timing of the letter. I mean, it's been 3 or 4 months since all of this happened. So why bring it up now? Has something else been said by either the lobster or his mother, or is it really just that Brandy is trying to tie up the loose ends?

In the meantime, I've been fighting some pretty hurt feelings over the lobster. I was home for a little more than 3 weeks. The lobster knew I was there and knew why I was there. Never once did he call me to see how I was doing. To be fair, when I let him know (by text message) that Mike had passed away, he wrote back and said that he was very sorry and said that if I needed anything, I should call. I did call and asked him to come by the house on Christmas day -- the day after the funeral -- if he had a chance (I knew he'd be in town that day to spend Christmas with his family). He said that he would stop by, but then he wasn't able to. No big deal -- it was Christmas day after all, so I understood that he had family obligations. However, he specifically asked how long I'd be in town...but then never called back.

Forget about everything else. Forget about all the false starts and mixed emotions. This is one of my oldest friends. I needed a hug. I needed to be able to get out some pent emotion that I didn't want to show to family because I didn't want to add to their tears. I needed someone to say, "It's going to be OK, but in the meantime, let's go get a beer and talk about it." I needed a friend. I got far more support from friends on this blog -- some of you whom I've never even met -- than I got from a man I've known for over 20 years.

On top of that, he didn't call or even send me an e-mail on my birthday. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little upset about it all. I'm not calling him, though. It's up to him. If he's a friend at all, and if he has any feelings for me at all, then he needs to take the initiative to demonstrate it.

The Big 2-7...Again

Yesterday was my birthday, so my parents and Boo and Lily came down for the weekend to help me celebrate. Before I say anything else about it, I want to say that I think it was another sign. Wednesday morning, as I was making my bed, I started thinking about how much I wanted to go home for the weekend, but I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew I'd be going home to run away from life, and I knew that I couldn't do that -- I just have to face this new life without Mike and keep going forward. So I decided that I wouldn't go home...but then I said a quick prayer that my parents would come down here instead. That night, my mom told me that they were thinking about coming down on Friday! It can't be a coincidence. I'm so glad they came. It was a great weekend.

Anyway, this was the real reason for this post. This is what is left of my birthday cake, which Boo made on Friday:


Obviously, it's a bit of a mess at this point. It would be an understatement to say we laid waste to this cake. But it tasted far better than it now looks. It's a Paula Deen recipe -- Bobby's Caramel Cake. It's a triple layer 1-2-3-4 cake with this decadent caramel "filling" that seeps into each layer and a rich caramel frosting on top. I won't lie...I'm tempted at this very moment to go straight downstairs and finish it off, but I won't. After all, if I did, there wouldn't be any for breakfast tomorrow...

*Cringes* Yowz...

What's that old saying..."The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Up until December 14, 2007, Rich Rodriguez was HUGE in West Virginia. He was the highest paid State employee. He was a football god. He was a statewide hero. He was the hometown boy come home to take his alma mater to national prominence. He was -- repeat was -- a television star.

United Bank had been running a brilliant series of commercials starring none other than TWNN -- Thee Who is Not Named, as he is known on the WVU football message boards. They were really very cute and well done. I laughed every time I saw the one where he was counting back money to a customer: "10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 40, 30, 20, 10 -- TOUCHDOWN!!!" Come on now, that's funny!

Well, naturally, the last time I saw that or any of the TWNN/United Bank commercials was December 13. Apparently, though, one of the TWNN/United Bank commercials ran during the WVU-Marquette basketball game the other night. I missed it, but others did not. The local station that ran the commercial is now running a public service announcement saying, "The other night, during the WVU-Marquette basketball game, WVAH inadvertently aired a United Bank commercial featuring former WVU coach Rich Rodriquez. It was an old commercial which ran by mistake and not at the request of United Bank. We apologize and assure you that all tapes containing commercials featuring Rich Rodriguez have now been destroyed." WOW! If that doesn't send a message to TWNN, then I don't know what does! Not only will his commercials not run on TV anymore, but all evidence that they ever existed has been destroyed! All I can say is that he better make it work in Michigan because he can never come home again.

Struggling

I thought that coming back to Huntington would somehow make it easier to get on with life. I thought that I'd come back and get caught up in work and my volunteer projects and running errands, and I would have less time to dwell on everything that's happened in the last 4 weeks. I thought that if I came back, I wouldn't walk in on my parents crying over sympathy cards, and then maybe I wouldn't cry anymore. I thought that if I didn't see my nephews, I wouldn't think about how they're all I have left of my brother. It hasn't worked out that way at all.

When I got back on Saturday, I really was fine. I went straight to mass and then called Cheryl to meet me out for dinner. I was able to talk pretty openly with her about things and didn't really get teary until we were getting ready to leave.

Then next day, I slept in and then started dismantling my Christmas decorations. A friend came over to help me take the tree apart, and we talked about Mike a little, but, again, I was OK for the most part. Sunday night, though, when I went to bed, I became very upset. I knew that the next day was really it. I would have to go to work...and go back to living. It just overwhelmed me. I started thinking about Mikey and about how I would never see him on this earth again. I tried to make myself understand the gravity of the situation. I tried to make myself accept it. But I couldn't get my mind around it. At some point I fell asleep.

As I walked across the Capitol campus on my way into the office the next morning, I had this overwhelming urge with every step to turn around, get back in my car, and drive back home -- HOME home. I didn't feel like I could just go back to my life and pretend like nothing was different. But I had to. I had to keep walking. I had to go to work. I'd have to go home after work. And the next day, I'd have to get up and do it all again.

The nights are the hardest. When I turn out the lights and lay down, it all comes crashing in around me. I know that Mike wouldn't want it to be that way, but how am I supposed to just put on a smile and go on as if nothing happened?

I know that grieving is a process, and I just have to let it takes its course. I'm almost afraid to, though, because I'm afraid that I'll leave pieces of Mike behind, that I'll forget things like his laugh or the sound of his voice. So I don't want to go forward at all; I want to go back.

A cancer survivors site describes Dr. Roberta Temes' theory of the stages of grief and lists the first as numbness -- mechanical functioning and social insulation. "Numb" is exactly how I feel right now. I don't feel a sharp heartbreak -- I just don't feel anything. It's as if there's this fog enveloping me, diffusing my thoughts and leaving me to sob as I try to sort them all out. The next stage, according to Temes, is disorgantization, which the site describes as intensely painful feelings of loss. I'm desperately afraid to get to that stage. The third is reorganization, or getting back to a more "normal" social life. I'm afraid of that one, too, though, because I'm afraid I'll forget to think about Mike at all.

The crazy thing is that I have convinced myself not to be angry with God because I know Mike wasn't. He told me back in September that he was at peace with everything and that if it was his time to go, he was fine with it. So if I can accept that in order to make peace with God, then why can't I accept that in order to make peace with myself and allow myself to start to move on?

Were You a Doubter?

Shame on you. And if you didn't cry when Big O got choked up in his post-game interview, then, like Rich Rodriguez...er...I mean, like the Grinch, your heart is two sizes too small.

Signs

One memory I have is of spending one weekend with Mike at his college apartment. Boo and I were probably only 9 and 10 or so, so it was kind of a big deal to us. Mike had this old Supertramp album, "Breakfast in America," which he played for us -- one of many music lessons he felt we needed to learn. From that weekend on, every time I heard "The Logical Song" or "Goodbye Stranger," I thought about Mikey.

The night that I drove home -- December 14 -- I was very upset, filled with worry and dread of what I knew was coming but hadn't accepted. As I was flipping through the channels on the radio, trying to find something to distract me, I heard "Take the Long Way Home." It was Supertramp. I realized that I had a CD in my car with 2 other Supertramp songs on it, so I pulled it out and popped it in to the CD player. I wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask Cherie if I could have Mikey's old album, but then realized that Mikey probably didn't have it anymore anyway. It was on vinyl after all.

The day after Mike passed away, I went down to his old room in the basement to find a small table to start collecting all the cookies and cakes and things that were pouring in to our house. For some reason, I turned and went over to this desk in this little nook that always offered a treasure trove of old troll dolls and giant Hershey Kisses when I was a kid. There, on the back of the desk, was the "Breakfast in America" album. I could hardly believe it.

A few days later, I started to fixate on one of Mike's shirts. It was a yellow long-sleeve button-up shirt with red and blue stripes that formed a plaid-like grid. I don't know why I kept thinking about it, but again I wondered if I should ask Cherie for it. Yesterday morning, I woke up and walked into the living room of my parents' house. Spread out around the room were dozens of Mike's sweaters, shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes. It was overwhelming and emotional, but that shirt was there, near the top of one of the piles. I plucked it from the stack and packed it away with my things.

I had asked Mike in my prayers to give me some sort of sign that he was still here with us and that he was OK. I can't help but think he's sending me signs.

44 Years, 7 Months, 11 Days

That's not old enough to die, is it? I mean, he had so many wonderful years ahead of him. He had so many more lives to touch and memories to make. But for whatever reason, it wasn't meant to be. Only God knows why.

I've already posted about all the reasons I loved my brother. He was the kindest, most generous, most fun-loving, and most loving man I know. I don't think I ever heard him speak an unkind word, and I have never heard an unkind word spoken about him. As Boo said one day, he was by far the best looking of the six of us. He was simply the best of the six of us. But don't take my word for it. Here are some of the thoughts that were left by others in the online condolences...

"I only recently met Mike when I became his supervisor on October 1. The few meetings I had with him were inspiring to me as we talked about his battle with cancer and the joy of his family and the soccer trips. I regret I didn't have more time to know him better and work with him but the time I did have, will remain with me forever."








"Mike was a great husband and father. He loved going to Ryan's soccer games. The whole soccer team spent a wonderful weekend in Warrenton, VA in November. Mike got to see Ryan play so well and win a Championship with the U/12 WV United Boys. But what we will remember most is going out to dinner and sitting across from Mike and Cherie. Even though Mike was on pain medicine and clearly not 100%, he was in a great mood and fun to be around. You could tell how much he loved his kids through his interaction with them that night. Ryan and Tyler were the only kids that prayed before they ate their meal. You could see the love and respect they have for their father. Mike thanks for letting us be a friend."




"I knew [Mike] briefly while I cleaned at Harrison Power and felt I had to write and let you know that my heart goes out to your family. What I knew of him and heard recently from anyone who knew him was how much he was truly loved by everyone who knew him...I know from the few brief times I saw him that he always had a kind word to say and that even when he wasn't feeling his best had a smile to share..wish i could of known him better..You are all in my prayers and I know God has his arms around all of you holding you close to him at this time..and that Mike is going to be one of heavens most treasured angels."




"I only knew Mike for a short time...and in the short time I knew him I grew to admire him, especially watching him with Ryan. And he repeatedly entertained my hockey questions...and tried to teach me the fundamentals of hockey...unfortunately to no avail. He was a good man that will be greatly missed by many."




"Michael will be greatly missed. His laid-back personality and friendly smile should be an inspiration to all of us to live every day to its fullest."