Birthday Wishes Across the Stars: For Brother Mike

Posted on April 9, 2024 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, Angels on Earth, Dealing with special occasions, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, hope, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, seasons, Self-Care, Self-Compassion, self-discovery, self-value, Sibling Death, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Validate Your Feelings, Veterans, Vulnerability, zen

Not much different from today, the 70s boomed with a culture of body shaming, fueled by a relentless push to sell magic formulas for a beauty standard that was as warped as the false eyelashes and diet pills I clung to. The “miracle pills” whittled me down to a frail 102 pounds, a desperate attempt to mold myself into something peer-approved pretty.

You, on the other hand, Mike, were the pragmatist. Your words were few, but each one landed with the weight of your well-worn cowboy boots sinking into the good earth. I can still picture the glint in your eyes, even then, as a young man, when you asked me as I batted my extended lashes, “What ever happened to natural?”

Natural? The concept flew over my bleached-blonde hair.

Turns out, dear bro (and maybe you knew this all along), I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It took me five whole decades to finally grasp the meaning of “natural.” It wasn’t just about rejecting the miracle products and noise from greedy marketers, but also the well-meaning (but often misguided) voices of family and friends anchored by their faith (or traditions), trying to mold me into their own images.

Finally following your lead, I, at last, retreated inwards, finding solace in the quiet and contentment in the slow burn of a candle. This newfound space helped free me from external manipulation, my decisions stemmed from the deepest well of my being – my soul, (sadly, a missed opportunity for my son). In this way, a new understanding of myself blossomed within me, carried on the wings of redemption, faith, and the quiet hum of grief. It was a womb-like homecoming – a return to the essence of who I was always meant to be. Like the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinth that pushed through the warmed earth, bold and bright as jewels. In the process, I embraced myself. Judgment and distortions disappeared. A sense of liberation bloomed – a feeling as light and airy as the warm breeze that chased away the last of winter’s chill.

This personal freedom extended to giving others space. I let go of my ego. Of “fixing” prayers and forced agendas. Life, I found, often worked in mysterious ways, guided by a hand far more divine than mine and impossible to understand fully.

So, dear brother, thank you for planting the seed of the concept of natural in my heart. These last two years, in particular, are showing me that the overdue path for my true self is now under construction. Looking back, I see the past woven intricately together, not by chance, but by a divine hand that holds mine with compassion.

Specifically, since January 2023, I have lost over 35 pounds, all on my own without any drugs or shaming or a doctor’s fearful words. Out of the blue, I “happened” to have fallen upon the program NOOM (disclaimer: I’m not affiliated with them), and it has changed my life.

It wasn’t about quick fixes – NOOM focuses on behavior change and mental well-being, which resonates with me. NOOM’s app uses science and personalization to track food and lifestyle choices, promoting healthy weight loss and long-term habits, which I’ve incorporated into my life.

Sharing my initial progress with only one person backfired when they dismissed my one-pound weight loss after a month on NOOM. But I tuned out the negativity and continued to focus on myself. Every pound since then feels like a major victory on this amazing journey. Ultimately, losing weight isn’t just about the numbers on the scale. It is part of my powerful journey of self-discovery, because, as I already mentioned, I alone have claimed what was so loving and freely given to me all along: my authentic self. (While it looks like the naysayer is headed for a knee replacement, I am not, at least not at the moment!)

Just as amazing, too, and completely by happenstance, today also marks my one-year anniversary of becoming a pescetarian! There was no pressure, no specific date in mind – it just happened. (Plus, this time, I kept my secret to myself, secured in my judgment-free zone!) And that’s when I realized the most profound aspect of this journey: sometimes, the most meaningful changes come about organically, like a nudge from a higher power that reigns over all the super human powers.

My inspiration for this eating shift had been brewing for a long time, fueled in part by your gentle spirit and by my amazing daughter, Alexandra. She’s been a vegetarian since she was just eight years old, and at 29, she’s still a passionate advocate for animal welfare. Witnessing her compassion has brought the joy of spring to me every season, her dedication is always rubbing off on me. Then there’s my niece who’s poured her heart into working at an animal sanctuary early every Sunday morning for over a year now.

From the start, I felt a deep conviction about my dietary path. Then, just a few weeks in, a fantastic article in the New York Times, Peter Singer: Fix Your Diet, Save the Planet, practically fell into my lap, seemingly confirming my intuition. Since I gave up eating animals, even on days when the world feels like a relentless battle, I go to bed knowing I’ve made a positive impact, however small.

So, big brother, you were right – “natural” truly is beautiful. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in aligning myself with the universe’s flow, dancing with it rather than resisting, keeping my world free from the super human powers that get in the way and cause an accident.

Today, on what would have been your 78th birthday, I celebrate not only your life, but also the newfound vibrancy in mine. Who knows, maybe next year on your birthday, I’ll discover another divinely inspired way to move through the world that can sometimes feel so serious, a joyful expression in your memory.

But for now, I raise a glass (sparkling water, please!) to you, brother, to my incredible daughter and niece, and to the life I’m so grateful to share with them and all of you. Let’s weave faith into the unexpected twists and turns of life, and see what beautiful and unique tapestry emerges. Regarding that natural process, I’m profoundly grateful. Now, I can simply rest and watch the masterpiece unfold.

Happy Birthday, bro!

A New Year’s Toast: Not to Resolutions, but to Revolutions 🎇

Posted on December 26, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Affirmations, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Dealing with special occasions, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief relief, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, New Year, one day at a time, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Support Group Resources, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, zen

As the clock flickers towards midnight, a familiar ritual unfolds. Champagne bubbles, confetti dances, and resolutions whisper into the starlit sky. This time, however, as the year draws to a close, let’s rewrite the script. Forget the forced resolutions, toss the tired expectations. Instead, let’s ignite a revolution within, breaking free from self-doubt and crafting a haven of self-acceptance.

And this revolution has already begun for me. It lives in the wise gifts you’ve shared: your words and kindness like vibrant brushstrokes painting light onto the canvas of my being. From your help, I’m learning to embrace vulnerability, letting my empathy shine like constellations while dancing to the rhythm of my own unfamiliar steps, waltzing with joy, tangoing with grief, and pirouetting through loss across the canvas of life.

Because of the many gifts you’ve given me, I raise my glass to you, my blogging community friends. May your untamed fires illuminate the path ahead, and may your brushstrokes of faith paint your personal masterpiece, abstract or otherwise, in the coming year. Happy New Year to you all!

Freewheeling Prayers

Posted on August 8, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Meeting your needs, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability, zen

Last Monday night, the weather was perfect, having cooled down after a stifling heatwave, when Santana and his band took the stage at 8 p.m. sharp at the nearly sold-out 1001 Rainbows, 2023 Tour, performance at the Hartford HealthCare Amphitheater in Bridgeport, Connecticut. I attended the concert with Anna, one of my dearest friends since childhood.

Oye Como Va! The show started off with a bang and the energy immediately electric. Carlos Santana’s guitar playing was as virtuosic as ever, and the band’s backing vocals sounded soulful and soaring.

The setlist was a mix of Santana’s greatest hits, and some from the band’s latest album, Blessings and Miracles. We were treated to classics like “Smooth,” “Maria Maria,” and “Evil Ways,” as well as newer songs like “Joy.”

As the concert went on, Carlos announced to the audience that he felt Jerry Garcia, among others, playing alongside him. I had a strong sense of my deceased brother Mike and me singing together again in a dingy, off-the-beaten-track bar in Tallahassee, Florida, our voices gliding through the air as if the seventies would never end.

Years fade, and with them, people and some of their talents. But Carlos remains one of the greatest guitarists of all time, and his band members are also masters of their craft. I was also particularly impressed by the drummer, Cindy Blackman Santana.

She’s been married to Carlos since 2010. All I can say is, her drumming blew us and the audience away. She played with such passion and intensity that it felt like a supernatural experience. I kid you not, I had goosebumps during her solo acts.

The Wikipedia article about her states: “Blackman cultivates spirituality in her musicianship. “I believe that music is so sacred that once you’re playing music you are doing the work of prayer, whether you’re conscious of it or not, because you have a focused intent,” says Blackman.

Hearing her and the band was holier than a prayer. On one hand, it brought everybody together, and I mean, EVERYBODY, including elders who danced the night away while donning cataract surgery sunglasses. What really struck me was the sight of a quadriplegic man who appeared to be in his thirties. He was stationed in his wheelchair on the upper level of the theater. The man could only move his head slightly, but had no facial expression.

I was really touched by this man’s determination to enjoy the concert despite his significant challenges. Then I wondered how he felt watching other audience members out of their seats, dancing, singing, and moving in perfect harmony with the music, flowing along with the oxygen.

I didn’t know if he was envious of the movement, or, on the other hand, simply savoring the sights, sounds, and tasting every moment like snacking on a buttery concoction.

At first, I thought how lucky the rest of us were to have mobility, until I realized maybe he was the lucky one. I liked to believe that he didn’t rush from one thing to the next, consumed to the point of falling in step with the armies of walking mummies, failing to appreciate simple things like a soft breeze brushing against a pair of moving limbs.

Perhaps this particular man piqued my curiosity because grief is an isolating experience, especially for me. It can be easy to feel like you’re the only one going through it, out of sync with the rest of the world (even if they are walking mummies!). As I scanned the venue, it appeared that the young man really was the only one in a wheelchair, but I hoped that the music would connect us all in the same spiritual way that Cindy feels it, in a miraculous way that would flush out our disunion and differences.

It was interesting to see Anna’s reaction when Cindy first performed her solo drum act. She shouted out, “She’s a woman!” in a way that said, “Yes, sister! We can do anything.”

Cindy Blackman Santana

Later, Carlos made a point to say that many men have passed out from drumming in the vigorous manner that Cindy is able to.

Wikipedia’s article further defines Cindy as “a rarity as a female jazz percussionist.”

It goes on to quote her, “In the past, there were a lot of stigmas attached to women playing certain instruments,” Blackman says. “Any woman, or anyone facing race prejudice, weight prejudice, hair prejudice … if you let somebody stop you because of their opinions, then the only thing you’re doing is hurting yourself. I don’t want to give somebody that power over me.”

The keyword in her quote is “power.” There’s a loaded definition behind that word, but when we pray in the purest spiritual realm, we transcend feelings of exclusion, rejection and not belonging. As a result, hair, nails, body image – the physical plane melts, sort of like in harmony with a slow, fluid dance. That’s the power of music, a special prayer to turn to for comfort. There’s something about the combination of lyrics and melody that can reach into the soul and make you feel less alone. And when I see someone, such as the quadriplegic man at Santana’s concert, who has pushed through what people can define as limitations, and reigns over his own power of thought, it reminds me that there is always hope.

Music is a universal language that brings people together from all walks – and wheels – of life. It doesn’t matter if you’re able-bodied or not, young or old, rich or poor. Music has the power to connect us all, and it can be a powerful tool for healing and hope. In this way, it is the most powerful prayer of all.

Missing Tooth Fairy

Posted on February 1, 2022 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Courage, COVID-19, Crisis, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, heartbreak, hope, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Pandemic, positive words of encouragement, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Self-Care, self-value, sorrow, Soul Food, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, To thine own self be true, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

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My mind raced. I accelerated my car, a pair of Suicide Awareness ribbon magnets on the rear. My son bought the car and owned it for only a month before he passed away. I sped like a champion racehorse determined to arrive at the dental surgeon’s office on time. I was scheduled for dental work on one side of my mouth. Now, suddenly, another tooth on the opposite side of my mouth flared up. I reasoned, after the dentist examined it, he would prescribe an antibiotic before any further work could be done. The visit would amount to a thirty-minute span, maybe less.

On my usual route, I whipped past a strip mall, then Armory Road and St. John’s Cemetery, one of the preferred burying grounds of many deceased parishioners at the Ukrainian church where I grew up, and which I still occasionally attend.

From the roster of people who were buried there, without fail since my grief journey, I pictured dear, sweet Anne Marie. About fifteen years younger than I, she died very suddenly about ten years ago from a heart ailment. I saw her over-sized body, weightless and free, float like dandelion fluff carried by the wind as she drifted above St. John’s knoll that shoots to the sky like an ethereal rocket eager to launch.

“You’re free, Ann Marie. Free!” I sang in my mind, at the same time imagined her airy body breaking into somersaults as I zipped past.

Two blocks away from the cemetery is a tidy brick schoolhouse that you’d see pictured in a 1950s children’s book, a good book to curl up with. The first time I encountered it was a year into my grief journey on the way to the same oral surgeon’s office. Tears streamed down my face like dozens of icicles melted in a flash when I recalled how we gathered sometime in 2008 for a high school wrestling tournament there. My then 14-year-old son resembled a mustard-covered pretzel on the mat, competing against his opponent. The sheen of my son’s white teeth still apparent behind his mouth guard in sharp contrast to his moist, crimson, overly ripe tomato-toned face. He vocalized his final groan of defeat, a pulverized pancake pinned to the mat.

Over the last year, when I pass by now, I typically save my tears for other hours in the day but cannot escape hearing his groan that pierces me like one meat hook caught between my two ears. No reprieve in sight, this is my grief journey long after I came upon the stark realization that I had mistaken the elementary school for the high school where I thought the match had once been held.

My arrival at the oral surgeon’s office was marked with my mind’s general grief and trauma-related brouhaha, so much so that this time I nearly fell back when the woman at the receptionist’s desk took my temperature to ensure I did not carry any virus. Fortunately, she was multitasking, and she would not have noticed if I had collapsed, deep in conversation on the phone, apparently reassuring a patient while scheduling his or her wisdom tooth extraction.

Overhearing the conversation, I visualized the buried body of my 26-year-old son, his skeleton, his teeth, wisdom teeth intact. My final trip I made to see him in Bowling Green, Kentucky, when he was alive, was to accompany him to an oral surgeon to extract his wisdom teeth. He bailed out the last minute. It was my last trip with him in that state. We planned to visit some kangaroo sanctuary the next time. Before I left, I had to force him to accept the clothes I purchased for him at Target, because he did not want me to spend my money and also prided himself on his minimalist lifestyle.

At this point, the dentist’s assistant greeted me.

“I am pleased to meet you. My name is Kerwina.”

I tried to shake the dandelion dust out of my head, acting as if it were just a normal day in a normal life. “How’s your day so far?”

“It’s a grateful day,” she exclaimed, her eyes twinkled above her mask.

In my former life, my tone of voice would have spooled noisily, magnified her optimism. Chattered and affirmed life’s joys without restraint, back in the day when I worked a program for a straight 35 years, a program that helped pioneer the topic of gratitude into universal conversation. Now, I mirrored my son and fell silent. I was desperate to obtain my prescription and call it a day.

“Which tooth?” my dentist asked after he was brought up to speed on my latest dental dilemma. “Left or right?”

There was a fat pause. I pointed to the right. I pointed to the left. My mind contorted beyond pretzel proportions.

“I think someone has to go back to second grade,” he rudely blurted out.

Fortunate for him how, unlike my internalized son, he could slap out his feelings at will on non-threatening bystanders, so his insides didn’t boil up inside him, expand in him like a decaying cavity in a tooth. Without rebuttal, I managed to get my left and right sides straight. After he examined my left side, I was nearly shocked to discover I would lose my tooth then and there. After discussing the matter, I knew there was no other way to escape it, and his assistant prepped me for the inevitable.

Kerwina’s compassionate nature reminded me of Ann Marie, who had spent an honorable run working as a registered nurse prior to her death. When the dentist injected me with Novocain, Kerwina held my hand tightly, her face above her mask soft and fluffy like a dandelion. Once the dentist started working on my anesthetized mouth, I felt the pliers around the culprit tooth. This would be the third tooth I would lose in a six-year span. Suddenly when he pulled, I wanted to swipe the instruments out from his powder-blue gloved hands. Stop! My mind shouted in horror. I don’t want to lose my tooth. I have to hold onto what I have. Don’t you understand? So much has been pried from me. I’m barely holding onto faith. I have to keep everything around me. My son needed his wisdom teeth pulled out, but I need the rest of the teeth I have to stay in. Please stop. I closed my eyes tightly until they hurt. I pictured myself wrestling with the dentist, engaging in a tug of war over my tooth, holding back tears in the process.

After it was done, I yearned for Kerwina to hurry and clean me up, so I could request to take my tooth home. Where did they put it? Did it go into a designated disposal along with other fallen teeth? I thought of my son’s umbilical cord, the one I swiped out of the hospital shortly after I delivered him, and how I let it go after 26 years, allowed it to return to its rightful owner in his coffin, along with a collection of other forked-over mementos. Then I visualized the tooth, flushed down an imaginary toilet.

A few minutes later, that gentle-natured dental assistant helped me rise until I achieved my balance. I felt my swollen mouth along with my swollen heart. I could not utter a word. Kerwina hugged me in an uncannily knowing way. Her compassion almost forced the words out of me: “It was a grateful day for me too.”

Instead, I murmured a good-bye, afraid to face the mirror and the vast space in my bloody gum and empty heart and drifted slowly to my car in the parking lot.

Quite coincidentally, that night, reckoning with the powerlessness of lost teeth, as well as a lost grip on life, I read a book review on the NPR Public Radio website written by Kristen Martin about Kathryn Schulz’s recently published memoir “Lost & Found.”

Suddenly, after I finished reading, I understood that I was angry at existence, at her tricky kleptomaniac, sticky fingers. Taking what she felt was rightfully hers, as I bowed down to her, my how-dare-you phrases spitting in retaliation to no avail. I share the gutting loss that Ms. Martin explains in the review:

…. Schulz unravels universal truths about why loss guts us, and how it forces us to grapple with our place in the world and its workings. When we cannot locate what we have lost — whether it be a sweater in a small apartment, Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 in the Indian Ocean, or a dead loved one on this plane of existence — we often react with “a powerful feeling of disbelief” because it seems that “the world is not obeying its customary rules.” Surely it cannot be possible that these losses are irretrievable. In fact, Schulz reminds us, the rules of our world dictate that we will lose our belongings and lose our lives:

“To lose something…forces us to confront the limits of existence: the fact that, sooner or later, it is in the nature of almost everything to vanish or perish. Over and over, loss calls us to reckon with this universal impermanence — with the baffling, maddening, heartbreaking fact that something that was just here can be, all of a sudden, gone.”

In the same manner, too, like my tooth, my grief journey has plunged me into an abysmal burrow. In this place, there is nothing sacred, because I am too afraid to hold onto anything, seeing it for what it is: passing vapor. Ms. Martin writes:

Here, Schulz forces us to sit with that which we ignore in our quotidian lives, so that we may go on living them — the impermanence of everything we love. The death of someone you’ve shared your life with is paralyzing, because it plunges you into stark awareness of that impermanence. And yet if we want to keep living, we must make peace with the knowledge that nothing in this world is forever.

After rereading Ms. Martin’s review, I hankered down under my bedcovers to protect myself from the sudden chill. My gum aching, medicine worn off, pain awakened. For years, I did not relinquish faith and tried to save the tooth that amounted to a failed root canal. Despite all my efforts, it was gone, pulled, discarded, gone.

The wind howled as I pictured all the dead matter, cells, atoms, tooth chips purged out of the earth and landfills of brokenness, making room for the new, whole flower buds in the spring about 90 days away. I could see Ann Marie swaying around, wearing a crown of dandelions, whispering as smoothly as a silky velvet ribbon: “It was a grateful day. Now, a grateful night. There is nothing to cement it with, only stuff it into the cavity of memory, there will you find permanence, a level floor on which to dance peacefully.”

Dear Son *

Posted on November 16, 2021 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, American Dream, Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, heartbreak, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Pipe Dreams, prayer, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), seasons, Self-Care, sorrow, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

I’m still here.

In the two years, this Friday, you’ve been gone, I discovered that anyone can purchase poison on eBay, and there are companies in China that will deliver it in an unmarked package via USPS mail for exorbitant costs.

About three weeks before the unspeakable happened, I heard Britney Spears perform “Lover” for the first time on Saturday Night Live. The song was on the album released in August, ironically, a day after my birthday of that horrible year. (In fact, I believe she debuted “Lover” live on YouTube on my birthday before the album’s actual release date.)

Can I go where you go … can we always be this close? Forever and ever, ah

So many things, like one of our final nearly two-hour conversations led me to believe we were close. I told you I was preparing to pack my personal belongings and move them to what I thought would be a second home in your home some 600 miles away.

Can I go where you go … can we always be this close? Forever and ever, ah

That song can push me to steep cliffs where the view is not pretty. If I hear the lyrics in some random store or any other public place that I have no control over, and they start to pierce what little whole surface is left in my Swiss cheese heart that now replaces my healthy heart, like the one you were born with before it was surgically repaired, I put my hands over my ears and let out a shrill scream to cancel the sound. Bystanders simply avoid me. By the looks on their faces, they assume I am on a day’s furlough from a psychiatric special care facility.

Other songs, too, have a nails-on-a-chalkboard effect. Would you believe, thanks to you, I can’t listen to country and western music anymore? To think, you and your sister were raised on what was once my favorite genre of music. I now realize how the lyrics so often involve white, Christian heterosexual alpha male cowboys and helpless soon-to-be dependent wives and, as such, marginalize diverse populations. I feel excluded. In the same way you did, son. Instead of you growing up to be like me, I have grown up to be so much like you.

In actuality, there isn’t much music I can listen to any longer. You’ll likely be happy (or maybe not so much, because it used to irritate you!) that I do still sing dumb songs. Chock Full o’Nuts is that heavenly coffee, Heavenly coffee, heavenly coffee. Chock Full o’Nuts is that heavenly coffee, Better coffee a millionaire’s money can’t buy.

I don’t, though, sing my silly songs as often. I sure don’t pray any longer. Instead, I curse in my mind at you all day long. I’m sure people would judge me, but you know how I feel about judgment, especially watching how you deteriorated from the bullies over the years until the end when they won your soul. Let the hypocrites, the judgmental bullies spew their well-meaning sermons on forgiveness. I’ll keep my new cursing habit; thank you very much. It’s has the monotone sound of a daily prayer and is one of the few things that keeps me here.

*Marshall D. Maxwell, Antigua, Leeward Islands in the Caribbean, March 1996*

When you took your life. You took mine.

I say this along with the cursing in my mind. I only wish I had conveyed these notions to you out loud and saturated you with guilt in response to the threats you made to me a million times; threats that fell on deaf ears.

I wish I could prove to you how much I have changed, and how well I can listen and engage in conversation. Without the preaching. Without the positive psychology and affirmations. Without the quick-made solutions. Without the holier-than-thou attitude and putting my ego-inflated, false pride into the equation.

I no longer, believe it or not, for the most part, attend support groups. The people in them all sound like they are on fire with miracles that don’t exist for most people in the world. It boils down to false hope and it feels as real to me as “FakeBook,” which, by the way, I’m off and don’t miss at all! Don’t even start me on any kind of religious groups and how I fear them. Thank goodness for Father Ivan. He is still a kind and compassionate man. He’s right up there with the saints. I am sorry, son, though, that he forgot to add your liturgy on the church calendar this Friday. I readily accepted his apology and told him we are human and make mistakes in the same manner you would have done. I, however, declined his offer to add your name to a later date on the church calendar to “celebrate” your life. Take the money, I insisted, and put it toward a new church roof. I don’t need any more remembrances of how marginalized and painful your existence once was.

Can you believe this is me? If anyone ever told me that my major goal for each day is to dodge songs, prayers, social media, people, group gatherings as well as ropes, strings, belts or any kind of cord or suspended pendulum that swings back and forth, I would have reacted to the thought like my old laughing hyena self. Even though we still share that goofy giggle that irritated the heck out of me when I heard it from you, most things do not strike me as funny any longer. I am trying to remove the words “kill” and “hate” from my vocabulary.

I think you would really, really like this new version of me. Once you realized who I am now, you would really, really stay. At least a little longer.

Maybe I should have told you that my greatest aspiration was to see you and E grow up. Motherhood is far greater than any other role. I should have told you the reason that I toiled on pipe dreams was because I was certain they would pay off and make it possible for me to be with you, especially since your sister was always so much more independent and resilient. They did not pay off. In the end, before the unspeakable happened, I was ripped off in trying to get that web business going. Michael B. was the perpetrator’s name. He is your age. I forgave him. Last I heard, he was still alive and living in Florida.

I should have stopped “strategizing” so much and started finding ways to be alongside you. Before you relocated to KY, you asked me to go on a hike with you to Sleepy Giant State Park. It was mid-week, and I was working with Michael.

Love is showing up. Putting down the phone. Walking through hot coals if necessary. Regardless of my intentions (intentions can’t form a hug around anyone), I should have dropped everything and joined you on the hike in Sleepy Giant. I would have appreciated the memory. Who knows, maybe if I joined you instead of being left behind sitting in the home office, I wouldn’t have been duped into the lame website.

These “new normal” days I would dedicate to taking hikes with you even in a hailstorm, because I have brand-new, excellent all-weather gear. On the hike, I would at last speak the words to acknowledge how I reveled in your development and your mind. How I appreciated your accomplishments that were done completely independent from me. How I admired that your character was so much better than mine was at that age. The person I am today would have spent the rest of her life hiking with you, Marshall. Ultimately, the canteens have run dry.

You were always quiet in a noisy world. Subdued and humble in an entitled, egotistic world. With this in mind, few, if any, care to remember you. Even Father Ivan forgot. Steve Irwin gets a day on November 15. I wish I could get a day for you every year on the universe’s calendar, but what matters, really, is how much you matter to me. I would have given my life over a zillion times to spare yours. That was always the way it was. I only wish I had let you in on my secret. Instead, I kept telling you how your brain would clear up at 26 when the “logic” center developed. How I couldn’t wait for that year to come. This was because of some dumb brain documentary that I watched in the auditorium at your genius-only high school. A “top school” that’s tops in creating equality by making perfect products out of all people who enter through the doors. I can still hear myself saying, I can’t wait until you’re 26.

Now, I can’t wait to get through all the days. I’m sure you know that Saturday through Monday are especially painful. We could have saved you in those three days if we were there. Whitney and Bradley tried on that fatal, unbearable fourth day, a Tuesday. It was, obviously, too late. I think you would be pleased to know that Whitney and Bradley have joined our incomplete family, and it doesn’t feel as miniscule in size as it really is. They are the only reason I would return to KY. We still have family graves there, too, son, don’t forget. I have discovered that six hundred miles is not far after all.

When you took your life. You took mine.

I looked outside the window the other day and imagined you jumping in complete abandon on the neighbor’s trampoline. It made me recall one of those rare times when you were the star at the middle school dance, and you let go of all your inhibitions, and you danced as if no one was watching, although the entire eighth grade class gathered around and cheered you on the dance floor. It was all for you, my boy, my son, my first born. All the worldly applause. It was all for you. For you, Marshall, who was named after an American entrepreneur who became a famous multimillionaire. Sadly, from that night forward, you stopped dancing just as you stopped crying, because, marking your adolescence, you proclaimed to me, “Real men don’t cry.”

I wish you had kept dancing. I wish you had kept crying. I wish you had allowed yourself to be comfortable with all the uncomfortable things that made you feel like you didn’t belong to us or anywhere you traveled. Shame, of course, killed you. I’d like to think you are finally at peace. Maybe even dancing or crying or, at very least, just at ease.

In your note that “fell from the sky — you know what I mean” to me and your sister and Pat, you said you hoped the next world was kinder than this one. I hope so. There are no signs. No feelings I can sink my hope into. No muscle of faith that can pull me up and inspire me to sing, “Hallelujah!”

I’m still here. Maybe that is enough of a sign for now.

LOVE YOU ALWAYS AND FOREVER, YOUR HEART-BROKEN, SHATTERED-IN-PIECES MOTHER

*I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

my baby you’ll be.