How to cope with the loss of a loved one

 

Click HERE to read more about Zeke's story

It’s present day and I’m shocked to walk into my front room and see a baby hooked to life support. The machines whir and thump with such force I wonder how the ventilator doesn't hurt the baby. The infant looks just like Zeke, my son who died in 2003, and suddenly it's hard for me to breathe...too. I’m about to step closer when the doorbell rings.

“Yes?” I say to the striking young woman at the door. I’m still craning my neck to get a closer look at the baby.

“You’re a professional writer,” she says, it’s not a question. “You write obituaries.”

“Well, yes. I do.”

She walks in and begins telling me about someone. I’m frantically taking notes thinking this woman is a muted cymbal, capable of so much more if she’d let herself “resound.” After all, no one should let pressure steal their purpose.

Then she hands me the picture that should accompany the obit and I’m stunned.

“But...this is you! Do you have an identical twin or something?”

“No,” she says. “And write the date of death as next Saturday. Don’t forget the ‘y’ in my name. Susan S-M-Y-T-H.”

I want to help this woman because I’ve lost people down the road she's traveling.  And the whole time, the baby's ventilator is getting louder and louder and I can hardly concentrate!

“Once there was a woman who wanted to be a water nymph.” I practically stumble over the words--trying to think of something, anything.
“She thought about leaving her other life, and assured herself everyone would be better off without her. So, she prayed to the gods, begging them to turn her into a nymph and let her live in the Haratha Pond. After all, it was always warm when she went to that bank, full of beauty and life."

I pause, glad she seems engaged in the story. "So, the gods granted her wish, but the woman changed and became stuck in the pond. Without the brightness of her human spirit to warm the place, the weather turned cold and the pond froze over with ice so thick she could not escape. Trapped, she perceived faint shadows and heard distant voices of those she loved searching for her above the ice. This went on for years, but she couldn't reach them or call out to them. And so it was that she realized her transformation had been much worse on everyone than she had ever expected. And unable to speak to—or see—those she loved, the beautiful nymph spent her days in an all encompassing loneliness unlike any she had known before.”

Susan hugged me as if resolved and stood to the rhythm of the life support at the edge of the room. “I think we should call and get you some help.”

The machine tha-whumped in the corner again. “Excuse me for just a moment,” I say. And when I go to see whose baby rests there, I’m dumbfounded; it’s actually Zeke!

“You can hold him now,” Susan steps forward.

“What? You’re a nurse or something?”

“Yes. You can hold him now.”

But her words are slippery with motive and I worry over the honey in her tone.

“Okay....”

After she disconnects the tubing, I’m holding my baby in the front room, and I’m not even asking why he’s back after 17 years.

“It’s you! It’s really you!” I nuzzle him...his fuzzy hair, his soft baby-smelling skin.

But then something goes terribly wrong and he’s puffing up like a distended balloon about to pop. His silent cries are so big I worry the sides of his mouth will split like the Joker. And my baby is gasping for the kind of air I can’t give because I don’t know how to hook up the damn machine!!!

I’m screaming then, begging anyone—the nurses, God, my family—anyone to fix my baby. But the damn nurse is gone and I don’t have the stamina or skills to fix my kid. And soon the crying stops, and he turns into this stiff doll in my arms. I’m bawling because he won’t wake up and no matter how hard I try to warm him, he’s cold....freezing inside and trapped in that lifeless, broken body. And now he and I are the muted cymbals, never wanting to make music again as I hold him for days.

A funeral director shows up later with a hawk nose and beady eyes. “We have to put him in a bag now and then place him in this box.”

“No! He’s my baby.”

“We'll get pictures first! Don't worry.  Don't you want to remember this!"

But I don't want to remember anything, especially the death in my arms.  I just want my baby back... breathing and recognizable..not this swollen doll that reminds me of his last painful moments on earth.

"You’ve held onto him long enough. Now let go! He’s gone.”

So I nod, but I’m crying so hard there’s snot running onto my chin and tears have made my cheeks sticky.

“What happened,” hawk-nose asks.

“He’s died in front of me all over again, sir. He’s died again.  I had a second chance and he died again."

The man puts Zeke in a clear bag and sets him in the box before closing the lid. After he leaves, I rush to the box, throw open the lid—and gasp. It’s not Zeke anymore....

Susan’s in the box--she has sightless open eyes and unfeeling hands. I kneel down and cry—these body shaking sounds that could crack mountains. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save her either. Damn it! Damn it!!!!! Why does life have to be so hard.  I'm never good enough damn it!”

I wake up then, sweating and crying. “Mike! Mike! Do I feel warm? I’m having feverish dreams. Maybe I’m sick?”

“You’re fine, Elisa. But you’re shaking. Sweetheart!” He completely woke up at two in the morning.

I tell him everything then, about the suicidal woman, the ice, and Zeke’s reappearance in my dreams.

“It was just a dream,” he says. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re all right.”

“But only part of it was a dream.” I sob. “ I watched Zeke die again. I watched it.... He couldn’t breathe again. And I couldn’t do anything to make him better. I thought God would heal him at the last minute. But God must have needed him more than I did ‘cause He took my little boy.”

Mike held me as I cried and cried. I’d never give up the memories of Zeke from 2002 to 2003 because they also contain him.... But it’s not always easy to remember.  I read a book once about people electing to get a single memory removed.  At least I know what mine wouldn't be--despite the pain.  Those memories also have my angel baby in them.

“Life can be so terribly hard. We’ll always be together?” I asked Mike. “The thought of losing you, the kids or our closest family, well, it's too much.”

“We’ll always be together, Elisa. Of course we will be.”

And so I decided to bring the kids out to do something fun today. I don’t care if we go on the world’s longest hike, fishing, playing in the trees or even skateboarding.... I just want to treasure every minute because life is short and the best things we can do are trust God, treasure the people we love and make sure they know how much we care about them.

I'm still quivering inside from that dream.  I hope today will get better.

Click HERE for more information about THE GOLDEN SKY, which details Zeke's story.

100-year-old gives advice that could carry people through hard times

I only had one wish for my birthday this year in February and that was to meet Ford Call.
The thing is that we’re both groundhogs (as he said), both born on February 2nd. The main difference is that this year he turned 100 and I became a whopping 37.

Ford just died....and as such, I wanted to share the article I wrote about him before the Coronavirus, before the stores ran out of bread and toilet paper, and before Idaho lost a legend.

_________  

Article from February, 2020

It’s astounding that Ford is turning 100 this year, on a palindrome!  That means you can read it the same forward and backward – 02022020.  “Racecar,” “repaper,” and “madam,” are all examples of palindromes. This is the only time in history that our birthday will do this with the day, month and year–and it’s the coolest thing ever that’s he’s turning 100 on this phenomenon!

Anyway, after waiting weeks and weeks for this interview, I finally got to meet the famous Ford Call on Thursday, and the conversation we had will stay with me forever. We talked about his memories and what made life special for him: how he married twice in his life, had five kids and three step daughters, how he farmed, went on a mission and even served in the military…, how he loved and lost, and I realized quickly that he’s leading a life that positively impacts others.

Ford grew up in Bingham County,  and even lived through the Great Depression. “We were all in the same boat,” he said. “We had plenty to eat, but I knew farm commodities were pretty low. I worked with my two older sisters in the beet fields, thinning, hoeing and topping beets.”

Ford also talked about working the land without any equipment and just the skills they’d been given from their father. Later, Ford served an LDS mission and after coming back and getting married, he was drafted into the military.

His first son, Michael Call, was born while Ford was serving our country in the Philippines and then Japan. Ford didn’t meet Michael until the boy was two years old. “Were you excited?” I asked, so eager to hear the rest of his story.

“I sure was!” Ford grinned, this smile that is completely contagious.

After that, Ford turned to farming, like his father before him.  “If I could give people advice, I’d tell them to be what they want to be.” When Ford was a little boy he wanted to be a pilot, but when he grew up, his father offered him a great deal on the farm. That’s when Ford knew he wanted to take over the family business. “My dad was a good man. He let it be my decision.”  After time passed, Ford ran 180 acres in Wapello, had a dairy (milking 120 head of cattle), and also farmed 640 acres 15 miles west of Blackfoot on Hoff Road.

When Ford had been married 30 years, his beautiful wife (who had been Miss Blackfoot years before), passed away after a battle with cancer. Their youngest son, Mark Call, was only 12 years old at the time.

Ford became a widower at an early age. His two oldest children, Michael and Claudia had already moved out of the house, but he had his three youngest children (Kathleen, Christy Lynn and Mark) living at home.

Ford stayed extremely busy after his wife, Elna, died.  He’d loved her so much and it was terribly devastating when she passed. He worked hard, even joined the school board in Firth. One night, Bill Messick, a fellow member of the school board said he had something important to talk with Ford about. It ended up that he wanted Ford to meet a woman who lived in Layton, Utah. Carol Hughs Holland had also lost a spouse.

They first met the day after Thanksgiving and when Ford talked about it, his eyes sort of sparkled.  “I was very impressed when she walked into the room.”

The couple was married a little while later coincidentally on February 2nd, Ford’s birthday. When asked if he had a favorite birthday from the past 99, Ford talked about marrying Carol. The two were married for 44 years, until she died on September 1st just over a year ago.

“I loved them both equally,” Ford said of Elna and Carol, explaining that they were both exceptional people.  During his first marriage, he said they worked hard to raise a family and provide for their children.  Their daughter Kathleen had gotten scarlet fever and chicken pox simultaneously and consequently lost her hearing. This spurred Elna to pursue a career in education, learn everything she could to help Kathleen and eventually attain her master’s degree.

During his second marriage, Ford said he and Carol spent a lot of time together. Her three wonderful daughters (Michelle, Elena and Shawna) were already grown up when Ford married their mother, and Ford said so much of their time, especially in later years, was spent just with the two of them.

Ford has one heck of a story, but I  guess what stuck out to me is the feeling he can give a person. He makes people feel valuable...worth something, like he doesn’t judge someone from the cover.
Michael, his oldest son confirmed this by saying, “He’s always been kind.  He never says anything unkind about anybody and he has a mind like a trap.”

Mark Call, his youngest son said, “He’s always been even-keeled, mild-mannered and kind to a ‘T.’ He’s more forgiving than I think I’d be, too. And he has a strong work ethic.”

As we talked and swapped stories, Ford shared some of his favorite poems.  (In fact, his family says he has one such wisdom to offer for almost any occasion.) For his 100th birthday, and this time in his life, Ford quoted Boyd Packer, “The old crow is getting slow.  The young crow is not. Of what the young crow does not know, the old crow knows a lot.  At knowing things the old crow, is still the young crow’s master.  What does the slow old crow not know?  —How to go faster.  The young crow flies above, below.  And rings around the slow, old crow.  What does the fast, young crow not know? ….Where. To. go.”

I’ve met a few people who were born on Groundhog’s Day and I’ve been impressed with each one for different reasons (Norma Furniss was one such Blackfoot legend).  Ford Call was no exception, and I left knowing our conversation is one I’ll always keep with me.

I guess what I’ll always remember about my 37th birthday was meeting someone who I’d like to be an awful lot like.  He told me that life, “Well, it’s the sum total of experiences that define who we are.”  Talking with him was the best present I could get. It wasn’t just because I met one of the neatest people ever, but because I know he can see value in people, and that made me somehow see a bit of value in myself….

I like my new 100-year-old friend and now I know why I was so excited for our birthday.

The sum total of Ford Call’s experiences equal a life-changing man who blesses the lives of all he meets; I only hope that I can say the same, someday.

Happy birthday, Ford.  YOU are one of the good ones.
-Elisa

_________

Looking back, I'm grateful that I got to meet Ford for our twin birthday.  He truly inspired me. 

A cat murderer

“I’m not gonna be late, Mom,” she practically sang. “Not today. Not ever again. I don’t want to get kicked out of school.” And like a Disney princess, she flitted around and made our entire family smile.
    The thing is that the kid has good grades, she just has something genetic called “lateness”- where late is actually on time.
    This all happened before I got the phone call….
    After I arrived at work, Ruby called, frantic.  “Oh my gosh! It’s dying! It’s dead! It’s dead!”
    “What?  Where are you?”  I thought I could hear tires on pavement. “Are you driving?”
    “Yes, Mom! It’s dead.  Ohhh.” Her words vibrated.  “Wait - it’s,” her voice dropped low, “having a seizure.” Then she screamed like someone had stolen her boyfriend. “It peed on me. And now...it’s dead again!”
    “What in the world is going on.  Pull over!”

    Ruby said she pulled over, and then through sobs, she told me. “I hit,” she cried, “a cat. And I didn’t know what to do, so I picked it up, put it on my lap and started driving to school again because I can’t be late anymore!  And then it died. It died.  I’m a mur-der-er.”  I could barely decipher her words through the crying.
    “Wait!  You’re late to school. You can’t get expelled.  Hurry, Ruby!”
    “Waaaaaaaaa!” she wailed, the cry only a seventeen-year-old girl can produce.
    “Fine. I’ll call the school and see what I can do,” I said.  But when I called, they wouldn’t believe me!
    “Listen, we’ve heard a lot of excuses from your daughter,” the secretary said in a monotone.  She should work at a mortuary, seriously. 
    So I called Ruby back.  “Okay…you have to bring the dead cat…into the school.”
    “Oh - heck no!”
    “Yes, Ruby!  Do you want to get expelled? They won’t believe me. They sure as heck won’t believe you.  But who will they believe? It’s the freakin’ cat that just died on you!”
    “Mom!  There are kids there.  Kids my age. I can’t just walk into the school with a dead cat.” 
    She had a point. After all, “Pet Sematary” just came out. So, in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best plan. But it was the only plan we had.
    “Well, it’s your only chance.  Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.”  It was a dumb thing I’d heard off some 80s sports film.
    “This…is the worst week ever.  First I got called into the principal’s office, then I became a murderer, and now I have to walk - through my high school - with the same cat that I murdered.”
    I couldn’t help it and at this point I broke out laughing.
    “Mom, a soul was LOST today!  Lost. I’m holding its dead body. In. My. Arms. And this is funny to you.  Who are you, Mom? Who!”
    She hung up and I could almost imagine her sauntering into that school, maybe colored smoke would billow around her as action music blared like she was saving Private Ryan!

 

    Anyway, I got a call about 25 minutes later. “I walked right into the principal’s office and the first thing she said was, ‘Is that a dead cat?’ So, I told her, yeah, it was. Then she started going on about how she believed me now and could trust my story. But she said she needed one thing from me; she needed me to stop being hysterical.  And she also doesn’t like dead things in her office.  And even though the cat died and it peed on me and this is the worst day ever, I’m not getting expelled.”
    “That’s great, Ruby.”
     “Yeah.”
     Something else dawned on me.  “But…where’s the cat?”
    “Oh, it’s in my car.”
    “What the - nasty.”
    “I have to do the right thing, Mom. I have to bring it back to its family after school!”  She bawled and bawled again. “Okay,” she sniffled, “everyone is looking at me weird.  People already saw me walking with a dead cat. They don’t need to see me crying in class, too!”
    “Ruby. You’re in class right now?”
    “I’ve gotta go,” she finally whispered as if she hadn’t been keening moments before.
    I hung up the phone and thought that I don’t know how anyone lives through raising teenagers.
    Later that day animal control called and said they had removed the animal from her vehicle.  They also told her they'd discovered it was a stray and had no family.
    "How...exactly did they confirm that?"
    "They have their ways.  I'm just glad it was a stray."
    "Wouldn't that make it worse. The poor cat had no one to love it."
    "That means no one will miss it!"
    Those geniuses at animal control...they sure know what to say.
    But seriously, raising teenagers IS NOT for the faint of heart.  Buckle up, buttercup--its gonna be a long ride.


-from the fall of 2019

Unemployment and the stages of grief

Yesterday I lost my job. It was a corporate take over which rarely turns out well for management.
Anyway, after I got home, I immediately went through the 5 stages of grief.

DENIAL
    "This is just a thing," I told Mike.  "Blip!"
    "Yeah. They'll probably call you tomorrow and say they want you to come back...because they decided you're necessary."

ANGER
    "What the heck!  You know they aren't going to call.  Why are you suddenly joining me in my denial?!  That's not what I need.  I don't need that. I don't need this!  Who wants to run a newspaper anyway?!  Not me. Not my children...  Not even my granchildren's grandchildren!"  Then I glared at my husband like he was the one who laid me off!!!

BARGAINING
    "There has to be something you can do," he said.
    "You're right! I'll put on my best business dress and tell them I can do anything! They want toilets washed--that's perfect! They want coffee--I'm their girl."
    "Yeah, 'cause that's not extreme.  Elisa, you're not the janitor."
    "Yeah, but maybe I can be.  Let's do this!!! I'll become humble AND a surviver.  God is gonna love this plan!"
    "Ummm.  Yeah, about that plan..."

DEPRESSION
    Mike looked at me and held out his arms.
"Ahhhhhhhhh..." I wailed like I'd just lost my uterus and all of my normal hormones.  "Not to be dramatic, but I'm going to die...."

WINE
    And after crying so much I'll be dehydrated for a year, I wiped my eyes and did the first thing I could think of.  I drank two HUGE glasses of wine.  So it's not quite acceptance, but it's the next best thing.

Anyone looking for a writer who's now on the market.  Anyone...?  Anyone?  Damn it!  Back to my wine *smiling through tears*
 -A very dramatic (for today at least) Elisa  *Can someone please give me my uterus back!!!

The importance of standing up

Long before my current job....

 

I should’ve known something was strange the day he offered me the job. He told me he really liked my haircut, and then afterward – as I was walking away – said he thought I was a beautiful woman. I told one of my friends immediately after, stating that his words made me hesitate, wondering if I really should take the job. 

“Oh, Elisa!” She laughed and told me everyone thought he was gay. “You have nothing to worry about.  And who would hit on someone during an interview? He was just being nice.” 

So, I thought about things and took the job despite my resolve. Things were okay at first, even more professional than I’d hoped. I would share ideas and soon I wasn’t just sharing them for my team, I was placed in front of departments and even talking to the “highly important” CEO.

Soon after that, my boss asked to start having weekly meetings with me.  At first he left the door open, but soon, he began closing the door so the air felt stale and I’d get fidgety and nervous despite how calm and collected I could be talking to entire departments – AND their leaders.  The meetings were…uncomfortable for me. One time I told him this, and he said they weren’t uncomfortable for him.  “So, what’s the problem?” 

Maybe the whole thing was just in my head?

Then, the final meeting – the one that left me reeling – is something hard to explain. The man sat, wearing an oversized suit and sporting hair plastered to his head.  Then, he used a single word, something so disgusting I can barely say it aloud. I suddenly felt worthless, like my beautiful dress was really hundreds of years old, moth-worn and falling apart.  I felt my pride ripped from me and suddenly I was every bit the scared little girl I had been during a terrible moment years and years ago…. And his words and the ravenous look in his eyes made me want to cry.

My professional demeanor and good work-ethic hadn’t helped me gain his respect and the realization stung my eyes because nothing I could do – nothing – would make him appreciate me for the reasons he should have.

I didn’t talk with anybody about it for a couple of days. But when I got home that night, I shut my bedroom door and cried and cried on my bed. It wasn’t that I’m a prude, not really. It was just that I felt so disrespected that someone thought they could talk to me like that. The next day I ended up visiting with one of my friends who works in a human resource profession. I’m not sure why, but when we went to lunch I just broke down. She became irate when I relayed what had happened.
“It’s not right,  Elisa,” she said. “What he said was really bad.”

“But I can’t tell anyone. That would make me some type of social leper at work. None of the other guys there will want to talk to me. They’ll be scared they might say something that will offend me. And the women, I just know this would affect how everybody would treat me.” And feeling completely claustrophobic, I realized how truly terrible situations like this can be.

Somehow the conversation shifted and we began talking about my oldest daughter and her job. Suddenly the woman said, “What if your daughter’s boss treated her like that?” 

Days later, after thinking about the conversation with my friend, I went and told the HR director. “I know this will affect my job… But it’s just not right.” And I’m embarrassed to say it, but I sobbed even though I’d told myself not to.  It was terrifying to say something, knowing I might get someone in trouble and negatively impact their life despite what he had done to me. 

The HR director always spoke in a monotone and every word sounded laced with judgement.  He grabbed a notebook, asked me the same questions over and over, in and out, backward and forward…. 

Finally, at the end, he said he had to do an investigation. 

Those two weeks were excruciating.  All of my special projects and big presentations were taken from me during that time. Although my boss tried acting normal it was even more uncomfortable being around him than it had been before.  I wanted another job, but it takes longer than a few days to find a good place, and plus it was really depressing thinking I might need to leave because of something this man said.

Anyway, a couple of weeks later, the HR director called me back in and said my boss had admitted to everything. As a countermeasure, to ensure this would never happen again, they had given him a personality test.

“Oh? A personality test?” I asked, confused. 

“We’ve disciplined him, but now we want you to learn to understand him more. So you can work around this.”

“Work around his behavior?” I whispered, shocked. 

After that, the HR director said there were things I could change about myself, too.  For example, he said, “Sometimes you wear form-fitting outfits.  They do meet dress-code requirements, but they aren’t helping the situation.”  

“So, this is my issue…because I’ve worn form-fitting clothes?”

“Oh, no!” he said.  “That’s not it at all, but I do think that response shows something else I wanted to talk with you about.  I do think you’re being a bit emotional about the whole situation.  Try to take your emotions out of it.”

I wanted to ask then if it was my pure emotion that caused my boss to take away my projects right after I’d reported him. Was it my “emotion” that had made that man see me in a terribly skewed light…one where my sole value was placed in an act that’s reserved for my husband?  I felt unsafe and this HR director was supposed to be the person to confide in?

Although many of my friends said I should have stayed and fought…I’ve never been one for lawsuits and so, I quit the job.  What’s odd is that within a week I was offered two amazing jobs – and that after a month of working somewhere else, I received a call from the VP of HR for the entire company I had worked for before.

“After a recent audit, I read your file.  What happened?” she prodded.

I didn’t tell her everything because it was in the past and I didn’t want to go there again.  But I did tell her about the personality test that I was supposed to gain insight from.

Within the following months, neither of those men worked for that company anymore.  Come to find out…I hadn’t been the only one.

And although some pretty terrible rumors circulated about me after that – amongst the people who stayed – I was glad the whole ordeal had ended.

I thought about all of this today because a man in Bingham County told me he doesn’t think women really get sexually harassed at work but it’s just a claim some people make for attention. “The Me Too Movement was a very scary thing for men,” he said. “Now, women think they can claim anything.    I bet one-percent of the harassment claims are real.”

I told him this story, and whether or not he believed me, I don’t know, but I sure wish that people would wake up!  It was so much harder to say something because of the fallout, the fact that I had to quit a good-paying job, the rumors, the judgement (mainly from women)….  It’s so much easier to try pushing the bad behavior aside; why is that so insanely hard for people to understand?  Saying something took strength, ignoring it would have just slowly taken my dignity.

I guess I wanted to write this to say that sexual harassment does happen. I inevitably stood up because I don’t want my kids to ever get treated that way and if people don’t say something, the bad behavior will continue…for generations.  As someone once told me “you promote what you permit.”
Maybe I should have fought and stayed, but for me it was much better to simply leave and find a healthy environment; after all, that’s what anyone deserves.

If you find yourself in a bad situation (whether at work or your personal life), stand up for yourself. Sometimes it’s hard to be brave – trust me – but everything will fall into place…things WILL get better. 

“Each relationship nurtures a strength or weakness within you.” -Mike Murdock

What do your current relationships nurture within you?

Fight in the Grocery Store: Part 2

So, my hair is naturally strawberry blonde.  I’ve thought many times how lucky I am that it wasn’t all red because I can be feisty enough as it is!

This story is about my strangest trip to the grocery store, but it starts in an unexpected place: Over five years ago, I dated a man who I thought was wonderful, amazing...the best person ever.  He was a cowboy who broke horses for a living and would go herd cattle through the treacherous mountains.  He was a great boyfriend until I discovered a catch; he was married.  Embarrassing as it is, it took me an entire month to break up with the guy.  I just refused to believe he’d lied to me…and his wife…and well, everyone except his brothers.

After that, I obtained a superpower; I could spot a married man a mile away.  My friends were impressed by how accurate I became.  They even did some investigating and confirmed that I’d been right.

“I just don’t know how you do it,” my friend, Kara, said.

“Well, for starters there’s this weird confidence about them.  The don’t mind getting turned down because they’ll ‘get some’ whether it’s from you or their wife.”

She paled.  “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

Later that day, I shopped at the grocery store, and stood looking at various flavors of Doritos when a gorgeous man came up to me.

“You like Doritos?  I like Doritos!” Fabio said to me.  “What are the odds?”

I just stared at him.  The man had a tan line where his wedding ring should have been!  “99-percent of Americans like Doritos!  That doesn’t make me your flippin’ soulmate.” I said, then grabbed the closest bag to me, and marched to the front of the store.

As I stood waiting to check out, the man found me in line.  “Hey, I have somethin’ to say to you.”
“Yes?” I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to approach a girl – who you think is beautiful – and try to strike up a conversation?  I’ve been going through a terrible time and I finally got the guts to say ‘hello’ to someone because my counselor has been encouraging me to.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just raised a brow.  Did “Fabio” – with those deep eyes and that perfect skin – expect me to believe HE had trouble approaching women?  “Well, better luck next time,” I said and turned away. 

“Elisa,” Kara said later,  “you should feel terrible.  That poor man probably just got divorced or something.”

“And what if he did?  It’s a rough world out here.  I’m just easing him into it.  And I call b.s. on his story.  A man who looks like that...if he’s single, there’s something wrong with this world.”

“You call that ‘easing’ someone into it?  Maybe his wife died, or cheated on him with their even better looking butler.”

“Lay off the romance novels for two seconds!” I laughed.

So, even though this was years ago, part of me still feels terrible.  I do wonder if “Fabio” was suffering some tragic loss.  But there’s another part of me that still thinks he was married! 
So, despite how weird things currently are at the grocery stores in Idaho, with the silence and (some places with) plastic barriers, the partially barren shelves, and that half the people are wearing masks; it’s still not as weird as when I almost made a grown man cry over some Doritos.

The only people I like hitting on me are old men because at least they’re entertaining!  If they tried to pick someone up (over a bag of chips), they’d have something much better to say than “you like Doritos!”

Fight in the Grocery Store: Part 1

Standing in the grocery store yesterday, I watched, a bit mystified.  Most of the shelves are stocked now with some essential items people need – even Top Ramen.  Too bad the coffee grinder at the store is shut down because apparently if you’re going to get “corona” from ANYTHING, it’s the public coffee grinder.  It is odd how quiet the store is though.  Half of the people inside wore masks – and everyone stayed far away from each other – so somber it’s reminiscent of a library!  I used to work at a library in my teen years, but I’m so hyper and happy that it was a strange combination.  In high school I’d dyed my hair the colors of the rainbow and the head librarian said I had a personality to match.  She just wanted me to stop making the patrons laugh so much...because the library is supposed to be quieter than death...or something.

Anyway, being solemn is NOT a gift God gave me. So, yesterday, I stood half an aisle away from an old man and I raised my voice to ask, “How are you doin’?” 
“Ornery as ever,” he said, and pulled his mask down so I could see his momentary smile.  “Don’t you run that paper in Blackfoot?”

I nodded.  “Why yes, I do.”

“I get it,” he said.  “Figure as long as I don’t see myself in the obituaries, I’m doing all right.”
“I hear ya there.  I heard someone say six feet apart is better than six feet under.”

He laughed pretty hard.  “You take care!  Hopefully I can come visit that office of yours sometime when this whole thing blows over.”

“I’d love that!” I grinned.

Then he put his mask back on, and hobbled away.

The cashiers now have thick plastic barriers around them like they work for a bank that might get robbed.  It cracked me up because there’s one young cashier who’s freaked out about germs on a good day.  You should see her after the virus.  She has this head scarf thing and all you can see are her eyes.  I really hope she’ll be okay, not just in regard to corona, but mentally; I can’t imagine how scared she must be.  “That head thing really brings out your eyes,” I said to her, meaning it.

“I’ve missed you!” She laughed.  “You always have something different to say.”

“It’s so quiet though,” I whispered, turning to look at the grumpy people who stood in line behind me...almost a football field away.

“Is this one of your strangest trips to the grocery store?” she asked.


“Well, no....but it’s up there.”

That’s when I thought of something hilarious; it’s not a moment I’m proud of, but it’s my strangest trip to the store.

To be continued tomorrow....

Sincerity and Wax

Sincerity is something often lost....

A few years ago, I sat next to my stunning coworker.  Everyone noticed Sara's beauty, and various men would visit her quite often throughout the days. Sara and I talked for a moment about life and process improvement.  Throughout the conversation her shallow responses continued to surprise me until, June walked into the room.  Now, June wasn't someone people called “attractive,” even if God did give her an extra dose of kindness. Sara, ascertaining the "plainness," immediately looked at the woman and said, “That shirt looks fabulous on you!”

June glowed and thanked Sara. I was proud of Sara's kindness, but after June left, Sara snidely turned to me and said, “Didn’t she look terrible. I hate that shirt!”

Sincere, derived from the Latin, breaks into: sine (meaning without) and cera (meaning wax). It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax, so perfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.

While having lunch with my family this Sunday, we talked about the Latin root of sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”
My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said because I’ve heard stories about such practices.

“Wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when God does.”

One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”

I thought about the whole thing and called my writing mentor later that night. “I’ve heard this so much, but imperfections do make some things perfect. I’d much rather be sincere, than like that woman–full of flattery and fake compliments.”

She told stories of how some of the most influential people in her life have been the most sincere. “It’s because you can trust them,” she said.

I’ve thought about how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. Some of the compliments and criticisms have  empowered me to continue sharing so I can heal along with others. The criticism has both helped and hurt. But each bit of feedback is something I can use as wax to fill holes I have from the things I’ve been through.

Not only has the study of sincerity–and the honesty of those around me–taught me about motives, it’s also encouraged me to set the wax and paint aside.

I might be more battered than people realize, but I’m still standing and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.

Having interviewed many people for stories over the years, I just wanted to encourage others to set the wax aside. We’re amazing for our battle scars and all.

I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.

My get up and go, got up and left

I heard a story once about hundreds of rats trapped in a room. At first they bustled about—even tried to work together—until growing frantic...and hungry. It didn’t take long until the creatures started eating each other, pawing through flesh until they reached bone. All the rats lay decaying and bleeding in a sort of stench that could make even the dead retch. Finally, one rat remained. And after he looked around, he gingerly lifted up his own leg...and started eating.

This is how the economy feels right now. We can’t bury our heads in the sand; the economy is struggling. And as such, bigger companies—thinking they can benefit—swoop in and try to overtake markets. They might look like “hometown” places, disguised as the people who work for them. But they aren’t ‘those’ people. In some cases those poor workers are just a disposable front. Local companies are fighting to not be eaten.  Greed, the deadly sin I’ve never understood, is a driving force with the power to destroy.

Right now, I’m worried, thinking about the local businesses I love. I fear, this could be the end of some of them if people don’t show the support they need. Companies everywhere have cut employee hours and services.  It appears workers continue striving under significantly reduced pay and hours, yet those in essential roles have absorbed more work than ever before.

We, as a society, have worked so hard to succeed…but, like a game of chess, the economy is losing her pawns, worried it might become one itself. Slowly people are giving time, hearts, and souls to the American dream; yet, the economy still feels like a vacuum.

As I tucked my son into bed the other day, he asked, “Do you think people will talk about this in the future; when the coronavirus brought the world together?”  He went on to talk about a common enemy uniting people “like in the movies.”

“This will be in the history books for sure, kid.” His eyes lit up.  “When you’re a very old man, I bet people will ask you what it was like to live through this.”

“Really?  And I can tell them about the grocery stores being empty, businesses closing, people going nuts over toilet paper…and how we couldn’t find Top Ramen?!”

“You’ll have to tell them all of that,” I said.  “Hey,” I said before walking from his room, “is that a roll of toilet paper hidden under your bed?”

“Yeah, you never know when you might need it.”

As I shut his door, a realization hit me.  My grandparents used to hide things like that (toilet paper, medicine, shampoo…canned food).  My grandma said it started after they lived through the Great Depression.  They were brilliant people, business-minded and savvy.  If they could live through all that and be all right, I figure we’ll be okay too. 

Rats and a struggling economy aside, there are lessons to be garnered that will buoy future generations forward and make them better for it. 

Some “old-timers” have worried about technology and a pervading laziness that has come to rest over generations.  Maybe all of that is about to change as we strive to help ourselves and each other so the places we love can make it through these hard times.

What we have right now is hope... Hope is “an expectation.” So for now, I’m going to “expect” to find something positive in all this.  After all, we get what we look for

Waffle sandwiches and a memorable moment

I know we’re all going through the same thing, but I have to say that this week has been extra crazy.
It started when my family ran out of bread.  Of course the stores are barren.  We didn’t stock up on everything like the rest of the world apparently did.  
    
So, we panicked once at the store because everywhere we went in Idaho they were out of bread AND flour.

Then, as if led by a beacon of light, we walked to a section we never go to...the organic food section....

Now, what’s hilarious about this is that the stores are cleaned out – and still seem to be in Pocatello.  BUT, the organic food section is still relatively untouched.  What is that about?  People are willing to buy towers of toilet paper...all of the cooking supplies...extravagant amounts of laundry detergent, but God forbid someone pays extra for fancy peanut butter, rice flour, matcha tea or a froofy waffle mix. But it’s not just the organic section, the coffee and wine sections are also chock-full! Idaho…I knew I liked it here.

Anyway, I’ve gone organic, even though I’m not that kind of person.  But really, my family and I just want to live.

Instead of regular bread, we were making waffles (from an organic waffle mix we luckily found).  Waffles sandwiches actually aren’t all that bad.  We’ve had PB&J waffles, turkey and bacon waffle sandwiches, avocado waffle sandwiches...okay, that last one sucked, but still.

I did go to the store the other day–at the butt-crack of dawn.  Although they’re still out of regular flour, they did have about 40 loaves of bread on the shelves.  And I’m embarrassed to say that I bought four of them.  My family and I could have skated by with two, but I got gluttonous and now I can see why that’s on of the seven deadly sins!  My gluttony took two loaves from someone else.  But real sandwiches....wow, they taste better than they ever have before.

In other news, I’ve seen a lot of amazing acts of kindness, especially from who have helped numerous people in the community receive supplies they need (like masks, toilet paper, diapers, wipes and food).

Unfortunately, I have also seen some not so great things too.  I saw a woman fake cough on someone just so she could get a supply she needed.  People, being scared and cooped up, have called the newspaper and been extremely mean about other people in town and how they’re handling the situation.  One lady called and after a moment, I said, “What’s really going on?  Are you really mad at your neighbor because you saw her loading a bunch of toilet paper into her house?”

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I guess I’m just scared. I’m over 70. And it’s getting lonely being home alone.”

“You can call me here every day if you need to,” I said.  Then I told her about my waffle sandwiches and how it’s odd but this is turning into the kind of adventure people will put in history books.  I hope she’ll call again.  Maybe another good thing about this terrible quarantine is that I’ll have a new friend.  There’s good even in the bad, if we just look for it.

My dog disowned me

My dog keeps running away, which is more than slightly annoying. The thing that gets me, is how she keeps going to the same house, actually several streets away.

Today, the man called me, since I’m practically on speed-dial.  “Your dog is at my house again.”
The man is hilarious and really embodies class. He’s Japanese and about 60. Every time I go pick up my dog, the man is wearing a maroon bathrobe, fuzzy blue slippers, and silky pajama pants.

Who is this guy?  My husband thinks he’s amazing, my dog wants to live with him, and I want to know why he gets to wear pajamas all the time.

He looks like he came straight out of a classic movie starring Humphrey Bogart and Catherine Hepburn. I expect him to hold a big cigar and talk in a fancy accent.

Anyway, a higher fence didn’t help our dog, so now we have an invisible fence and “Abby” has a collar that beeps every time she gets too close.

After reading the recent incident reports about dogs getting out in Bingham County, I am especially conscious that our pet has been out a few times a year.

At least that’s one dog who won’t be getting out all of the time.

Do you feel like this is an issue in the area?

On a side note, why in the world does my dog keep going to the same house?

I thought about how the man likes our dog a lot, but doesn’t seem to be the type who would own her full-time or anything.

As I got her in the car, which was difficult since she’s a massive doberman, I thought about how often in life I’ve wondered if “this” or “that” would be better than current circumstances. Like a person who chases rainbows, thinking a pot of gold will be at the end, but when they get there, the rainbow is gone–I don’t want to be a rainbow chaser. And I sure wish my dog would stop being one too!

Sincerely,
A stressed pet owner

I got to meet Ford Call

I only had one wish for my birthday this year and that was to meet Ford Call.

The thing is that we’re both groundhogs (as he said), both born on February 2nd. The main difference is that this year he’s turning 100 and I’ll be a whopping 37.

It’s astounding that Ford is turning 100 this year, on a palindrome!  That means you can read it the same forward and backward – 02022020.  “Racecar,” “repaper,” and “madam,” are all examples of palindromes. This is the only time in history that our birthday will do this with the day, month and year–and it’s the coolest thing ever that’s he’s turning 100 on this phenomenon!

Anyway, after waiting weeks and weeks for this interview, I finally got to meet the famous Ford Call on Thursday, and the conversation we had will stay with me forever. We talked about his memories and what made life special for him: how he married twice in his life, had five kids and three step daughters, how he farmed, went on a mission and even served in the military…, how he loved and lost, and I realized quickly that he’s leading a life that positively impacts others.

It was humbling hearing about everything he’s gone through, and the strength he must’ve had through all those times….

Ford grew up in Bingham County,  and even lived through the Great Depression. “We were all in the same boat,” he said. “We had plenty to eat, but I knew farm commodities were pretty low. I worked with my two older sisters in the beet fields, thinning, hoeing and topping beets.”
Ford also talked about working the land without any equipment and just the skills they’d been given from their father. It was almost magical listening to him explain details about the land and how hard the family worked to succeed, together.

Later, Ford served an LDS mission and after coming back and getting married, he was drafted into the military.

His first son, Michael Call, was born while Ford was serving our country in the Philippines and then Japan. Ford didn’t meet Michael until he was two years old. “Were you excited?” I asked, so eager to hear the rest of his story.

“I sure was!” Ford grinned, this smile that is completely contagious.

After that, Ford turned to farming, like his father before him.  “If I could give people advice, I’d tell them to be what they want to be.” When Ford was a little boy he wanted to be a pilot, but when he grew up, his father offered him a great deal on the farm. That’s when Ford knew he wanted to take over the family business. “My dad was a good man. He let it be my decision.”  After time passed, Ford ran 180 acres in Wapello, had a dairy (milking 120 head of cattle), and also farmed 640 acres 15 miles west of Blackfoot on Hoff Road.

When Ford had been married 30 years, his beautiful wife (who had been Miss Blackfoot years before), passed away after a battle with cancer. Their youngest son, Mark Call, was only 12 years old at the time.

Ford became a widower at an early age. His two oldest children, Michael and Claudia had already moved out of the house, but he had his three youngest children (Kathleen, Christy Lynn and Mark) living at home.

Ford stayed extremely busy after his wife, Elna, died.  He’d loved her so much and it was terribly devastating when she passed. He worked hard, even joined the school board in Firth. One night, Bill Messick, a fellow member of the school board said he had something important to talk with Ford about. It ended up that he wanted Ford to meet a woman who lived in Layton, Utah. Carol Hughs Holland had also lost a spouse.

They first met the day after Thanksgiving and when Ford talked about it, his eyes sort of sparkled.  “I was very impressed when she walked into the room.”

   The couple was married a little while later coincidentally on February 2nd, Ford’s birthday. When asked if he had a favorite birthday from the past 99, Ford talked about marrying Carol. The two were married for 44 years, until she died on September 1st just over a year ago.

“I loved them both equally,” Ford said of Elna and Carol, explaining that they were both exceptional people.  During his first marriage, he said they worked hard to raise a family and provide for their children.  Their daughter Kathleen had gotten scarlet fever and chicken pox simultaneously and consequently lost her hearing. This spurred Elna to pursue a career in education, learn everything she could to help Kathleen and eventually attain her master’s degree. 

During his second marriage, Ford said he and Carol spent a lot of time together. Her three wonderful daughters (Michelle, Elena and Shawna) were already grown up when Ford married their mother, and Ford said so much of their time, especially in later years, was spent just with the two of them.
Ford has one heck of a story, but I  guess what stuck out to me is the feeling he can give a person. He makes people feel valuable...worth something, like he doesn’t judge someone from the cover.  Michael, his oldest son confirmed this by saying, “He’s always been kind.  He never says anything unkind about anybody and he has a mind like a trap.”

Mark Call, his youngest son said, “He’s always been even-keeled, mild-mannered and kind to a ‘T.’ He’s more forgiving than I think I’d be, too. And he has a strong work ethic.”

As we talked and swapped stories, Ford shared some of his favorite poems.  (In fact, his family says he has one such wisdom to offer for almost any occasion.) For his 100th birthday, and this time in his life, Ford quoted Boyd Packer, “The old crow is getting slow.  The young crow is not. Of what the young crow does not know, the old crow knows a lot.  At knowing things the old crow, is still the young crow’s master.  What does the slow old crow not know?  —How to go faster.  The young crow flies above, below.  And rings around the slow, old crow.  What does the fast, young crow not know? ….Where. To. go.”

I’ve met a few people who were born on Groundhog’s Day and I’ve been impressed with each one for different reasons (Norma Furniss was one such Blackfoot legend).  Ford Call was no exception, and I left knowing our conversation is one I’ll always keep with me.

I guess what I’ll always remember about my 37th birthday was meeting someone who I’d like to be an awful lot like.  He told me that life, “Well, it’s the sum total of experiences that define who we are.”  Talking with him was the best present I could get. It wasn’t just because I met one of the neatest people ever, but because I know he can see value in people, and that made me somehow see a bit of value in myself….

I like my new 100-year-old friend and now I know why I was so excited for our birthday.
The sum total of Ford Call’s experiences equal a life-changing man who blesses the lives of all he meets; I only hope that I can say the same, someday.

Happy birthday, Ford.  YOU are one of the good ones.
-Elisa

Boring millionaire or brilliant starving artist

If you had to, would you marry a boring millionaire or a brilliant, starving musician?  This topic came up over Thanksgiving with my parents.  We all wrote our answers, along with a reason why, then mixed up the responses and read them aloud.  I—of course—picked the brilliant, starving artist.  It’s not that I hate money, I’m just not good with boredom.

My parents, to my surprise, both picked the boring millionaire.  I waited in anticipation, already knowing that my husband and our daughters would probably pick the brilliant, starving artist.  My 11-year-old son adversely wrote: “I pick the boring millionaire girl, so I be havin’ money.”

I honestly couldn’t believe anyone would pick the millionaire. There’s something romantic about marrying someone for nothing more than their intellect and a love which empowers a belief they’ll do something great someday.  What’s romantic about a million dollars?

On Monday morning I still thought about this, so I asked my staff which option they would pick.  Surprisingly all of the employees who have been divorced said they’d choose the boring millionaire. “I’ve already married for love,” one said. “Now it’s time to marry for money.” The rest of us in the office (who are each married) picked the starving artist.

I had more responses, but apparently, I’m part-journalist, part-blood hound—and if there’s an answer I’ll find it! So, at a recent doctor’s appointment, I posed this question to the random people in the waiting room.  (Well, we were just sitting there anyway.)

“I’d pick the boring millionaire,” one person said to me.  “Because that’s who I think I am. And if my wife would stop watching Hallmark movies we’d be a lot better off.”  He stared off for a moment. “Do these men on Hallmark movies even have jobs?  She made me watch a couple of them with her. One was a prince. Another one apparently cuts down Christmas trees in a tree lot?  I just can’t compete with this Hallmark stuff!”  I tried not to laugh because he’d actually said it quite comically even though he was serious. “In real life did you pick the starving artist?” he suddenly asked me.
“Oh, me? Well, I guess I sort of did.”

“And you’re happy?” the millionaire asked.

“So happy.” I grinned even though I waited for my annual exam—and the only thing I hate more is tuna casserole.

“He must be a great guy,” the millionaire said.

“He’s the kindest person I’ve even known.  And he cooks!”

Another woman, who heard the conversation piped in.  She said she was recently divorced, but didn’t mind talking about it.  Her eyes got a bit starry and she glowed beautifully as she spoke. “I would pick the starving artist again.  Maybe I’ll pick the right one next time.”

“Most people are picking the millionaire.”

“I bet a lot of people who read the paper are older,” a lady said. “I’m in my 70s and I read it!  The truth is that once you hit a certain age you don’t care about love. You just want the money.”

I blinked, trying to think of a way to respond, but then I got called back to my exam.  I waved goodbye to all of my new friends and followed the nurse—who later said she’d pick the starving artist.

Anyway, I love asking people questions like this, as a way to learn something about them. I am surprised so many people picked the millionaire. But like my dad said, maybe with that much money you can teach them how to have fun?  What would you pick? 

Kissed on the shoulder

He stared at me from across the way. I sat peddling newspapers, excited for people to read about the news we’d recently unearthed. He paced back and forth, just watching.

I guess I must have looked thoughtfully at him at one point because he returned the action. Sometimes I wonder if people with down syndrome can be like that, simply honest and unassuming.
As the day continued, he kept glancing over and I really wondered what he was thinking.  The man must have been in his early twenties and obviously seemed to be pondering something.

My thoughts suddenly turned to my son who died.  He’d had birth defects and the doctors throughout he was mentally handicapped. They kept saying that if he ended up growing to be an adult, he wouldn’t have a good quality of life.

There was a part of me that wondered if they’d been right. He died from health complications, but I’ve always wondered what he really would have been like, as an adult.

At first they thought he’d have down syndrome, then trisomy.  They performed  all sorts of tests before he was born and afterward, when nurses cared from him in the NICU; experts studied all sorts of tests there too.

Anyway, I thought of all of this as the man with down syndrome watched me at the fair. If my boy would have been mentally slow, what would that have been like?

I’m normally so happy, and I’m not totally sure why but I suddenly descended into such a sadness as I sat there that I almost started crying.

I just wished for a second that I could feel the arms of God wrap around me and just take the pain surrounding sickness and death.  It seems like when my son died he left a hole that will never be filled – not unless I can somehow be surrounded by God’s love, just to know that He has a plan.
Suddenly, when I’d gotten to the very worst of this feeling, the man with down syndrome gracefully zig-zagged toward me.

“I like you,” he said. “I just do.”

“Well, thank you.”  I blinked, and then brightened, for his sake. “And, I like you!”

“Hug?” he looked down and kicked a rock by his shoe.

“Ummm. Sure.”  So I held out my arms extremely wide and he placed his head softly on my shoulder as I hugged him. I swear that somehow it felt like the presence of God surrounded both of us, wrapping us in this crazy-strong warmth.

He kissed my shoulder lightly before walking away. As he was about to round the corner, he yelled back, “I love you, k!”

Tears filled my eyes, not because I was sad, but because I’d witnessed something amazing.

“Thank you for that,” his caregiver quickly said.

“He’s pretty special isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he really is.”

Abortion...a personal experience

I recently had the privilege of watching the movie “Unplanned,” the story of Abby Johnson who was the youngest director (in history) of a Planned Parenthood clinic.

Before getting into my opinion and experience, which I’m sure will offend someone (unfortunately), I would like to state that I watched this at Blackfoot’s Movie Mill, which is absolutely gorgeous and has great popcorn – even if the content of this particular movie made me lose my appetite quite quickly.

Basically, the movie details the experience of a woman who worked in an abortion clinic. My stomach clenched in knots for over half of the movie, partially because of my own experiences and also from seeing the completely believable emotions of the people on-screen. Although this did have the feel of a cross between a Christian and (almost) Hallmark movie at times, I did find it quite compelling despite the aforementioned details. In short: this is not a movie people will easily forget.
One scene in particular stuck with me, where a family pleads with a woman, begging her to not have an abortion; watch the movie and you’ll know which scene I’m referring to. I literally felt the pain in my own heart, just listening to their words.

I’ll admit, I was terrified to watch this since I’ve experienced the death of a child, who died at two-and-a-half months at Primary Children’s Hospital. 

This might not make sense to other people, but subjects like this – especially movies – sometimes bring back memories I’m not always strong enough to face.

My experience

I got pregnant at 18. It wasn’t glamorous. I’d actually broken up with the man before it happened. I still remember the night I got pregnant because I’d been drinking. Later, the guy had no idea I was pregnant and I had no intention of telling him.

I still remember going to the doctor and the first thing they said was, “You can have an abortion.”
It’s scary being pregnant that young and single, feeling completely alone. Plus, I’d heard about childbirth and that didn’t sound like something I ever wanted to sign up for. But abortion...now that was something completely different. It brought me to this dark place, somewhere beyond scary. They urged me to do what was best for myself, calling my baby a  “fetus.” 

It was scary being pregnant so young, embarrassing too. For some reason the doctor’s words terrified me more than childbirth, embarrassment and even stretch-marks. 

I looked at them and said slowly, “I’m old enough to have sex, I’m old enough to deal with the consequences.”

I got a job at a bowling alley. Imagine my surprise when my ex showed up and asked me to marry him.

Like I wrote before, it isn’t a glamorous story, but it’s what happened. Working pregnant, unmarried at a bowling alley, now that’s what dreams are made of.

Fast forward to a time when I was pregnant with our second child. I had a feeling something was wrong and I put the ultrasound off for longer than normal. 

After the ultrasound, I got a call from the doctor. The thing is, when a doctor calls you at home, it’s not a good call.

I listened to his vinegar words and felt my body nearly crumbling beneath me as I learned that my baby had birth defects and would probably die.

I had an amniocentesis after that, to test my baby for trisomy. The whole time the doctor called my baby a fetus like he wasn’t real. I heard the word “viable” too. Viable and fetus were practically joined at the hip for that doctor.

Family members urged me to think about an abortion. The doctor said I was young, but that I needed to think beyond my years, think about the child I already had and how a sibling with birth defects could affect her. 

I refused to have an abortion. It’s difficult when people you love and doctors try pressuring you into having an abortion.

I had a dream that I gave birth to a fish. Worries plagued me. 

My son was born and although he didn’t live a long life, he impacted me more than anyone.
The day I finally got to hold him, I remember how he held my finger with his tiny hand. He had the softest hair and this amazing strength to him. He snuggled into me, with so much love.  I knew then that even if he died nothing could break our bond, not regret or pain, not even death. 

I had to take him off of life support, making a choice no mother should ever have to make. When he suffocated in my arms, I wished I could die too.... We’d given him every chance to live, and it still wasn’t enough. Yet, for the time I had to fall in love with my baby...to see his beautiful eyes and feel the love of holding him in my arms. I would never trade that...for anything.

And now as I think about abortion and remember the two times I was urged to make that choice, I’m so grateful I didn’t. My first baby is now 17 and one of the most amazing people I know. I hugged her the other day after she looked at different colleges.

“You know, you and God got me through when your brother died. You’ve been my strength through everything. I became stronger, for you.”

She gave me a huge hug and I held her so tight. “I’m glad you’re my mom,” she finally said.
“I’m so glad, too,” I replied, and even though I didn’t mean to, I cried

Do you believe in miracles or coincidence?

Years after my son died, a neighbor gave me a statue, saying she felt compelled to.  I always had it displayed--because the statue looked ironically like Zeke, my angel baby.  I anchored myself by pretending his presence lingered in the statue even though his body had died.  And I went a lot of years, imagining he was there, experiencing our joys, triumphs, even our tragedies.  But he wasn't there, and when the statue broke several years later, I felt my own fortitude crumble as well.

In 2015, I remarried and the kids and I moved to Idaho with my husband.  After a few months had passed, I still didn't feel like I belonged in a place so different from my hometown.  So much had changed, and Zeke's statue was no longer there to weather the journey of life with me.  

In February, 2016, I walked toward my house and prayed that God would give me a sign that we should be there--in down-to-earth Idaho.  My house rested almost a mile up a hill, and the cold air stiffened my lungs.  But I didn't think about the cold; I feared what change would bring--and remembered how hard it is losing memorabilia that keeps us strong.  

A couple of minutes later, as I ascended the last road's bend before my house, I glanced to the left and spotted a tiny stone statue, shaded by a pine tree.  I froze, completely stunned by an exact replica of Zeke and a statue I'd had for so many years before.

I can't tell you how much peace this coincidence has given me--for nearly three years.  Today, on Zeke's sixteenth birthday, I sat down and told my family again about the statue.  "It's like he's still here, watching over us."  

My little boy frowned with concern, obviously not wanting to tell me something.  "Mama," he finally whispered, "I look at that statue every day when we go by it.  You know, it's been gone since Monday."

"Seriously?"  I said.  And for some damn reason tears filled my eyes.  "But it felt like he was watching over us.  It really did.  We have to go look!  Will you go with me?" 

As we got in the car, I wiped my face and continued babbling.  "I can't believe it's gone--the same week as his birthday."

So, we drove slowly out of our driveway, and my husband kept concernedly glancing at me.  

It only took a second to drive to the neighbor's house.  "Oh my gosh," my daughter said.  "The statue is gone, but look!"

I covered my mouth and gasped.  "They replaced it...with a statue of a man?  He looks young!"

After a moment, I turned to Mike, seriously not knowing what to say.

"I have to admit," he said, "it is awfully strange that happened the week of his sixteenth birthday."

Each of my kids' eyes widened.       

Interview About Being Homeless in Hawaii

I was just interviewed on #ExcelsiorJourneys . We talked about my #NaNoWriMo experience, the various causes I’ve donated to (through my writing), my time spent homeless in Hawaii, and more. 

To hear the interview, please click here:

Episode 7 - EC Stilson

I Cried--On the News....

This was such a neat experience! 

Playing the Fiddle for a Dying Soul

    I stepped into a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a poofy white comforter.  A little head stuck from the top of the comforter.  She was smoking, completely horizontally, and with her head barely visible!  A bottle of whiskey sat on her end-table, but it looked pretty full.  I blinked hard, then stared--this must be the cantankerous DYING woman. What was she, recovering from a frat party?
    "So you're the fiddle lady?  You're not what I expected at all. You're much older."
    I studied her, then before stopping myself, responded with, "You're not what I expected either.  You don't even look like you're dying."
    Her daughter, who had led me into the room, turned very pale. Then, so did I--the queen of saying the wrong crap, always. 
    I thought I'd get the smack-down from "Old Smokey," who still puffed away at that Camel Gold, but as she looked at my apologetic face, she suddenly burst out laughing...and coughing, and laughing again.
    "Awe, kid. You're too damn honest. But so am I."
    I bit my lip and smiled at her. "Mrs. Beck, I like you." 
    "Ya, that happens from time to time.  I'm usually an acquired taste, but the people who like me right off, I figure those are the good ones."  She grinned so wide, showing several missing teeth and even a big silver one that Lil Wayne woulda gone crazy for! "So what do you got, kid?" she asked, and I bent over to begin taking my violin from the case.
    "I'm gonna play some oldies. That's what I heard you like."  I snapped my shoulder rest into place, tightened my bow, and was ready in 20 seconds flat!  "Mrs. Beck," I said, because I'm super direct, "you keep calling me kid, but you said I'm older than you expected."
    "That?  Anyone under fifty is a kid to me! And they keep bringing pre-teens over to see me--like they're doing a good deed or something.  Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?"
    I thought for a minute. "I guess, I just want to make you forget whatever it is that you're going through--even if it's just for a minute. Focus on something else, and enjoy."  I set my violin on my shoulder.  "So, I have a favor to ask you.  Set down your cigarette, and close your eyes."
    She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow and closed her eyes.  
    "Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story."
    And I started.  First I played the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet--a trickle of spring rain. "When you're weary, feeling small." The words swam around my head as I played. "When tears are near your eyes, I will dry them all...  I'm on your side when times get rough, and friends just can't be found. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."
    Little tears seeped from the sides of Mrs. Beck's eyes.  She looked so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or somethin' with her sheered, dyed-black hair, and leathery face.  But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying, waiting for the kiss of God.
    Tears suddenly came to my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin' pansy.  I shut my lids and instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands...my fingertips.  And I played that violin, like a flippin' lover--it cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it couldn't help reacting to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the very sorrow that was deep in my soul--for them. Because that violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of peace.
    "Sail on by. Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way...."
    Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That's the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that damn thing takes over like an addiction. I have the roadmap, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there--a good friend, leading me home.
     The song swelled, over and over.  At one point, I realized the window at the foot of Mrs. Beck's bed was open, because a gust of wind rode in on a high note.  It was right after that, when my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song...was over.
    I held my violin at my side, that freakin' extension of self. I faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn't want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see that I was crying.  I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn't need to see some kid--over thirty--crying because she "felt bad."
    "Elisa," Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers.  "That...Elisa, that was beautiful."
    "What did you see," I asked, "when you closed your eyes?"
    "Something from when I was a kid.  Something I thought I forgot. Me and my mom and dad were walking in a field." She took a very deep breath. "I miss them. They were good parents."
    I had to twitch my nose just to keep from crying. After all, she'd probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged both Mrs. Beck and her daughter.
   "It was nice meeting you both," I said. Then, I left the house, and I never saw either one of them again.
     
   Life...it's a gift, but sometimes it sure is a strange thing.

Sincerely,
A 35-year-old kid

All That Remains Is Love

Just remembering...

    On January 30th, a few years ago, I drove through treacherously snow-filled mountains. Flakes shot down, forming an unwanted curtain around the truck. My eyes darted to the right of the canyon, but I could barely see, let alone remember any turnouts in that area. The lights from a huge semi bounced off the road behind us, shining increasingly closer. That driver loved tail-gating people--for a living. Who gave that idiot a CDL? But I didn't say the words aloud; instead, I white-knuckled the steering wheel in terror and realized from the icy breath of my family around me, they were terrified too. 
    And maybe they should have been. This was an unlucky day for us--the same day my son died 13 years before.... Normally each year I'd visit his grave, read my journal--the book I wrote about him. (More about that HERE.) 
    But this January, I didn't do any of that.  After all it's his Death Day. I don't want to go back to that damn memory--of a hospital that reeks of iodine and rubbing alcohol. Those stupid machines whirring and beeping to keep OTHER parents' kids alive. But. Not. Mine. Because the damn doctors said he would never live. THEY said he'd die despite all their fancy gadgets and his will to live. His fight...was for naught. So he died that day, amidst the stench of medicine, after my ex-husband and I removed him from life support, and he suffocated in our arms....
    As I drove through the snow-infested mountains, with the wind nearly ripping our truck from the road, I couldn't help thinking about Zeke. I shook my head telling myself not to. This drive was dangerous enough, without me trying to see through tears as well. 
    But what happened next, surprised me.
    This year, I didn't recall all of the sad circumstances of his death. Instead, I simply remembered a specific day nearly a month before he died.
    Zeke's nurse had said I could hold him in a rocking chair. Right before she was about to pass him to me, he started crying really hard. Another nurse came by and said I shouldn't hold him, that they needed to up his vent settings. But I pleaded, BEGGING them to let me hold my baby. So they handed him to me. 
    I rocked so slowly, careful since he had so much tubing in him. And instead of crying harder like they'd thought he might, he melted into my arms, as if he was always meant to be there. I put my pinkie near his hand and he wrapped his little fingers around it, holding on so damn tight. Tears filled my eyes as I rocked him forever. And in that moment, it didn't matter how sick he was or how hard this was. We loved each other.  Nothing could take that away, not time, not sickness, not death. And that moment, admist the stench of medicine and all those whirring machines...that was a perfect moment.
    I could hardly believe it had been 13 years this January. I blinked, focusing on the road ahead. The weather began clearing a little, and it wasn't quite so terrifying.
    After we were safely home and all of the kids were in bed, I told my husband about the memory. "I can't remember the complete details of the bad parts of Zeke's life anymore, but I do remember every detail of when I held him in the rocking chair for the first time." 
    Mike squeezed my hand.
    "It's crazy, Mike, but I feel so much peace right now. When time has passed and everything else is gone, all that remains--all that really matters--is love."
    And so now when I think of Zeke, the memory of his love is in the forefront of my mind. I hope that's what he remembers about me as well....    

Happy birthday.