Perspective - 12/14/12 A Sad Day in US History

Perspective always tends to find you when you least expect it and coincidentally when you need it the most. This year has brought a whirlwind of highs and lows. I honestly try to see every closed door as an opened window somewhere else that I just need to look for. This doesn't mean that I don't get a little pissed off for a while when the door smacks me in the face. It can last even longer when it leaves a bruise on my cheek. I was nursing just such a bruise on my cheek this morning (if you're all still following me) when I powered up my phone and started surfing my social media. Things took a sharp left turn when started catching up on Twitter. I read over tweet after tweet about a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut detailed with over 20 dead, mostly students. I'll admit that it didn't hit me at first but when it started to sink in, it hit me like a freight train. 

I continued to scroll through the Twitter feed and read about the emerging details and I started to cry. I thought about how I would be feeling right now if one of my siblings was sitting at a desk in that school in Connecticut. I thought of my 5 year-old brother, Jaiden, specifically because he was elementary school age. The horrific images that fluttered through my mind were terrible and sort of earth shattering. My small tears turned into unmanageable sobs for the families who were living the reality that I was only imagining at a distance.

I realized that I still have people in my life that love me and whom I also love. We are lucky to have each other, even if we are spread out a bit, and know that we are all safe this Christmas. It was a jolt strong enough to shove me out of the chair at the head of the table at my own pity party. I have some amazing gifts in my life and I am lucky, regardless of the obstacles I have also been blessed with. Christmas is a magical time. It brings an intense need in each of us to be closer with our families, be a little more generous to strangers and the less fortunate, and be a littler nice to our neighbor. 

I think that one of the of the best ways to pay tribute to these innocent fallen children, teachers, and their families is to exemplify the spirit of Christmas in every possible way. Be generous and and kind to everyone you meet. Treat your family and friends with love and appreciation during the holiday season. Forget some of your vain and 1st world worries that we tend to let take precedence over more pressing family matters during this time and replace them with quality time with your loved ones. Remember and keep in your heart the reality of other families who will not be as fortunate to spend these festivities together this year. 

My Disneyland Adventure - WE SAID YES

Disneyland this year brought many beautiful and precious gifts for me this year. I got engaged to my 7-year partner in crime, shared memories and laughter with my new family, and built a life-long friendship. Another silent and personal gift that I gave to myself can't help but bring a smile to my face. I made myself a goal to ask my girlfriend to marry me and to get my body weight down to a more healthy number so I would feel confident about the way I look in my engagement photos standing next to my beautiful bride. I know that may seem vain, and maybe it is a little bit so I'm sorry about that. It has been a long and difficult year but it has finally paid off. For the first time in my entire life, I accomplished both of my New Year resolutions. Please stay posted for the events of my magical trip as I work to put the memories to paper the best that I can. For now, please enjoy some of these sneak peak photos as well as a look at a great mile post on my long road to my personal weight loss goal. Thanks to everyone for your continued support of Carley and I. We are so excited for our special day!

I Wanna Be Like Mike

Around 1991, my grandpa purchased a state-of-the-art Panasonic VHS camcorder. He began to film almost every moment of our lives, significant or insignificant. Today, there are still VHS tapes filled with his grand-kids engaging in several interesting activities like getting ready for church, playing Nintendo, putting together our toys, reading a book, jumping on the trampoline, and eating breakfast. It may have seemed simple at the time but I like to think that Grandpa had the foresight to realize that even the simplest moments in life are precious and capturing them could give us some insight to why we turned out the way we did. In each of the videos, there are two most common characters; Me and my brother, Michael, and the moments between the two of us are still very special to me.

There is one video in particular that seems to sum up my relationship with my brother the most perfectly. I think I was probably 5 years old at the time meaning Mike was probably 7. We were both dressed in full length footie pajamas at my Grandparents' house around Christmas time, I believe. I know that his jammies were red and probably Ninja Turtles, but I do know that mine were pale yellow with Big Bird and the rest of the Sesame Street gang on the front in a white circle across the zipper, my shoulder length blonde ringlets sat disheveled around my round face suggesting that we had only recently crawled out of bed. 

Grandma and Grandpa had given us a Sesame Street railroad set and we had the pieces strung out across the dining room table. Each piece of the railroad was in the shape of a letter and the ends of the letters connected together to form a path for the train to move throughout the neighborhood. Even though the pieces only had limited options for placement, I was struggling to make a smooth path. After all, I was only 5 and this toy must have been in the 6-10 age group. I seemed oblivious to my shortcomings as a railroad operator and excitedly grabbed letter after letter and haphazardly connected them together. I was anxious to get the railroad built so we could put the train on the track and I couldn't be bothered by detail.

Unknown to me at the time, Mike was taking a much more logistical approach to creating this alphabetic railway. Once or twice, preserved only by the video, Mike addresses the situation with me that I had placed the pieces at an incorrect intersection. I looked thoughtfully at the pieces, kindly disagreed with him, and continued about my business. Because of my stubborn nature, even as a wee one, Mike realized that attempting to stifle my creative and ambitious vision would be futile. What he does next showed me more about my brother than I ever expected to find in an antiqued home video. 

He stepped a few feet behind me and carefully reoriented each of the pieces I had placed incorrectly and followed me as I went continuing to make silent corrections along the way. As soon as I noticed he was turning a piece here and there, I thanked him and told him I was just about to fix it, which I obviously was not planning on doing. As I got frustrated throughout making my path, he softly suggested a more suitable letter and which direction to connect the letter. He encouraged me and congratulated me when I made the correct connections, even if they were a result of his suggestions. At the end of the construction, my railroad connected full-circle and the correct connections allowed us to put the train in place and watch intently as it circled around the track. 

Mike has never been a person who needs recognition or fame for what he does. He loves with his whole heart his family and his friends and does anything he can to help. Even in this memory of my brother, he just did what he could to help me, asking for nothing in return but to see things work out for me with the best possible outcome.

As my 5 year old self continued decorating and adding embellishments to my railway with my brother, my future 24 year old self found myself again on my grandma's couch, watching a video that had been shot only 5-10 feet from where I was sitting, almost 20 years prior. I glanced over to the area behind me where that dining room table still stood and pictured the two of us, only barely able to see over that table at the time, building that silly railroad together. 

My heart was full of love and admiration for my brother and I realized how much I missed him. During my childhood, there have been a lot of people in my life, whom I have loved, that have left me for some reason or another. Even recounting experiences to others, it is impossible to give an accurate feeling of how I felt during that time. My brother is the one person who was always at my side. Between the moves, new schools, new friends, new religions, new faces, I never have to describe to my brother how those things made me feel because he has been my co-pilot and the co-author to my stories throughout the years.

Mike joined the army when I was 19. It was a very difficult time for me and the first time that we had spent any real amount of time apart from each other. We could only communicate via snail mail during that time but I desperately looked forward to his letters and sending him details of the events from home. Things were tough for him but he seemed to be learning and enjoying the comradeship of the fellow recruits. When he came home for Christmas during his basic training, Mike had become a more proud and handsome version of himself. He held his head high as he walked toward us at the airport. His smile instantly greeted us as he welcomed each of us into his arms, one by one. I have never been prouder of him as we walked toward the car, other passengers thanking him and shaking his hand as we went. 

Now, 5 years later, I find myself being overwhelmed with pride again for my friendship with my oldest brother. He married his beautiful wife, Amanda, and became a dedicated step father to her gorgeous son, Aaron and set up life for his family in Texas. The recent birth of my adorable nephew, Aidan, has only further revealed his commitment and prowess as a loving father and husband. I miss them but whenever they cross my mind, I always smile.

-----

Mike, 

I rarely take the time to tell you but I am so proud of the amazing man that you have become. It shouldn't surprise me because I have spent my entire life believing that you're the coolest person on the planet. Since as young as I remember, I have always looked up to you and and valued your approval above all others. 

You have taught me how to catch snakes with a piece of plywood, how to maximize the double tap when using my trigger finger on my paint ball gun,  how to drive a stick-shift, pitch a tent, construct a shooting range, and walk across a monkey bridge. You have rescued me when I snapped the drive shaft on grandpa's pickup, helped me hook up the bithcin' sound system in my car, loaned me your shorts when I peed myself, held my hand while we walked through Lego Land, flew across the country to be at my side while I underwent chemo, and been my partner in numerous crimes. We have mourned together, cried together, laughed together, acted completely irresponsibly together, confronted death together (at our own hands), and we have learned together. Most importantly, you have shown me how to accomplish anything by putting your mind to it, how to be a loyal friend, and how to love like nothing else matters. 

You have stepped in as my hero to save me when I had no other way out so many times I've lost track. Money, time, or distance have never prevented you from reaching out your hand to help me. 

Thank you for all the years you tolerated me tagging along with you and your friends, making me your partner in your adventures, and for valuing my advice and opinions. You will never know how much it has meant to me. 

I know that as a new family with two young children, things will be tough at times. Now, we didn't have children, but Carley and I moved out when we were very young and very inexperienced. I know that those first few years are the most difficult time to work through. I don't think Car would mind me saying that they were downright miserable for a lot of that time in our first little apartment. They are scary at times and the fear and stress can easily manifest itself in frustration with your partner. I have seen you and Amanda together and seen how well you two compliment each other and love each other. If I could give you any advice, it would be to let these tough times draw you closer together, not drive you apart. Because it will if you let it. Fall back on the love you that you have for each other and for your children. When you feel like everyone is betting on you to fail, bet on each other to win. It may seem weird that I can relate to you in this way as your sister, but there is nothing as empowering and motivating as the love of a beautiful and supportive woman in your life. Her love and your relationship with her will power you though the darkest of times. When it seems like there is no light at the end of the tunnel, remember that when you get through it, it becomes only a memory that has strengthened you as a team.

I wish that Grandpa was here to meet your wife and your children. He would be so proud of you for the way you love and care for your family. You should be proud of yourself. I am proud to be an aunt to your sons, a sister-in-law to your wife, and a sister of the best guy I know. You're my best friend, my hero, and I love you.



-------

There are places I'll remember
All my life
Though some have changed
Some forever
Not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life
I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one 
Compares with you
And these memories
Lose their meaning
When I think of love
As something new

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life
I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life
I love you more
In my life
I love you more

(Johhny Cash version, not the one by Bette Midler)

The Ugly Truth Pt. 3 - Getting Hydrated

When relaying my experience with chemotherapy, I often find myself describing several events as "the worst part." The truth is, I don't think I could pin-point any one particular aspect of chemo that is truly worse than any other. 

Imagine for a moment that the symptoms of chemo are a book filled with pages of sagas characterized by strong-willed survivors who overcame horrible and crippling side effects inflicted upon them while undergoing treatment. Turning through the pages would unveil scores of soldiers marching united into the same epic battles, facing off with their lives on the line. Instead of listings of momentous military strikes and combat squads risking their lives in battle, you would find simple, ordinary people achieving the impossible, the fight against death. Anyone who is featured in one of these epics can most likely relate to the chapters that I might write. 

I believe that among many, they may include:

• Concurring the Correct Balance of Pain Killers Required to Curb the Mind-Numbing Pain that Consumes Your Body vs. The Amount of Stool Softener Needed to Combat the Constipating Effects of the Pain Killers needed to Curb the Mind-Numbing Pain that Consumes Your Body 
• The Epic Failure During the Battle to Overcome Mattress-Saturating Night Sweats
• Breaking the IV: Escaping from the Captivity of the Hospital Bed.
• Overcoming "The Edge of the Bed" on Days When You'd Prefer to Stay in Bed, for the Sun to go Back to Sleep, and Everyone Else in Your Life to Just Leave You the Hell Alone.
• The Struggle of Curbing your Vomit Long Enough to Keep Your Dignity.
• The Battle of Staying Hydrated When Even Water Makes You Vomit Instantaneously....and Repetitively.

So, back to my original point...the "worst" part of chemo. How would YOU rank these among the worst? Well, near the top of the Worst List is the nausea.

The first few cycles of my chemo were a hot mess. It seemed like a scramble to find the right combinations of drugs to keep me even remotely comfortable. The list of "mild" symptoms provided to me by the several doctors and nurses during the week prior to chemo were not going to define my experience with this regiment. As clearly as I have ever remember anything I can remember my oncologist, the day before I started treatment, saying to me, 

"I'm sure you've heard a lot of stories about serious nausea, vomiting, and weight loss but this regiment very rarely produces those types of intense symptoms. You will lose your hair but you will mostly just experience engery loss and occasionally it will make you feel nauseated."

I left that meeting feel very optimistic. I didn't realize that keeping that optimism would be the toughest part of the next six months. 

Managing my chemo from home was often too overwhelming and stressful for Carley and I. The pain from the chemo drugs was almost intolerable. By day 4 after infusion, I could start to feel the sour tingling of the chemo creeping up my jaw and settling in my neck. The pain could be controlled temporarily but would urgently be followed by an overpowering nausea when the pain pills hit the bottom of my empty stomach. Before I could treat the nausea, my stomach rejected the pain medicine as well as the entire contents therein. It was a vicious cycle that perpetually resulted in me wrapped up in my blankets, curled into fetal position, clutching my stomach, doing anything in my power to keep my mind from the pain running through my veins. I turned the lights off closed my eyes and rocked back and forth like a junkie in detox. Each drop of sweat that poured from every inch of my body felt like chemicals coating my skin and hair, what remained of my hair. 

I figured that controlling my vomiting would ultimately fix my situation. If I could keep myself from throwing up, just long enough for the pain medicine to work, then I could keep things from getting out of control and eventually wind down. I cried, yelled into my pillow, and continued to roll around in my bed, attempting to self-soothe myself, when Carley brought over the nausea suppositories I received from the nurse. 

I was humiliated that I had found myself at this exact moment. Carley and I had been dating at that time for about 5 year but I didn't imagine this would ever be a part of our relationship. People continued to warn me that cancer and chemotherapy can break down a relationship when a cancer patient has to rely too heavily on their partner. I figured that this was one of those moments. I put it off as long as I could. After she helped me with the suppositories, I lay there, praying that this was the solution. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten in almost 2 days and to be honest, all I wanted was a glass of water. 

It did seem to work, whether coincidence or power of suggestion, I went 1 full hour without vomiting. My pain had not decreased but I was confident that I could try again with another round of pills. It didn't work. I immediately threw them back up and hit my head against another proverbial wall. After 6 hours of failed efforts, we called the oncology clinic who urged us to come in right away. My doctor was worried that because I was not able to keep any liquids down and my vomiting was increasing that I may be getting dehydrated. 

(This is a photo from my first re-hydration following my 2nd round of chemotherapy. Carley, always at my side, is finally growing some of her hair back after shaving it in support of my diagnosis.)

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I was tired, nauseated, and weak. I sat in the first available chair and Carley checked us in. Almost immediately, a tall, olive-skinned, smiling woman appeared in the doorway and ushered us back. She removed a sticky note with my name on it from a door toward the back of the room and and revealed a small room with a modest bed and two chairs. She put her arm under mine and assisted me to the bed. I laid down and she covered me with blankets. I curled up to try to keep myself warm. Ramona, the nurse that had welcomed me into the room, left momentarily to get supplies to hook up my porti-cath to the IV pole. 

The morphine entered through the hole in my chest and lovingly caressed my shoulders, arms, elbows, hips, knees and legs and it spread through body. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the tiny bit of relief I felt. Then, almost equally as immediately effective, came a wave of anti-nausea.  

the Hemlock Block (work in progress)

We weren't much too look at, especially in the way of intimidation, but we were confident that anyone, 5th grade and below, would run the other direction at the mere mention of any one of our names or especially our collective name, the Hemlock Block. Note: It is unlikely that you would ever hear someone call us by our collective name, Hemlock Block, because those in the group were the only people who referred to us as such. The Hemlock Block, cleverly named because we all lived on the same block off of a road named Hemlock, (also the street where the elementary school was located) consisted of 4 members.

Tony was a pale, freckle-faced kid who was rarely found without his hair slicked back plastered to his head, parted on the middle, comb in pocket. He had moved to the block only a year ago, about 6 months before myself, and was probably the closest thing we had to a leader. His Boston accent made him difficult to understand at times and, we thought, made him sound like a baby, though we would never say it to his face. We saw Tony pull the wings off of a butterfly once and knew that someone who could do something like that was no one to mince words with. He even swore that had a tattoo and though I never did see it, I knew it was there. I had no reason to believe he would lie about something like that.

Brandon was the muscle of the operation and though each of our lips were often soaked in profanity, he had the dirtiest mouth of all. He was responsible for introducing us to the newest and filthiest curse words we had ever heard and he never fell short of his duty. His knees and elbows were always scraped up with tattered jeans, always torn out at the knees. His hair was short, dark, coarse, disheveled, and littered with dirt and twigs from backyard football games and climbing trees. It also wasn't uncommon for Brando to have a bruise on his face or ribs from the winning end of some schoolyard disagreement.

Junior was a lanky Mexican kid who belonged to a 12 child family. It is only significant to note the number of children in his family because we were often joined by one or more of his younger siblings. He had lived in town the longest though he was definitely not the leader of the pack. He did, however, know the best places in town to cause mischief. He was much taller than the rest of us. He had a chipped front tooth and thick, dark eyebrows, even at a young age. His solution to the cowlick on his front hairline was to bleach out the hair along his forehead and stick it straight up in the front of his head.

It wasn't until halfway though summer before middle school when we added Tim to our group. The 4 original members of Hemlock Block were at the lake, throwing stones in the water wherever we saw someone fishing when Tim walked over with a slingshot. He stretched out his hand and offered me the slingshot.

"Wanna try it?" he offered.

"Hell yes!" I replied enthusiastically. He helped me strap the sling to my forearm, demonstrated some technique pointers and suggested the best size and weight for the perfect launch. This had peaked the interest of my fellow comrades who flocked over to see the new toy and introduce themselves to the stranger who had blessed us with a new, improved way to annoy the fishermen at the lake.

It was this type of gentlemanly gesture that made it easy to fall for Tim. His bright blue eyes and blonde hair didn't make it too difficult either. Other than Junior, I'd never seen such a tall 6th grader. 

Why I Write - My First Love Letter

On more than a few occasions, I have found myself wishing that I had been born in an age when letter writing was more prominent. Like maybe post Civil War and slavery issues. After all, I have always loved to get things in the mail and even further, I love any excuse to write. I often feel that my talent for writing is a waste in my own generation because no one puts value on words like in generations before me. Regardless of how perfectly I edit my text message of "Wanna hang out?" it amounts to very little. 

So, I've decided to write letters anyway, I'm not about to let this literary genius (me) go unnoticed.

One definite distinction we have from the older generations is our ability to share what we have done, be it jewelry making, child party decorations, wedding ideas, or other pin-worthy creations. Even if you never list my name among the best, at least I can say I tried. I can write down my words and share them with my friends and family instantly and repetitively, if required, without having to stand atop of a mountain with a bull horn.

When I was in 7th grade, I had a teacher, Ms. Anderson, who made us read Shakespeare.

I would like to interrupt myself here for a moment to say that I will be the first to admit (and Sam, I think you can verify this to anyone who may not believe me) I did not read one single book for any school assignment after this year of school. Don't get this confused with lack of work ethic. I graduated High School with a B average and enough credits to graduate early (if I had know it was an option. Stupid Sandy High School counselors.) And, in my opinion, was the best Editor-in-Chief that Yearbook has ever seen. I was never one to dig in to a good school book reading assignment, so when I express emotion in the next little section here, you can really relate to where I'm coming from. 

OK Julia, you can continue.

Like I was saying, many of the students predictably struggled with the writings and hated studying the Shakespeare. Even if I pretended to find the assignments as torturous as the others, I was engrossed. I found myself actually pouring page after page, finishing days ahead of the rest of the class. I loved reading Julius Caesar and have read it again at least twice. Every word meant something. I've found that less talented writers use thesauruses to pad their writing with big, fancy words that muddle the message of the story line. Shakespeare put thought and meaning into every character, dialogue, scene. Instead of telling a story, he created an emotional attachment to the people in his plays. His words were rhythmic and purposeful. I knew I wanted to write like that. I wanted to be able to effect people by using words as elegantly and proficiently as he did. 

I found myself daydreaming about students years into the future sitting in my desk studying a book written by me. What would I write about? Who would the characters be? Would this be a book that made them groan to have to read and try to understand? How long would it be? What would the cover look like? Would I put any illustrations or photos in my book? 

When I snapped back to attention, my teacher was describing an assignment to accompany our most recent Shakespeare play, Twelfth Night. We would each have to write a love-letter, having a recipient in mind or not, using Shakespearean dialogue. I could not be more excited. While other students laughed as they wrote poems filled with idiotic made-up phrases, mocking the old English way of speaking, I wanted to make my letter as romantic and authentic to the time-period as possible. There would be no difference between my letter and a letter written by William himself, I thought. 

I succeeded at my endeavor and recieved high marks on my project. But, it was the satisfaction of the words I had written that paid me a higher reward. I knew that I had a talent for writing and even cooler, I loved it.

I've sometimes shied away from opening up and expressing true emotion because I have a fear of becoming vulnerable. I hate the idea that someone might not like what I have to say. I imagine that is what it takes to be a good writer. I figure that if you write about what you're passionate about and put it out there, that's all you can do. I'm taking my own advice and putting it out there. 

In 7th grade, I didn't have an intended recipient for my love letter. Today, I do have someone to write my letter to. Even better, I can use the internet as my proverbial mountain to shout from. 

Carley,

You are a better person than I am, better even than I could ever hope to be. When I met you, I had no way of knowing what our relationship would amount to. You love and give to others without one thought of how it might benefit you. You inspire me to speak better of others, act more thoughtfully, and give selflessly the way you effortlessly do everyday. To say, as some traditionally have said, that you are as beautiful inside as you are on the outside would be an injustice to measure how innocently and beautifully you bless everyone in your life. You amaze me every single day. 

I cannot believe how lucky I was to meet you so early in my life. The loving and laughter-filled memories we already share and have the opportunity to continue creating together are a treasure worth more to me than all of the wealth in the world. The life in front of us excites me when I imagine the adventures we will undertake together. I could not picture anyone I would rather take on the world with.

Thank you for being a rock. You have stood by my side, relentlessly at times, through the hardest experiences in my life. I can remember when we were young and green, as we have clearly matured since then. We came to a terrifying crossroad at which we seriously solidified our pact to "Keep moving forward." We sat together on our green velvet couch, two weeks without power or hot water, and pictured our future together. We wept and held each other as we realized the possibility that they would never except us. We were destined to be alone in this together, constantly defending our relationship to the members of our families, friends, and co-workers who were ignorant to the feasibility that what we had was real. Should we go down this road any further? The course we were taking had perpetually beat us down every time we attended a family function, reunited with old friends, listened to debates in politics, and overheard sneers from strangers as we walked by hand in hand and would continue to do so. It seemed likely that no one would ever celebrate the milestones in our future with us...engagement? marriage? Why bother? We thought, no one would care. I was exhausted. You were exhausted. At 19 years old, I honestly didn't know if I could live this life forever. It was too much drama and I knew you were feeling the same way. 

One of the smartest decisions I've ever made, and there aren't many, was to buck up, grab your hand, and head down that road. We showed them, sweetheart, all by ourselves.

Lastly, thank you for carrying me through my encounter with mortality during my 6 months of chemotherapy. No one besides you and I will ever know the hell we walked through during that time. It might not be Shakespearean, but thank you for the bags of vomit you disposed of, the nights you went without sleep or had to shower in the middle of the night from getting soaked in my sweat, cleaning my sheets, clothing, towels, arranging medication, administering suppositories, yelling at nurses, and sleeping in a worn-out recliner at my hospital bedside. What we endured during those months has broken up the most seasoned relationships, even marriages. You took one look into the eye of the storm, hoisted me up on your shoulders, and powered us right on through the worst of it. At a time that would have otherwise nearly killed me with crippling melancholy and loneliness, I had your beautiful smile to pull me up and keep me strong enough to push through the pain and your hand held out for mine every time I needed it. I can only pray that you do not undervalue your role in my survival of cancer. I do not mean this lightly when I say "I could not have done it without you."

I am the luckiest person in the entire world to call you mine, to have you as my partner in crime through even the stickiest of situations. To say the least, I am undeserving though you never make me feel that way.

You are the reason I write. I want to make you as proud to stand at my side as I am to stand by yours. I love you so much and I am so thankful for our life together.

My Grandpa

I was born on June 16 1988 around 10:30am to 17 year-olds David Peer and Cherie Jones. I don't often think what that day must have been like but if i ever do, i usually imagine that it was a bright sunny morning full of smiles and wonder. I supposed you could attribute this childish view of this day to the fact that I have no memories of my mom and dad ever being together. It makes me feel better to picture them holding hands, smiling and looking down into my face with pride and admiration much the same as I had seen in movies and on TV over the years.

It's foolish to picture this scenario for several reasons. Firstly, I have to remind myself that as a Portland, OR native, in the middle of June, it was most definitely raining. I probably wouldn't even see enough sun to get my first sunburn for at least another 2 months. It's also foolish because my parents were children and were likely disappointed at my arrival, both currently in peak of their teenagerdom. Although my eldest sibling, Michael was born just 18 short months earlier, I'm certain this wasn't planned and I was most definitely an inconvenience.

I've never asked either of my parents what the reality of this day looked like. I doubt that I ever will. Though my mother wad obviously present, who says my father was even present? After all, it wouldn't be the last major milestone in my life that he would be absent from.

I can't know the answer to this question. As weird as it seems, I'd kind of like to keep the details of this day a mystery to me, at least for now.

My hair was short, thin, and white-blonde. In fact, it was so thin and light in color that it usually looked like I had no hair at all. This would eventually drive my young mother crazy. Who, despite dressing me in the most ridiculously frilly and feminine of outfits, spent much time helping people correctly identify my gender. She also took to plastering what small amount of hair I did have into a tight pony tail that stuck straight up to the sky from the top of my head, not dissimilar to Alfalfa.

My face was round and my cheeks were large, reminiscent of a baby chipmunk storing acorns in his cheeks storing up for witter hibernation. My eyes were greenish-blue with the distinctive Chaney golden ring around my pupils causing them to pop and quickly become my most distinctive feature. (Note: Chaney is the maiden name of my grandmother on my Mom's side of the family. To date, this is still the first trait anyone in my family looks for in new babies.)

One thing I have no doubt about however is that my Grandma was there and she most definitely would have been smiling at me. I would imagine my grandpa was also there though there is a distinct possibility that his stubbornness would not have allowed him to attend the second birth of his teenage daughters child. I can relate to this because i attribute most of my stubborn, hard headed ways on my grandpa, though secretly I couldn't be prouder to resemble him in this way.

If he was angry or hesitant at first, it didn't take long for me to win him over. Some of my earliest memories, some as early as 3 years old, are of me and Grandpa. We were inseparable from the start.

My Grandpa was born in 1942 in Idaho. He was raised on and worked on a farm as the oldest of five children. I presume it was this rough manual labor in his youngluge that shaped him into the hardest and most honest working, fix everything, tough loving, callused handed, Boy Scout Grandpa that I knew.
I was a "Tom Boy" at a young age. I hated those silly frilly dresses and make it clear by age 4 that this type of clothing would not be acceptable to me. Grandpa always seemed to get that and as young as I was, I appreciated it. There always seemed to be work that needed to be done when i visited Grandma's house and I was always invited to help. Though Grandpa may have given me the hammer from a tinker toys set but I never felt excluded. Every role I was given was crucial to the completion of the project and the balance was in my hands.

I remember being about 8 years old when grandpa handed me a pry bar and said "We need to reuse all I'd thus lumber. Use this to pull out every single nail you find." He cut me a 6 inch piece of a 2x4 and showed me how to position it below my pry bar to remove nails mores quickly.

I heard Michael, age 10, always given more important and labor intensive positions, arguing about the most effective method for attaching corrugated roofing to the beams, I vivaciously removed every single nail from the boards. (I would later discover that these boards were useless but Grandpa needed to keep me busy.)


I do believe that it would be a dishonor to my Grandpa to pretend that he was an easy person to get along with. He was opinionated, hard-headed, and outspoken, three qualities I seem to ironically possess as well. Much of my youth was spent in an argument on all kinds of subject matter. He was also a disciplinarian. As stern as he may have been, he didn't seem to find traditional punishment like grounding or revoking privileges as valuable as a "learning opportunity." Regardless of how he felt about my opinion or how deaf his ears were to it, he let me state my case, uninterrupted. for as long as a liked. My punishment for doing so however was his opportunity to follow my defense with his stance on my situation and explanation to me on how these types of situations related to real-world experiences and that if I listened to what he was telling me, it would help me when I look for a job, go to college, or resolve communication issues in my relationships. As soon as I was ready to hear what he had to say, it was usually resolved by listening to his lecture, apologies to one another, and a promise not to repeat the same mistake again.

When we weren't beating our heads together, my grandpa was my best friend.  I wanted to be exactly like my grandpa for as long as I can remember. I would wear overalls complete with a hammer sticking through the loop on my right pant leg when we did chores around the house the way he did. I couldn't be a boy scout but I loved camping, hiking, fishing, and bar-b-q'ing and did everything in my power to prove my worth as an honorary scout. Most importantly we both enjoyed a good movie accompanied by the most candy, ice cream, and popcorn as possible. 

My grandpa loved movies. I usually spent the weekend at my grandparents and we would spend each night together watching a movie we picked up on the way to the house from the Hollywood Video Store in Sandy. If the movie didn't feature the Duke or Clint Eastwood, it was most likely a thriller that would only keep my attention as long as the candy held out. My grandpa loved movies so much in fact, he started buying 2 or 3 movies on each visit to the video store creating a small rental store collection of VHS and eventually DVD's to be displayed in the living room theater he created at the house.

"I like to feel it!" he would chuckle as he stood up to turn the volume down. Grandma would usually complain that though the neighbors were several hundred feet in any direction, they could hear it in every room of their homes if she allowed Grandpa to keep the volume at the level that he preferred. 

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My teenage years were a tough time for me and Grandpa. By the time I was near graduation, we exchanged little more than pleasantries. I was often frustrated with him for trying to push me to do something more with my life. I had a lot of anger during high school from my inner struggles with my sexuality. Hiding from and lying to my family about my developing relationship with Carley made me tense, edgy, and quick to anger. It had also distanced me from my friends and I hated that. I felt alone and isolated and my relationships with both of my grandparents were distant and strained. It seemed like we disagreed on everything and argued much of the time. I spent very little time and home and even less time home while my grandparents were home or awake. 

Unfortunately when I moved out of grandparents after graduation, I did so in the heat of an argument to prove my point to my grandpa. While both of my grandparents were at work (and my grandma completely unaware of my disagreement with Grandpa), I packed up everything I owned in the back of Carley's truck and moved into a small room at my Dad's house. 

When my grandma came home later that evening and saw that my room had been emptied, she called me to see what had happened.

"Grandpa told me to leave so I'm giving him what he wants. I hope you're happy with him because eventually he will chase away everyone else in your famliy from wanted to come over and have to deal with him. I love you and I'm sorry this is how things had to be. I'm happy to keep seeing you and doing things together but I am not at a place in my life where I can have a relationship with Grandpa."

As horrible as everything I said to my grandma sounded, the last thing I said to her has haunted me since. I was 18 at the time, stubborn, independent  and foolish. The final argument that pushed me from my grandparents' home was because I had lied to my grandpa about quitting school. I was bored and felt patronized at the community college I was attending. I dropped my classes without telling anyone to avoid this exact conversation. 

During the years following high school, my relationship slowly improved with Grandpa and visits to the house were more and more frequent. Even though we were "out" to the rest of our friends and family, I had never officially announced to my grandparents that not only was I gay, but in a relationship with a girl who I'd been living with. I think people fear coming out to the older generation because they often lack acceptance of that lifestyle. I feared coming out to my grandparents because they were both very faithful to their Mormon beliefs. I had been raised Mormon, practiced it, and for a period was very engrossed with it as well. I knew that revealing this to my grandparents would confuse and betray every sense of their religious beliefs and I didn't know how to approach the situation. So I didn't. Though both of my grandparents knew and loved Carley, the nature of our relationship was never discussed. 

Grandpa's birthday, September 28, 2009 only 3 months after I turned 21, he was admitted to the hospital for some digestive abnormalities. Although he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer some 5 years prior, he had been in remission ever since. He was in good health and, at this time, there were no real health concerns that I was aware of. After a few releases and readmissions to the hospital, he was finally diagnosed, again, with a form of pancreatic cancer. We lost my grandpa less than 1 month after his 67th birthday on October 25. 

A few days before my grandpa passed away, I was able to have a few moments alone with him in his hospital bed to say goodbye. Everything was happening so quickly that I was confused and ill-prepared for this moment. I stepped into the dimly lit room and stepped toward my grandpa and he reached for my hand. I held it tight and we looked at each other in silence. I told him how I loved him and how much I would miss him. I thanked him quickly for everything he had taught me. I affirmed his request to look after grandma and make sure she has everything she needed. Within just a few short minutes, I hugged my grandpa and walked from the room. 


I hardly believed that this would be the last time I talked to my Grandpa and I couldn't find the words to tell him how I felt. I don't regret our last moments together or feel that he may have not known how I felt about him. My relationship with my grandpa was a tender, loving and special one that he undoubtedly was well aware of. But I see my grandpa in myself every day and I am so proud to say that I resemble him in so many ways. I didn't realize how much I appreciated that until I lost him. 

When we lose someone close to us, I think it is natural to wonder if you could just have one more chance to talk to your loved one, what would you say? What events would you want to update them? In honor of my grandpa's memory, which always does tend to be a little stronger on this day each year, I want to answer that question. I know exactly what I would say to him.

Grandpa,

I miss you so much. I'm sorry we fought so much and by the way, you were right. About everything. Also, thanks for the camping gear. I now have a great running start at being the exact type of pack rat that you were. But, and you would be proud of this, I think I could last a solid 72 hours in the wilderness if it ever came down to it. 

I've got a great job now and I travel all the time, just like I've always wanted to, which is awesome. I'm no millionaire but it pays the bills and I'm very happy. On that same note, I want you to know that there is another large contributing factor to my happiness. I have finally accepted that I am in love with my best friend, Carley. I wish I could have properly introduced you two from the start and I apologize for acting like I couldn't trust you. Being open and honest with the people in my life has made me happier than I have ever been in my whole life. 

I don't want to keep you long. I know that wherever you are, you're busy working hard on something but I want to tell you that I love you. I see you in myself every day and I do my best to make decisions that I think would make you proud of me.  I try to follow the flies and honey thing when I can though it is still particularly difficult for me. I hope that as I continue to grow and build my own family that I will be able to support and lead them as powerfully as you've did. You loved me like a daughter when I needed a father the most, bought me my first car, taught me the value of working hard and playing hard,  spoiled me relentlessly. and would sacrifice anything for your family. Thank you for leading by example and always pressing me to do more and be more. I stand up for what I believe and do what I can to help anyone that I can. You are missed.