Culture Shock or just an Eeyore day?

Ick, blick, ugh.  That pretty much sums up how I feel right now.  I know that a Southern Lady is supposed to fake it or say she’s “Just fine,” when in fact she might feel like crap.  My momma told me not to say, “Crap” because that was what came out of the bottom of a cow.  So how and where do we find the freedom to express ourselves?   Especially in an environment where you risk alienating your newly found friends when you don’t really have anything positive to say at the moment.  I like the saying on the movie, “Something to Talk About,” when she says, “Southern women are bred to keep their expectations low.”  Though I don’t really agree with that, there are days….Allow me to say right now that this isn’t going to be one of those “enlightening and hilariously funny” blogs.  This is just going to be me, rolling around the thoughts that are in my head and trying to make sense of them….to purge.  Maybe I won’t alienate too many friends this way.

First of all, I can’t figure out why I have no interest in engaging here in this new country.  I know it took me about a year to really engage in Kenya, and I just called that first year “culture shock” and “trying to raise a new baby.”  It’s all a blur.  Maybe this year will be, too. 

I have friends (so far).  People here are very nice.  The ladies are a hoot, and they let me talk a LOT, so it’s not like I don’t have an outlet.  That’s just it.  I don’t get it.  I simply have no energy and no interest in really leaving the house.  You might label that depression; and maybe that’s it, but WHY?

Maybe it’s because I’m not so great at being the mother of a preschooler.  I don’t really enjoy “play groups,” or small children.  I’m also not really one of those people that likes to be with a group all day long either.  I’m excited to have a lunch date now and then, but I’m not really a “group” pal, though I would define myself as extraverted.  So what am I?  Well, let’s state the obvious.  I’m a control freak.  I like to be the planner and hostess, not the attendee.  But, I have absolutely no interest in planning anything right now either.  I like what a friend said on her facebook page the other day.  “I’m not anti-social, I’m selectively social.  There’s a difference.” 

My sister said that when a foster child is moved for the 4^th time, statistics show that they often stop engaging.  They realize it’s too hard, and that it’s also painful.  This is my 4^th overseas post.  She made the parallel, so maybe I’m suffering from the same “disengagement” issues. 

I wonder if I’m still grieving.  I brought this up with Joe and he said, “Well, are you?”  I said, “Well, that’s just it.  I have no idea.  I’ve never grieved before now!”  In all the books, it states that one year is the appropriate amount of time to grieve the loss of a spouse.  But I haven’t uncovered anything that says how long you grieve the loss of a parent.  Maybe we never stop, we just adapt.  I think of Dad often…every day, lots of times during the day.  I think of how much he would laugh at a funny story, or enjoy hearing about the kid’s successes, or get mad with me about the lack of justice in our society.  He would also have encouraging words about grief.  He’d tell me to stop grieving for him, and live life in the here and now.  But that doesn’t make it stop.  That makes me wish he was here. Now.

Maybe this is what 40 feels like.  Maybe we feel tired and old and we don’t want to make any new friends.  Maybe we just want to enjoy the ones we have and call it a day.  Maybe we don’t want any new stories to tell, only to retell the ones we already know and are comfortable with and that we know make people laugh.  We should number them to make the telling easier.   It’s the time when our memories slip and we become more fallible, but we are still smart enough to recognize our errors and that’s disappointing and discouraging.  Maybe I should take up crossword puzzles.  My sister says you can’t really do them until you turn 40 anyway.  It’s only then that we really have enough life experience to come up with some of those words.  And maybe because this is when we stop going out and making new friends, so we need something to fill our time at home alone. 

I know I sound like Eeyore and that’s not really like me either.  I’m usually quite happy.  Even now, others might say I’m pretty happy.  It’s on the inside that I don’t feel all put together.  I feel neither happy nor sad.  I am not at my best in my biblical studies nor at my worst.  I’m neither here nor there.  It’s unsettling. 

So, what do I do?  Do I resolve to be better tomorrow? Do I plan a party even if I don’t want to?  I know I have to keep moving.  I know that I can’t stop making new friends or participating in play groups.  I’m not dead.  I’m just tired.  I think I’ll go to bed now.  Maybe tomorrow will bring something more interesting.  Maybe I’ll find a good crossword puzzle.  Maybe I’ll write down all of my stories and number them.  Maybe I’ll find a permanent home and quit moving around so much.  We all know that’s not a possibility, but for the next 3 years, this is my home, so I’d better find my happy place, and live.  Live free, and happy, and unencumbered.  Well.  I can’t do that.  I have 3 children and a husband; but I like all of them…and that’s a start. 

And for those of you that might wonder, or worry, don’t.  I know all about putting more time and energy into the lives of those less fortunate and to those around me  (i.e. my children) instead of focusing on myself.  I get it.  I just needed to talk.  Really.  I’m fine.

Oh, For Crying Out Loud!

No, really, I am crying out loud.  I'm so, so, so, what?  I'm not tired.  I'm not sleepy.  I'm overwhelmed.  This may sound foreign to most of the world, but for those who live in my circle, perhaps it will sound relevant.  It's moving time again.  My house will cease to be my refuge and become my enemy.  I wake in the mornings thinking about what box I need to tick in order to feel "accomplished."  Will it be "getting the dog on an International, 18 hour, middle of July, hot as rip, Delta flight?"  Will it be "buying putty to patch the nail holes in the walls?"  Will it include "digging out the suitcases to pack before the movers show up and ship my only pair of shorts for the summer?"

It's not just about one thing.  It's about all of the little things, and the sequences.  I can't pull out the suitcases until I've cleaned out our drawers and taken the cast-offs to good will (why, you ask? Because we don't need unnecessary weight in the suitcases or the shipment).  I can't book the dog's flight until we've booked our flights.  We can't book our flights until the system is updated with our moving orders.  We can't have our moving orders until all of our medical clearances are in.  And on and on it goes.  But, sequences aside, we are still LIVING in this house and functioning as if nothing is about to change.  The kids are still in school, the ball games go on, homework must be done...endlessly.  We haven't ceased doing everything else in order to pack up.  In fact, we pack up and leave the day after school is out, so there won't be any "time dedicated" to just cleaning and moving.  It's time to MULTI-TASK.  Or as my friends like to say, "Put on my big girl pants."

I guess you are wondering why I'm sitting on the computer and blogging when clearly I could be working toward this task?  Well, it's because I'm overwhelmed...and needed a cry.  I figured if I sat down and drummed up a little sympathy by unloading my stress into a blog, I'd feel better, and all of you out there in cyberspace would groan with me and say, "Dang, that stinks for her," and that would create this universal sense of empathy that I could feel in my own tiny little corner of the world, hence reducing the burden.  Ridiculous?  Of course.  But, I DO know that many of you are experiencing the same thing right now.  You get it.  And that knowledge alone makes me feel better.  Maybe this blog will make YOU feel better, too.  YOU are not alone.

Meanwhile, I have 15 minutes left before "carpool" to vacuum the floors and clean off the table so I can unload the car with the stuff I picked up at Lowe's which we'll use to patch the walls.  Gotta go.  I'm in a hurry, and I'm multitasking...oh, and as I walk by the washing machine, I'll pop another load of clothes into the wash, so that we are ready for baseball picture day with shiny clean uniforms.  For CRYING OUT LOUD, can't we just live in one country for more than a year?  Oh, wait, yes...once we get there!

Missing Daddy

It’s been almost a year since I lost my Dad.  It was a day much like this…warmer, beautiful blue sky with white wispy clouds overhead.  Sometimes, I can’t believe it’s been a year.  Other days, I think that maybe it never happened.  But it did.  My friends who have walked this walk before me say that the second year is the hardest…because people forget and you are alone in your grief.  Frankly, I’m not sure I could be more alone some days, but I won’t say she’s wrong until I’ve lived the 2^nd year.  Another friend told me just weeks after I lost Dad that grief was like the waves of an ocean…sometimes washing gently over your feet, and other days, so strong it knocked you down.  I know that’s true now.  Especially as I stand pumping my gas and find myself suddenly crying because it’s at this moment that I remember that Dad was the one who taught me how to calculate my gas mileage by hand…before the cars began doing it for us.    A silly thing, but powerfully nostalgic.

I find it interesting that I’ve spent the last 15 years living in a different town, state, or even continent than my parents, but Dad’s presence and influence in my life was and remains palpable.  Because of his loss of hearing in the last years, we rarely talked on the phone, but I knew he was sitting behind Mom, listening, waiting for the update.  It was after he was updated that he often sent me letters of encouragement or an e-mail to comment or celebrate some small victory with me, or my children.   I loved the evolution of Skype because we could at least see one another, even if we didn’t talk much.   When we were together, Dad was full of information…about politics, the politicians themselves, taxes, religion, the church, always something controversial.  I’d like to think he saved those topics for us, his family, but he didn’t.  He was a talker and had strong opinions about everything, and shared them with everyone.   Sometimes it drove me crazy, but often it drew me.  Even now, I can hear him talking as I watch a news broadcast, or a political debate.  This same thing often pains me because I long for more of his commentary.  Other times I’m relieved that Dad isn’t here to witness some of the travesties of 2011.  Mostly, I’m still surprised that he is the first one I think of when I have a strong opinion or want someone to talk something over with.

I still miss Dad’s sense of humor.  Even as he lay in the hospital bed, in the middle of our living room, Dad teased.  He accused me of stealing Reeses cups from a dying man.  Apparently, Mom had told him that this “gift” of miniature reeses from a friend was put in MY suitcase to take back to Africa.  This was a lie, but I had, in fact, eaten most of them.  What good is chocolate if not to comfort the grieving?  And he didn’t like them anyway. 

Dad did like grits and banana pudding.  He ate more grits than any one person should eat in his last weeks.  It was the only food that he really still liked when his appetite began to go.  Every friend of my parents brought over a banana pudding in those last weeks, too.  I LOVE banana pudding.  So did Dad.  One evening, he asked for a bowl of pudding.  My sister scooped it up and my mother walked by and said, “Alison, eat the cookies out of that bowl.  Dad doesn’t like them.”  I’m still not sure if Mom thought Dad didn’t like the cookies, or if she was afraid he couldn’t digest them, or if it was her own little joke on Dad, but, as directed, I gobbled up all of those cookies as fast as I could.  As my sister began to feed Dad the pudding, he said, after a few bites, “Where are the cookies?  Give me a big bite of cookies!”  My sister said, with a deadpan expression, “Alison ate them.”  Dad chuckled and asked why in the world would I eat his cookies?  Had I no compassion?  With mouth agape, I tried to explain what had happened, but he just giggled.  I got him another bowl of banana pudding WITH cookies.  Today, I can’t make banana pudding without crying and I don’t eat it.  Maybe I will again one day.

I miss my Daddy.  And like the waves of the ocean, a beautiful, blue sky day washes over me and brings back a world of memories and sadness, and goodness, too.   Maybe one day, I’ll be able to enjoy the blue sky and eat a bowl of banana pudding and celebrate the joys of those last days with my sweet Dad.   Until then, I’ll cry through the grief, and be grateful for his sense of humor, and eat a Reeses cup.  Too bad it’s not THOSE that I can’t eat anymore!

What happened to Thanksgiving?

So I'm wondering, what happened to Thanksgiving?  I moved for 3 years to Africa and when I returned, I realized that they now skip Thanksgiving here in America.  This is true if you believe what you see in the stores.  I've been in quite a few...Walgreens, Walmart, Target, to name a few...and they are ALL skipping Thanksgiving!

I love to shop.  This is no secret, and I've especially looked forward to each holiday since our return from Africa.  I love to see what new little decorations and trinkets have been created since I left.  Or, more importantly, what new and creative ways the marketing companies have devised to sell me more junk.  It's especially significant because I'd like to "update" my holiday decorations this year, with items that will last for the next 3 years while we are once again overseas.

I've found some lovely new pumpkins to decorate the house with (after one of mine was broken) for Halloween and the Fall.  I found all kinds of yummy holiday colored m&m's  and mellocreme pumpkins (a real treat after leaving a country that only celebrated Valentine's Day and didn't believe in holiday candy).  I also picked up a nice new set of placemats...that really work for all seasons, but fall colors are my favorite!

You see, this is like a sport for me...shopping for just the right thing for the holidays...to make things more cheerful and seasonal.  Many countries either don't share our holidays, or the seasons are different, so the colors simply aren't part of that celebration.  I feel that if I don't decorate INSIDE my house, my children won't grow up understanding some of the things that made our American holidays special.

Soooo, when Halloween was over.  I thought, "Ohhh, perfect.  I can now go find that PERFECT door decoration for Thanksgiving."  You see, this is Joe's favorite holiday after all.  He loves the food and the football...does it get any better?  THIS is America!  The land of the free, home of the brave, and a place I can find ANY turkey laden item I can dream up...or so I thought.

But, to my shock and surprise, as I entered through the doors of the famed Target, I realized after just one or two aisles...that THEY FORGOT THANKSGIVING!  Where did it go?  STRAIGHT to Christmas.  Literally, the store had one end shelf with some cute little Thanksgiving napkins.  I bought 3 packages.  Apparently, Thanksgiving simply doesn't have the "retail draw" that both Halloween and Christmas do.  But did they have to SKIP it altogether?  Does it mean nothing?

I've found a few token Thanksgiving items...but seriously, I've been traveling around the shops for two weeks now...searching high and low for Thanksgiving.  It's gone.  Vanished.

And what a shame.  Thanksgiving is a TRUE American holiday.  It's about Pilgrims and Indians and the Mayflower and the discovery of our nation and food, glorious food!  HOW can we NOT market this?  It seems golden!  Halloween is fraught with fright and fear that it's going to turn someone wicked.  Christmas is about our Saviour, one of my favorites and one I'd like to think is sacred...for it's religious impact, not it's financial one.  But, either way you slice it, both are controversial...with the fear of witches and exchanging the words "Merry Christmas" for "Happy Holidays," one would think that as Americans we would GRAVITATE to the one holiday that all Americans can't argue over and that any non-American could care less about!  One with so little RISK!  But, sadly, money talks and has won again, declaring Thanksgiving a "bankrupt" holiday.

There will be no "special" Thanksgiving door decoration at my house...just a few old pumpkins and some cheap napkins.  But, we will work to make sure that INSIDE my house, our children won't forget that Thanksgiving exists.  We'll cook a turkey and all the trimmings...We'll share a meal and talk about what we are really thankful for...We'll let the football games blare on TV all day long.  And then we'll sit quietly, in our food comas, reflecting on this very special holiday and ALL that Thanksgiving means to us, even if the retail world's forgotten about it.  And then, in the early morning hours of Black Friday, we'll don our running shoes and wallets and enter into the exciting world of Christmas...at the mall and find that PERFECT Christmas door decoration.

Until then, Happy THANKSGIVING!

Seriously? Do I need to dance like a monkey?

It's that time of year again when the seasons change and the allergies flare.  It has been my misfortune to have inherited horrible allergies.  I'm allergic to cats, dogs and all things outdoors.  At 6 weeks old, I had bronchitis...so I think you'll agree that it started very young for me.  Though I'm not sure any doctor has ever told me that I have "chronic bronchitis," every Fall I've had what eventually turned into "bronchitis," and I'm pushing 40 (literally - pushing it over...), so it would stand to reason that 40 years of upper respiratory issues MIGHT make someone call is "chronic."  Oh, I had a few years of reprieve, when I caught it fast enough and it never turned into something so dire...but even then, it was a sinus infection that required antibiotics.

So, why am I writing this?  A friend recently complimented my writing skills (which I might add, I curl up with that compliment every day - it was a nice thing to say), but I replied that the only time I write is when I'm truly inspired.  I've only recently been inspired by two things.  The first being my sister - I'll write more about her later, when I have more time.  The second is this...the monkey dance.  You see, I went to the doctor today.  I've just recently arrived back in VA, so I haven't established a regular doctor yet, so I went to Urgent Care.  The name implies "speedy healthcare," but this is a misnomer, as I waited an hour to lay eyes on the doctor.

"Why did I go to the doctor at all," you say?  Well, I've had a cough for about a week...you know, the kind that makes you throw up in the morning and wakes your spouse from a dead sleep at night, not to mention what it does to your own sleep patterns.  It's not good.  It's not good at all.  Anyway, I sat, and sat, and sat...and finally was awarded a face to face with a physician who didn't even bother to introduce himself.  His bedside manner lacked...hmm...EVERYTHING!  But, there I sat, coughing and trying to entertain a 3 year old to boot.  The doctor looked at my chart (the one they'd just created) and looked at me. He checked my ears, my throat, my nose.  He asked me a few questions and I explained that, though I didn't have lots of other symptoms, that I had the dreaded cough, that had been ongoing and that my history often dictated that I couldn't/wouldn't kick it myself.  I explained about the "chronic bronchitis" b/c I thought this history was relevant.

Here's what he said:  "You aren't sick."  Really?  I'm not sick?  This is all a figment of my imagination? I'm just there, in This office, after waiting an hour, after throwing up my guts, to give him some of my money and entertain him, or waste his time?  Are you freaking kidding me?  I'm NOT SICK?  No.  He said I didn't have bronchitis and I didn't have COPD, so my lungs were fine and since I didn't have any problems breathing, I was fine.  (i.e. not sick)

THIS  is where I would normally do a monkey dance.  THIS is where I would normally say, "Oh, but I am...blah, blah, blah."  THIS is where most normal people with any sense would get up and leave recognizing him as an impostor.  THIS is where I would explain my history, why I'm there, how bad I feel, OR just lie about having had fever for a week, so we could move on with this craziness.

The Dr. was kind enough to add that most people "like me" often just throw antibiotics at this kind of stuff and it's wrong and so this causes people "like me" to misunderstand and think they need antibiotics every time they feel bad.

Do I LOOK like I WANT to take 10 days of augmentin?  That fun antibiotic that rips, no shreds, the interior lining of my stomach so that I have violent diarrhea for 3 days?  Yep....I'm addicted.

Here's what I DIDN'T say, but wanted to (besides all that other stuff I've already typed, but didn't say):  "You #$%# (I try not to curse in writing).  I've spent the last 10 years largely overseas.  In those 10 years, I've developed hypothyroidism, had 3 healthy babies, had two D&C's, developed an allergy to every known pain killer that exists, had countless sinus infections, bronchial infections, and had pretty much NO doctors that gave a #$@#$ about me or my health.  I've had to own my own health.  I've had to do a freaking monkey dance at every doctor's office because we move so often that no single doctor ever gets to treat me for the SAME thing year after year after year.  I  don't have the privilege of time or consistent history to PROVE to you that I'm sick.  So give me a freaking prescription and let me go home!"

In the end, I smiled.  He gave me a prescription for, wait for it...augmentin, while telling me that he doesn't like to hand out antibiotics and that rinsing with a nasal spray for a few days would just "fix me right up."  I didn't do a monkey dance, and I still got my prescription.  Which leads me to believe that a) he DOES give everyone an antibiotic, or b) I LOOKED like I might whip his butt.

I'm sure this will entertain few of you, but I sure do feel better.  However, if you bothered to get this far, I also figure some of you can relate to the chaos of our healthcare system, the lack of concern by our physicians and the difficulty in providing any kind of continuity in our care while serving our country!

Maybe you wonder what I really wanted him to do?  I did want an antibiotic b/c I know that's what kicks this crap.  But, it would have been nice, too, for him to say, "So, you get this every year? What season?  How long?  How do you normally treat it?"  You know, just act like he cared or that he was at least trying to understand my body, how I think, and what the BEST approach would be for MY health.  He might have come to the same conclusion, but his approach would have made the difference...he should have apologized for the wait, too...especially since there was only one other patient ahead of me.

So, to all of you who might be doctors, who might have time to read this, I hope that you will take a minute and reflect on how you treat YOUR patients.  If you HAVE been my doctor and are reading this, I hope I've never had to do a monkey dance for you, and that perhaps, I never will.

My Dad

I'm not sure this blog will provide sufficient space to honor my Dad, but it's important to me that others know what kind of man he was.  We lost my Dad on Saturday, January 29th at noon, after a 9 month battle with liver cancer.  You can read the full obituary at Kilpatrick Funeral Home - Richard E. Crawford, West Monroe.  It's a good read - my sisters,  uncle, cousin and I all helped write it.  Still, there wasn't enough space to do him justice.

My Dad was a man among men.  He was a loving, kind, gracious father.  He was quick to forgive, slow to judge, slow to anger, and always loved unconditionally.  He was married to my mother for 52 years and she was truly the love of his life.  I asked him once what allowed him to remain faithful all of those years.  He looked at me and said, "What do you mean?  I love your mother.  That's enough."  We had lots of conversations over the years about love...he called it an action verb.  He knew that love wasn't a state of being, it was showing someone how you loved them.  Dad showed us as little girls when we would stub our toe and cry.  He'd hug us and kiss us and tell us that the table was very naughty and then proceed to spank it.  If we were in trouble and, in an overly dramatic way, ran to our rooms and threw ourselves across our beds, he was the first to find us and kiss away our sadness and restore our confidence.  Dad would tell us that our actions were unbecoming, but that his love was the same.  

Dad's greatest dream was that we would all get an education.  He'd grown up in a poor community, working on the farm, but he pursued his education.   He knew the value of having one.  Dad graduated as Valedictorian of his high school class. He was a civil engineer and also obtained a degree in Meteorology while in the Air Force.  After the Air Force,  he worked off shore, built highways, surveyed land, and built paper mills.   He was a history buff and told us endless stories about historical events.  He read extensively and taught himself how to work Autocad and manage a home PC in order to keep up with the latest technology.  Dad had a great thirst for knowledge.  It didn't end with historical facts or figures either.  Dad was a student of the Bible, too.  Sometimes his logical, mathematical mind had trouble resolving the mysteries found in scripture, but he was a man of great faith.  

After my Mom got breast cancer, my Dad feared the worst.  He was suffering greatly with fear and sadness...but after a few weeks of going with Mom to treatment, he tells of a moment as he walked up the stairs to our house, when the Holy Spirit surrounded him and gave him great peace.  My Dad was forever changed.  My mom is a 7 year survivor of breast cancer, and we know that God was faithful as He spoke to my Dad to give him the peace he needed.

Dad's greatest attribute was his sense of humor.  He laughed a lot.  Dad loved to play practical jokes on folks.  His lifelong friends tell often of their antics while working offshore, and also at the Paper Mill.  He was the first to laugh at himself and with us.  I recall stepping into a large mop bucket in Piggly Wiggly around the age of 8.  It was closing time and Dad said I was looking over my shoulder and hadn't taken a breath b/c I was talking incessantly.  As I turned around, my foot landed squarely in the mop bucket and in slow motion, the bucket, the mop and I fell in a twisted, wet heap on aisle 9.  As I looked up from the soggy mess, I remember my Dad leaning fully over laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath.  

Dad also found great humor in our dates.  My prom date once had his car stall in the driveway.  He begged me not to wake up my Dad, but it was just too much fun to hear my Dad heckle the poor guy.  As I leaned in to wake Dad up, he opened his eyes and chuckled softly.  At 2 a.m., he pulled himself from bed, jumped the poor guy off, and then, as he watched him back slowly off the driveway, into the ditch, Dad walked over to his tractor and proceeded to pull him out.  I haven't talked to that guy in 20 years, but the story lives on at our house.  Especially watching my Dad crawl up the stairs as he laughed about the episode.

There were an infinite number of blind dates and not so blind dates that, as we recounted the evenings adventures to my Dad, he would laugh and pat us on the back.  He always reminded us that these were learning experiences...a  chance to weed out our choices for a mate.  Dad encouraged us to be selfish when we chose our spouse.  He said it was the one time in life when we needed to ensure that our spouse was someone who fit us well and with whom we were equally yoked.  It was a lifetime commitment and we were not to take it lightly.  I think Dad was pleased with all of our choices.  He loved all of his son-in-laws - like his own sons.  He was quick to defend them when we complained of our petty differences, and he and Mom both always sided with our husbands, reminding us to be kind, compassionate and loving.  

Dad didn't miss an opportunity to lighten the mood, though.  He walked down the aisle at my rehearsal dinner with a cane...and said he thought I'd NEVER get married.  He wasn't so happy when our career began to take us around the world, but he always said, "You have to follow him wherever he may take you.  God has put you together and  you have to honor your marriage and your commitment."  I have.

My Dad loved us girls, but he was also an exceptional grandfather.  I'm saddened by the fact that Suzy will have few memories of him.  He took my nephews hunting and fishing from their earliest days.  He used the great outdoors to teach lessons about life and death and growth and change.   Every experience was a teaching opportunity for him.  He took Mary and Will riding on his 4 wheeler, and fishing at the lake.  Mary was his walking buddy at the church each morning as he got his daily exercise, too.  Here, he doted on how smart she was and how beautiful she was.  He and Mom came to see us in Jamaica, Virginia, and Holland.  He loved life and he loved experiencing events with our children.  He shared his love for history with them, wanted to see them excel in school, and mostly, enjoyed seeing them laugh.  

Dad was diagnosed with liver cancer in May of 2010.  He received radiation in June and July and began taking Nexavar in late June.  The side effects were worse on his liver than the disease, so he had to quit taking the drug after a few months.  The radiation retarded the growth of his tumors and gave him a respite for a few months.  In December, the cancer began to grow again and spread into his lungs.  The kids and I flew home on December 27th.  Dad was weak, but stood and greeted us that night.  Over the course of that week, he grew weaker, and required more assistance as he walked and moved.  Two weeks later, after having a port put into his side to drain the fluid, Dad's electrolyte levels became so mixed up that he began to take a turn for the worse.  Joe flew home on January 16th and stayed for a week.  He was able to visit with Dad and help him.  After a week, Joe took the kids back to Nairobi, and  over the course of the next week, Dad began to decline even more drastically. One night, Dad called me to his bed and said, "Alison, is everyone a Christian?"  I said, "Yes Dad.  All of our immediate family knows the Lord."  He said, "Good.  Does everyone have a place to sleep?"  I assured him we were all okay.

On Wednesday, he slipped into a coma, and we began singing to him.  My sister returned home from Texas and we were all there.  On Thursday morning, he rallied a bit and talked with us.  He told my mother he loved her, and puckered up for a kiss.  In the afternoon, he began to hurt and went back to sleep.  On Friday afternoon, my nephew returned from Vanderbilt and my Dad woke up and tried to shake his hand.  He could no longer speak in anything more than a whisper, though he tried.  Kramer told Dad about his classes and ended with, "I'm doing well Papaw."  My Dad whispered, "At a boy!"  to him.  Those were Dad's last words.  

On Saturday, we sat around him and sang old hymns to him.  At noon, I began to sing "Jesus Loves Me."  I noticed he wasn't breathing and told my sister.  She called everyone around his bed.  Everyone laid their hands on him and whispered that we loved him.  Dad took two more breaths and then went on to be with Jesus.  I will forever remember these last weeks with Dad, as we sang to him, loved on him, stroked his head and said our goodbyes.  

He will be forever missed.  I can feel his presence constantly and I can hear his words of encouragement.  I can hear him saying, "No more tears."  And I recall him touching Mary's cheeks tenderly on the morning she left, wiping away her tears, and saying, "I love you.  I love you so much.  Go to school and do well.  This is so important.  No more crying now."

Dad knew where he was going.  He had full assurance that he would be with Jesus soon.  He told my Mom on Saturday, January 15th that he'd talked with the Lord, and that the Lord told Dad He would give him more time, so he could tell Joe and Dave goodbye.  God honored that talk.  Dad had two more weeks before he went home to be with Jesus.  Our tears are for our own sadness and loss.  It seems we lost Dad so soon.  But, his memory and his life will never be in vain.  We shall all continue to proclaim, like the hymn we sang, "O for a Thousand tongues to sing...Blessed be the Name of the Lord!"

We love you Dad.

Marine Corp Ball

What a night!  If only there were times you could bottle the experience.  But, I suppose we do - in our heads, right?  We sat with lovely people who made me laugh until my sides hurt.  Thank you gang!  We watched people dance (including a cheerleader exhibition by Ondrea - also thank you!), and some try to dance (present company included).  There were lots of photo ops and other things I WISH we could have captured on photos.

What you can't capture is life in Kenya.  We arrived for a 6 p.m. start but weren't moved into the tent until around 7ish...it was at this point, that we discovered we had no table.  We were first in line to buy our tickets, but our table number was somehow lost.  So, they found us an "extra" table set way in the back. Meanwhile,  the program began around 7:20ish, and the first part of the meal was served around 8:20ish.  By then, I'd watched, with great appreciation, our young marines share cake with the eldest in the room, heard a former marine, actor and NYPD cop give a nice talk and stood in a 20 minute bathroom line.  When I returned from the little cottage after standing in line for a bit, we were moved to another "extra" table much closer to the dance floor (our original table maybe?).  At that point, we stood in another buffet line for dinner and I think I sat down to actually eat around 8:40.  Any other day of the year, all of these things might have ruffled me, but as I sat with 3 other couples who are like fresh water to my soul, I was able to find my happy place and simply enjoy myself.

So, now you know what happened that night.  But, I'd like to say to all of the husbands out there, "If your wife says, 'Is this the best gurdle for this dress?' please answer HONESTLY!"  Since honesty was not the approach taken at my house, I'll only be featuring photos from the neck up. (after I upload them) Despite my gurdle and girth issues, I still had a great time.  My friends were very kind, and I appreciate that.  Thank goodness my self-esteem is largely intact.