The graduate

This weekend I sat in the crowd of thousands as my youngest daughter walked across the stage to accept her Bachelor of Science Degree in Communications, Magna Cum Laude, from Loyola University Maryland.  Suffice it to say, like with all my kids' graduations, this mom is filled with pride, and both happy and sad emotions.

I can't help but think back to the day she was born.  We were already a family of four -- but Julia completed us. She gave Meaghan the little sister I always wanted her to have, and became the little sister that adored her big brother Matthew, following him in his love for soccer and always looking up to him.  She's a happy-go-lucky, funny little girl, willing, daring, adventuresome and thoughtful. She was so daring that at 4 years old she jumped off the top of the backyard swingset and gave herself a forehead-to-chin swollen scrape that raised accusing eyebrows in public.  She was so adventuresome that she subjected herself to a winter-time outward bound "sailing" trip in the everglades on a boat that ended up being no bigger than a double-wide

canoe; she traveled to Argentina alone to visit a friend; worked in an inner-city DC elementary school for two weeks for her senior project, getting there on a 40 minute metro ride in an area that was totally unfamiliar to her; and studied abroad in Copenhagen without any friends to accompany her.  Her thoughtfulness comes out in her little random acts of kindness, like when she decided to walk through the neighborhood collecting food for the food pantry, and buys gifts for under-privileged kids.

She and her dad were best buds -- she was his sidekick for Sunday breakfast while the big kids and I went to church; they wore matching sweatshirts on the Blue Hills hiking trail, she accompanied him at times at the gym, and was often with him as he worked in the yard or around the house, ready to make him lunch.

Being our baby she was, and is, both independent and attached. She never hesitated giving me a hug in the presence of her friends and loved her pick-up hugs until she was the one picking me up!


After a rough adjustment to college life her freshman year, she took my advice about facing the second semester with an open mind.  Things turned around for her (meeting an awesome young man and great friends didn't hurt) and she graduated with as much sadness for the journey being over as she had pride in her accomplishment of fulfilling her goals.  Now she begins an exciting new adventure with a job hunt in New York City.

I sat in the Royal Farms Arena in Baltimore Saturday next to her boyfriend's mom with my kids and brother-in-law nearby, tears welling up more than once.  I thought about how proud Jeff would be of his baby girl (and of Matthew and Meg), and what an amazing young lady she has become.  I thought of the long journey we have all endured, with the happy times, the bittersweet, and the downright impossible times.  I thought about how Julia has carried herself through it all, and my tears stung a little less as I began to feel sheer excitement for her promising future.


My kids have given me numerous reasons to beam and smile, and who they are becoming as adults makes me realize Jeff and I did alright in the short time we had together to raise them. The rest was up to me, and even more so, the decisions they decided to make on their own.  So far, so good.   I'm a lucky, proud mom.

The power of a dream

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.” 
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

It takes a very long time to get used to the reality that someone you love deeply will no longer exist in your every day life as a living, breathing, hugging person.  Somehow the mind and the heart find ways of learning to cope with it over time.  Truth be told, it sometimes requires the help of prescription medicine, or more holistic methods through meditation and visual imagery.  Whatever it takes, I've always believed if you're functioning in life, if you're able to be there for your children, and you allow yourself the time to grieve, you're managing the difficult journey of grief.  To help deal with their loss, I've encouraged people to look for the signs that others might think are just coincidences, but for those who are missing someone, signs are precious little nuggets of love from heaven.

One of the many challenges in grief is accepting the fact that the only way to "be" with the person who passed is in dreams.  In the beginning, it's hard to think of anything else.  You try to will yourself to dream.  They say that if you're going to dream that night, (or remember the dream, because supposedly, we dream every night) you're more likely to dream about the last thoughts you have before drifting off to sleep.  I often say a little prayer to Jeff, begging him to show up in my dream.  More often than not, it doesn't happen.

But when we dream, it can be euphoric and amazingly real. In the first year after Jeff died, I dreamed of him one night and woke up immediately after. His scent that had long faded from my world was so strong it was as if he was lying in bed next to me.  It was like receiving a warm hug.  As time passes, the dreams come even less frequently it seems, while the wanting for them increases a bit.

This past week it had been about a year since I last dreamed of Jeff.  I saw three cardinals at the bird feeder in the midst of the recent blizzard, and thought about my friends who believe a cardinal is a sign of their loved ones saying hello.  For me it's rainbows and dragonflies.  The day I was going to New York to pick up a piece of steel from the World Trade Center a few years, a dragonfly was in my kitchen.  I couldn't catch it to set it free, so I left it.  In New York about a block from Ground Zero, I opened the moon roof in my car and a dragonfly flew in and landed on my knee.  A dragonfly in the middle of New York City ... I smiled and said "well hello Jeff!" before it flew out the same way it came in.  When I got home later that night, the dragonfly was there, wings spread on my wall.  I opened the door and it flew away.

Even though cardinals aren't my sign from heaven, the night I saw the cardinals at the feeder I dreamed about Jeff.  Randomly, he was there in our house, standing in front of me.  He knew he had been away for a while, but we didn't discuss why.  He was happy, looking like I remember him -- full of life; his memorable smile filled me with joy.  The details are vague, but I woke up convinced that his death had been a bad dream.  I felt the emptiness as I swept my arm across his side of the bed, and the reality of my life hit me again.  But instead of being overcome with sadness, (I think subconsciously, there's a little part of me that will never recover from Jeff's death and I've grown accustomed to that) I was grateful for the "visit" and re-energized that he is still out there ... somewhere ... watching over us.

Thank goodness life has an uncanny way of allowing us to move forward, live with the memories and find happiness along the way.  Although we can't dream on demand and we don't always dream when we need it the most, when one does happen, it's a gift that can help get you over grief hurdles ... until the next dream.  

Say no to the Trump Card

      One of the first things we learn as children is to be nice to people -- treat them as we would want to be treated.  This is reiterated in the Bible as the "Golden Rule" - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Who remembers our parents telling us "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," and  "it's ok to be different."  There's also that general rule of respect -- show a little for others, even if you don't like them.  These are basic rules of society, and if followed, people of different race, beliefs and religion can live together in relative harmony.
       I'm sure Donald Trump's mom attempted to instill these simple character traits in little Donald, and he must have learned them in military school as a teen, but somewhere along the way, he apparently decided they didn't apply to him.  In an era when teaching kids not to bully has become a nationwide focus, Mr. Trump is the worst kind of bully because he preys on anyone and everyone without regard for their personal circumstances.  He has an audience, and a world-wide platform to spew his venomous opinions and childish mockery about anyone who disagrees with him.   How will he react to Vladimir Putin, or Kim Jong-un, when they challenge him or say something about him that he doesn't like?  How will they respond to being called losers, know-nothings, insignificant?  I'm scared that we might find out.
      It's true that political correctness sometimes goes too far, but in some circumstances, being politically correct is simply the right way to act, or speak.  Not with Mr. Trump.  He is too cocky, too narcissistic, too pigheaded to care if he is saying the right thing.  His recent "I can stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody (displaying the shooting motion with his finger) and I still won't lose any votes" comment is appalling, especially in today's climate of mass-shootings.  It's also clear evidence that he doesn't get it.
    In some ways, Donald Trump has said all the right things, delivery notwithstanding, to recruit Americans onto his crazy-train.  He says what a lot of Americans are thinking -- protect our borders, make America great again, "cut the head off Isis," grow the economy, reduce the debt and cut the budget ... bring back the American dream.   Who doesn't want this for America?   I know I do! But the problem is that he has not hinted at any plan for how to accomplish these, and about 70 other lofty tasks he has promised us if we elect him president.  By the way, one of his promises is to "say things that are politically incorrect because the country doesn't have time to waste with political correctness" (according to the Washington Post).    The country also doesn't have time to mop up his massive messes with other country leaders when he offends them or puts his expensive Italian-leather-clad foot in his mouth!
   I'm typically not one to voice my political opinion.  I don't believe one's voting decision should be swayed by Hollywood actors, musicians, athletes, or even bloggers like me.  When I think about casting my vote, I do consider the opinions of those I respect, who I consider well-read, smart, educated and sensible.  However, in this case, I feel strongly about what is not good for our country, so I can't hold back.  Donald Trump is not the answer for America.  He is not the savior we need to guide us into better days. He is not a leader we can feel safe with.  He is everything we teach our kids NOT to be.  He has been publicly inconsiderate of others feelings, he's been a bully, he's been rude, and brash.  And while he may be a successful business man, he is in no way qualified to be Commander in Chief of the world's most impressive military, or to run the greatest country in the world.
     I hope Trump supporters come to realize that Donald Trump as president could not only put our country in danger, but it will make us the laughing stock of the world and put us at risk of losing the respect America has worked hard to earn over the last 240 years.

A mom and son -- the bond

     One of the four happiest days of my life was Jan. 14, 1988 -- the day I gave birth to my first child -- my only son.  I remember so clearly how excited Jeff and I were -- how excited I was to tell Jeff -- that we were pregnant.  We celebrated that night with an after-work dinner at the Village Steak House (now home to Stockholders).  Not much of a milk drinker, I set aside my prefence for diet soda or seltzer water and ordered a glass of milk with my salad bar dinner.  I had a life growing inside me and would do everything I could to make sure it had a healthy stay.  At dinner we talked about what we wanted -- boy or girl -- but both of us just wanted a happy, healthy baby who would grow up with a sense of humor!

 I loved being pregnant, and with the exception of constant heartburn, I never felt sick and had a fairly easy time carrying around this little being inside me.  Even giving  birth to him wasn't that difficult.  My water broke at 6 a.m., and by 6 p.m. we were driving into the hospital in a snow storm with me in mild labor.  Nearly six hours later, with no pain meds and four hours of intense labor, my little gift from God -- Matthew William -- was born. Jeff liked the name for the good, rugged nickname.  To everyone but me he became Matt.  To me he's always been Matthew.  His grandpa called him Mattie (or abercrombe, but that's another story).  The William did double duty, honoring his dad's middle name and the uncle who would be his Godfather.
   

In the 28 years of being his mom, I learned some things about me, and about being a mom to a son.  I never thought it possible to love an adorable, spitty baby; a stuck-in-his-ways boy; an argumentative adolescent; a messy, know-it-all teen; a sometimes-reckless college student; a caring, independent man -- so much.  I never realized how much I needed him; how much I could depend on him if I allowed myself to; and how hard it would be to gradually let go as he attaches to his future.
     I nurtured him, read to him, held him and encouraged him.  I guided him through the loss of his dad at 13.  I taught him to shave with his dad's razor at 15.  I cheered him on in hockey, soccer, and life.

I scolded him when the stupid teenager took over and I tried to instill lessons from that stupidity that would make him a respectable man.  I gave him room to spread his wings, and helped to soften the landing when he fell.  I taught him how to treat a woman, and hugged him tight when the relationship failed.
     Through it all, he has always been there for me, too.  Even in jr. high or high school, he never shied away from hugging me in public or in front of his friends.  He's grown up to be an amazing young man of whom his father would be so proud.
     There's a special bond between a mom and son.  It's not stronger than that between a mom and daughter, or father and daughter -- just different.   The more independent he has grown through life, the more blessed I am knowing that bond is there forever.  My son has never been too cool to love his mom, and for that, I'm grateful. Happy Birthday to my boy!

Christmas past is Christmas present

We made it through another Christmas -- our 15th without Jeff.  Some would say we should be accustomed to it by now, and I suppose we are, but it doesn't change the subtle sadness I still feel, the "what ifs" I think about, and the memories we still hold.  I was always the shopper of most things Christmas, and Jeff would take charge of taking the kids to buy the tree, putting it up, adding the lights, and stringing the lights on the shrubs outside.  He'd sneak away to the store, sometimes alone and sometimes with the kids to do his shopping, and would always come back with a find he was excited to share.  It might have been a goofy ornament he personalized for one of the kids, a game, or something he found that screamed "this is from dad" when put under the tree.  Christmas Eve night after church and take-out chinese food, he'd scramble around to help me finish all I had to do before morning -- he'd lead the kids in decorating cookies, wrap the last of the gifts, set the living room for Christmas morning and then head to bed, knowing I'd be following at the wee hours of the morning,

encouraging me not to stay up too late.  In the morning he'd wait for the kids to wake us up, make them wait in their rooms while he made coffee, lit a fire, poured them oj, added his own touch to their and my stocking, and placed a few more things under the tree. I made the pop-n-fresh cinnamon rolls, and a cup of tea for me.  Then he'd have the kids pose for a picture on the stairs before letting them into the living room. This was our tradition.  It was our Christmas.
And for the most part, it still is.
Christmas traditions are made to be honored, in spite of changes that may happen, but only if they work for everyone.  Because the kids have always wanted to, we've kept the traditions they've known since birth.  We've added new ones, like setting up the "Dad tree," but all those other traditions remain.

 

As the "kids" age and introduce significant others into the family, I know it's only a matter of time before some of those traditions are let go.  One year, probably sooner than later, one of the kids will be with their spouse's family, or one of the spouses may be joining us.  Christmas as we've known it may be a thing of the past, but it also means more new traditions are in our future.  As time moves on, I'll always see Jeff there in his maroon bathrobe and his plaid pajama pants, both made by my own hands; his stocking that he's had since he was a boy hanging from the mantle; I'll hear his goofy laugh at the prospect of the kids opening up something he gave them, and I'll feel his hug as he makes the rounds in the room saying Merry Christmas and thank you to each of the kids and me.  Whether its 15 years or more, the kids and I will enjoy our Christmas, our traditions, and our memories that we made together.  And we'll be grateful to share another Christmas as a family.

A month of Inspiration ...

A month of inspiration ...

"Wake me when September Ends" by Green Day is the song that rattles through my brain from the end of August through the end of September.  There are so many dates in the four weeks from September 11 - October 6 that tug at my emotions.  It begins of course, with the anniversary of 9/11, followed by our annual fundraiser, the Jeff Coombs Memorial Road Race, Walk and Family Day, my birthday, Jeff's birthday (just three days apart and within the week of September 11) and then as the emotions begin to settle, mine and Jeff's anniversary on Oct. 6.

But this September was filled with a couple more dates that inspired, made me cry, made me think, and made me say "WOW."  I had the unreal opportunity to be within viewing range of Pope Francis at the 9/11 Memorial in late September.  This was one of those odd, bittersweet blessings that resulted from Jeff's death.  While standing there watching him pray at the South Reflecting Pool, I thought of Jeff and how he would be laughing, happy that I was there, knowing how much I had hoped to be there. I didn't get to meet the Pope, but being in his presence was still pretty amazing.  He's unlike all the others before him -- he's more relatable because he feels more like us, on a much more spiritual level, of course.  But rather than seeming like a super-human, he appears to be more like someone's grandpa who happened to become Pope!  His smile is sweet and infectious, and his modesty is endearing.  "Pray for me," he often says to the people.

In such harsh contrast to this kind, gentle presence among us, as we stood watching the multi-denominational Meeting for Peace on an outside screen, and as people sang along with the children's choir "Let there be Peace on Earth," I looked away at the roof of the 9/11 Museum where sharp shooters stood ready with their automatic weapons. I thought "this is what we've become."  Sad.

And back to the sweetness of it all, as Pope Francis rode by in the motorcade in his miniature Fiat, we just had to laugh, and wave as he waved back.  I walked out of Memorial Park feeling a little more blessed having been in the presence of the Holy Father, and happy to have shared it with my good friend Mary.

The very next day I attended the dedication of the Martin Richard statue and school of social justice at Bridgewater State University.  Being among the couple hundred invited guests was truly an honor.  At only 8 years old, Martin Richard had become somewhat of an ambassador for peace after being killed in the Boston Marathon bombings.  The picture of him holding the sign "No More Hurting People -- Peace" became an iconic image of the tragic events of April 15, 2013.  Both graduates of Bridgewater State College, Martin's parents Bill and Denise saw it fitting to accept the school's invitation to erect a statue of their young son there, delivering a simple message of Peace to the thousands of students who would pass by daily.  In Bill's address to the crowd, he expressed his overwhelming gratitude for the support and the school's willingness to breathe life into a child's wish for Peace.

I couldn't help but smile through the tears that welled up after hearing Bill speak about losing their son as I saw Martin's little sister Jane (who is now nearly as tall as Martin was then) rest her hand on his shoulder, put her head next to his, and playfully give him bunny ears.  The bitter-sweetness of this day and the pride Martin's family and friends felt was palpable -- you could see it in Bill and Denise's smiles and hear it in their words.  As Bill told me afterward, they had many offers to memorialize their son, but the BSU statue just seemed right, and seemed more like an opportunity to continue Martin's message than to just erect a memorial.

Feeling much like I did after I left Memorial Park the previous day, I left there feeling blessed.

I am blessed to have come to know the Richard family (but wish we had met under very different circumstances); blessed to be touched by the strength and compassion of this young family, and blessed to have been inspired by Bill's closing words -- "just be kind to people."

And now with September gone for another year and what would have been our 31st wedding anniversary around the corner (putting to rest a long emotional month), the song in my head subsides slowly ...

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends.

Always remember

Fourteen years ago the public swore they would never forget.  Most have not and for that we are grateful.  Senator Kennedy was a friend to us, understanding tragic loss on a level others could not.  He brought hope to us at a time we needed it most.  Here are his words that have stuck with me over the years -

"I wish that no one was ever lost in the high noontime of their lives.  I wish that tragedy never robbed a single soul.  But I know that life sometimes breaks your heart.  I can tell you from my own personal experience, that their loss will forever be with you.  As you know so well, the passage of time never really heals the tragic memory of such a great loss, but we carry on, because we have to, because our loved one would want us to, and because the lives they led and the love they gave you will become a brighter light to guide you as time goes on.  you will never walk alone."

Thankfully, with family and friends always there, and the spirit of Jeff always touching me, I have rarely felt alone.

We go on, not because we want to, but because we have to.  Always remember, as promised 14 years ago.