beyondthebridge

Jan 22, 2017

I am on the plane home to Seattle from Washington, DC where I was privileged to be one person among the 1,000,000 others Marching. The exact numbers are  elusive and depend on what source you read—what can I say? It was shoulder to shoulder for as far as I could see – A LOT of people. Too many people to “march” . More of a swarm!

My head is swimming from the myriad variety of images, conversations, faces, signs, emotions on display in the 7 hours I was present with this crowd. The stuffed to the gills metro ride to get there. Shoulder to shoulder in the streets. Grabbing a coat-tail or hooking an arm to prevent separation from my marching group. The random “where are you from, why did you come this far”–both being asked and asking. I did not witness any aggressiveness nor did I have fear. It was calm, peaceful, indeed – as one chant went “this is what democracy looks like”. Yes, it was a deep privilege.

It will take awhile to unpack. But here I post some of my initial reflections. I have not blogged in over a year. But as Gloria Steinem said yesterday on a stage before hundreds of thousands: “This election was a wake up call”.   “Do not take democracy for granted”. And while I was definitely engaged and invested BEFORE Nov 8^th, 2016, the call to activism for me now has leap frogged to be one of my top “calls”. Perhaps the majority of the millions of us across this country (and 7 continents) who marched yesterday are like me: in infancy in this new time of discovery of “what will be my path in activism?” but craving opportunities to soak up and learn as we ask “where do we go from here?” “Examine what you tolerate” was a sign that called to me.

“Why are you here?”   I was struck with the massive variety of reasons and styles of marchers yesterday. Yes, the ARMS of JUSTICE are wide, and the entrée points myriad. Me? I am CALLED to march to be a voice for all the voiceless I encounter nearly daily who are living in FEAR right now. As an obstetrician/ gynecologist who takes care of low income women, I witness on a daily basis the difference in access to health care enabled by the Affordable Care Act that has truly been life saving or life altering for many of my patients. They are not “numbers” to me. They are tangible women who have children and parents for whom they care. They work, smile, and worry about their teenager. Many of my patients are recent immigrants – often having fled some terrible horrific situations back home—who are now terrified and sometimes do not want to divulge contact information, or show up for follow-up appointments or speak to social workers for fear they will be “found”.   I see daily the power of low cost, effective, safe contraception and screening for cervical cancer prevention and wonder how eliminating the excellent work of Planned Parenthood can be justified? (btw, no federal money is used for abortions by planned parenthood). I deal with sexual assault victims commonly, many of whom are experiencing secondary traumatization by the fact that our country elected as president a perpetrator of violent actions and words against women. I wonder how all the poor children and adults who have had their medical care expanded through Medicaid will fare with “vouchers”…or whatever other “better” system that may happen along after undoing what we now have.  Since I live health care every day of my life, of course I marched because access to affordable health care is one of my top and center issues.

I marched because of a call to solidarity. So many unjust policies – not just health care, so I am in solidarity with all these around me who are going to be putting energy out there fighting for just causes–because there is no way I can fight them all.   Marching as a commitment to be part of something bigger than myself.  We need to stand in solidarity to deny legitimization of the rhetoric and priorities of this time. We need the energy and creativity of each other. Indeed, I marched to say “YES” to this new community, knowing I will live off their energy when mine is getting low.  We will be sustained through this long journey ahead by each other.

I marched as a mother and a wife. How privileged to march with my two college aged sons. I asked them to march with me, and I was humbled and grateful that they would travel to DC to do this. It was THRILLING for me to have birthed them and raised them and now march with them –on this day, in this time. It was thrilling that my husband marched in Seattle with over 120,000 there. Some dear Sisters also marched with me in DC, and indeed, there were many others from all phases of my life also in that massive crowd yesterday. We could not find each other, or reach each other through the mass, but we were in solidarity.

I marched because of Christ’s example —  a social justice radical who sought out and spoke for those who did not hold the political power or financial clout of the time. He hung out with women. With untouchables like lepers. With beggars on the outskirts of town. As a Christian who is trying to follow Christ’s radical call to justice and also the calling out of oppressive systems, I marched.

Many of the speakers and songs were powerful. Inspirational.   One series of speakers that moved me to tears was the Mothers of the Movement—mothers representing just some of those whose black sons or daughters have been killed in recent times. Trayvon Martin’s mother and others. The mother would stand on the huge stage with appropriate music background and say her fallen son or daughter’s name, and all of us in the crowd, hundreds of thousands, in unison, would shout back “say their name”. “Trayvon Martin” “Say his name” “Trayvon Martin” “Say his name” 5-6 times, then on to the next mother who would shout out her child’s name. Yes, the power of naming their fallen children – saying we are Marching because we are not going to forget these names and this call to work toward just laws and accountability.   And yes, I was there with my two sons, both of whom are thriving, crying with those Mothers who have lost their sons or daughters.  So close to having lost one of my sons … this call to justice on behalf of their slain children rocked my core.

I marched because I cannot choose Fear. I cannot let Anger paralyze me. With this trip and this March, I mark a conscious decision to seek ways to move forward naming injustice, denying the belief of “alternative facts”* while acknowledging the need to see alternative viewpoints. I marched to deny accommodation to the new rhetoric and attacking of any who disagree and attempts to undermine the press.

Yes, it is a dizzying time. As we all go back to our already “full time lives” that involve our own jobs, families, care taking, and communities I hope for all of us the opportunity to take a deep breath, appreciate the goodness of yesterday, and then move forward choosing to be part of something bigger than ourselves. A new day has dawned. May we all be called to “Examine what we Tolerate”.

*the term some spokepersons for the new administration used to account for the differences in numbers of inauguration attendees presented by those working in the metro or crowd scientists using overhead photos to count vs numbers put forward in the first press conference of the new administration.

It’s been two years since Feb 28, 2014. Three pm. SUV slides on icey roads. Fishtails. Crosses lane. T-boned by oncoming truck. Three lives instantly lost. Two lives miraculously spared, seemingly healed, yet marked for life.

Parents and families devastated.   Community shocked. Stunned at senseless loss. Grief is all encompassing at that time.   Words unable to articulate the cavernous wounds in the hearts and souls. Communication happens more gutturally. Through simple Presence even though silent. Hugs. Tears. Sharing meals and Kleenexes.

I knew the First Anniversary of the wreck would be HUGE. What about this second anniversary? I find myself zigzagging between the urgency of intensely remembering the moment I got “the call” to realizing that most times, that Urgency has passed. Yes, the tears will still blurt out sometimes, but not always now. We are living forward. How do I reflect on the tension of living forward? Time passing.

My son was spared. More than spared, he has recovered from his severe traumatic brain injury, collapsed lung, 8 broken bones and a rod in his femur in a way his doctors state is “nothing less than a miracle”.   Now beyond his initial burst of healing that baffled all in its expediency, he has continued to have a slower, more nuanced recovery.   It is this slower, more nuanced healing that strikes me today.

He is with us. We can talk on the phone. We can laugh and watch him play Frisbee. Sometimes, now, I don’t always think “Wow, I GET to call Conor”.   Instead I say “Let’s call Conor”.   Some parts of some days it seems “normal” to be a family of 4.

Yet, as I have been looking to this day coming, I also realize that, similar to my son’s healing, the Urgency of this experience is also morphing to a more nuanced package of emotions for me, as time is passing-at least mostly. It hit me when I travelled to a recent Frisbee Tournament in Tampa. Two years ago this Tampa tournament was the last time the team played together before the wreck. Parents hung out, forming bonds on sidelines.

One year later-one year ago- this tournament was HUGE. Grieving those players. Celebrating Conor playing. Debriefing with parents on the sidelines.

This year–the tournament was mostly about playing Frisbee. Over 50% of the players now did not share “the wreck” experience. Some parents did not know it occurred.   The sideline conversations were more focused on the field, than on memories and grief.   Sometimes I struggled to BE in the moment. It can be difficult for me to hold this passage out of the urgent. I don’t want to forget the ongoing grief of the three families whose sons did not survive. I don’t want to LOSE that soul searing palpable gratitude for the miracle of my son’s recovery. I want to always remember what it was like to “be carried” by God, by angels of community.

Part of my discomfort with this transition is I just don’t know yet how to carry the nuanced feelings in a way that feels authentic. This weekend, Buckley and I are at a 3 day traditional Indian wedding celebration of a lovely couple. We were honored to be invited, and have cherished the experience. When my friends here ask how I am doing, I don’t quite know how to express the joy of celebrating this couple committing to a life together, our general Thanksgiving for the health of our sons, and the Anniversary weekend and all it carries.   How to express the mixture?? Early on after the wreck, it was always TOP and CENTER. Now, it is not always. And how do I feel about that?

Conor said some things at Tampa tournament that stick with me. “Mom, life is moving on. The wreck is not the story of half the people on the team now. The seniors graduated who were their classmates. It is different on campus. That’s just the way it is”. Pragmatism has its place!

I do know it is not about forgetting. EVERY DAY I think about that wreck, at least a dozen times. I think about those families, those mothers and my soul aches. I wear my blue bracelet with the three boys’ names on them. It is more below the surface now. And it’s not “just” below the surface for only me. On the Tampa sidelines, I asked a parent what was it like for the boys immediately after the wreck…and she immediately burst into tears. We are all still processing, aren’t we?

Yes, the more nuanced emotions are gaining voice. More of an ability to reflect not just react. Maybe there is more “space”.   A different stage of grief. A more calm “knowing” of the miraculous. I am struck that a major continuing theme is about empathy. I looked out on that Frisbee field realizing my son carries those scars on his body and heart– and one would not know by watching him play. I talk to that Mom and ask a question, and tears immediately flow.  Both, to me, were poignant examples of the truth and pain that People carry inside– and we have NO idea it is there. A call to empathy for sure.

So, on this second anniversary, I will again light three candles and grieve. I will reach out to others I know are also forever touched by this event. I know we are all still processing. I will sing Praise for healing of my son. And I will accept that this is the season for Passage beyond the Urgency, trusting that as we live forward, authenticity comes with us.

I am en route home from a visit to my mother. Her memory care facility classifies her as “Level 3” on her “journey”. Level 3 is nearing the journey’s “end”. She knows herself, and a few family members. Very little else.

When I come, usually every 3 months, I live in fear of becoming a cast off from her journey. Fear of becoming yet another “unknown” face. I awoke her today from a nap. She said “Hi Linda”. My heart lept for joy. Something incredibly primal and deep comes from recognition from one’s mother. It is a recognition core to human well-being and central to development. While I may be 53, and a physician, and have some, albeit inexpert, knowledge of dementia, what the core of my being tells me is being KNOWN by one’s mother IS a basic human need. I wept quietly when she said my name- so thankful to still be on this journey as a known.

During previous times this weekend sometimes she knew me. Sometimes she asked who I was and why I was there. She no longer knows I ever married or that I have children. She does not know that she paid for 8 years of post high-school education so I could become a doctor. She does not know where I live or how I magically appeared. She does not know I visited her yesterday, or earlier this morning.

“Hearing is the last to go” we are always taught in medical school. So I talk. She no longer follows complex sentences. Sometimes she cannot follow a 4 word sentence. I tell her everytime she asks where I live. I answer the question of “are you dating someone?” with telling her my good news of a wonderful man in my life for 28 years of marriage. “That’s nice” she says. Sometimes she smiles, or laughs. “You are a lucky one”. I tell her of my robust healthy children. “Oh yes, I think I have heard of them”. Then one minute later she asks if I have two girls. Sometimes she nods when I say their names. Sometimes she is blank. Words, at times unintelligible, still come from her. Sometimes these words are in meaningful phrase–occasionally a full sentence. Never a full paragraph. What is her brain connecting? Yes, I speak to her, even when she does not.

I touch. I cut her nails. Nothing says love like touching another’s feet—at least that is how my brain thinks. That is what Jesus showed us. On “level 3” of her “journey” – what does it mean to her? I cut and filed her way overgrown toenails. I was so happy to offer something tangible. A way to touch her. Did she know my love? Did she know my desire to have her feel my care? Did she know that the daughter is now the nurturer as the brain decay has stolen her mothering role, and reversed our relative places? Touching, hugging, sitting in a chair with my arm around her singing- those are how I can communicate now. Does she perceive it?

Yet amidst the tragedy and ache, there is something profoundly beautiful about these visits. My mother is the happiest I have seen her. She has a world that does not know pain. She does not remember anything bad that has ever happened to her. She smiles. She reaches out to touch others. She lives only in the NOW. She is so surprised, over and over again, by everything, anything, and she reflects joy in her smile..

Living in the NOW is something that many of us strive to do. In fact, it is a politically correct goal. We take meditation courses. We strive to be “present” to this moment. And, we beg our higher power for Divine Dementia — the ability to forgive and forget pain.

Yes, Mom. I miss you. But you still have something to teach me. I will continue on this journey with you. You can share your smile. That will be enough. Divine Dementia will help me forget all of you that I have lost and be present, in the moment, accepting what you offer.

This is a copy of the what I just posted on Conor’s Caring Bridge site as an EPILOGUE.   Wanted it to be on this site, too

Today is February 28, 2015.  It is a date I have seen looming over the horizon for weeks if not months.  In a way, it is a welcome relief that it is here.

Thoughts keep returning to “a year ago today”.  We will all be marked forever by the spot and time where we heard the “news of the accident”.  There is no way forward except through anniversary dates.

As Mom, part of my process forward has been letting go of the intensity of those first initial weeks after the wreck and moving back into “normal” time.  Or, rather “new normal”.  New normal looks a lot the same on the outside, but the inside is forever changed.  We celebrate “family dinners” differently now.  We took a vacation over the Christmas holiday so deeply and humbly thankful to be a family of 4.  Shane started his college essay with the words ‘brain damage” as he recounted his own path to his new normal.  (i must say, his college apps are meeting with great success thus far, so i think his genuine essay is being appreciated by many).   Buckley and I still have quiet moments of knowing…when words are not needed to share the deep inexplicable truth of Conor’s healing.  We remain cognizant of those months of being carried – by God, community, family.

I had the deep privilege of watching Conor play college Division 1 ultimate frisbee two weekends ago as a tournament in Tampa.  It was another piece of the way forward- as this tournament a year ago was the last time the whole team played together before the wreck.  He was so thrilled to be “back”, able to compete at this high level and being part of this team he loves, playing a sport for which he has deep passion.  One could see it in his face, his body, his spirit.  I found myself with joy welling up from my toenails.  Wait?  Does he have a rod in his right femur?   Is he really taking a full load of Carleton classes?  Did he really get into a Carleton Economics Study Abroad program at Cambridge for next summer?  It was quite the weekend.

On February 18th, Mark Dukatz, the policeman who was the first responder to the accident who saved Conor’s life, was honored for his actions at the time of the wreck.  (Other policeman and responders to that accident also- one can google Northfield news for that day to get a picture of it)  Conor met with Mark, and with the Chief of the Northfield Police in November last year — that was quite a meeting!!   Conor had wanted to attend this ceremony, but was not able to.  So, he wrote a letter.  He gave me permission to share some of his words:

Mark, you deserve every blessing and award and honor that comes your way. I am eternally grateful.

We are too.

We are also celebrating and grieving the remarkably deep imprints left on our lives by Michael, James, and Paxton today.  If anyone wants to visit ultiworld.com, there is a large tribute to them.  Paxton’s parents placed three luminary at the wreck site, I am posting that photo.  Today is a day of such deep grief, and certainly our hearts and spirits groan today acknowledging the loss of these three lovely young men, and thinking of their families.  I know there are many gatherings today to honor them, including CUT at Carleton where alums and current team members are gathered for sharing a meal as I write this.

We will share a meal today, too, with dear friends as we mark this one year anniversary.  One year that seemed like twenty.  It is hard to remember what it was like “before” Feb 28, 2014.
I can say it no better than Conor did:  Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the accident and the deaths of my friends and the randomness, but at the end of the day, I am so grateful to be alive. 

Thank you all for traveling with us.  This journey has changed our lives.  Really

Conor catching the disc at Ultimate game in Tampa tournament, Feb 13, 2015

Luminaria at the crash site: for Paxton, Michael and James.
Feb 28, 2015

It is upon us. Starting tomorrow, CUT will play in the Tampa ultimate Frisbee tournament. It was at this tournament last year where I first saw CUT play, met James, Michael and Paxton, had a blast on the sidelines with all the parents, including James’ and Michael’s. And…Conor broke his hand on the first day of competition…which seemed so major then and now seems like such a minor side note.

Thinking of the bittersweet nature of attending this Tampa tournament, I scheduled a new experience for myself: a 3 day personal/spiritual/writing retreat at St. Pete’s beach, less than an hour from Tampa. I also lobbied hard to get some other “P-cut” veterans (that is, parent of CUT members that are not rookies) to come to these Tampa sidelines. I do look forward to meeting and welcoming the “rookie P-cut” members, (and sharing our “tradition” of a little wine on the sideline in the last game of the day!…shh….) but somehow wanted some on the sidelines who might get it if I spontaneously break into tears when I see Conor run, or leap to snag a Frisbee. Many of the “veteran” P-cut members have communicated how this tournament will be so difficult, and the HUGE HOLES of 3 players not present, and those parents not cheering on the sidelines. And, I am so fortunate to have some great long time friends also here in Tampa, coming with me to the tournament, who have lived the journey of the last year.

19-21 year old boys do not voice the HOLES in the same way. Yet, I am sure that they will all be remembering that this was the last time the team played together before the accident. Will they express it? Will Conor express it? He has talked about the difficulty of this “anniversary season” already, but what will this weekend hold? I do know I am very much looking forward to seeing “Jett” (his middle name) in action…and just writing that sentence brings tears to my eyes thinking of the miracle of his playing…

As I walked St Pete’s Beach, a question kept surfacing: Is it okay to celebrate? To celebrate Conor’s return to Division 1 athletics? To celebrate the team moving on…

The answer may seem obvious, but for me, I feel like this whole last year is so twisted/knarled/transcended by the death of James, Michael and Paxton and knowing Conor was moments away from death before the first responder arrived. I ache so deeply for these mothers and families. I think about them so many times every day. I have spoken of travelling this journey, recognize the tendency toward Maternal Survivor’s Guilt. It is real. But it is also not the way to live. It is not something any of the mother’s would have me to feel but perhaps the empathy runs so deep it is almost impossible to celebrate fully and at the same time grieve so deeply.

As I paced the St Pete’s Beach this week, I was struck by just how much PAIN there is all around. Horrific killings of hostages, and random occurrences of accidents. Diseases, Poverty, Draught…intractable pain…we all know…

Yet, perhaps as a gift and not just a coincidence, these thoughts would be interrupted by the gleeful squeal of 3 year olds playing “chase” with the waves. Of parents photographing their young child’s lopsided yet regal sand castle. Of birds gracefully swooping down for a catch. By the endless rhythm of waves that always remind me of the eternal… of God With Us…Emmanuel.

And, it occurred to me that this dichotomy of watching Conor and celebrating with reckless abandon yet acknowledging the tragedy of Feb 28th is no different than the dance being choreographed by all humans—life is hard. We will have life that has pain and devastation…Yet, hopefully…we also experience glimpses of JOY and Blessing. Indeed, this heavy weight and dilemma I have been carrying of profound gratefulness and anguished sorrow and simultaneous grief is just part of this dance. It is okay. In a sense, it is “normal”. I am not sure why I needed to come to Florida to walk the beaches to believe and accept this for myself…it does not seem like rocket science, but I do feel more of a peace in carrying this dichotomy.

Will I dance from the tips of my toenails that my son is back attending college, has a rod in his femur, yet can run and leap? YES.   Will I cry and miss desperately the others are not there who would have been save this random car wreck?? ABSOLUTELY.  Will I commune with veteran P-Cut and Rookie P-Cut members celebrating the power of team and athleticism while we enjoy the Tampa sun? You betcha ya.

Yes, it is anniversary season. I look forward to the path ahead, knowing Emmanuel is as sure as the ocean waves…

I have written before about the process it is to let go of the intensity and move forward into “normal time” following Feb 28^th. How that has created fear, a sense of dis-ease, perhaps even a grief. Fear that I would lose the “aliveness” of this intense holy time. Knowing that I will, at some point, no longer be able to close my eyes and palpably engage the surreal activation of senses that we lived after the accident. My skin shivering inside a damp and confusing cloud that surrounded us-the coldness of it –forbidding the comfort that one gets when the sun permeates the skin with warmth –even as those around us tried so desperately hard to offer that comfort. The dense fog that limited far away vision– yet somehow always cleared just enough to get a glimpse of the immediate path before us. The inability to “hear” the muffled voices of surrounding life events, as all focus was on the now.   The smells – of hospital “clean”. Of bandages removed. Of carts carrying food trays. All of these senses packaged into a confused “raw” time. We were inexplicably being “carried” as if in a hot air balloon “viewing” these days in a somehow detached way from the perspective of “elevation”, while simultaneously feeling every moment that stretched out endlessly. (I guess I haven’t lost these yet…as it was immediate to re-submerge into recounting these…along with more that I won’t publicly enumerate!)

When a tragedy happens that rips open one’s being and exposes the raw, unprotected self, a License is granted. A License to experience depth welling from the inside out, transcending every realm. Grief of the insane tragedy of three lives lost. Inexpressible thanksgiving for two lives spared. The opportunity to create immediate “best friends” in hospital hallways or ICU waiting rooms, or strangers delivering meals, or hosts sharing a car or bed. It is a License to be lifted by one’s community. It is License to strip to honesty of self. Down to the ligaments and bones. Pretense and ego evaporating as they are unnecessary encumberments.

As the crisis time wanes, Licenses are typically revoked. No longer free to share deep deep fears. No longer the need to acknowledge forward movement – now just focusing on milestones.   No longer able to ask those raw, guttural, existential questions of life’s meaning. No longer the grace allowed when spontaneously breaking into tears in the middle of a professional moment.

In all honesty, I know we need these Licenses to be revoked. While the degree of JOY and humility and comfort and Presence of God is an absolute treasure chest that comes with Licensed moments– the grief, agony, pain, and inability to “move” is not, and would be unbearable to continue.

I have spent my whole life being trained to respond to emergencies-initially in my family of origin, and of course, now in my chosen profession. I know my role.  I know the dance steps.  If honest, I may be more comfortable with a License for crisis than the steady pace of “the new normal” we have been undeservedly granted—as I feel so ALIVE when License is granted. Called forth. Roll is clear and ambiguity evaporates.

Perhaps I need to relish and renew myself in a way that is beyond crisis. Perhaps License needs to take on a lower case “l” and the license needs to be steadfastness in the ordinary-where one does continue to strive for the deepness and rawness and richness of intimacy and meaning making. Yet, without the tragedy.

Living through the last few months, with Conor completing college classes and back competing on a Division 1 frisbee team, Shane into college, through his first semester of his senior year and winning soccer state championships!!!, Buckley and I pacing the pace of work juggled with family, church, community, exercise, etc – has been such a “normal” and welcome “outcome” for our family to such a horrific tragedy. And, indeed, the License has been, for the most part, revoked.

I have been reflecting…and have come to realize that I trust myself more in crisis than I do in “normal time”. Yet, perhaps it is time. For the true license (lower case “l”) to begin. To seize the renewal, minus crises, that my soul needs…..

It is 2015.  Seattle is bathed in lovely sunlight, ringed by the Cascade and Olympic Mountains- fresh snow on their peaks.  It is lovely cold, crisp weather.  Biking to work yesterday had a “bite” from the cold – but also I was “bitten” by 2014 close out reflections.  As Conor said on Dec 30th: “It is really strange hearing people reflect on 2014 and saying such “ordinary” type things — it reminds me that I don’t know quite how to reflect my 2014″.  He did go on to reflect more, but noted “a few people, especially my Carleton friends, look at me when others are talking about 2014 – because we remember – but because things seem so ordinary now, many of my friends no longer remember the Accident.”  He got to spend Dec 31 and today, Jan 1, up at a local ski area skiing with 5 buddies–and two of the people he is skiing with are high school classmates who are also Carleton classmates.  That gave me comfort actually, because he would be with people where he could casually mention the Accident if he reflected on it, and they would get it.

Buckley and I also had dinner together last night, and we reflected about the intensity of the year.  Times when someone says something, or we remember something, and we just start weeping.  How we have both surprised strangers and patients! by starting to cry!  How we both realized the intensity of the initial months put us on “prolonged hyperdrive”.  How we are happy that is over, but that the singularity of focus and intense energy we associate with the initial weeks was a gift and a unique life density.  In someways, it is still hard to let go of the intensity.  I realize I have fear that as I let go of the intensity, somehow I will lose the marks on my soul and my heart-my tattoos.  I think I need a little more time and living to believe that the new “ordinary” will still hold the “holy” (which is how we sum up the time after the Accident).

Both of my kids have said “Mom, you need to move on”.  What does that mean?  To them, it means to talk about the accident less.  Conor does not want my checking in with him!  I told him I ask him because I want him to be able to mention James, Michael and Paxton if he is thinking of them, or mention his femur, or other aspects of the Accident if he needs to.  He has told me that there is little talk about Feb 28th events and the aftermath at Carleton now, or on the Frisbee team–and so I ask him to make sure he gets a chance to express what he is thinking.  He told me that he does feel he can talk about it when he wants, so I didn’t need to keep asking!  But Conor also said something really interesting that I think reflected some of what Buckley and I were speaking about last night.  He said that “When I go see Jim and Julia, or text with Jack [James’ parents and brother] I am geared up to have the grief, but it is when someone tall with dark hair and a pencil behind their ear walks toward me in the library [reminding him of James] that it catches me off guard and there is no way I can study for awhile”.  It is the surprise remembrances, even if they are happy reflections, that can really catch one off guard.

And, as I reflect, it is losing those “off guard” piercing memories or moments that I fear.

So, the integration continues – now in 2015.  I look forward to gaining more confidence through doing life that the Holy Path that was given to us starting Feb 28th continues even as it is less intense.  I realize that our family is, indeed, moving to a place where the Accident gets mentioned or references to recovery, grief, memories float in and out of conversation as natural expressions of our family history and experience.  That tears do not always come…(though they are still frequent!)   I realize that Conor has done a lot of great work with his rehab- certainly physically, also academically, and emotionally.  In November, he met with the first responder who saved his life.,,(big GULP thinking about that meeting!)   “Mom, it is just a part of me now”.

For me- I am starting to realize that the “one year mark” of so many parts of this journey will soon be upon us.  I have set aside a week of vacation in mid February and plan a solo writing/reading/reflecting spiritual retreat.  The week will end attending the Tampa Ultimate Frisbee Tournament – which was where I met the CUT parents last year, met James, Paxton, and Michael and felt the chemistry of this wonderful team and group of parents.  It seems fitting to me that it has worked out to have the first of the “one year later” events be the end of this much coveted personal retreat.  New freshman players are competing, and the parents of these freshman players will also be there – so the team will have a “different” look and feel –indeed, offering a chance to integrate and move on while still reflecting and holding all those “one year ago this time” feelings.

We just had our first family vacation  since the Accident.  A warm, sunny, fun filled week of Christmas in Nicaragua.  What a privilege  – to truly appreciate the four of us being together, present, in these moments!  As I look to 2015 – I look to gaining more “experience” with our new normal – in our nuclear family, and also our extended family including those of the CUT community.  I know I will be frequently awash with gratitude, awe, deep grief and just plain ‘ole emotion as we hit all these one year marks.  The boys are right – it is time to move on:  to trust that the Holy Moments of the last year will not be leaving my heart and soul, even as their intensity morphs and the topography evens out.

2015.  It is here.  As is Emmanuel. (God with us).  Amen.

p.s. remember- if you would like, you can add comments by clicking on the actual title of this actual POST .

Today is Thanksgiving.  One of things I put on the GOOD list of American Traditions.

And, today is a day when we collectively stop, sit down, and sometimes, tell stories.  The power of stories is sweeping me away right now.

Yesterday, in Marysville, WA, a small town just a bit north of us, a 9th grader shot 5 friends he was hanging out with in the cafeteria, then himself.  I suspect you have all heard it – because it became one of those jarring tragedy stories, hitting national news.  For this 14 yo gunman’s last minute of life, i have no explanation.  I realize we all will “try” to understand “why” — as we humans have a need to “order chaos” and that way protect ourselves from the chance it can happen to us.  There will be a new slew of articles about teenagers, guns, mental health, etc.  These are worthy topics.  But I am struck this morning by the last sentence of the New York Times article about this horrific event when it quoted a local pastor who was leading a standing room only crowd through an impromptu gathering .  He said “Where do we go from here?…  I don’t know, but I think it has something to do with loving each other“.

I work at the state’s level one trauma hospital: Harborview.  I heard about this event as I was working in my office and received the blast email update from the administration to expect camera crews, reporters, and police presence as Harborview would be receiving some “high profile patients”.  My office is right by the heliport.  The decibel level and whirling rush of blades is not subtle.. and the frequency of takeoffs and landings pushed their way into my office– a ready distraction from the mundane – like writing a research paper on maternal immunization.  Yet, somehow the tragedy did  not hit “personal” until I started to leave work. On my way out,  I ran into the head of media, who had had quite a day.   We talked about the privilege of working at such a fine trauma hospital, the importance of that first 24 hours of medical care after a head or other types of trauma.  Then she asked how Conor was doing. I physically felt a “jolt” … pulled back into the mesh of that dizzying initial time of “new” trauma.

Shane and I just visited Conor last weekend for Family Weekend at Carleton.  He seems emotionally well integrated, continuing to physically heal at an amazing rate as he regains his speed and quickness on the frisbee field, and engages and enjoys his classes–always looking for a chance to play Settlers of Catan.  He is blessed by an amazing group of friends and teammates – and it was also fun for me to reconnect with some of them.  He continues to deeply grieve those 3 car members who were sitting near the passenger side of the car–and  how to integrate that grief with “normal”.  When I told my Harborview colleague this, she said “no one with any medical knowledge can believe how thoroughly and quickly he has returned to his life.  He really is a miracle. ”   “He probably won’t appreciate that for years”, she said.

As I left Harborview, indeed, every major news station truck,  and reporters prepping for their evening news shot, and police cars enveloped the exits.  All of sudden it “registered” that the victims at Harborview had been shot in the head.  Those families would be gathering in the ICU waiting rooms, or surgical waiting rooms – eagerly waiting for reports of the extent of the brain trauma.  They would have received those phone calls, and have now been catapulted into the cacophony of unknowns that will now be their reality.  I began to weep.

I couldn’t leave right away – I was too overwhelmed with emotions.  I prayed with deep groaning that those families and victims and the family of the 14 year old gunman would somehow be enveloped by their communities, by our hospital community, by the larger Faith community.  That somehow, they would find the GRACE to carry each other.  Through whatever rehabilitation journey lies ahead for them.  Through their grief, and hopefully some triumphs.

I remembered our friends, and  all the teammates and friends of Conor who lifted us up when they came to visit in the rehab units.  The two months of meals.  The friends and strangers who dropped everything to support us.  The immense grief that continues for lives lost.  Our return to the dichotomy of “normal” of a son at college, and a son at home enjoying his senior year and applying to colleges, yet the life-changing altered definition of “normal” we now carry.  I paused to empathize with these families and school community as they endure the numbness of  the next few days-

and I fervently wished for them the ability to “love each other“.

It really is how we get through, isn’t it?

(Remember, if you choose, you can post comments by clicking on the title of the blog article, which brings the article “live” and opens comment boxes at the bottom)

First of all, it has been a technical roller coaster to learn more about blogging.  I wanted people to be able to comment on posts, because I so appreciated that on the Caring Bridge Site for Conor.  So, I spent many days, emails, “help” searches…and learned that for this platform>>> YOU CAN POST COMMENTS!!  What you have to do is actually put your cursor over the title of the blog entry and that will make it “live” and then click on it, and the post will come up with a section at the bottom for comments.  You cannot post comments if you stay just on the home page that initially comes up, (even though that site shows the blog post) –but you have to open up the post. SO – feel free to post comments – even on prior posts if you want….

But…the roller coaster I am thinking about is the emotional maelstrom that seems to be swirling constantly around my brain these days.  It is the experience of riding my bike home on a beautiful Seattle day from work:  appreciating how much I enjoy being able to bike commute (esp on a day when it is not raining) coming home…(appreciating my home that looks out over a neighborhood lake)…having just had the privilege of working with residents in obstetrics & gynecology helping them mature in their “doctoring” process –(helping them and watching them “mature” is such a terrific part of my job)…all of these such positive, lovely, privileged parts of my existence!  Then, it seems like 30 seconds later I am thinking of the dreams I seem to be getting nightly about scenes of the last frisbee tournament I attended before the Feb 28th accident:  In Tampa where all the boys were playing, – appreciating the Tampa sun after the MN winter- taking “group” photos in goofy handmade spray painted T-shirts that they used as their “uniform” until their new jerseys came in…parents were socializing on the sidelines–getting to know the parents and then… seeing those parents at a funeral 3 weeks later or a Memorial Service at Carleton 9 weeks later- the suddenness of the shifts.  Experience profound joy and contentment, and hold deep grief.  And they flip so fast.  Like in milliseconds.  Like life events.  Like hitting ice on a road.

Right now, I am at a medical research meeting in Washington DC, where I see many wonderful colleagues- some of whom I have known since Conor and Shane were wee lads.  People ask “how have you been?”  “How are the boys?”  I gulp.  Do I give them the  “Well, the last few months have been life changing” or the “Conor is back at Carleton and Shane is applying to college”, or the quick summary: ” Conor was in a tragic car accident where he lost 3 close friends, but has had a miraculous recovery and now back at college and playing sports again”….  and, then sometimes, especially if I am tired and it is a really good friend, I just start to cry. For months, I pushed down volatility to focus on the immediate.  I distinctly remember times, such as packing Conor’s room at Carleton to bring stuff home–when he was still pretty confused and disoriented and we did not know if he would ever go back to Carleton–when I felt tears coming, and I said “not now”.  For months there was a singularity of focus – the “protective mama bear” of being “rehab mom” for Conor and also of parenting Shane through his own trauma.  This singularity of focus and intensity removed ambiguity:  it facilitated the energy needed to respond and cope with each day and the weekly “changes” in Conor that made parenting so tricky as he was such a moving target.  More about that a different time. But what I was talking about to Buckley recently is that the “response” to all the months of “not now” seems to be freed up…where will I be on the roller coaster this minute?

So, I ride my bike, thankful for the time that allows this emotional maelstrom to filter through my heart, be modulated by the presence of God in my soul, and allow space to hold the Mt. Everest -type bigness of the events since Feb 28th.