Social Media seems madder than a dragon trying to blow out his birthday candles.
 
You get it? Because he breathes fire? So the candles never go out? The only thing that would make that dragon more mad was if that cake was an ice cream cake.

I love ice cream cake.

I should take a break from social media because I’m that friend that takes everything one…little….step further and ends up poking that dragon.

I find it endearing. I also find it miraculous that I still have my friend on social media. You’re good people.

I marched yesterday. I don’t need to. We don’t have living children. We both have good jobs. We have insurance. The market is on the up and up. I can just put my head down and plow through the next four years.

But sometimes in this life, I feel amazingly vulnerable and I can’t imagine how those who live their lives constantly in this state must feel right now.

I had to find an new OB-GYN this month. I hate going to the lady doctor so I have not gone to the lady doctor for five years. I hit 46 this month and decided it was time. Filling out the paperwork made me hyperventilate a little.

How many times have you been pregnant?

List the dates of those pregnancies

How many living children?

Ugh. I drove to the office, paperwork in hand and thought about how vulnerable I felt; on the fringe of society with two babies who are not with us. I dreaded sad looks, telling my history while wearing a gown that ties in the front.

I walked into a quiet office with a poster of the seven dwarfs of menopause.

In case you are wondering, they are Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Bloated, Sleepy, Forgetful and Psycho. I met with an empathetic doctor who listened to my history, ordered a new IUD, blood work and gave me a hug.

You now have to wait five weeks for an IUD. Insurance processes the request, calls you to make sure you’re legit and sends you your very own. Apparently, my IUD is a coveted apparatus.

“Does it come monogrammed with my name?” I asked the doc.

“You should ask Cigna. I’m sure they would monogram it” She said.

I handed over my insurance card. I wanted to kiss it. For many, this visit is not as smooth, nor does their IUD come monogrammed.

This week I also had a mammogram because you know, 46. I drove to Rocky Mtn Medical. Samantha was their very first air lift ten years ago. I blew the helipad a kiss.

“All of our mammograms are now 3d. Your insurance doesn’t always cover this. Call us if you get a bill and we will take care of it.” The woman who checked me in said.

And once again, as the tech contorted the girls, I felt grateful…..

Okay, felt is not the operative word. I FELT really uncomfortable. I WAS, however grateful.

Four weeks ago I went down to the Denver Rescue Mission to deliver coats, socks and money that my company raised during our Turkey Trot.

I had a bucketful of socks and $456. The weekend before had been bitter cold and the man receiving donations had tears in his eyes.

“$456 wow, we weren’t planning on this. Ma’am, thank you so much. This will help so much. It’s been cold, and it’s the holidays and people are just so sad. Thank you.”

He took my hand and held it tightly.

“God Bless.” He said.

And I cried.

And so I walked yesterday. Because why should I be so lucky? To have my healthcare, to have a roof, and access to good food? To be loved and supported by my family, friends and community? The very least I can do is to insure that others can have socks and an uncomfortable 3D mammogram as well.

When Samantha died we raised $8,000 from her Memorial Fund.

$8,000 is a lot of money.

And it could have gone a lot of places; Children’s Colorado, the UMDF, MitoAction…..but nothing resonated.

I wanted to make this $8,000 count. Really count. Like Superman stopping the earthquake count.

I wanted to make this Memorial Fund money as impactful as Samantha.

And whatever materialized from this fund, I wanted to keep this money in Colorado.

Because when you are sick, when you are searching for your tribe, it’s good to know you have something in your backyard.

Many times I was told how great the Mito clinic in Cleveland is.

And you know what? It is great. It is an awesome clinic. But if you are sick or your kiddo is sick, sometimes Cleveland might as well be on the moon.

Colorado Gives is not just about us: it’s about all of the other services our state provides from the Mental Health Center of Denver, to Animal House, to Rocky Mountain Food Bank…..the care and compassion generated here is pretty stinkin’ awesome.

So tomorrow if you have an extra 10 spot in your chinos, pass it onto your favorite local nonprofit.

Give local.

Because if you are ever looking for help…..it never helps to hear “well you know, they have a great center for this in Albany.”

Thank you awesome tribe. You can donate to your favorite Mito Cause here:

https://www.coloradogives.org/miraclesformito

I spent three years in Germany during my twenties.

It was one of the most memorable times of my life. I was a civilian working for the military at an Armed Forces Recreational Center.

I served those who served.

Really I taught the Littles of those who served how to ski, which wasn’t a bad gig in the German Alps.

In the summer I found random jobs; lifeguard, pizza delivery and one summer at the German-American Golf Course.

I worked in one of the most beautiful places on 

earth

It was also 1994, 50 years since World War II  and the impact of what happened here two generations ago was palpable.

The golf course sold American candy which was crazy because we lived in the land of the very best chocolate and we were trying to pawn off Twix Bars and Reese’s Pieces. A Germany man would come in often and buy ten Hersey bars at a time.

I asked why the Hersey Bars.

“You have the very best chocolate! Right here! What’s so special about a Hersey Bar?”

He told me that the Americans came through Garmisch on April 29, 1945.

He was six.

“I was so hungry. We didn’t have anything left to eat. The soldiers arrived and they gave the children Hersey bars. They were the very best thing I ever ate. Nothing in the world tastes as good as a Hersey Bar.”

He carefully unwrapped the chocolate and gave me a piece. I closed my eyes and tried to taste what he tasted.

I could not

I have never been that hungry. I have never been that scared. I have not had my world turned upside down at age six. 

As he ate I piece, he smiled and nodded his head; perhaps thoughts of hope, gratitude, memories of a six year old belly that felt a little less empty.

I felt so honored. Honored that this man shared this sacred memory and his sacred chocolate. Honored that he remembered the day 49 years ago not with tanks and strange men but with soldiers who share chocolate. And I felt honored that these brave men, my fellow Americans made this small boy feel so much better.

Happy Veterans Day.  

I spent three years in Germany during my twenties.

It was one of the most memorable times of my life. I was a civilian working for the military at an Armed Forces Recreational Center.

I served those who served.

Really I taught the Littles of those who served how to ski, which wasn’t a bad gig in the German Alps.

In the summer I found random jobs; lifeguard, pizza delivery and one summer at the German-American Golf Course.

I worked in one of the most beautiful places on earth

It was also 1994, 50 years since World War II  and the impact of what happened here two generations ago was palpable.

The golf course sold American candy which was crazy because we lived in the land of the very best chocolate and we were trying to pawn off Twix Bars and Reese’s Pieces. A German man would come in often and buy ten Hersey bars at a time.

I asked why the Hersey Bars.

“You have the very best chocolate! Right here! What’s so special about a Hersey Bar?”

He told me that the Americans came through Garmisch on April 29, 1945.

He was six.

“I was so hungry. We didn’t have anything left to eat. The soldiers arrived and they gave the children Hersey bars. They were the very best thing I ever ate. Nothing in the world tastes as good as a Hersey Bar.”

He carefully unwrapped the chocolate and gave me a piece. I closed my eyes and tried to taste what he tasted.

I could not

I have never been that hungry. I have never been that scared. I have not had my world turned upside down at age six. 

As he ate I piece, he smiled and nodded his head; perhaps thoughts of hope, gratitude, memories of a six year old belly that felt a little less empty.

I felt so honored. Honored that this man shared this sacred memory and his sacred chocolate. Honored that he remembered the day 49 years ago not with tanks and strange men but with soldiers who share chocolate. And I felt honored that these brave men, my fellow Americans made this small boy feel so much better.

Happy Veterans Day.  

Earlier this week I felt I had been wronged.

Wronged!

And it made me angry.

Angry!

And I played scenarios in my head. And I rethought conversations. And I sat. I sat in my anger.

And it made me dumb.

I am not joking.

On Tuesday I was at work with my anger.

I went into the kitchen to get my yogurt.

And I walked back to my desk with a spoon- no yogurt, which was in the refrigerator NEXT to the spoons. No yogurt just a lonely spoon.

And so I went back into the kitchen to get my yogurt.

And returned with a napkin which I sat under the spoon that both waited for the yogurt.

At this point I started laughing and realized how this issue had taken over my brain.

My anger made me dumb.

No one should go into the kitchen three times for yogurt- no matter how tasty it is.

I finally sat at my desk and peeled back the top foil of the container. The caption on the cover had a statement on top.

BEST DAY EVER– it said.

Enough. I told myself.

Enough.

Enough being angry. Not that I didn’t mind being angry. I felt justified in my anger! Righteous in my anger! But my anger was taking too much space. My angry brain was consuming my yogurt brain. My yogurt brain was just hungry.

I looked at the foil that read BEST DAY EVER and I told myself to be mindful to make this day my BEST DAY EVER.

I licked the blueberry remnants off the foil and stuck the reminder on my cubbie wall.

Yes. Yes, there is a slobbery blueberry yogurt foil stating BEST DAY EVER pinned to my wall now. You call it gross, I call it fung shui.

It was not my best day ever but it was better. Much better that I decided not to let the anger take up so much space.

This anger had nothing to do with the election but it made me think of our politics and how we are two days from Tuesday and that some people are so, so mad. And you know what? You are probably justified in your anger, you are righteous in your anger…. 

But don’t let it take up your good parts.

Do this for you, do this for yourself….don’t let your angry brain take over. Trust me. I walked a mile to get my yogurt.

The history of my last ten years have placed me on the fringes of normal society.

Sometimes I embrace living on the peripheral.

Other times I hate it.

Most often I try to blend; which means biting my tongue, smiling politely and trying to think of a vague response when asked at a cocktail party how many children I have.

Sometimes I reach my point and have to use my voice.

Today is one of those days.

I can’t get words from Wednesday’s debate out of my head.

The descriptive ‘rip the baby out of the womb at nine months’ out of my head. And sadly, the repeated posts on facebook continue to haunt me.

I should unfriend, I should hide,  but thoughts about our own experience are eating my brain so, I will write.

Our son died in utero at 9 months. I remember the doctor searching for a heartbeat and clearing out the ultrasound room to confirm our worst thoughts.

I was given the choice of having a C-section or birthing a baby I would never hear cry.

I opt’d for the C-section. “Please just knock my out,” I said

The doctor looked at me sadly, “We can do that but it’s major surgery. You will have to stay in the hospital for at least 3 days to recover and it would be six months before we would recommend getting pregnant again. Your body will heal faster with a natural birth”

So, I was induced and waited through the night to have my son.

There was no ripping. Ripping would have been an easier choice.

All babies are born in the maternity ward- no matter the outcome. We heard lullabies played over the speakers when another child was born. My husband had to walk by congratulatory families in the hallway as he went to get a cup of coffee.

We left 24 hours later; greeted by a nursery that would not see a baby and a recommendation for a funeral home. My milk came in the next day and I sat in the shower and cried.

The only thing that was violently ripped out that day was my heart.

“But Heather,” you say, “You did not abort your baby. Your situation was different.”

And if you still hold onto that argument, you missed the point. This is how babies come into the world no matter the outcome, at nine months.

No one would choose to go through this because they want to…..because they ‘changed their mind’ about having a baby. When something goes wrong this late in a pregnancy, it goes very, very wrong.

So Stop- please stop using verbiage that sounds easy, dramatic, evil. The ones you are hurting are the ones who are already hurting.

It is Mitochondrial Awareness Week. 

Yesterday kicked off Mitochondrial Awareness week. 

I am a day behind in making you aware of the importance of your mitochondria. 

But if you know me and you know my blog, you know that mitochondrial function is pretty darn important. 

Love your mitochondria. 

Seriously, right now….take that thigh in your hand, give it a little wiggle and say “I love you little mitochondria, yes I do, yes I do, yes I do.” 

Because sometimes you don’t know what you got until it’s gone. 

When we lose something, we feel so vulnerable. 

We feel it in the simple little things, where did I put my phone? Did I leave my wallet at the restaurant? 

And those suffering from this disease feel it in the ginormous things, I can no longer feel my feet, my baby cannot make eye contact, what the freakin hell has happened to our life? 

It is hard to be vulnerable. 

On Saturday, I volunteered at our Community Food Bank. I did it as a favor and grumbled through the day until I showed up to help serve the Saturday meal. 

If you have never done this, you should. It’s kind of awesome. You are there to do the most primal of gracious acts…..to FEED someone a MEAL. 

At 2:20 we started pulling out desserts, cupcakes and cookies from Krogers and Safeway that had expired. At one point an entire birthday cake was pulled from the freezer and sliced up. 

Meals on Wheels brought spaghetti and meat sauce for 50 at 2:30. Food was served at 3:00; so we started to heat things up. 

At 2:40, there was a knock on the door….a door which I happened to answer. 

“Can I come in?” 

I didn’t know…..it was 2:40 and we don’t start until 3:00….so I asked someone else…

“Can he come in?” I asked

“We serve at 3:00.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said, “We serve at 3:00.” 

“I just want to sit. They usually let me come in and sit.” 

Oh for pity’s sake! 

“Yes, please…..please come in and sit.” 

And so this man came in. 

And sat. 

And then got himself a big stinkin bear claw. 

As people filed in, some collected loaves of bread for later. Some coveted several desserts. One man went into the bread pantry and got a whole loaf of Safeway buttered garlic bread, sat at a table and shared slices with his friends. 

I have always wanted to dive head first into a loaf of Safeway buttered garlic bread.

I was a tad envious. 

We fed 65 people on Saturday. Not bad for our little town of  Loveland. Some were crazy gracious. Some wondered where the Parmesan was….how the hell can you serve spaghetti without Parmesan???  

I have no idea

Some seemed in good shape, others not so much. 

Some came, ate and left, others stayed, roamed from table to table with a cup of coffee and a piece of leftover birthday cake. 

We ran out of spaghetti, had to reheat the meatloaf and finally onto the chicken ala king. 

 note; get to the community kitchen before the chicken ala king. I beg of you

The kitchen also gives out snack packs to those who ask. One man asked for a snack pack, “But make sure the drink is Capri Sun, none of that Kool-Aid Crap.” 

I wholeheartedly agree

It sucks to be an outlier in our society. We talk tolerance, we talk diversity but to live as an outlier can be horrifically isolating; whether you are homeless, impoverished, disabled…..it’s not so fun to be on the bad end of the bell curve.

So on this week of mitochondrial awareness, I ask you to give us a seat at the table, let us in early, listen to our stories and feed us a bear claw.  We are a community shouting to be heard: grieving, under represented, searching desperately for a voice and so amazingly beautiful 

And in the words of the fabulous Berne’ Brown….what makes you vulnerable makes you beautiful 

I leave you all a Kroger pastry and a world void of chicken ala king. 

We are are 72 hours out from closing our 8th year as Summits for Samantha. 

That’s right, in 72 hours I will stop my plea for donations to my ride and start my requests for RSVP’s to our silent auction. 

I apologize now. 

It has been another banner year, our third year hitting six figures for the Mitochondrial Clinic in Colorado. 

“That is so super great, Heather.” you say, “But this is my bazillionth year donating to your crazy ride. Um, what are you really doing with my money?” 

Well sit on down dear fundraiser……I’m going to tell you a story…..

This June I was at the United Mitochondrial Disease Foundation Symposium. I was stressed and worried. Our amazing president was at home with her son Jacob, he was far too sick for her to travel. I was worried about them all. 

And I was presenting for two hours on Grief and Resiliency. 

I love to talk. But two hours about Grief….holy schmoly. 

I sat at lunch with my mom and fellow Mito mom, Tina; reviewing my notes, trying to figure out how to make grief fun for two hours and eyeing the last piece of key lime pie. 

Our Mito Doc, Dr. V came up next to me. 

“I want to talk to you about the lab.” He said. 

“Okay.” I said in return. 

Because when a world renown Mito doc seeks you out at an International Mitochondrial conference to chat, you listen. 

I am not a world renown Mito doc. I was a mediocre English major and a really good ski bum. But I donned my very best thinking hat and listened as he told me what our ride was supporting. 

This might come as a bit of a surprise….

But there were a few instances in my young adulthood where I was a bit of a dirtbag. 

Only a few. 

And just a tad 🙂 

So I am somewhat empathetic to those who find themselves making bad choices. My reaction is not a judgement but more of a ‘oof…..that’s going to hurt.’ and ‘this too shall pass’ combo. 

But there comes a time when you just need to own your mistake. When you need to say to the world, ‘That move I just made? That was a dirtbag move and I’m sorry. It’s not really me, it’s just a move. Please forgive my act of dirtbagginess.’

And the World, having experienced many dirtbag moments, is usually forgiving. 

But you gotta own it. 

It’s when you sweep it under the rug that things get messy. Dirtbags tend to grow with lies. 

I was sad to hear that four Olympic swimmers were robbed at gun point. But I was floored when I heard that it was fabricated in order to hide a night of decisions that could have been better. 

Because most of us understand a night of bad decisions. 

Many of us have wee’d in a public place after too many Pisco Sours. 

My public wee’ing however has usually been outside of the convenience store, not inside next to the Funyuns. 

Reason number one is that consuming a bag of Funyons was going to be my next bad decision. 
Reason number two is that public urination is frowned upon in any circumstance, but particularly nasty inside a public place.  

But we probably would have turned an eye. It would have been a stink eye but we would have turned it. 

We would have been disappointed with the bathroom door and belligerent behavior but we still may have purchased the box of Wheaties with your face on it. 

Because Wheaties are delicious

Not really.

But the trifecta was to lie to the world. 

And to lie to Matt Lauer. Matt Lauer! Which is like telling your best friend’s Dad you don’t know who bought the beer for the party and threw up on the cat as you are hiding your fake id in your shoe. Alas, I can stomach many things…….

Many of us have had night. We have had to come to the table the next morning with our dirtbagginess and own it. 

We have not been in the spotlight that these four swimmers are in but ownership and apology go a long way and many of us respect that. 

I however have no respect for wee’ing next to the Funyons and then saying that your cousin did it. 

And ya’ll know how I feel about Matt.