I traveled to D.C this week. 24 hours before leaving I was diagnosed with a sinus infection.

There is nothing worse than flying with a sinus infection.

Except maybe a Zombie Apocalypse….which I’ll get to.

After said diagnosis, I explained to my doctor that I was flying the next day and the last time I flew with a sinus infection, I blew a blood vessel in my nose…without any Kleenex on hand and wearing a white shirt….yeah, I was that person you love to sit next to on the plane.

So she gave me a list of things I needed to be taking to fly with said infection. And I loaded myself up, and headed for the airport…..all sinusy and everything.

What is the point of a sinus? Don’t they just sound like they would be problematic? We have toes, fingers, noses and then the sinus….it just sounds like it would be an issue. SINUS

Not only was I sinusy but Super Storm Saturn was headed that direction too with the promise of dumping multiple feet of snow before the day was done.

No client is worth this.

But I boarded the plane, because I love an adventure. And my manager promised me sushi. And I love sushi as much as I love an adventure, maybe more.

“Take Sudafed before the plane takes off.” The doctor advised. Do you know that now in order to buy Sudafed, you have to fill out a form promising that you won’t turn it into meth? I had to show my id and everything. But I digress.

I plopped into the middle seat at 6:45 in the morning and quickly realized I forgot to take my pre-flight Sudafed. So I pulled it out, along with my mucinex, my antibiotics, ricola cough drops and a wad of Kleenex.

Try it sometime and see the reaction you get from your seat mates. It’s kind of funny.

The woman in the row ahead of me was talking to her daughter, “Well, say a little prayer for us. Everything is shutdown, it’s supposed to be pretty bad out there.”

Lovely, I thought, as I blew my nose. We are heading into the eye of the storm.

4 hours later we landed in the heart of Super Storm Saturn territory. I had prepared myself for the worst; feets of snow, polar bears and woolly mammoths.

It was raining.

Well, maybe it’s really icy. I thought.

Nah. It was cold, and wet but nothing worthy of a name like Saturn.

D.C had closed the Federal Government in anticipation of the storm. Do you know what happens in our Nation’s Capital when the government is closed?

Nothing. Really, the entire city was vacant. I jay-walked on M street without looking both ways. Restaurants were closed, people went home early. We found an open Starbucks with a disgruntled barista.

“You know what this is like,” I said to my manager while sipping my latte’ in the rain. “This is what it would be like if we had a Zombie Apocalypse; big cities totally deserted, a slight drizzle and a gray day. Seriously, I expect them to come up from the subway anytime now.”

My manager, who is quite used to me and my random thoughts nodded and offered me a snickerdoodle. “Zombie apocalypse?”

“And really,” I said. “Super Storm Saturn? This storm is not worthy of a planetary name. This is more like Super Storm Bob. Wow, that Snickerdoodle is really good.”

The best thing about being in D.C. during Super Storm Bob is going out for sushi because no one else is going out for sushi. We were the only one at SEI. And they gave us complimentary champagne. Maybe because they were bored or they felt bad that we were out with an impending Zombie Apocalypse; either way it was fabulous.

Today we visited our clients. It was a beautiful day in DC. The Government was open and I could no longer jaywalk on M street. Things were back to normal. When explaining to my clients how empty the city was, I stated with excitement; “The streets were empty! It was like a Zombie Apocalypse!”

To which they tilted their head, nodded slightly and were kinda quiet.

Some days it surprises me that my company lets me interact with their paying customers.

Because you might.

You know one of those posts where your rational brain says, “maybe you shouldn’t go there.”

But that other brain says, “I can’t get this off my mind?”

This is one of those posts.

Hubby and I wake up every morning to NPR. This usually means I am processing conversations between Dennis Rodman and Kim Jong Un in a dream-like, semi comatose state.

Sometimes it’s easier to take the news this way. The other day, as I hit the snooze button again, I heard about an 87 year old woman being denied CPR in her retirement home.  She collapsed on the way to lunch and stopped breathing. It was against the independent living facility to administer CPR. So the nurse did not. And the 87 year old woman died. 

I slowly woke up and listened to the news.

As move on with the lifelong process of dealing with my own grief, I have become intrigued with how we deal with death as a society and I have to say….in my humble opinion…..

It’s a tad messed up.

Here’s my thought. If I’m 87 years old and I’m going to lunch and my heart gives out, I fall to the floor and stop breathing? Please don’t try and resuscitate me. At this point in time I am old.  I hope I have lived a life I am proud of. I hope I know who you are. I hope I can make it to the bathroom on my own.

I don’t mean to be flippant about these things….this is what I really do hope. Given that I now pee a bit when I sneeze, the bathroom thing might be far fetched………I can live with some things.

Please don’t give me CPR at 87. Currently at 42? Sure fight like hell for me. At 87? Nah. I only have a 5-10% chance of survival and my recovery would never be the same. I don’t want to be hooked up to some machine At most, I might have had a couple more years. At 87, I think I would be good with moving on.

Please don’t say things like my daughter must be heartless and cold for being okay that the nurse didn’t do CPR. You do not know me, you do not know my daughter. Well in my case, you do know my daughter, you know where she must be and that I am thrilled to follow her.

I find it ironic that young people die in horrible situations everyday, situations that could have been prevented and this is our focus. Is it because it sheds a light on our own vulnerability as we age? That people won’t do all they can do for us as we age? And when is it relevant to do everything? Or to not? 

When is it okay to die?

Perhaps I am missing something. Either way, the story makes me sad…..sad for the family, the nurse, and anyone in contact with this story. Maybe it will start a dialogue about when it’s okay and not okay to move on and let a life be a life. 

Because I just sneezed. 

Hubby was viewing my blog the other day.

“All of your posts are about death,” he said.

“That is not true. Remember the election? That post wasn’t about death…it was political.”

“Death and politics,” he said.

Hmmmmm.

So I told myself my next post would not be about death. We even went to a Who concert and I wrote a great blog about how air guitar is not an acceptable form of dancing…..because it is not.

And then it happened…..

The world lost a great, great man.

This man…….

Bomber….

A truly Magnificent Character….

For those who don’t know, I spent a part of my 20’s in the German Alps; a place called Garmisch Partenkirchen…..Garmisch for short…because it’s hard to pronounce Partenkirchen after several Hefeweizen.

Seriously, I lived here……pretty cool, huh? Don’t ask my how my German is…..noch ein bier bitte? That’s about it

Garmisch was a collection of American backpackers, American Soldiers, college grads looking for the next best thing and people who went by the names like Shred……..Kinky……and Bomber.

I knew about Bomber before I met him. He was a legend, a consummate traveler who would work the summer months in Garmisch and travel during the winter. He had been doing this for years with his lovely, beautiful travel companion, Goldie.

Bomber and Goldie……I am not making this up.

Everyone knew Bomber and Bomber knew …. everyone. Not only did he know everyone, he engaged with everyone. He would take a group of young Garmishers to Pamplona every summer to run with the bulls.

I never ran with the bulls. I’m more of a jogger, I trip easily and bulls scare me.

But maybe I should have. 

Bomber made you want to run with the bulls, live life out of a backpack, experience this magnificent earth and the amazing people who we share it with.

Bomber traveled.

And Bomber took pictures.

Amazing pictures that captured the beauty around us everyday and the beauty thousands of miles away. I remember watching one of his slide shows; he didn’t say a word (which was rare), he played music to the photos and we watched as the wonders of the world, through his eye, unfolded before us.

He encouraged us all to travel, to see this great world, to test our limits….he was an ambassador for life.

A couple years ago he lost his love, his beautiful Goldie- it was unexpected and entirely too soon.

I hadn’t seen Bomber for years but would follow his posts on Facebook and it seemed from thousands of miles away, that his heart was broken.

Of course it was.

A couple months ago Bomber was diagnosed with a terminal cancer that had ravaged his body. It was incredibly hard for us Garmischers who were losing a legend.

But I also know that those us who have lost a Love do not fear death. I would like to think that Bomber looked at this as the next great journey and more importantly, a reunion with his lovely Goldie.

On Sunday, the world lost Bomber, our great ambassador for life.

And we cry. And we remember a great man. We share our stories and our photos.

And he is still bringing our world together. Our community of Garmischers have reunited, posted memories and photos of a time when we ran with bulls, saw the pyramids in Egypt, hiked the Zugspitze.

And shared pictures like this:

Oh good Lord!

I’m in the corner, on the left….no grey hair, thank you! Bomber is in the yellow up top.

Of course he is.

In this life, we meet many people every day. It is those who encourage us to be more than we thought we could be, who encompass a joy for the beauty that can be seen out of the ordinary…those people are our precious guides to this world. 

It is always tragic when we lose one. 

Thank you Bomber- to your next great journey.

Well, happy Sunday, huh?

A couple months ago, I volunteered to speak at an Ethics conference about Do Not Attempt to Resuscitate (DNAR) standards in terminally ill children.

My conversations this last week went somewhat like this….

“Heather, what are you doing on Friday?”

“Well I’ll tell ya, I’m speaking about do not resuscitate standards in terminally ill children.”

I would get one of two responses. The first would be a shudder the second would be a comment such as…..”Well, that sounds about as much fun as swimming in quicksand with a nest of angry rattlesnakes.” 

And then I would say, “Are they angry because they are in quicksand or just because they are rattlesnakes?” It was about that time that I would loose my audience….because there is no joking about rattlesnakes when taking about a DNAR on terminally ill children.

And they are right, there is no joking.

But there should be talking.

Because a very large population that we serve has thought of or had to deal with the worst thought possible….will my child die from this disease?
 
or when will my child die from this disease?

All you need is a couple trips to the ICU and this does become a very really possibility. And the last thing these families need is for the rest of us to shy away from the very real possibility they are living with everyday.

So on Friday, at the Children’s Hospital Ethics Conference, we did not shy away from this conversation. We talked about it openly with Doctors, Nurses and Parents; talked about when these conversations should be had and the importance of a medical community being open with families.

Our own lovely Maria Hopfgarten talked about our Jacob and the conversations they have had about end of life care.

At 12:30, I was scheduled to speak at Grand Rounds about what could happen if a terminally ill child died at home without legal documents such as a CPR Directive or DNAR. This would be the first time I talked publicly about the last day with our girl.

I didn’t eat lunch, because I felt like I would loose it. Instead, I walked outside, looked up at the sky and asked Samantha for help, if it is so important to talk to these doctors and parents, I need you here.

And I felt that she had landed on my shoulder.

And I felt better.

I talked openly about our investigation with the Sheriff’s office despite Samantha’s numerous and life-threatening conditions because we did not have legal documents in place.

Because we did not feel like she was in a life-threatening place.

Until she was.

I spoke for ten minutes which felt like the equivalent of a marathon. The remainder of Grand Rounds was about getting these documents in place and the changes that have been made at Children’s because of our experience with the Sheriff’s office. When we ended, my knees could not stop shaking and I needed a nap.

But ironically, I could not stop smiling. Our girl, as always was changing lives and making an impact. And as always, it’s when I’m doing this work, that I feel so close to her.

Thank you Children’s for having these hard conversations.

Please ignore the fact that this is my first post of 2013.

One of my 2013 goals was to write more often……

hmmmmm……

But the New Year has not been wasted- much progress has been made even though it has not been documented.

New Year’s Eve found me at the dump.

I love the dump. Really I do. Where else can you drive in with a car full of crap, drop it off with no questions and drive out? Fabulous. I even get a bit of a dump attitude….that’s right…I’m cruising at the dump…in my station wagon…..and baseball hat

I wave at the other dump-goers but they never wave back. I think they know I’m a bit of a poser.

And why are there sea gulls at a land-locked dump? I think sea gull is tad generous. Dump gull would be more appropriate.

2013, at the dump- cleaning out the house.

And so the rest of the month has followed that theme- the cleansing of our home.

In January we gave Samantha’s bed to a lovely little girl who needed it….which was cleansing, healing and sad. Better than the dump and without the birds.

That day we packed up the bed, packed up the Christmas decorations and I promptly came down with a migraine….which is also for the birds.

My new 2013 cleansing also brought a new therapy….trauma therapy.

I decided it would be nice to have an ambulance pass by me without hyperventilating and to deal with some leftover PTSD.

“Why do you want to do this?” My therapist asked

“Trauma therapy?” I thought about a snarky comment, because the bamboo I’m sticking in my toe nails isn’t sharp enough? But I knew she would want a real answer. Silly therapists and their real answers. So I came up with one….

“My mental basement is flooded and I need to drain it. You can live in a house with a flooded basement- just stay in the living room and the upper floors but sooner or later that stinkin’ basement starts to smell….and collect crazy bacteria….and ruin your keepsakes and the carpet. I need to drain my basement.”

My therapist nodded and smiled, “Let’s pull out the Draino.”

Happy 2013.

I have not posted for a while.


Not because my head wasn’t full of things to say, but I wasn’t sure how to say it.

Newtown threw me for a loop. As it did everyone, as it should.

And what to say about this? There is nothing to say….there is no feeling this, there is no finding the good in some obscure place, there is no good.

I was listening to the news a week after the shooting, the newscaster said that this was a town that is on the journey towards healing.

I laughed out loud to this- how quickly we move from a horrific incident…..the tragedy and endless coverage……to political debates about gun control and mental health.

And now we are healing. All in one week.

But no one talks about the grief. Because no one wants to talk about the grief- it’s messy, it’s personal, it’s raw and it’s its own ravenous, gluttonous, inconsolable beastie.

It is not healing, it does not feel good….especially during the Holiday season.

Ah, the Holidays.

This holiday found us in Virginia; along the Shenandoah Valley visiting Hubby’s Mom. It is always a quiet holiday that I look forward to.

I even knit a scarf….and it is soooo good I even wear it! Proudly

Hubby, my new scarf and I went on a hike- The Old Rag Trail….which I think is a funny and not a very flattering title …..The Old Rag Trail….to its credit it is a beautiful hike.

We started on this trail together but hubby soon outpaced me and went ahead. I walked alone, cracking the thin puddles of ice that had formed on the trail and thought of what has been on my mind for nine days- those 40 parents in Newtown; the way they must feel right now and this long, sad complicated journey they must walk with grief.

I was alone in the valley, well not really alone. Hubby was only 2 minutes ahead of me but this hike was mine….me and Winter desolation, with a cool breeze down my back. This was my journey. Hubby is on the same trail but walking his journey, at his pace.

This is grief.

And as I hiked I thought of my path and our 3rd Christmas without Our Miss and 40 newly grieving parents in Newtown on their own journey.

Do you remember Sleepless in Seattle? I loved that movie. Tom Hanks had a great quote about losing his wife:

I’m going to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while, I won’t have to remind myself to get out of bed in the morning and breathe in and out. And then after a while, I won’t have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while

Lovely but I do not agree. In those early, raw days of grief, I would not have reminded my lungs to fill with air. I would not remind myself to keep going, my heart to beat, my lungs to fill.

In fact, this seems to be one of the cruelest aspects to grief; your child is gone, your breath is taken from you but you continue to breathe. Your heart is broken yet somehow in some horrible sense of irony, your broken heart still continues to pump blood through your body and feed your poor soul.

Stupid heart, stupid lungs….keeping us breathing.

I turned the corner on my Old Rag Hike and there stood Hubby looking over a ridge. I stood with him and give him a pat on the butt.

“Water?” he said, and handed me the bottle.

I took a slurp, handed the bottle back to him and we started on our path.

Some people might have called my Grief journey inappropriate. Month two after losing my Sammaroo I sat on a beach for three days with fabulous girlfriends and got shitty drunk.

It was fantastic….But God I was mad. I was mad, drunk and determined to let the universe know that I would make a name for my girl…and that I would survive. That I was not done, nor was she. 

At month six I threw myself a 40th birthday party that from what I remember was fabulous.

At month six, I had to remind myself that if I had to keep living this life, I had to grieve my way. I was (and sometimes still am) loud about my rage, my robbery and my undying, absolute love for my girl.

I have to do this my way.

Grief still kicks me in the ass……hard. I have found myself outside in the middle of blizzards lying in the street in my penguin pajamas screaming about a life I did not sign up for.

The loss is so intense it feels that my skin will burst open. In fact I want it to burst open. 

Like that scene in aliens? Where the monster burst through the body and then scurries off? I have often thought that my body cannot contain the intensity of my grief.

Fortunately during those sessions, I get cold, my penguin pajamas start to freeze to my butt and the street we live on is not that busy. Hubby greets me at the door with a towel and a full body, all-encompassing hug.

Will he grieve in the street with me?

No, his grief is different. But he will meet me at the door. That is all I can ask.

And he looks silly in penguin pajamas.

There are people who walk this journey with me. Some have been welcome and some have not. Some I embrace with gigantic open arms and some just piss me off.

I am not the ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ type of person nor am I the ‘God only gives you what you can handle’ sort of girl or the ‘She is now an angel in heaven’.

She was an angel here. I would prefer her here.

And I would have been perfectly happy living this life weak and mediocre, thank you.

What I have realized is that people don’t know what to say, they panic, get flustered and the whole angel thing pops out. It does not make them bad people, just a tad panicked. These people usually walk the Old Rag with me for a while and then get ‘lost’ and end up on another trail.

That’s okay. I don’t know I would walk this trail either, if I didn’t have to.

I found Hubby at the next turn. “We only have an hour of daylight. You ready to turn around?”

“Yeah, my toes are cold.” We took a second and looked over the vast Shenandoah Valley, desolate and gray in the winter but still vast and stunning.

And we walked back to the car; both on the same trail but at different speeds.

This is me, and my walk.

And those 40 parents will find their own path, and it will all be different, and heartbreaking and at some time peaceful.

It may include God

It may not include God

At a recent support group, I spoke with a bereaved couple. When asked how they found support, they said they found a lot of comfort with their minister at church “Yeah” I said, “God and I are still battling.”

Really???? They let me talk to bereaved parents and this is what I say? God and I are still battling???? And we are, but not so much nowadays.

God,….by the way was not a part of this…..God is what good may become of this.

It may include a support group

It may not

I personally do not do great in support groups. I prefer one on one therapy where it is all about ME! That and a good anti-depressant. …but this is my journey

You may testify about gun control and mental health

You may not

You may redesign your entire house or you may move

You may keep your child’s room a shrine forever

After two and a half years, I can now donate her bed….I think

We got to the car and Hubby pulled out a Heineken for us to share as the sun set over the valley. This man, this good man who was an amazing father to our daughter…this man who misses her so very much.

This man has grieved differently than I. Our paths so different at times. But at the end of the day we understand our love for our family that has been torn apart, and our love for each other, and our respect for each other’s path with grief.

On our 3rd Christmas, I guess that is all we can ask. That and a Heineken over a sunset.

Crap, I found something positive.

And for you parents of Newtown…..you are not alone. Find those who respect and honor what YOU need to go through…..your rage, your depression, your manic stages, your complete pain.

And hold your child in the deepest part of your still beating heart. They will always live there.

I would be lying if I didn’t say this week kicked me in hiney.

A couple times.

Not that this week was bad, in many ways there were a lot of good things.

And a lot of tragic.

Life.

On Monday morning, I received a sad, sad, email. A family we know lost their daughter, Sarah to her chromosomal disease, Trisomy 18. 

She was two years and 3 months. She and her family fought so hard and like our medically fragile kiddos do, Sarah had nestled herself into the hearts of everyone who knew her.

I got the email at work among requests for proposals, recommendations, call backs for marketing plans.

I read the email, paused and went to the next message when a voice inside me said ‘Feel this’.

“I can’t” I said to my stupid inconvenient voice, “I can’t because if I feel this the whole day is done. Nothing will be accomplished. I will be in a ball for the rest of the day. It’s too close.”

‘Feel This’

‘Shut Up!’

‘FEEL THIS’

“GO TO HELL!”

FFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLL THHHHHHIIIIIISSSSS!!!!!

I finally stood up a bit too fast and said to my co-worker and friend Marne……. perhaps a bit too loud and a bit too manic, “I AM GOING FOR A WALK!”

She looked at me sweetly, noticed the tears streaming down my face (because I am so stealth), and said,  “Would you like some company?”

“Um, yeah….I think I would”

And so we walked around the building and talked of God and Life and Crappiness and the necessity to Feel It.

Marne lost her dear Mom and on this particular Monday morning, a co-worker who just lost their mom returned back to work because really, that’s how the week has been…..lots of loss. 

And Marne, in her loveliness talked to this man about the loss of a Mom.

And then I, requested a walk with her to talk about loss.

Because that’s how I roll….at work….hey, let’s talk about loss.

Marketing plans be dammed!

I felt better after our walk and that I could get through the day.

The next day was our Giving First Day and I got a sweet email from our neighbor Earl. It said  “I pray for you and Bart every day. I trust God is answering those prayers in a way that blesses you.”

And I thought…..what does bless me?

And on that Giving First Day, we raised A LOT of money in one day.

To give to our Mito Families

And that Blessed me.

And ordering a Honey-Baked Ham Platter for Sarah’s family Blessed Me, because I knew people would show up to share condolences and be hungry because they didn’t know what else to do.

And it hurt me that I knew that about funerals. And that food (sometimes) is better than flowers.


Can blessings hurt? Maybe

I hugged my hubby tonight and said “this week was hard”

“I know” he said and he hugged me harder.

But I also know this, it felt better to take a walk around the building than to repress an email.

It feels good to talk, honestly.  

It feels good to raise an impressive amount of money in one day for a non-profit born from my daughter’s memory.

It feels good to order a Honey Baked Ham Platter……with extra cheese

And to admit to my husband that I am fallible…..because he didn’t realize that before 🙂

Feel it. You would be surprised what sprouts from it.

And to dear Sarah…..tell my girl hello.

Hip Hip Hooray! It’s Colorado Giving First Day!
First Bank will match our dollar
Everyone give a hoot and hollar!

24 hours is short and sweet
We think this day is pretty neat

We hope you can donate to Miracles for Mito
To help our kiddos in this great, big Fight-o

You can donate here!

Hello Friends and Family!

We are thrilled to participate in the 2012 Colorado Gives Day! Starting tomorrow, Tuesday, December 4th at midnight, over 1,000 non-profits will participate in this day and raise money for local organizations. To make the event even ‘sweeter’ First Bank will contribute $300,000 to participating non-profits on Colorado Gives Day and distribute funds

Last year an amazing 12.8 million dollars was given in one day to Colorado non-profits.


100% of the money you donate will go to Miracles for Mito and help support our various projects; our grant program, meal program and family support.

24 hours! You can Donate Here!


Thank you for your help!

Last week I was talking to a friend who got caught in hurricane Sandy. She has been without power, without water and now without her washing machine.

“The thing is,” she said, “when I’m stressed I do laundry! And now I can’t!”

Being the ever sympathetic friend, I told her she could come out to Colorado and do my laundry….I give and I give.

Today I found myself scrubbing the toilet like a banchee’ and thought I might be a bit stressed too.

But the toilet is sparkling!

It is no wonder we are stressed. For some we won an election, for some we lost, for all we grieve that our country is so divided. We move towards a fiscal cliff, General Petraeus has resigned due to a torrid love story and (personally) our buddy Jacob fights everyday in the ICU at Children’s Hospital.

We should have many clean toilets…..or a lot of clean laundry. 

I was on  Facebook the night of the election. It was a bad place for me to be….because you know how I can keep my mouth shut…..hehehe

In retrospect, it’s a funny scenario….maybe…let me lay out the Facebook schedule:

7:00 pm: Everyone was nervous…crazy nervous

8:00 pm: “I’m so nervous, I’m drinking.”

10:00 pm:  The Republicans drank for the end of the world, the Democrats drank to celebrate and we ALL reconvened on Facebook and told everyone what we thought. I personally did not drink, but I was on cold medicine- I’m not sure which is worse

10:01 Social Media at it’s finest.

I was unfriended by a ‘friend’ within 20 seconds of the calling of the election. To his credit, he said “I am unfriending all of my democratic friends.”

No hard feelings, it was what he needed to do at the time. But I will miss him and his wacky updates.
  
Ted Nugent called me one of the following this week: a pimp, a whore and/or a welfare brat. I’m not sure what I would I’m going with rather be but I think I’m going with Pimp….I’m not very pimpin’ but I can try. I can swagger. I need a hat; purple, velvet.

But I think among us common folk, we are not all that different. We want what is best for our families. We want stability. We want to be proud of who we are.

And despite common myths, if you fell through the ice on a big lake, I would come and save you. And even make some hot chocolate.

Because I LIKE you. And I think you like me because we are still friends…on Facebook…which, as you know, is the barometer for human emotion.

And so, we move on, THANK GOODNESS we move on….bruised, battered and a little scarred. 

I’m glad we didn’t break up.