Just Fore Fun

How I ended up playing in a two-person golf scramble on Tuesday night is beyond me. It started with a text that went a little something like this:

"Hey, just checking to see if you want to tag along at golf tonight. Ride in the cart. Maybe swing a few. Or meet up later."

It ended with me toting around my husband's clubs and tossing around terms like eagle, bogey, and, regrettably, slice.

I sliced a lot.

And I laughed a lot too.

Which is good for the soul (and particularly good for a battered one).

So I want to thank those who encouraged me to take up this new sport.

And let my husband know that I totally get it now.

Not golf. I'm not sure I'll ever get that - or what the deal is with all the clubs. Seems a little excessive (as I opted to only use three, maybe four of them).

But I do understand that spending time on the golf course helps him deal.

And it really is peaceful.

Until someone yells, "Fore!"

Which, by the way, I never had to do.

One Year (and one week in review)

Time's a funny thing when you're dealing with a loss.

It's been 410 days since I last heard my daughter laugh, felt her hand in mine, twirled her hair between my fingers. On one hand it feels like it was just yesterday. On the other, well, it feels like it was a million years ago.

And I hate that.

I hate everything about this actually.

And every day for the past 35 days I've hated that I've been in such a downward spiral that it's been all but impossible to share the wonderful ways so many people remembered our daughter a year later.

Wonderful. Ways.

Here's just a few:

Letters and cards to let us know you haven't forgotten.

You still love us. Pray for us. Ache for us.

A birthday candle.

A birthday cake.

A package of Golden Oreos.

An angel pin.

And more.

Letters from Addie's classmates.

A scrapbook filled with memories.

And a beautiful balloon release to mark what should have been Addie's 11th birthday.

As blue and green balloons filled the sky, two little boys led a gaggle of 10 and 11 year olds across our yard and into the alfalfa.

Together we watched and watched as the last of the balloons disappeared from sight (and presumably into the hands of our little girl).

And we watched as groups of three, sometimes four, girls broke off into groups around our yard. To talk. To cry. To remember.

Later that night we celebrated Addie's birthday as a family.

And what about that run?

More than 600 of you came out that day to remember Addie, support two wonderful causes, and show us once again how much you care.

I'm not sure words can describe that day, so I won't even try.

I'll just leave you with this video and two words.

Thank you.

Thankful?

For the last 22 days I've watched as facebook friend after facebook friend took time out of their days to post the things they're thankful for.

Some said Starbucks; others microwave dinners.

A sunny day. A warm bed. A steady job.

And pie.

This isn't anything new.

Coined the 30 Days of Thankfulness, it's basically what families have been doing for years: going around the Thanksgiving table and sharing what they're thankful for. Only this time they're sharing that info online with hundreds of their friends.

I have to say it's a great idea and I've thought about participating in the past, but when Nov. 1 rolled around this year and the "Today I'm thankful for..." posts began showing up in my news feed, I was less than willing to take part. After all, in a year filled with such sadness, such loss, what do I have to be thankful for?

Turns out, plenty.

Like my facebook friends, today I'm thankful for family.

I'm thankful for the family members who have stepped in and stepped up (held us up, really) when we simply couldn't. I can't hardly name them all and I'm afraid I'd inadvertently leave someone out if I tried.

I'm thankful that not one of these family members insisted we participate in any sort of big family thing to celebrate the day and kick off the upcoming holiday season that used to hold such hope, excitement, and promise for me.

I'm thankful the boys are young enough to not even notice the difference.

I'm thankful my mom is here this week. To cook, to clean, and sit on my bed in the middle of the night. I'm especially thankful that she dusted under the TV cabinet yesterday. Last week I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get me and my big belly off the floor if I'd attempted to dust it. This week, I just don't care (enough).

I'm thankful for my boys. My sweet, sweet boys.

And Scott. Being strong enough to withstand all my tears and strong enough to shed his own.

I'm thankful for little Landry Olivia and the fact that she wants to eat all the time. For it is in those moments that I can completely focus on her and her alone. And forget for a moment the pain that has marked so much of these past few months.

And I'm thankful for the 9 years, 11 months, and 28 days I had with my Addie. Did we live each day to its fullest? Well, I'd say that depends on how you look at things. Here's what I do know:  I'd sure like to have one of those days back.

Give Thanks.

Thank You

If you told me six months ago that this is where I'd be, I never would have believed you.

This is hell on earth.

This hurts.

This still doesn't make any sense.

And yet, I'm still standing.

I inhale and exhale.

But how?

I'll tell you how.

The reason that Scott and I and our sweet little family hasn't completely crumbled is because of you.

You and your prayers. Your phone calls and texts. Your apple crisp. And cookies. And casseroles.

It's the notes that you send. The wristbands you wear.

It's the conversations. At work. At school. On the golf course. You ask. You listen. And you listen some more. You watch as we attempt to accept the unacceptable and realize it ain't gonna happen.

You know "OK" is our standard answer when someone asks how we're doing. And you know that's really code for "crappy" and "barely holding it together."

You drop in every once in awhile. Invite us over and understand that sometimes we'll be up for it and sometimes we just won't.

And you say her name. That sweet, sweet name. Without hesitation. Or fear. And you let me say it freely.

Addie.

You share a memory. A photograph. And tears.

We're still standing.

With a whole lot of help.

And for that we say thank you.

Memorials and 'Mom'

Remember when a day off from school really meant a day off?

Neither do I.

But today was one of those scheduled days off.

When I took a look at my school calendar this past summer, I have to admit, I did a double-take. And then I got to scheduling appointments.

I won't go into each and every appointment. Bo-ring. Let me briefly mention the two that happen to represent the very best and worst life has to offer me right now.

Let's do the worst first.

Does it get any worse than making a trip to Lincoln to finalize your daughter's headstone? Let me tell you, it ranks right up there with selecting a casket, designating pall bearers, and picking up the death certificate. I can think of about 10 million things I'd rather do.

But Scott's been after me to get. it. done. Since, like, May. I'm not even kidding. That's when we started this whole pain-staking process. So why doesn't he just do it himself?

Seriously though.

Do you know who monument places market their materials to?

Not 9 year olds.

Let's face it. You're not supposed to die until you've lived a long, happy life filled with home mortgages and home movie footage.

And just how do you go about summing up a life so beautiful on a slab of granite?

You don't.

I finally figured that out today. No stone. No picture. No (ridiculous) dates can adequately depict who our daughter was (or anyone who passes, really).

But do you know what can?

Take a stroll through the cemetery and just look at the trinkets that have been left by those who knew and loved her. Pinwheels. Flowers. Messages. Dogs. Cats. And more. Then you'll catch a glimpse of what this little girl meant to a mom and dad, grandmas and grandpas, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends.

***

I told you it was bad.

Let's shift gears for a second and talk about an appointment I was actually looking forward to today.

Lunch with a certain 5 year old.

By the look on his face, he was looking forward to it too.

I've always said Isaac's smile is infectious. It doesn't matter how craptastic your day has been, when he smiles, you smile. And when he smiles, he smiles with his whole face - eyes and all.

So there I was patiently waiting outside the kindergarten classroom as each little one stood in line for their spritz of hand sanitizer when Isaac spotted me. A smile and a wave.

We walked as single file as two people holding hands possibly could, grabbed our napkins, straws, spoons and forks and sat down to a delicious lunch of chicken tortellini. Isaac opted for PB & J.

Lunch was, well, lunch. Probably more talking than eating going on (but isn't that how it always is).

And that 5-year-old boy was absolutely beaming.

So was I.

Then it was recess. Like a perfect host, Isaac refused to leave me alone on the playground. So he showed me how he could climb the "carrots," slide down the slide, and sit on a bench. We spent a lot of time sitting on a bench. And talking.

Do you know how many times I got to do that with Addie?

Five years in elementary school and I was able to have lunch with her twice.

Ouch.

Once when I was on maternity leave and once when I had the day before Thanksgiving off and she didn't. Last year, when my schedule loosened up a bit, it was too late.

She was in middle school and parents just don't do that anymore (her words, not mine).

So anyway, back to recess.

Boys were chasing girls. Girls were chasing boys. And both boys and girls were making their way across the monkey bars.

That's when a little first grade boy stopped me and said, "Hey, are you Addie's mom?"

"Yes," I said.

"I'm sorry about Addie."

I said thanks and he went back to the monkey bars, but not without making quite an impression on me.

First, this kid was able to accomplish what so many adults find so incredibly difficult to do. Trust me, I get it. Before this, you could put me in the group of people afraid of saying the "wrong" thing. But you know what? The whole situation is wrong. And messy. And awful.

Second, and probably most important, he called me something I hadn't been called in six months.

Addie's mom.

'Werth' a Lot

You may have heard of NU volleyball player Hannah Werth's decision to write "4 Addie" on her right wrist tape.

If you were lucky, you may have even caught a glimpse of it during this past weekend's a-ma-zing volleyball matchups.

So, how did hard-hitting Hannah come to know Addie?

Sadly, the two never met.

But Addie and I had the opportunity to go to a Husker volleyball game last November and she was drawn to Hannah. Maybe it was her ability to lay it down on the court. Maybe it was the passion she showed for the game. Maybe it was the fact that she wore glasses. Whatever it was, Hannah made an impression on her.

Addie and I at the NU/Michigan State game last year. The best part for her? Seeing Hannah Werth play.
The best part for me? The fact that she said, "Thanks, mom" when I tucked her in that night.

So much that Addie included the following on her bucket list, which, by the way, was penned long before this awful thing called cancer invaded our lives:

Get an autograph from Hannah Werth. This ranked right up there with petting a zebra and a monkey, traveling to Antarctica, being a contestant on Wipeout, rafting with Boppo, and volunteering at the Humane Society.

Well, we know someone who knows someone who knows someone with connections in the UNL athletic department and we were able to share Addie's request when she was still in the hospital and hope was still alive. As you know, time was not on our side and by the time Hannah heard about Addie's wish, she was gone.

But Hannah still signed that volleyball and included a little message as well.

We figured that would be it.

Well, someone who knows someone who knows someone with connections in the UNL athletic department let us know that wasn't it. Not by a long shot.

And when I saw the wrist tape on TV the other night, well, that meant an awful lot.

So maybe Addie was attracted by Hannah's talent, her energy, her glasses. Or maybe it was her heart.