Tag: life

My Beautiful Girl

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Wednesday was the funeral for my daughter Jessica. I wrote this letter o her and my grandson, Javon, heroically read it for me. It was impossible for me….

I don’t know how to write a eulogy for my daughter, so I thought I’d write her a letter.

Jessica, my beautiful girl,

No one ever prepared me for what to say if you died. Maybe because there aren’t any words…except all the bad ones…the F bomb being my favorite, as you were well aware. I can’t stop thinking that this is not how life is supposed to go. This was not supposed to happen. You were not allowed to die before me.

I’ve been thinking about a Brandie Carlile song called “You Without Me.” Before Christmas I was thinking about you and Amy and Ben and watching you all grow up and separate from me and become your own people…amazing and beautiful people I must say. Brandie Carlile wrote that song about watching that happen with her daughter who is now 10. She says,

“Was your smile always crooked? Was the freedom ever free?

Do you kick the rocks between your feet, after all this time with me?

You can listen to your own records now, decide what you believe

You can pray on stars and skip the gods like stones across the sea

But I would know you anywhere, I lost myself in you

Heavy are the hands that you are free to slip right through

Do what you have to do

There you are, my morning star, I wondered when you’d show

Give me just a quick thumbs up, a wink before you go

I never heard that voice before today, I remind myself to breathe

There you are, it’s just you without me.”

That’s how it should be Jessica…you without me…30 years from now. Not me without you. I’m not sure I know how to be me without you. I did lose myself in you, but I also found myself…as a mom…your mom.

I know that life was a struggle for you. I wanted so much to do or say something to help you realize how wonderful you are. You were so smart and so kind and so funny. Some of my favorite times were with you, Amy, and Ben all of us laughing until we cried.

My sweet girl, I know that this life was too hard and too scary for you. I’m glad you’re without fear now. We had some challenging times when you were growing up. You were still apologizing to me for your teenage antics throughout your 30’s. But I wouldn’t trade one moment of being your mom.

When you were born you didn’t cry like most babies. When the doctor handed you to me, you just opened those beautiful blue eyes and looked at me. No crying or fussing…just looking, as if to say, “it’s me mom….I’m finally here.”

Right before you died, you opened your eyes and looked at me. You hadn’t opened you eyes for over a day. You looked at me and held my gaze as if to say, “it’s me mom…I have to go now.” Your breathing immediately slowed and minutes later you were gone. I had the chance to tell you how much I love you. I told you there was nothing to be afraid of now and that it was okay for you to go…even though there was nothing okay about it. I stroked your cheek, kissed your forehead, and told you that I have loved every moment of being your mom. And then you were gone.

I was with you for your first breath and your last. Thank you for that.

I believe that you are in a peaceful place now. A place without fear. A place where Roro, Foddy, and Grandma Jojo were waiting for you…and where they will care for you now. And I know they will…I gave my parents a long lecture, with a lot of instructions, the day you died.

Now we try to rebuild a life without you in it. Me without you. All of us without you. I’m not sure how. I will miss you forever. I will be grateful for you forever. And I will love you forever…my beautiful girl. Rest well.

Stand For Something

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Lately I feel like all the news focuses on being against something, and against each other. Now I am against many things…like the war in Ukraine…Putin. The war in the Middle East. War in general. Terrorism in any form. Our country becoming an autocracy. Fascism. Dictators. Bombing boats because you “think” there might be drug smugglers on it. Tearing down the White House. Destroying our democracy. Trust me when I tell you I could go on and on…but I won’t.

It’s easy to be against things…especially right now. But that leads me to ask myself, what am I for? It seems like people don’t talk about that so much. Conversations are a back and forth of what someone has done and how you hate it and them…and they feel the same way about you. It is so easy to blame and argue and fight, but when do we step back, look at ourselves, and ask if we are just adding to the conflict. An ever-expanding list of things I’m against does nothing to create change or to build a bridge between people. It merely creates more distance…more animosity.

Maybe it’s easier to be against things. That way someone other than me is always to blame. If I am for something, I have to own it. There is a responsibility for me to act on what I’m for. To put action to my words…do something. Perhaps we can use the list of what we’re against to sift through and find what we’re actually for. What do we believe in…what do I believe in?

I am for democracy. I am for free speech…even when we don’t agree. The constitution. The right to vote. Equality. Diversity. I’m for a first-rate educational system…a public school system providing a quality education for everyone. I’m for a living wage. Financial assistance to help people struggling with housing or food insecurity, mental health issues, disability, unemployment, childcare…meeting the real needs of people. I’m for compassion and empathy…for putting myself in someone else’s shoes before I rush to judgement. Despite arguments to the contrary people do not get rich on government assistance…people barely survive. I am for surviving…for thriving…not just getting by. I’m for opportunities for everyone. For freedom of religion, including the freedom to not have one. I’m for a united country…for less red and blue and more purple. I’m for the truth and reality. I am for love and the power of love…to heal, to change, to transform. I’m for the golden rule…treating others how you want to be treated. I’m for respect. For listening. For hearing. I’m for equal opportunities for everyone in our country. I’m for happiness and joy. For living without fear. I’m for affordable healthcare that actually provides good healthcare. And affordable dental care. I’m for social security, Medicare, Medicaid, and programs that provide care for people who need it. I’m for the rights of the disabled. For access to mental health care and substance abuse treatment. I am for safety and security. For justice. I’m for affordable housing for everyone. I’m for the availability of nutritious food for everyone, especially children. For access to regular meals and eating until you’re full. For sharing with others because we care about them…whoever “them” is. I’m for the ability and opportunity for everyone to live the life they dream of…make all the money they want…and I’m for a sense of obligation to care for our neighbors. For an abundance mentality that understands there is plenty for everyone…and we can share out of our abundance. I am for abundance for everyone.

I know I could keep going but that’s enough for now. The point of that monster paragraph is to encourage you to spend some time thinking about what matters to you…what are you for? Find those things and be for them…be moved to care, to give, to share, practice kindness, compassion, empathy. Listen more and talk less. Seek understanding. I’m for seeking justice, loving mercy, and humility…being able to care about someone else more than myself. And I’m for love…always. Because in the end what matters is how we love people. I am definitely for that.

The Last Resort

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Chronic pain is a funny thing…and by that, I mean a pain in the ass. Now that is funny because my ass doesn’t hurt at all. It’s a pain in my neck, my low back, my left arm and hand, my hips, knees, and feet. That’s all. It’s on my mind today because I woke up at 4 this morning. I woke up because I was in so much pain. I tried going back to sleep until 5:22 and then thought, “Fuck it” and I got up. I feel like I’ve lived a whole day already and it’s 9:53. Might be a long day.

Pain is on my mind because Friday I’m going to a new orthopedic surgeon to discuss my elbow. That is never my favorite conversation. When I fell and broke my arm, into several pieces, and dislocated my elbow two years ago, the surgeon told me that it was “reasonable” to try one more time to put a new implant in and see if it would stay in place. After that he said he would recommend removing the replacement elbow and putting nothing in its place…an arm with no hinge. He told me, if that occurred, I would still have partial use of my hand. And he said his patients that have had their artificial joint removed, without replacement, are happy with the outcome because they have no more pain.

Sit with that for a minute. No more pain…go from daily pain, that ranges from frustrating to intolerable, to none. None. Nada. Zippo. It’s hard for me to even imagine. It has been a long time since my elbow didn’t hurt. I should mention the reason for a new doctor is not because of a problem with the old one…and he isn’t old at all. My insurance changed, and he is no longer in network. That is very sad. I thought about changing my insurance back but the costs of everything would be so much higher, I can’t do it.

I got a recommendation for an “excellent” orthopedic surgeon from a physical therapist I trust. PT’s know all the best doctors…nurses do too. So, I made and appointment and waited three months to see him. Let me back up and say that my elbow has been hurting for the past year and a half. I know the replacement is loose. How do I know it’s loose you wonder. Because this has happened three other times. And those three times I have had revision surgery. The humeral component, in my upper arm, was removed and replaced…hence the term revision…in case you’re wondering…you’re probably not. I should also mention that I can’t always straighten my arm anymore because it gets stuck. When that happens, I push my arm and force it straight. It feels like trying to shift gears on your bike…but the chain is clanking around trying to connect…and the peddles don’t work until it does. My arm grinds and pops when I push it straight. Not my favorite feeling.

So, for a year and a half my old doctor has repeatedly asked me what I wanted to do about my elbow. I have always told him “Nothing.” I haven’t felt like the pain was bad enough for a surgical intervention…and that is the only intervention left. That is until now. Because now I can’t stand the pain anymore. I feel like it’s taking a toll on my body and my mental health…because I feel hopeless. Like I’ll be stuck with this pain, grinding, and popping forever. That’s depressing.

Okay, so now, back to my story…I went to see the new doctor. He said my X-rays looked “good” and my arm looked “good.” My arm is hugely swollen and it looks deformed. If that’s your idea of “looking good” then there’s a problem…we have a problem. Aside from when I broke my arm and dislocated my elbow, my X-rays have always looked fine. The loosening had never been seen until I had a CT scan. I don’t know why that is…different imaging or better imaging, I guess. I just know it’s true.

I told the doctor what my previous orthopedic surgeon said, and he looked at me like I was a lunatic. I felt as though he thought I was casually discussing having my elbow taken out…like I’d talk about what to have for dinner…as if it’s no big deal. It’s a fucking huge deal. I can’t begin to describe how big of a deal. If he had asked me, I would have told him it’s taken a year and a half to even consider this possibility. And I would have said that I’d been practicing doing everything one handed to get an idea of what it would be like. He actually said, “You know you won’t be able to use your arm because you won’t have a joint. Your arm will just hang there.” WTF!? Are you fucking kidding me? Thanks for mansplaining that to me because, dopey me, I didn’t know an elbow was important. That’s what I wanted to say but I refrained. He didn’t ask me anything. He spent all of five minutes with me before he referred me to a different doctor. He said if I needed my joint removed that would be the guy to do it. Obviously, I was a problem he didn’t want to deal with, so he sent me away.

He didn’t ask about the history of my elbow or the eleven earlier surgeries, including the three revisions and the infection that took six months and three surgeries, including several months with no joint, to treat. He asked nothing. I felt invisible and pushed aside. Disregarded. Like I was a problem he didn’t have time for…or any interest in solving. I was depressed, and it took me three weeks to even be willing to make an appointment with the next doctor.

This decision is not because of one failed elbow replacement…every replacement has failed. This is the fourth failure…fourth and final. I cannot keep doing this. This is a huge decision and it’s a painful decision…one I’ve considered for a long time. This was not an easy decision, and certainly not one I’ve taken lightly. It’s scary. I feel afraid. But I cannot live with the constant pain or continue to have my joint locking…or dislocating. My arm isn’t functioning now even with the joint.

So, is it better for me to be in constant pain, needing ever increasing amounts of pain medication. And I need stronger medication because what I have doesn’t work anymore. Is it better for me to lack sleep because of pain. Or to dread each new day because it’s intolerable. Because that’s what chronic pain does…it causes dread. Dread and fear and anxiety. It wears you down day by day…little by little.

Chronic pain is a challenge because other people don’t necessarily see it. I get up each day, take care of the dog, I cook meals, run errands…all the “normal” things. Someone observing me would not see my pain. It’s not like I walk around moaning and crying. I’m not big on complaining…it doesn’t help anything. But because you can’t see my pain you might not know it’s there. That’s a difficult thing about chronic pain…it is frequently invisible. Just because you don’t see my pain does not mean it isn’t there or that it isn’t significant.

I am a strong person. I know that. I’ve been through a lot of shit…and I keep going. In my family, I was praised for being strong. Praised for not complaining and for my ability to handle anything. I wanted the praise, and I wanted to be strong. And I am.

Now I’m learning it is not a sign of weakness that I need something done to help me. I’m not failing because the pain is too much to bear. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve dealt with it for over 7 years…that’s a long fucking time. Maybe my strength now is the realization that I need help. Maybe it’s finally having the ability to ask for help. To seek help. I wonder if at some point it goes from strength to stupidity to just pretend everything is fine when the pain is unbearable. Maybe that’s just denial…or fear…or both.

Chronic pain is a reality for millions of people in this country…including people you know. Chronic pain isn’t just physical pain. It’s also emotional pain. The fear. The depression. Feeling disregarded or disrespected. Dismissed…tossed aside for someone else to deal with. Told, without words, to be quiet and stop being a problem. Be an obedient and quiet little girl. Don’t make waves. Listen to the doctor…he says nothing is wrong…and his opinion is the only one that matters.

Now I doubt this doctor intended all of that…at least I hope not. He could have been having a bad day. I have no idea. But I am not just an elbow. The elbow in question comes with a person…me. And I need help. Seeing a doctor when you’re in a lot of pain, or there’s a problem…or both, is a very vulnerable position to be in. I was there because I needed you to help me.

I came to you sad and scared and I took the risk of sharing that with you. I came to you vulnerable. Don’t send me away. Don’t get me out of your office as fast as you can. Don’t mock me by imitating what my arm will be like without a joint…flailing it around, as you speak to me like I’m crazy. Understand that my pain must be fucking awful if I’m willing to consider such a drastic last resort.

When I come to you and tell you who I am, listen to me. And when I share my pain, believe me. I’m taking a risk to tell you…don’t make we regret it. Because then my pain will go back underground and remain buried until I’m willing to take another risk, if I ever am. Don’t teach me it’s not safe to trust.

In the end what matters is how we love people. Love the people in your life who are in pain. Believe them. Listen to them. Divine is the task to ease pain. Let’s ease each other’s pain…that is divine.

A New Plan

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

You know when you sit down to write your blog or finish it, and you have a plan…a perfectly good plan. Maybe even an interesting plan (you hope)…and instead of following the plan, which is what you’ve focused on, your writing takes you here….

When I was 29, I was in the middle of a divorce. My husband at the time had informed me he was gay…well, that makes it sound like we sat down and talked about it. He informed me by having affairs. Although he said a one-night stand was not an affair. I’m not sure the label really mattered. We were in a marriage counselors office, and the pastor of our church was there with us. I don’t remember why he was there, but he was a friend. The counselor began the session by asking a question, “Can we all agree that at this point (fill in name here) has not acted on his feelings?” I said yes right away. I can’t remember if my husband said yes or nothing. When she got to the pastor, he said he couldn’t answer the question. This is where you’d inject the Debbie Downer music. Seriously, where does a counseling session go after that. I don’t remember anything anyone said the rest of the hour. On the way home he confirmed that he had in fact had an affair…or one night stand or whatever the fuck you want to call it. He didn’t volunteer the information, but he did answer me honestly when asked.

Our separation began that day. I told him he had to go until he decided what he wanted. He didn’t think he wanted to be married anymore…at least not to me. Now if you’re thinking, “They’re both gay?” That’s true we are. I’ve written about it before. Look at my blog post “Gay by Design” and you’ll get your questions answered…or email me. I won’t go back through the whole story now because that’s not where I’m headed…at least I don’t think so. I’ve been surprised once already today.

So, we separated. He, thinking this was a short-term problem, started sleeping on the couch at his office. It was a family run business, and his mom was his boss…and a lovely person. I don’t know why he thought this would be a quick reconciliation, but he did. I was at home with a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a 4-month-old infant. So, I was bored. Lol…that would be hysterical, right!?

All of this was taking place in Colorado. I graduated from the University of Colorado, got married, and then made my home there. I always said Chicago was a good place to be from…and I was. I went to junior high and high school in Naperville, the fastest growing suburb of Chicago at the time. Before my wedding, my parents moved back to St. Louis, where my sister and I were born and where my parents grew up. Now the scene is set….

So, I was talking to my mom one day…on the phone of course…and I was stressed. Have you ever noticed how all your children need you NOW as soon as you pick up the phone? It’s a law of nature. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but my mom wanted me to move back to St. Louis and live with them. She wanted me to move “home.” I told her that Colorado was my home now and that I wasn’t going to move. I would not take my kids away from their dad…plus it seemed like a bad idea, although I know she was offering me help. I said no and she said, “That’s okay. You won’t make it out there by yourself and you’ll end up back here.” Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say? That was what I thought but I said nothing. That moment is seared into my memory, so I feel confident that this was her exact quote. Need I say this was not the best time of my life.

I was stunned. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. In my mind I wondered if she wanted me to fail. And why would she? I got off the phone fast. I was devastated. Who says that to their daughter? Their daughter going through a divorce with 3 children under the age of 5? Why would she say that to me? My self-confidence was already at an all time low. And this wasn’t just about me. I had 3 little precious humans looking to me for security and answers to why daddy didn’t want to be married anymore. They depended on me to make everything okay for them even after their world was turned upside down. If I was okay, they knew they’d be okay. I was about as far from okay as you can be but my 3 little babies depending on me was more than enough motivation. Children take their cues from us, so I needed to fake it until I really was okay again.

So, we survived and lived happily ever after…yay. That’s not the point of the story. I’ve been reading about trauma and core language…as in what your core beliefs are that you communicate to yourself. Turns out I have a core message rumbling around in this head telling me that I won’t make it. I’ll never make it…I will always fail. At what specifically? Everything. The things that make you “successful.” In my family, a career and money were the main factors in success. A job people would ohhhh and ahhhh at and enough money to set yourself apart from others…providing a feeling of superiority. Being a “have” and not a “have not.”

Divorced with 3 babies…not a “have” for sure. A degree in psychology…but I “don’t know anything about psychology.” A master’s degree in counseling…but that wasn’t from a “real” school. A child protection worker…let someone else do that. Law degree…check. (I got one). A lawyer representing abused and neglected children…was I afraid to make money? I never even mentioned my last master’s degree. No point. Developed and ran a mindfulness program for young children…a what? So many fails. So many “not enoughs” … not even close.

I’ve heard the definition of sin as “missing the mark.” I think that may be the definition of my life according to my parents, not the sin part, but always missing the mark. Never quite got it right. Never making it…according to them.

But here’s the thing, my thoughts, my actions, my beliefs, my feelings are mine. All mine. They are my choices. No one else makes those choices for me. So, when I hear negative messages about myself, I have a choice…believe it or ignore it. Now when I was younger, it didn’t feel like much of a choice. Kids, even adults, believe what their parents tell them…because parents are supposed to know. Right? It took a long time to learn that just because they said something and they believed it didn’t make it true. It makes it their opinion. That’s all. Certainly, they’re entitled to their opinion…I wish they had not shared them so freely.

But now, now I’m a grown ass women (as my daughter loves to say) and I make my own choices. I decide what I believe about me…not my parents, not anyone else. Even though my parents are dead I still hear their voices in my head. Repeating messages of the past. The question now is how I respond to those voices, theirs and others. Everyone has an opinion. If I go along blindly with whatever the opinion of the day is about me then I abdicate my responsibility to myself. That would be failing…not making it…not succeeding. My success is not something I owe anyone, except myself. And I am the only one who knows what success looks like for me.

We become what we believe…what we think. With our thoughts we create the world. That’s why individuals can experience the same event and each interpret it differently and respond to it differently. We see differently because we think differently. We see differently because the framework through which we see the world and make sense of it is unique to each of us. We all have a story of what is real or not real, true or false, accepted or rejected. Everything we see, hear, feel, or experience goes through that story…the narration of our life…according to us.

I can be taught to believe certain things. I can be told all sorts of stories. And I can experience a lifetime of challenges or successes. Ultimately, the only thing that’s real and true for me is what I tell myself. What I believe is what I make real. That is what is true for me. I am the only person with the power to change the story that I have created about my life. Only me. I created it. I can change it. It is a tremendous act of self love to tell myself the truth…to tell yourself the truth. It requires awareness on my part. To know myself well enough to know what’s true. And the wisdom to know that what’s true today may not be true tomorrow…because I am always changing. You are always changing.

I want to be more…more kind, compassionate, loving, understanding, flexible, open, present, aware. I want that for me. I want that for you. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Love yourself enough to know yourself. Love other people enough for them to feel safe in sharing who they are. And believe them when they show you. Whatever the question is, love is the answer…always.

The Confusion of Grief or The Grief of Confusion

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

So, my parents ashes have been sitting on the bookcase in my living room since their deaths. It’s been a while. It became normal seeing them up there and I didn’t think about it too much. Last October we planned a boat ride, here in Florida, to spread their ashes in the gulf. Apparently, our plan was not acceptable, and my mom caused a hurricane. Her timing was perfect. Scary even. She shut down the state of Florida. We got the message.

Frightened by the events of last year, we developed a new plan and successfully implemented it last week…with no natural disasters…people of the world are relieved. My wife and I drove to New York to visit my sister, brother-in-law, nephews, their wives and children. We enjoyed the drive mostly because it was nine hours less than a drive to Colorado and we got to drive through lots of states I had never been in. Turns out there are many states to go through between Florida and New York…the obvious ones, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia…and then there were a bunch more, Maryland, Pennsylvania, DC, Delaware, and New Jersey. There are so many states crammed into a ridiculously small area.

My sister planned a beautiful memorial for my parents, including food, their favorite drinks, a tent to stay out of the sun and great people. She really did it all and I’m so grateful to her. My nephew created an amazing slide show along with a playlist of my parent’s favorite songs. Everything was perfect.

Listening to everyone’s stories all week, I felt like an outsider looking in…separate from the people who belonged, who really knew my parents. So, I watched and listened. I tried to figure out what I was feeling. Sad? Guilty? Relieved? Numb? I thought numb was the right one. I felt so confused. Aha…that’s the one. Confused. Confused not by how I felt but by how I didn’t feel. I didn’t seem to feel what everyone else felt…a deep sense of loss. I didn’t cry. I was just quietly befuddled.

My nephews and brother-in-law spoke beautifully and emotionally, about what my parents meant to them. They said they received unconditional love and support from my parents…really? My nephew said that in my parent’s eyes he could do no wrong…seriously? That was not my experience of my parents at all. I experienced love based on performance and my performance was never good enough. And in their eyes, I did everything wrong. They rarely seemed happy with me. I felt confused. Perplexed and defective somehow.

It turns out my parents, especially my mom, could love, just not me. Other people spoke about their unending love. That confused me…and hurt. Why couldn’t my parents love me? What was so wrong about me? Still, after all this time, I asked myself, why does it matter? Why am I stuck in this place…this place of believing I’m not enough. When I was in my 20’s, I told my mom that I felt like she was disappointed in me and in who I was as a person. Her response was, “You don’t need my approval.” I said everyone wants their mom to be proud of them. She didn’t say anything else. I was devastated by that conversation. I had prepared for months to talk to her and share my feelings…which took a shitload of courage to do. For most people, it may not be an act of bravery to have an honest discussion with your mother but for me it was. It was huge…HUGE!

She confirmed all my fears by her words and then her silence. She destroyed me. More accurately, I let her destroy me. I risked emotionally opening to her, and she used my vulnerability as a weapon against me. I sat in my bathroom and sobbed for hours after our conversation. Too bad I didn’t learn from that…or maybe it’s good I didn’t learn. I didn’t learn to harden and build walls to defend myself. I believe that what doesn’t kill us can make us kinder if we allow it to. I am committed to softening my edges, not reinforcing them. My mom once told me it would be hard to be mean to me because I’m so kind. That was nice…for a minute. That’s all it took for her to tell me she hated my fucking guts, that I wasn’t a mother because I got divorced and gave my kids away, that I was the bad seed…it went on and on. I mistakenly reminded her of her comment on my kindness…she said nothing. The weight of that silence was hard to bear.

After the memorial I talked with my cousin about her feelings when her dad died. She had a complicated relationship with him like I did with my mom. I guess I was checking to see if I was crazy for feeling confused. I wasn’t. I brought my sister into the conversation and told her what we were talking about. I said we were discussing not being the favorite child and she agreed and said I wasn’t…she was. I told her about feeling like nothing I did was ever good enough. She said that it was true, nothing I did was ever good enough. So, there’s that. I appreciated her honesty. It was helpful to know what I felt and perceived were real…not just something I made up in my head. The affirmation was helpful, and painful. It might have been difficult for my sister too…to confirm something that she knows is painful for me. But it helped. It’s always good to find out you aren’t crazy.

So, I’m confused. Duh huh? I don’t know how to feel about my parents and their deaths. I know what I think I should feel. I should be sad and grieving. I should feel what everyone else feels. But really, I think it’s more important for me to be able to feel my own feelings and to feel the words that I say. Seems obvious, and it may be, but it ain’t easy. It’s scary to admit confusion about your parent’s death. To admit you don’t feel as sad or miss them like everyone else does.

So, is it confusion about grief or is grief causing my confusion? I’m not sure it matters to anyone, except me. I’m confused by how strongly other people feel the loss of my parents…the loss of their love and the loss of the wonderful relationship they had with them. I don’t feel like that at all…and that’s confusing. I feel like I should and that I’m a bad daughter because I don’t. I feel guilty for not feeling the right things…not grieving the right way. Whatever the fuck that means. But here’s the thing, I grieved for my parents for 12 years. For12 years we had no contact, before they lived with me in Florida. I grieved the loss of them from my life, and I grieved for what I wanted from my parents that I never got. I grieved that nothing I did was good enough, not the schools I attended, the degrees I earned, or the jobs I held. None of that was good enough because I wasn’t good enough. I craved unconditional love, understanding, kindness, acceptance…and their pride in me. Just because I’m me. I got none of that.

So, maybe it’s not so confusing. Maybe I’m done grieving. Maybe not. Living with my parents stirred up a ton of shit. There might be more to grieve or just more to let go of. You can’t let go of something unless you know what you lost. Maybe that’s where I am, coming to terms with what I lost. Most of what I lost happened years ago. Although now I’ve lost any possibility of things turning out differently….a better outcome. Maybe a happily ever after. The memorial brought up some new feelings of loss…of being defective somehow. Still, they were my parents, and I longed for them to love me, and maybe even more, to like me. Really like me. But I don’t think they did.

None of that changes my foundational belief that in the end all that matters is how we love people. I really tried with my mom and dad. I did my best. My best may not have been good enough, but I tried. Rest in peace mom and dad…I did love you. I hope you knew.

But I Don’t Feel Sad

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Depression is a funny thing…well, not exactly funny…interesting. I had a friend years ago who lectured me about how people take “happy pills” to avoid dealing with life. Taking the easy way out, according to her. She made her comments before she knew I took an antidepressant. I felt offended and I let her know. She had no personal knowledge about antidepressants; she just had opinions. I explained that depression is generally caused by a chemical imbalance in your brain and that imbalance will not correct itself on its own. If you do not have an imbalance then an antidepressant will not do anything for you. That’s what my doctor told me. It’s not that simple and there can be other causes but explaining it all will take too long and way too many words…and I am not a doctor. Depression is complicated.

Taking an antidepressant is not an easy way to anything because people, like my friend, are very judgy about it. They think you are weak or crazy. Why can’t you just be happy, they ask, and then accuse you of trying to escape your life or reality. What they do not understand is what it feels like to be depressed, clinically depressed. It is awful.

Over 29% of adults have reported having a diagnosis of depression at some point in their lives. Over 21 million people are affected by depression each year. Depression affects women more often than men. During the pandemic there was an increase in depression. That makes sense. Four out of ten people reported being depressed or anxious during Covid 19. I’m surprised it’s not ten out of ten. That shit was scary and hard. The number of depressed individuals increased 60% between 2013 and 2023, according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. And you are more likely to be obese if you are depressed and more likely to be depressed if you are obese. That’s fucked up. The symptoms of depression include, severe and persistent low mood, a sense of despair, decrease in energy, changes in level of functioning, weight gain or loss, without dieting, difficulty getting out of bed, problems with concentration, sleeping, and energy. And a decrease in your sense of self-worth. Depression is the most common cause of disability in this country.

There is a genetic component to depression as well. In my family, my grandmother was depressed. My mom was depressed. My children have dealt with depression, as well as people in my extended family. And I understand that my great grandmother was most likely depressed. She would “take to her bed” for days at a time. I’m not sure about my grandma but my mom did the same thing. We were in trouble when she went to bed and shut the door.

Anger is not listed as a primary symptom of depression, so I was surprised…well, surprised in hindsight…that it was a symptom for me. As close as the DSM V, the Bible of mental illnesses, comes is irritability. Well, I was irritable too. I just didn’t realize it until I wasn’t anymore.

Medication is not a quick fix, and it does not just make you happy. I have done my share of therapy over the years…there are therapist happily retired with my financial help. And I worked through a ton of shit. I am still working through issues…on and on they go. What an antidepressant has done for me is help me return to a place of caring about my life and wanting to deal with shit…deal with life. They helped me feel like myself again. Allowed me to get out of bed and engage with the world. Take care of myself and whoever or whatever else I needed to.

My wife, Gayle, and I have been married almost 14 years and been together 17. One of the things I love most about her, about us, is how easy it is to be together. We get along great. I never get tired of her company. She is my best friend. I see her first thing every morning and last thing every night and I wouldn’t want it any other way. There is a comfortable and familiar flow to our relationship…it’s easy…usually.

I have written about the past couple of years and my wife traveling between Colorado, where we used to live, and Florida, our current home, for work. She traveled and I traveled. She flew and I drove. Then we drove. I made several road trips to Colorado to spend time with her, more than a week, because the separation was hard. Then Gayle retired in November, and she is in Florida permanently. We still drive to Colorado when we want to visit but we do it together.

After she was home, we noticed ourselves being irritable with each other. We have felt that before and recognized it as a settling back in with each other period…getting used to each other again. During our time apart we developed our own way of doing things…different from each other. For example, she ate dinner way later than I did. She ate different food, cooked differently than the way we did it before. She loaded the dishwasher differently…small, stupid things that did not feel small or stupid. We felt distant…I felt a distance between us.

I like to think of myself as laid back and easy going. I like to think it, but thinking does not make it true. Too bad. I tend to take things very personally, even when they are not personal. I do this even though, in the book The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz, the second agreement is not to take anything personally. Followed by do not make assumptions. Check and check. I do both. I try so hard.

So, these little conflicts became ginormous in my mind. Ginormous and personal. And I became irritable, disagreeable…angry. I was angry that things were not the same. Nothing felt particularly easy. And I became paranoid, convinced that she didn’t love me anymore. That she was tired of me. My mom used to tell me that people got tired of me. I thought it happened with my wife. And I didn’t think she even liked me anymore. I asked her and, even though she said she did, I didn’t believe her.

Now the real fucked up thing about this was that I didn’t realize I was angry. I thought she was mad at me all the time. Hence the conclusion she did not like me. For the first time I thought she might leave me…I mean how many more years are you going to spend with someone you don’t even like. That is a rhetorical question. I heard the words she’d say to me as accusations, condemnations, or criticisms. I felt like I was no longer good enough for her…like she wasn’t happy with me anymore. I was not bursting with happiness either. Now let me be clear, this was all happening internally…mostly. It seemed like she was snapping at me all the time. I felt like nothing I did was right. I’m certain she was not getting warm fuzzies from me either.

Several months earlier I had stopped taking my antidepressant. I talked to my doctor about it and told her I didn’t think I needed it anymore. I wasn’t depressed. With her cautious okay I weaned off it. And I was fine. I noticed a few times I felt sad but then I had some reasons for sadness. It seemed like a proper response to circumstances. Sometimes I would question myself about whether my feelings were a sign of depression…but I assured myself they were not. It’s possible I needed a second opinion.

Then I experienced a situation with a friend who was really depressed. They were sad about lost relationships, afraid of being alone, hopeless, and isolated. And I saw them struggle to feel normal…to be happy again. They were so depressed…the kind of depression that makes you want to stay in bed and be left alone, permanently. That scared me. It scared me enough to start taking my antidepressant again. Because of them I saw myself differently…through the lens of fear. Fear that I could end up at that same place…again.

Antidepressants take a couple of weeks to work. In the past when I had gone on medication I remember not really noticing whether the medication was working until some random day when I realized I was happy again. This time my realization was that I wasn’t angry anymore. I felt like myself again. And things with my wife were normal again…easy. The flow was back.

What changed? Did my wife finally realize that I was right about everything? That’s funny. So, what changed? I did. I had my random moment and realized I was happy again. When the happiness arrived, the anger departed. Or rather I let the anger go. I guess in my insecurity I was clinging to it before…I couldn’t see any other way to feel. I felt justified in my anger. It’s hard to let it go when you feel justified.

But now…now I saw a new, clearer perspective. One less centered in my ego. Ego’s kind of suck. I took a step out of my mind…not to be confused with being out of my mind. My mind had focused on all the ways nothing was my fault, or more accurately, my responsibility. Everything was someone else’s fault. Their responsibility. My ego was in overdrive. Placing blame away from myself. And I was not really looking to blame…maybe I was. I didn’t mean to be. I was hurt. I was hurting. I felt lost and alone. I told my daughter that I felt insignificant and invisible. She told me that was my past trauma speaking because no one who knows me feels that way about me.

Growing up I felt like I had to fight to be seen, to be heard…to matter. And so often I wanted to be invisible because it felt safer. But that’s not true anymore. As long I remain open, I am seen, heard, understood, and I am loved…liked even. The only time that’s not true is when I shut down. When I am no longer willing to receive, no longer willing to give.

Andrea Gibson, the poet, said that a music box is still a music box even if the lid remains closed. Of course, it can’t fulfill its purpose without opening. Aren’t I the same? Aren’t we all the same? I can’t fulfill my purpose or have the depth of relationships I’m meant to without opening. What stops me from opening…from being vulnerable? Oh, wait I know. Fear. Fear fucks everything up. Fear and my ego…stupid dumb ego.

How can I tune in to my heart and stop listening to my mind and my overactive ego. It’s easy to blame other people for our circumstances, for our feelings but it’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m responsible for my actions. I’m responsible for my feelings. No one makes me feel anything. And guess what? All of that is true for you too. Surprise! We have all kinds of choices. No two people react the same in a situation because of all those choices. Freedom and all that crap.

It’s easy to get caught up in the emotion of a moment and lose sight of our choices. To surrender our reactions to just that, reacting. Allowing emotions to carry me away from my ability to choose…to choose to respond rather than react. I would like to think I was fighting for our love by arguing…fighting for us. I fear that I was arguing to lash out…not really that. Fighting as much with myself as with Gayle. Feeling unhappy with her because I was unhappy with me. I guess taking my fears out on her…without clueing her in. Without clueing myself in. I didn’t know.

Now I’m not just trying to blame myself for everything…I’ve done that many times. Burying my needs or feelings to end a conflict quickly. Conflict is uncomfortable. And I don’t like it. I was raised to blame myself. But this is how the situation looks to me now…in hindsight. I wish hindsight could come before I make a mess of something. I can see things differently than I did before. That’s with the help of my antidepressant. I can examine my behavior. I can look at not just what I’m doing it but why. And I can change it. I can voice my needs and my feelings. I can decide what I can do for myself and what I want to ask from someone else. Then they have their own choices to make. There is no choice where there is no understanding and no understanding unless I communicate. That scares me too. It’s me being vulnerable…again.

So where am I going with all of this? Excellent question. There is so much love available to us if we can keep the lid of our music box open. If we take the risk of being vulnerable. If we allow ourselves to be seen…to be known. And that is scary. Vulnerability is scary.

We miss out on life if we are unwilling to open to it. Sometimes we need medication to help us. I’m grateful for my medication. Sometimes we need therapy…or both. Always we need each other…always. Communication is the key to our relationships. It’s the best gift we can give each other. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…show your love by communicating and connecting. Love will win…it always does. Even if you have to serpentine to get there.

Missed Opportunities

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I was talking to my sister the other day, and I don’t remember why, but she asked me if I remembered a book we had as kids that was about a girl who wanted to be a ballet dancer. She wasn’t able to be a dancer because she had some sort of health problem. My sister didn’t remember the health problem…I didn’t remember the book. That is until she described a page where the girl was kneeling on the coach and looking out the window as her friends rode their bikes. But she couldn’t join them. I remember that one image. I remember that she was sad.

My sister wondered why my mom would have picked that book for us. The 60’s was not exactly the age of disability awareness and inclusion. I don’t think she was a champion of disability rights. Or that she was particularly sensitive to the needs of the disabled. She used to refer to my dad as a “cripple” …sooo…. However, my mom had a heart problem from complications of rheumatic fever as a child. She had a damaged valve and because of that she was limited on her physical activity as a child.

So, I wonder, could she have given us the book as a window into her life as a child? I don’t have any idea…and I never will. If she was sharing herself with us, she needed to provide more information. I’m guessing for my sister and I it was an interesting book, and we had varying degrees of sadness for the little girl. My sister would have been the one to remember the ending, but she doesn’t. It may remain a mystery…unless I track down the book. Look out google.

My mom loved sports. She liked football and college basketball, but she LOVED baseball. She loved the St. Louis Cardinals. We lived in Chicago when I was young, and I remember going to Cardinals v Cubs double headers as a kid. My mom was an encyclopedia of baseball facts. She remembered games, players, coaches, managers, owners, playoffs, trades, botched calls, and specific plays. She was a wealth of knowledge. I remember Ozzie Smith because he was my favorite Cardinal. And hot dogs were the best at a baseball game…kind of grosses me out now but I was young. For my mom’s 90th birthday we took her to a Cardinals game against the Rays, here in Florida, and she had a hot dog…mustard, relish, and onion. She was happy.

My mom would have loved to play sports, but she couldn’t because of her heart. When she was young there were not many options for girls. Schools didn’t have competitive teams. She might have been happy to play baseball on the playground with the boys, but she couldn’t. She must have been so frustrated. I also love sports. My opportunities to play were nothing like today but I played basketball, softball, and swam competitively. I can’t imagine what I would have done without those sports. I did play football with the boys in the backyard, and I had a basketball hoop that I was at all the time. I wanted to be Oscar Robertson. There were no women players for me to look up to at the time. I would have given anything to play in the WNBA.

Maybe my mom identified with that little girl in the book. Always being the one on the inside looking out. Wanting so much but never having the chance. Maybe that’s why she bought it for us…because she was that girl.

When I graduated from law school my mom told me she always wanted to be a lawyer. What?! I never knew that. I don’t remember her ever talking about a career she wanted. I figured she wanted to be a mom…and to devote herself to her amazing daughters. Right?! She told me she always wanted kids. My dad said if it wasn’t for him, they would not have had any children. I don’t know what was true, and I never will.

I worry that my mom felt like her life was filled with missed opportunities. Or that it was filled with second choices…or third choices. I guess I don’t need to worry now but it’s sad. It’s sad to think of all the frustration she must have felt. It’s sad to be one of the daughters who may not have been her first choice. And it’s sad she didn’t fight for herself. I know opportunities were not the same but there were schooling options for her, especially as we got older. She had choices. They may have been limited but she had them. I wonder why she didn’t advocate for herself. Maybe she did and I just don’t know. She was pretty vocal about what she felt she deserved and didn’t get. Or in what ways other people didn’t give her what she wanted, so I feel like I would have heard.

I wonder what it would be like to feel like your life was a missed opportunity because there was so much you wanted but it was all just out of reach…and you believed there was nothing you could do about it. I don’t really know. I have limitations in my life due to disability and chronic pain, but I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on life. I’ve been married (more than once), had children, gone to school, earned advanced degrees, experienced multiple careers, and met many wonderful people. There are things I cannot do but those are not the things that define my life. My life is full of experiences and opportunities and lots of people I really love. There may be things I would have done differently, but I consider my life well lived…well living…I’m not dead yet.

I’m sad for my mom today. Sad to think she didn’t have the chance to reach her full potential. Or to become fully who she was meant to be. And sad because she missed the chance to feel proud of herself. Proud that she had done something that really meant a lot to her, because being a wife and mom were not those things. I think in the end those missed opportunities weighed on her…on her self-esteem.

All that makes me eager to follow my dreams, even when they seem like a fairy tale. To take chances and try new things. To bring awareness to all the areas of my life. To live intentionally. To make my choices where I have them and not be content to let life happen to me. Seize the day and all that shit. And to love freely, fully, generously, and always. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Becoming Who I Am

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been thinking a lot about purpose…my purpose, other people’s purpose, the country’s purpose, the world…so much thinking going on in this head of mine…all the damn time. I believe that my purpose is to become who I am. That’s my mission. Become fully who I am. I think that’s everyone’s purpose. Their personal purpose. People can have other purposes other goals. Purposes bigger than themselves. My beyond myself purpose, as in what I’m meant to do, is to help people heal, have healthy relationships, and become the best version of themselves. To use my pain to help others in pain. To turn traumas into triumphs…that’s super corny. How about…to use every experience, good or bad, for an evolution. An evolution into our complete and beautiful selves. Life can be so hard but even in the difficulties there are opportunities to learn and grow…for transformation. Like a caterpillar reduced to goo in order to become what they are meant to be, a butterfly. The butterfly is in there…waiting to become. We are all waiting to become.

Now to become who I am, I have to know who I am. I often say that in order to be loved we have to be known. And to be known we have to be seen. We don’t let people see who we are unless we trust them. Trust that they can accept what they see and that they can handle us with gentleness…like you would a baby. When I worked in child protection I had to remove a baby from his mom because of substance abuse. The mom brought her son into me voluntarily because she could she knew…she understood what her son needed. While I was waiting for the foster parents, I held that infant in my arms. My workplace tended to be busy, kind of loud, and fast paced, but I couldn’t be any of those things with an infant in my arms. I told coworkers we should all hold babies everyday. We couldn’t hurry or raise our voices, if we had to focus on the baby first. Everything else would be secondary. Everyone who worked there would have been less stressed and a better human because of it.

Now back to my point…although I do love babies. That is not my point. Just as we want to be handled by other people tenderly and gently, like a baby, we need to offer that same softness to ourselves. I never want to scare or startle a baby. It would be cruel to make them cry intentionally. But I can be cruel with myself. I am not going to let anyone else see me and know me if they are cruel to me. I will keep myself hidden and you will see a shell of who I am. I will protect myself. I do the same thing dealing with myself. I don’t always see fully or know myself because I am harsh with me. I am impatient. I expect myself to know everything and be perfect. How’s that going for me? Not great. But what would I see with tenderness? With unconditional acceptance and love? If I handled my fragile heart like I did that baby in my arms.

I love to read, and I am usually reading 4-5 books at a time. I have categories of what I read, health, politics/history, spirituality, abuse recovery/personal growth, and something just for pleasure. Well…I read all the books for pleasure. For a long time, I thought I’d come across THE book, the one that would answer all my questions and make me feel whole and complete. It would fill in the holes I feel in my life…not my life so much as my person. Gaps in my development…gaps I perceive. Holes where I feel something lacking…something missing.

I have not found that one book. The one with the answers. The one that shows me how to put the puzzle of me together into a final picture. Nothing more to do because it’s complete…I am complete. All the pieces are there, and they fit so neatly. I will never find that because no such book exists. The answers for me and about me, are already here. They are in me.

When I read books for personal growth I am not putting something into me to make me better. Make me more. I am awakening something already there. Something hidden or buried. Unattended. Neglected. I am realizing nothing needs to be added for me to be complete. Something needs to be freed. So much of who we are gets buried. Buried by time. Buried by trauma and pain. Buried by loss, fear, or neglect. Or by refusal…refusal to accept or understand. Or buried by success, wealth, power. Whatever we experience that causes us to forget or reject who we are.

In our search for ourselves we take on false identities because we learned from an early age that what we see before us is not enough. Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not healthy, skinny, funny, determined, capable, or whatever enough. We seek an image of who we think we should be. Who we believe we need to be. An image forced upon us. I cannot find me in a coerced image. I will not love me if I don’t know me. And I will not know me if I don’t see me. I cannot see me as long as I force an ideal upon myself. An ideal I know innately is not me…and never will be. I am seen when I allow my broken and beautiful self to be uncovered. My perfectly imperfect me.

Love demands that we become who we are. Who we are meant to be. To come fully into our isness…or my meness. To fully inhabit the person that is me. We must see ourselves as we are…all the damage and imperfections. See ourselves with kindness. With compassion. See so we can know…so we can love. See without the external cosmetics I use to disguise the flaws…the parts that scare me. Me without fear. Me without conditions. Me with complete acceptance. Me in all my messiness. The broken and beautiful me. The me that steps out of the goo of transformation…and is ready to fly. The freedom found in just being me.

We already have everything we need. We can stop the search. Relax and appreciate the goo. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…that includes ourselves. In fact, it begins with ourselves. Let’s give ourselves a big helping of love and see what we can see.

Off The Edge

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

It took me a long time to recognize this low-level anxiety that lives inside me. I feel like I am always on edge. Always expecting the next bad thing…the next person to hurt me or leave me without explanation. The next person to blow up at me, blame me, or take their anger out on me. The next crisis I need to be ready for. Being mentally and physically on edge contributes to me being on edge emotionally. All the time. It is exhausting.

I have been trying to create a way to mourn the loss of my mother. I am not sure how to do that when I feel angry at her. I’m hurt that she was so mean to me. I don’t know if I miss her because I haven’t been able to get past the other feelings. I feel guilty because I am relieved not to deal with her explosive outburst anymore. I don’t miss her hanging up on me multiple times a day. The years I spent away from her I wondered why she didn’t try to work things out with me or love me enough to fight for me. The years I lived with her in Florida, I understood that she hated me. That’s what she told me. That’s how she acted. She didn’t fight for me because she didn’t want me.

Now she’s gone and I am not sure what to do with all of that. I need to find a place where I can accept the situation as it was and accept her as she was…flaws, bitterness, cruelty and all. She wasn’t one thing. She wasn’t just mean. She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just cruel. She could be kind. She could be generous. She could be loving.

I am not one thing either. I am not just a person on edge. I am not just someone with anxiety. I can be kind. I can be generous. I can be loving. I’m a mix of all those things and more. Just like her. Sara Bareilles has a song called, “She Used to Be Mine” and she talks about this…sings about it. This song could be about me…or my mom. I’m not perfect but I try. I’m hard on myself and struggle with asking for help. I’m messy and I’m kind. I’m all those things smooshed together to make me.

The song goes on to talk about things coming into our lives that we don’t ask for and they shape us into who we are today…even if it’s not what we asked for…or not who we expected to be. I want to be willing to take risks. To be hurt but not destroyed. I want to be tough enough that when I get bruised, I can use that to grow stronger and more sure of myself. And when I feel stuck, for example now, I can rekindle a fire inside of myself to keep moving forward toward the person I am and the person I am meant to be.

I have been trying to create a ritual for myself to let her go. To let the experiences I had with her go. And to let the things she said to me go. I have felt heavy under the weight of her thoughts and feelings about me. I recently wrote about changing my name from Karen to Kai. Needing to move away from Karen because that’s the name she yelled at me and the name of the person she hated. This week I decided to change my name legally. The new name felt like a game of make believe. And I’m not playing a game. I’m creating the path to reclaim myself as myself…not who she said I was. I’m not trying to disown her or my family. I am taking steps to own myself and my identity. That’s mine to create, not hers to impose.

I had not planned to change my name legally. I surprised myself. I filled out the paperwork and I filed the petition. It’ll take a few months for the change to be ordered. I may have to attend a hearing to tell a Judge why I want to change my name. I’m not sure it’s really anyone else’s business why…of course that will not be my answer if the Judge asks. An attitude will get me thrown in jail…this is Florida after all. There was a ton of paperwork to fill out and get notarized before I could file the petition. I guess they’re making sure I’m not changing my name because I am on the run from law enforcement. I’m not. I promise.

I was not sure how I would feel after I filed the paperwork. I felt relief. I felt like a giant chain that weighed me down, with other people’s opinions fell away. I was standing up for myself. I felt like I was claiming my own identity without the input of my mom. This is me regardless of what she thinks or what she might have said. She would have been angry about the change. She would have taken it as a rejection of her. It is not about her at all. It is about me…claiming my own power and not allowing anyone else to tell me who I am or how I should be myself. The change is because of me not her. This is who I am. This is who I continue to become.

The acceptance I want to find for myself, I want to find for her too. I do not think my mom’s life turned out how she imagined, and she was bitter. I had no control over that. I did not ruin her life, regardless of what she thought. I loved my mom. We had a challenging relationship. In the end I was working to change it…make it better. That didn’t happen but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love her or that I didn’t try.

Loving is hard. I try my best, but I am not always great at it. I hope my love can be a solid ground for someone else. I always say that in the end all that matters is how we love people. So regardless of what happens I move forward and remind myself that I did not give up on love today.

Do not give up on love today. Never give up on love. Love always wins.

When I’m 64

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

So, I had a weird thing happen this week. First, it’s my birthday week. I currently have a line from a Beatles song in my head, “Will she still need me, will she still feed me when I’m 64.” And I’m about to find out…although she doesn’t usually feed me because she hates to cook. Anyway, my wife had to go back to Colorado for work. So, I am here in Florida, and she is far away in Colorado.

In case you want to feel sorry for me, don’t. I’m not here alone. My stepson, Justin, is here with me. He just moved here about 10 days ago…and of course we have the Bulldog sisters too. That’s our dog, Abby, and her sister, Presley. Presley is Justin’s dog. They are sisters but from different litters. They are so much alike it’s crazy. They are both so fucking stubborn. And they even sleep the same. It reminds me of the theme song of The Patty Duke Show…”they walk alike, they talk alike, what a crazy pair….” Yep, I’m 64 alright…and that show was in black and white. Anyway….

A few days ago, I noticed a package sitting on the table by our front door. It seemed like it just appeared there. I asked Justin about it, and he told me he brought it in the night before. I hadn’t noticed it until the morning. I thought it was strange that the package was addressed to my dad. My dad died almost a year ago…so he didn’t order it.

Being quite brave, I decided to open the package…the next day. Inside the package was a book called Walking the Himalayas. That was weird. I had wanted to read that book for a couple years. It was in my Amazon cart. There was no note in the box and no return address. It was really strange.

I puzzled over the package for a bit and then I came to the only reasonable conclusion…my dearly departed dad sent it to me. That had to be it! This makes sense for so many reasons…my dad died so no one is sending him gifts anymore. Also, there wasn’t a note with the book. And no one would send my dad a book because he couldn’t read anymore because of his macular degeneration. And finally, it’s a book I wanted and it’s my birthday. It was definitely from my dad. I told Justin all of that and he appropriately responded with, “Whoa.” Ya whoa!

I was pretty excited to share this news with my wife when we talked that night. I told her the story and all my well thought out reasons why the book was from my dad. She did not say whoa…she said something to the effect of, “oh, crap.” Not her exact words but the emotion was there. She then told me that my sister had texted her and asked what I’d like for my birthday. Gayle told her to look at my list on Amazon…I know you’re following me here. Then my sister told her she was sending a book, Walking the Himalayas, and it would be addressed to our dad but that it was for me…and I should not open it until my birthday.

Well, my sister thought the story was funny and she jokingly asked me to thank Gayle for her. When I shared that with Gayle, we both had a good laugh. I’m grateful for the gift from my sister…even though I opened it before my birthday. I’m sure my dad would have wanted me to.

So happy birthday to me and go Rays! I’m off to a baseball game today where I can be my geeky self and keep my scorecard. I appreciate all the love for my birthday…and it turns out she will still need me when I’m 64…I can feed myself. Remember that in the end all that matters is how we love people. So, let’s love enthusiastically.