And then there were five...

          Sixty four days.   That is how long it has been since my brother...my only brother... lost his battle to cancer. 

           I hate that expression with a passion.  Losing sounds weak and there is absolutely NOTHING weak about having, living, or even dying with cancer. It is a force to be reckoned with and as I have witnessed more times than I care to count, I have watched loved ones slay and be slain by this stupid disease.  Whether you have it for a month, a year, or ten years, life as you and your loved ones know it is forever changed.  You seem to wake up everyday under the cloud of cancer and you have this new fight to stay alive mentality.   If you are lucky enough to survive this bastard of an illness, you  are forever that person that "beat" cancer and spend your days looking over your shoulder hoping it doesn't come back.  My mother battled cancer for 16 years before it took her life and I almost can't remember a time that she wasn't sick.  Us Mccroby kids lost our father quickly and our mother slow. Believe me when I tell you, quick is better.  While people pass away every day, cancer is different.  It has the nerve to take our loved ones from us while they are still here and we sit by helplessly as they suffer.  We are mere spectators in the demise of those we love. 

          I am not going to waste time shouting about cancer.  It's clearly not going anywhere soon and besides we have a multitude of catchy phrases to help us deal with losing a loved one.  "Cancer Sucks, F Cancer, and so on (insert sarcasm here).  I don't see the point in shaking my fists about something like cancer.  I do, however, find myself trying to hold on to someone and something that isn't here anymore and that in and of itself is a challenge.

           I am the youngest of the McCroby clan.  There is a 20 year gap between the oldest and myself. 

There was a 14 year gap between Scotty and I.  He was already in high school when I was just toddling around the family farm.   I have been told that I would stare out the window each day and wait for the bus to drop him off after school.   I would race out to meet him at the end of our long driveway.  As a high school kid who could probably give two shits about his baby sister (his FIFTH sister at that), he would indulge me and give the illusion that he had missed me too.  I have no recollection of this, but I have been told that we were quite a pair. I have to believe that we were.

         If we are being honest, I don't have a ton of memories of growing up with my brother.

That's probably because I didn't.  The three oldest McCroby kids were out of the house by the time I started making a dent in my parent's sanity (I can't imagine there was much left by the time I arrived).  Our family has a gift of rehashing stories to the point that you could swear you were there even if you weren't and as the baby of the family, I am grateful for that.  What I lack in memories, I make up for in stories that I have heard over the years.
          As we prepared for Scotty's funeral, even as he was still with us, we began digging up old photos (ok, our Type A sister starting digging up old photos and I have to give credit where credit is due).   I am not very sentimental and after my mother passed away, the last thing I was thinking of was photo albums.   I am thankful that this particular sister grabbed them and held on to them for us to swoon over during this difficult time.
          I believe that some of my favorite photos have been the ones of my family prior to me joining them.  I mean my parents were raising kids for something like 35 years (Chinese water torture sounds more pleasant than that) and there were decades of activity before I came on scene.  To think that my mom was putting out Santa gifts at the same time she had kids in college is inconceivable to me.  Talk about multi tasking...
          This picture kills me.  It may be my favorite of all time and I'm not even in it.  I am grateful for my parents desire to have a gaggle of kids because we are all the beneficiaries of that single decision.  I look at my brother and my sisters as clean slates who had no clue what awaited them in the future. As I stare into the faces of these kids, my now adult siblings, I'm overcome with emotion.  The challenges that each of them have endured (well I might add) confirms that we were raised by two imperfect people who loved each of us unconditionally and taught us to buck up, take whatever life handed us gracefully, crack a joke, and get on with it.
          As different as we all are, we are all tough as nails.   Life is hard and I feel that our mother prepared us adequately for that brutal reality.  Barbara was level headed but allowed us to be emotional.  She taught us to acknowledge our feelings, have a good cry and then solve whatever problem lay before us.  Ron on the other hand was a tyrant.  He was opinionated, creative, and funny as hell.  I have memories of talks into the wee hours of the morning with my mother.  I have memories of my dad cracking a joke about someone's haircut to make me laugh at whatever I was upset about.  Totally different strategies.   Both were effective...

          We moved a lot when we were younger.  We moved out West once but came back soon after. For  the most part,  we would just move a couple of neighborhoods over Cincinnati.  I honestly don't know why that was, I never asked.  Two days into our new home, my mother would have pictures hung, waterbeds assembled (yes, waterbeds) and life would carry on seemingly uninterrupted.  This picture was taken in our Utah home, the one big move we made.   I'm the one full of piss and vinegar not smiling.  There was a family effort put forth to get me to smile that day and I wasn't having it.  I have been told I am as stubborn as they come...apparently I always was.   I know that it must have taken everything my father had to not yank one of those pig tails and tell me to smile or else.  Knowing him, he probably did when the photographer turned around.  Oh well, five out of six kids smiling  ain't bad.

          I can still remember where I was, I mean EXACTLY where I was when my mom told me that we would be moving to Cleveland, four hours from Cincinnati.  I was going into 6th grade and it was the first time in my life that I felt that the rug had been ripped out from under me.  I was mad as a hornet, and I let my mother know it.  Funny how that works, huh?  My father took a job in a different city causing us to move and I unleashed my fury onto my mother.  Mother's seriously get a bum deal.  Anyways,  it didn't help matters that I love, love, LOVED the house we were living in at the time.  At this stage of life, it was just us younger two that would be participating in the move and I for lack of a better word felt unsettled.  While I was young and self absorbed, I was aware that we were leaving older Mccroby's behind and I didn't like it.
          In hindsite, my parents moving Polly and I turned out to be a good move.  Growing up in Chagrin Falls is what I consider to be one of my greatest blessings.  I loved it and while our family life was not perfect during our middle and high school years, I found some of my best friends who remain friends to this day and created some of the best memories of my life in that town (only a fraction of which I would share with my kids.  I was bad.  So, SO bad).   Polly and I were polar opposites and fought like cats and dogs.  Seriously, my dad could have charged admission to watch us go at it and offset his income.  That being said, she always had my back.   I remember moments such as her sneaking into my junior high cheerleading tryouts to watch me audition through the cafeteria window. (I bombed terribly by the way).
          We laugh to this day over the insanity of our childhood. We were the youngest McCrobys and no doubt our mom and dad who were in their mid fifties at this time were beat and done raising children.  For example, my dad had a gig out of the country and our parents went to Japan for two weeks leaving Polly and I alone to fend for ourselves.  I was in middle school and she was in high school and let me stress again, we did NOT get along.  Did I mention that they left for TWO WEEKS?  This was prior to cellphones so not only did they leave, we could not reach them (genius on their part actually).    We were recently cackling about how much times have changed and about the fact that they would be arrested if they did that today.  I said  "I mean they didn't even leave us money"!!  To which my sister confessed (laughing I might add),  that they indeed HAD left us money but she used it to throw a couple of parties.  Jerk.
          I was in high school when we moved into our house on Hall St. and at this point I was the last kid at home.  God, I loved that house.  I drive by it every time I am in Chagrin and my stomach turns.  I don't like it for a number of reasons.  For starters, my mom and dad aren't sitting on the front porch waiving and making small talk to anyone who walks by.  Secondly, the new owners (or probably four at this point) have not maintained the landscaping that my parents slaved over my senior year in high school and by slaved over, I mean sat on the front steps eating wheat thins and questioning the landscapers every move.  I am certain that they crew they hired would have knocked 20% off the job just to have my dad go inside and keep his comments to himself.  Lastly, I have stood on the sidewalk as an adult and seen the gleam of a television from the street.   I have to restrain myself from ringing the doorbell and telling them they aren't supposed to watch tv in that front room.  That room is for entertaining neighbors.   It was for Christmas mornings, music recitals, and after lunch naps.  While I was raised in many houses, Hall St. is what I think about when someone says home.
          The house on hall street was at one time a bed and breakfast.  We discovered this during the remodel as we found sliding doors that had been sealed up separating the dining room and the "parlor".   My dad thought it would be fun to put numbers on the doors in keeping with the theme of a hotel.  I resided in bedroom 2 and my parents gave me permission to decorate my room any way I wanted.  I chose pink.  Pink carpet and a pink and white floral wallpaper.  When it was finally up, I covered the pink walls in LL Cool J posters.  
           My parents were awesome about it, never uttering a word or rolling an eye.  Because of my parents age and the fact they had raised five kids before me, they did not sweat the small stuff. They probably concluded that this lip sync battle was not worth fighting (Did you see what I did there)?   When they were included in the Chagrin Falls home tour or when guests would come over,  my dad would come into my room midday and offer to help me take my posters down and roll them neatly so they didn't tear.  He even bought the tubes to protect them because taking them up and down became a monthly thing.  While they loved filling their house with friends, they apparently didn't love LL.  their loss because he was really something.
           Bedroom 2 was in the back of the house and faced the driveway where my siblings would park after they made the drive to my parents house.   I would lay in my bed and look out the window and anticipate the arrival of my older siblings.  Whether it be two of them or all five, I looked forward to those family gatherings like nothing else.  It was in those times that I didn't feel like an only child.  In the summer, I would hear the rocks under their tires as they pulled down the gravel driveway.  In the winter, I would see them pull in and listen to them kick the snow off  their boots off as they came in through the kitchen door.  Festivities began the moment they arrived and I would get all twisted up  when I knew it was time for them to leave.
          This picture was taken on the steps on the Hall St. house one summer.  Evidently before flat irons were invented...OY.
       

        My memories are from this house.  Too many funny memories to count.  Scott was at the forefront of many of these funny memories.  Six kids and spouses made Christmas morning insanity and we used to take an intermission to clean up the front room before round two of opening presents.  One year, Scott slipped outside during intermission and came around front and rang the doorbell.  My dad began bitching "WHAT in the world.  Who's ringing the doorbell on Christmas Morning"?!!!  He opened the door up all irritated to find a life sized cardboard cutout of himself standing there looking back at him.  Scotty had it made as a joke so dad could be in all the pictures with us.  There isn't a single picture of that Christmas without that stupid cardboard cutout.  Scott's creativity made for a seriously fun day and we milked it for all it was worth.  Dad loved it and could be heard chuckling every time he walked by that thing (which was about every five minutes).  Props to Scott for hitting dad where it counted.  Creativity and funniness.

          There was a Christmas Eve service at the Federated Church that we loved attending.  Let me rephrase that.  There was a Christmas Eve service at the Federated Church that our mother loved attending and asked us to attend because she loved having all of her kids at church with her and as a token of all of her holiday efforts and preparations, we complied.  

            At the end of the service, every person in the congregation would walk up to the front and light their candle. They would shuffle out of the church at a turtle's pace in an attempt to keep their candle lit.  It was beautiful to watch and by beautiful I mean painful.  It took forever...and I do mean FOREVER.  All any of us wanted to do was to get back to the house and reheat leftovers.  One particular Christmas Eve, we were watching a lady attempt to drag her elderly mother out of the church (apparently she had leftovers begging to be reheated too).  This elderly grandma was protecting the flame of her candle like it was baby Jesus himself and her daughter was growing increasingly irritated as she was attempting to herd her down the isle.  Us Mccroby kids were watching it unfold in front of us and bitchy daughter did not disappoint.  When she could take it no longer, she spun around and blew out her mother's candle and snatched it from her.  Aaaaaaaand we lost it.  All of us.   Nothing is better then laughing when you aren't supposed to and we couldn't stop.  From behind, we must have looked like a row of people having seizures.  I mean the idea of a nasty daughter blowing out her mother's candle at church on what could be her last Christmas is actually quite sad.  We however found the funny in it.  That's just how we roll.....

          I don't know what is going on in this picture or why we were gifted ketchup.  All I know is it was probably funny for a second and we laughed about it longer than we should have.

          By the time I was a junior in high school, my siblings began not treating me like a baby anymore and I began looking forward to their visits more than I usually did.  My parents would set all the grown kids up at a hotel close by so they could have their privacy and I was always invited for sleepovers.  I've often wondered how many people over the years asked to switch rooms because they were anywhere close to us.  We had a great deal of fun...let's just leave it at that.

          I remember when a summer trip to the flats in Cleveland was cut short because us girls were too much for Scott to handle.  Each of us was running our mouths and because it's frowned upon to hit girls, Scott had to keep answering for and apologizing for us.  My brother was NOT a big guy and I think by the 5th time someone got in his face and said "WHAT did she say"?,  he was done.  He flipped his shiz and told us it was time to go home.  The fun continued at home when we woke our mother up and she came into the basement to try to quiet us down.  It was hopeless and she knew it.  The laughter continued into the morning over breakfast when we rehashed stories from the night before.  I was just a pup in high school but the big kids took me out for a night on the town and I thought life couldn't get any better.

          Shortly after high school (I mean like 4 days after), I moved out to Vegas and began life with my husband.  The years passed quickly as we made babies and started our business.  There were many trips home those first few years and Matt just rolled with it.  My family has always been important to me and even though we drove (and continue to drive) each other crazy there are few places I would have rather been than with my family.  

          Losing our dad was unexpected and a total punch to the gut.  Losing our mother a short time later was equally as hard but more controlled.  We knew we were going to lose her but we kept our chins up as best we could.  Mom was cracking jokes about what music should be played at her viewing the day we put her on hospice care and Lauralee flat out accused her of faking cancer when her smoking hot oncologist walked into the room.  We were laughing loudly and were quite an unruly bunch in her hospital room.  As I apologized to the nurse for being so irreverent she stated that there were a lot of people who could learn a thing or two from us.  I couldn't have said it better than that.  We have learned that grief comes in waves and if you want to laugh when you aren't crying, there is a therapeutic comfort in that.  

          A few months before our mom passed away, she had all of us kids to her house and we literally picked through her things because she didn't want us arguing about who got what once she was gone. She wanted to know who was taking what, what it meant to them and where they were going to put it in their house.  If she sounds amazing, it's because she was.

          Scott, always odd man out with his sisters, made this day fun as always.  I remember him going through our mother's glasses which were to be donated.  He began putting them on his face and doing mock commercials for kids in third world countries who were the beneficiaries of these donations.  The hilarity came from the fact that our mother went through a phase (a phase that was entirely too long) where she wore these GINORMOUS glasses... saucers really.  She was either blind as a bat or had a desire to see the sun.  Irregardless, Scott played on the fact that no child ANYWHERE would want these glasses.  I can still see his face and am laughing out loud as I type this.  Our mother raised us to be kind and good.  Our father raised us to laugh at things we probably shouldn't.  This special time with our mom was one of those times and she took the abuse as we cackled at her ridiculous, and I do mean ridiculous, glasses.

          Despite her positive attitude and our mother's determination to keep a grim situation light,  I recall the day we met with hospice. I remember thinking it was such a shitty situation to be put in.  To be sitting in a room with your loved one and being told that there is no more hope for them is for lack of  better words...the WORST.  I was not there the day Scott was placed on hospice but I'd be willing to bet that those that were there can second my sentiments.

           Many people offer condolences when a loved one passes away but the truth is the road from hospice to death is an awful road to walk and often times, death comes as a relief to those who have been on this journey.  I won't speak for anyone else...that has just been my experience.

            Death seemed to linger for our brother and then came suddenly as it always does.  The days we spent celebrating Scott's life affected in me in ways I didn't expect it to.  While I have had contact with him over the years, I felt immediate regret for not making a bigger effort to have him in my adult life.  I have such fond memories of a younger version of him that I felt content to hold on to those.  In the end, that age old excuse of being busy just seemed so dumb and I made a mental note to do better with those people I still have in my life. 

          While I shouldn't have been, I admit I was taken back by the friends that my brother had that I never knew about or never had the pleasure of meeting.  They are the kind of people that I would have chosen to have in my corner.  The irony of the TYPE of people we choose showed me the similarities my brother and I share.  I mean I knew my brother had a following but good grief...I have never seen an outpouring of love like the one that was shown to him and to all of us for that matter.  People wept.  People stayed longer than they should have.  People really struggled (and I'm sure are still struggling) to let go.  Scott was far from perfect but he was authentic and that is a rare quality to possess these days.  Scotty was the real deal...

          As we drove back to Atlanta from the service, one of my children asked if that type of funeral service was the norm.  Matt chuckled and said "Ummmm no.  Most people would have a fraction of the people that turned up for your uncle".  He then reminded me that both my mother and my father had a great deal of people in their lives too.  Relatives traveled long distance to be with us amidst the loss of our brother.  My mother and father's best friends drove four hours to attend the service and to check on us kids.   "Ron and Barb would have wanted us to",  they said and that was that.  Matt went on to remind me that what our family has is special...and rare...and awesome.  

And he's right.  

          I saw a teaching moment and seized it.  I turned around in the front seat of the car (don't worry, I wasn't driving) and told my children what I have always told them, this time with the help of my brother from above.  

          In the end, the only thing that we have left are people so it is crucial that you treat them well.  I told my kids to be good people but more importantly to be good friends to those who crossed their paths.  It is in being a good friend that we make good friends and it is evident that my brother was a great, GREAT friend to many.  I stressed that each one of those people that came to honor Scott loved him.  Now THAT is the kind of legacy I want to leave behind, people who love me.  People showed up for my brother's funeral but the reality of it is, MANY people showed up for him in life, at the end of his life and ultimately in all the areas that really mattered.  

          Perhaps the beauty of friendships is that we get to have a say in who we surround ourselves with.  We create our circle by how we treat others, who we let in and who we kick out (by the way, I'm totally ok with kicking people out if they are sub par).  Life is too short to have wishy washy people around us.  We need people who are going to accept us, warts and all.  Life isn't always grand and we all need solid posts to lean on.   I am grateful for those who loved Scott while he was alive and for those who continue to love us girls, Max and Gina in his absence.  

          I have always said that my two greatest blessings were my family and my friends.   I think it's fair to say that those lines have been blurred over the years.  I consider my family my friends and many of my friends to be family these days. 

          My childhood was not perfect and yet I loved it.  My adult life has not been perfect but I have loved it.  I am grateful to have been born a McCroby and I am grateful for the struggles that our family had that made us who we are, individually and collectively. I wear my name like a badge of honor and it is my prayer that my kids love where and who they came from as much as I do.  Last year when Scott was really ill, I teetered on whether or not to make the trip to see him.  My sister Holly called me one night and said "I know you are busy and I don't want to pressure you.  All I can say is you won't regret coming to see him".  She was right.  Matt told me that we were going and when I asked if he was sure and pointed out that it was a long drive for just a days visit he said "It's your brother.  There's no question.  We need to teach our children that when it comes to family, you stop everything and just go.  How else will they know to take care of each other later"? I know, he's pretty amazing, right?!  He knows me well enough to know that if I didn't go and something happened, I would have never forgiven myself.  We went and we had an amazing visit with Scott.  We got to keep him for another year but that particular visit was priceless. 

          I love my siblings for our similarities and our differences.  Our father always said that we put the fun in dysfunctional and I totally agree.  We aint right and I like it that way... I hate that our once six is now five.  I miss my brother terribly and seek comfort in the fact that I have a gang of sisters, a sister in law, and nieces and nephews to lean on. Each time we lose a family member, we hold on a little tighter and that part I like.   I do, however,  pray that God will give us a break for a while. I don't know how much more my heart can take. 

He has three of us and that will just have to do for now....

         

          

          

         

Aftermath.

          I cried on the way home from work today. I pulled out of the parking lot after a seemingly uneventful day, called and left a message for a girlfriend, and settled on a playlist.  A mile down the road I began crying and so I went with it.  

Never even saw it coming.
          

          We are nearing the 6 year anniversary of our eldest sons freak accident.  My husband and our two boys were out riding dirt bikes when a crazy storm popped up and within the first 5 minutes of the storm, all three were struck by lightning.  Matt and Tucker suffered minor injuries and Riggs, our eldest, was killed instantly.  
          Matt began doing CPR on our boy while Tucker, just 11 at the time, watched in horror from the back seat of the truck.  My husband, despite his own injuries, diligently pumped Riggs chest for forty five minutes.  Yes, you heard me correct.  FORTY FIVE minutes until paramedics arrived and were able to shock his heart into starting again.  Matt never got a heart beat but he maintained as much oxygen as possible to Riggs brain.  He was alive. Barely, but he was alive.
          Out of reverence, I pay homage to this event each year on the date and repost my blog about that dreadful day.  I am not doing that this year.  If you wish to read about those events, you can go back in this blog and visit that story.  I no longer wish to revisit that story.  For starters, we live with that story every single day...and it's exhausting. 
            It is easy to get "stuck" when traumatic events hit us but the truth is, we are ALL in a different place right now and if we are being honest, I'm over it.  I have chosen to see the light where there is light to be seen.  I fondly remember the friends that surrounded us at the hospital and later at home when Riggs was discharged.  I choose to remember the many, MANY miracles that were cast upon us that hot June day, and I choose to forgive myself for the past six years when I didn't know what in the hell I was doing as I learned to live and adjust to our new normal.
            I laugh at things that I probably shouldn't because that is how I cope. I sometimes say terrible things about my child when I'm having a bad day or week.  I favor Tucker and I don't apologize for it.  It has gotten to be a joke around the house that the kid has me wrapped around his finger.  He totally does but it is WAY more than that.  He was 11 years old when our lives were rocked by Riggs's accident and he totally manned up. He manned up for Matt the night of the accident taking charge of paramedics when they arrived.  He manned up for me when I was discouraged with Riggs lack of progress and to this day, mans up for Bella.  When Riggs is having a bad day or is going to blows with Matt or I,  Tucker will take Bella down to the basement to play a game and protect her from anything he can.  Is he perfect, no,  but I have watched my middle child overcome huge obstacles and as a result, I'm pretty smitten.
           While Riggs had the luxury of forgetting what had happened, Tucker saw everything go down and was stellar in every regard.  He saw his brother literally drop dead in front of his eyes,  he came to the hospital and made his own case to the ICU nurses that while he was only 11, he NEEDED to see his brother and he deserved to be able to go back with him.  He won them over and they let him go.   The next weeks would be rough on all of us...Tucker was always able to connect with Riggs in ways that Matt and I couldn't and it always lightened the heaviness of the situation when Tucker came to the hospital.  He still knows how to diffuse things around the house when they have at times gotten heavy and I'm grateful.

(Scottish Rite Hospital...week 4)

              I am proud of certain things I have learned and not so proud of others.  It has taken me years to just admit that I am doing the best I can and even longer to allow my husband to have his moments of frustration, disappointment, or sadness.   We are all doing the best we can...Riggs included.   There is no instruction manual for chaos, challenges, or grief.  We are all just riding the waves the best we know how.
        All of us at one time or another are going to have the rug ripped out from us and everything we thought we knew is going to change.  While occasionally, we have time to prepare, more times than not, it is a single moment that changes us forever.   It is a fact of life and I don't think anyone is immune to it.  I have seen friends blindsided by divorce, the sudden death of a parent, spouse or of the unimaginable, a child.  I am here to tell you that there is no proper way to handle whatever it is that comes your way and if anyone, ANYONE,  tries to comfort you with trite words like "everything happens for a reason", you have my permission to punch them in the throat.

Truly.

          The past years have been trying to say the least for our family.  For awhile there, we all tried to protect Riggs from himself (it has only taken me 5 years to figure out that this can't be done) and so we kept tight lipped about his (and ultimately our) struggles.  As his mother, it is my job to protect him and so while I won't go into detail, I will say what I have always said.  Riggs had a traumatic accident and he survived.  We all did.  Our family is eternally grateful that he survived and that we got to keep him.  What we had never anticipated was the "him" we got to keep was going to be a different "him" than we had before.  We lost our child and got a different one back.  

Therein lies the aftermath.  

          

          Many prayers were prayed as Riggs lay in a coma.  In this picture, he had severe pneumonia from aspirating during CPR.  It was June in Atlanta and about 97 degrees outside.  His room was freezing and I sat bundled in doubled sweatshirts as they attempted to break his fever.  Every time the nurse would leave the room I would cover him up with blankets because I hated the thought of him being cold.  Never mind that he was burning up or that the nurse would quickly uncover him every time she came in.  She eventually stopped scolding me and it became a rebellious dance between the two of us.  I was his mother and I was determined to make him comfortable and she could just bite me as far as I was concerned.
          Six days later Riggs would wake up and Matt and I would fire questions at him as though he were a contestant on Jeopardy rather than our child who had just suffered full blown cardiac arrest and a head trauma.  We were desperate to see if he was "in there".  He knew the answer to every question we asked.  Brother, sister, dog's name.  What does dad like to do?  He answered work on cars and boats. Bingo.  What does mom like to do?  Exercise, hang out with friends and shop (hey two out of three aint bad).  We were beyond relieved and although the  next several weeks and months would be challenging, we considered ourselves lucky to have come out on the other side of such a horrific accident.  We were incredibly aware of all the other alternatives and we considered ourselves blessed beyond measure.
          Five weeks later, we left the hospital.  There was physical and cognitive therapy and an abundance of meetings with school counselors and teachers as Riggs began the 9th grade.  Matt and I were completely dedicated to our sons rehabilitation and prided ourselves on how swiftly he stepped back into our family routine.  We took things one day at a time and high fived each other at every accomplishment.

Fast forward two years.

          At first it was odd behavior and a complete and total lack of ambition to do anything.  There was lying, stealing, complete passiveness or complete aggression.  We have repaired many holes in the walls and Matt has often had to literally hold Riggs down as he worked through a fit of rage.  Matt and Tucker have been called things I wouldn't call my worst enemy.  While Riggs has gotten angry at me, he has somehow managed to hold his tongue when it comes to hurting me.  For that, I am grateful and because of that, I know that he is still in there.  Maybe not in the way we want him to be, but he's in there.
          Throughout high school (or as I like to refer to it, the longest 4 years of my life),   there was trouble in school and meeting after endless meeting trying to get to the bottom of each scenario.  There were so many behaviors that were completely out of character and we spent many a nights in Riggs room talking to him for HOURS and trying to help him navigate through his actions.  Matt and I would retire to our own bed and continue to talk into the wee hours of the morning battling the question "is this brain related or just crazy teenage behavior"?  We didn't know and neither did anyone else.  Apparently, the references on lightning strikes and people who live through them are quite small in number.  We were completely and utterly stuck in a situation that we had no manual for.

I should add, we still are.

          There has been jail (for really silly things...nevertheless, still jail).   There have been hospital and emergency room visits and evaluations when we just didn't know what to do or how to do it.  It has been never ending and I write this tonight because it is becoming evident that it isn't ever going to end.  And that's ok.  I need to get good with that and I do have a point outside of our own situation.  Please be patient with me.
          Riggs is kind and funny and tender hearted...we did after all raise him to be that way.  He is our first born and we adore him.  All the love in the world, however,  can't stop us from cringing at the choices that he has made or continues to make.  It doesn't matter if it is brain related or just crazy teenage behavior.  We have to stand by and watch helplessly and we have to learn to play with the cards we have been dealt.  Not easy I might add for a couple of control freaks like us.
           I had an epiphany not too long ago when I thought that this game of wack a mole with him was going to kill me, destroy my marriage, or ruin the lives of my other two children (who are thriving I might add).  I wrestled with God asking "what is it that I am supposed to learn from this"?  I have always been up for a challenge but this one seemed to be dragging on and on and on.  It was then that the answer came.  The only thing you are supposed to learn from this is how to love someone when they are not lovable.  At all. Oh and by the way, you are going to have years of practice at this.

Alrighty then.

            I love my child with every fiber of my being...and that just might not be enough.  I can love him but I can't pray this situation away.  It is what it is and I need to embrace it.  It occurred to me one sleepless night that I am not unique.  I am not the first mother to have wanted something different for their child.  I have seen friends struggle with drug addicted spouses and children.  I have seen the pain of suicides or tragic mistakes that shattered lives all around.  Perhaps the hardest pill to swallow is when someone else's choices indirectly or directly hurt us.  It isn't fair, but oh well.
           Earlier this week,  my seemingly normal morning took an abrupt turn with my son.  It was 7:45 in the morning and what occurred was mild in comparison to other things but it was the final straw for me.  Something in me just snapped and Matt and I concluded that love wasn't going to be enough.  We had to play hardball and it was go time.  Like literally...It's time to GO.  Despite the Jerry Springer episode that had just transpired on my driveway, I felt a sense of calm and called Matt shortly after leaving for work to tell him I loved him.  We'd been here before but this time felt different and we both knew it.
          I went to work unscathed, un rattled  and went about my day.  This tough love thing was going to work this time around.  It had to.  I was brewing with confidence.
          Around lunchtime, I was forwarded an article about a senior at our local high school who had been coming home from a study session the night before.  A car in the passing lane hit a dear that flew into his lane and ultimately into his car, killing him instantly.  It was his moms birthday and they were out of state....how's that for a happy birthday?  I can't imagine.  According to anyone who knew this boy, he was one of a kind and just as sweet as they come.  His parents, now three weeks from graduation, were planning their sons funeral.
       
Spoiler alert.  Life isn't fair.

          I sank into my chair, my confidence deflated and I picked up my phone to text Riggs.   It's not against the rules to play hard but still let them know you love them.  And I am quite certain that this is how my life with him will always go.  I am not responsible for what he does and says, I am only responsible for what I do and say.  We will never regret telling someone we love them and I hope that this poor mother had the chance to say that to her boy before she received that awful call that he was gone.
          I got in the car to drive home from work  and the tears just came.  I ached for my own situation, I ached for the family of this boy who lost his life so tragically and for all those who are dealing with their own THINGS.  We all have THINGS and I for one am grateful for the hardships that have made me what I am today.  Make no mistake about it, I wasn't grateful at the time.
          I hate the question why do bad things happen to good people?   The reason bad things happen to good people is because that is when our hearts are stirred.  We tend to conveniently forgot our blessings with things are going smoothly.  It is when tragedy strikes that we are the most pliable to hurt, to serve others, to learn, and to grow.  Most days, I am blissfully unaware of my heart.  In times of tragedy, I am reminded of how human I am.

Hearts break...and that's just that.

           The truth is we have no control over what life deals us or others for that matter.  I tend to be an advocate for not saying stupid shit when people are hurting.  When someone is in the fetal position just trying to breathe, they don't need your take on why whatever happened happened.  Whoever said silence is golden knew a thing or two about comforting others.
          It has been my experience that the initial accident, diagnosis, divorce, or death is the initial punch to the gut.  The aftermath, however,  is where the real struggle is.  People tend to fall away, assume you are fine, stop checking in and move on...meanwhile you are stuck picking up the pieces of a situation that isn't "new" anymore.

The aftermath is a complete and total bitch.

          There are a lot of things I can't do right with my current situation but there are many things I can. I am so grateful for the friends that I have in my corner.  I would literally be sunk without them.   I am grateful that through my own "stuff", I have learned what people do and don't need when dealing with their own tragedy's and as a result, I can say I think I'm a good friend.   I feel an instant connection to those who are blindsided when it comes to the sickness or death of a child. It's all I can do to resist driving to their house, ringing the doorbell, and saying "Hi.  You don't know me, but I'm just going to sit here and remind you to blink until you can remember to do it on your own".  I want to say "You will get through this.  Maybe not this year, or even next, but eventually, you WILL get through this.  Oh and if you want to throw things or swear like a sailor, I'll just sit here while you do that too".

We are allowed to react to our situations in whatever way we see fit.  That is called healing and we all heal differently.

           While the "anniversary" of Riggs accident is still weeks away, I am not waiting for an exact day to talk about it. It has weighed on me heavily this week and I felt that it was necessarily for my own healing to just address it.  It isn't a date to remember,  it is a constant battle, one that I am grateful to have been chosen to fight.  It's not going away and I refuse to give a shout out to a day anymore when I live with it.  I wake up daily with the scars to prove it...
          When were we ever promised that life would be without conflict or sorrow?  Why are we shocked when tragedy strikes?  Not only is life not fair, it's so, SO messy.  It isn't about the events, dates or anniversary's that change us but rather learning to live with the effects of those things.  It is in the aftermath that we learn to put one foot in front of the other and just breathe.