Burn

New year’s resolutions—does anyone really like these? I have never been a fan. It creates pressure and stress for me, which eventually turn into some sort of failure. Who wants that hanging over her head? Not me. I gave up on resolutions long ago. There are things I would like to improve about my life and myself. I work on those things, but I don’t make them resolutions. Also, they tend to not be things that have an end. To me, resolutions are things you make for the year. I fully support resolutions for those people who they work for. That’s just not me.

Years ago, when I gave up resolutions, I embraced a new tradition. I call it “Burn, Baby, Burn.” We used to have an annual New Year’s Eve party that was always themed. There was an 80’s party where I dressed up as an 80’s mom and completely grossed out one of my in-laws. Oops. Oh, and my brother-in-law had the best costume that year. Check it out! 

Say Anything

There was the pajama party because, well, that just made sense. We had a “Very Swayze New Year” the year Patrick Swayze passed away. It was complete with classics like Roadhouse, Dirty Dancing, and Point Break. I also created a “Very Swayze” trivia game that we would play throughout the night. My personal favorite was the year we had a “Very Springer New Year.” People dressed up as Jerry Springer guests. We had a faux brick wall that people could have their picture made in front of. In attendance were strippers, hookers, and a variety of men from all walks of life. ;) We played a game called “Who’s Your Daddy?” I won’t go into details. If you were there, you know why! These were good times, and the partying was interrupted when I was diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t feel like much of anything during that time, and we just stopped hosting.

All is not lost, though! During all of these themed parties, we did have one tradition that I loved. We played “Burn, Baby, Burn.” Instead of resolutions, we would write down all of the things we wanted to leave behind that year. You could write down as many or as few as you like. Then we would wait until 11:59. Everyone would gather around the roaring fire we had built in the fireplace, and we would throw all of our nastiness into the fire and leave it behind. We started the year fresh. Baggage free! This doesn’t mean we still didn’t make it funny. In fact, even my dogs get in on the fun. Of course, I choose things for them because I don’t speak their language, and they have no thumbs to hold the pen to write anything down.

Funny dog notes

As another New Year’s Eve approaches, I am thinking about things I want to leave behind. Maybe some people? Maybe. As 2014 comes to an end, I will be Marching Fourth into 2015 with a few less things. Happy New Year, y'all!

Bypass

I woke up on a Saturday morning and realized I had forgot to ask my mom to pick me up some N.C. apples on her trip that day. Al and I were visiting that day and spending the night, so I wanted to make sure I got in touch with her. I called early. She answered and was upset. She started whispering. “Daddy’s really sick. He can’t walk. He’s been sick for over a week, and he went downhill fast last night. I don’t know what to do.” Let me explain. My dad has been to a doctor less than a dozen times since I have been alive. I don’t really know why, but it’s just something we were all used to—daddy doesn’t go to the doctor. I tried to get more information from my mom, but she was really upset. I got off of the phone and talked to Al. I told him we needed to get ready and get to their house pronto. I called my mom back, and she was almost in tears. “Daddy got up and tried to put his clothes on to go get apples. He laid down in the kitchen floor and told me to leave him alone.” I sighed and at this point was still unsure of how dire the situation would get. “Mom, you can’t let daddy lay in the kitchen floor and expire. I know he won’t get in an ambulance or let them treat him. Just get him in the car and to urgent care. We will figure something out. I’m on my way.”

We got ready quickly and piled the dogs in the car. I called my sister. She was taking my nephew to a play rehearsal and was on the road. I told her I was heading to town and would keep her updated. On the way, I finally got in touch with my mom. “They are admitting daddy to the heart center. He has lost a lot of blood from internal bleeding and needs a blood transfusion. They aren’t sure where the bleeding is coming from.” My mind was racing. Internal blood loss? Heart center? It wasn’t really adding up at this point for me. I was just scared, but I still felt that he would be ok. He’s so strong. I knew he had to really be in pain to go to the hospital. I was kind of shocked he was going.

I called my sister back and told her she better meet me at the heart center. She made arrangements. I rushed to the 4^th floor, and the elevator doors opened. There was my mother. It’s important to note that she’s 71 years old, but no one told her that. There she sat with her stylish hair, her red lipstick, and a black leather jacket trimmed in ruffles. The woman goes everywhere in style. I was in sweats and Uggs. I went to my dad’s room. He was so pale—almost translucent. He was in pain. My sister arrived shortly after, and we pow-wowed. Our daddy was not going to be ignored and left in that damn room. We were on those doctors and nurses, and I have to say that they responded calmly and well. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. I just wanted it done faster because I was starting to panic.

After a few hours, the blood transfusion began. That kept my panic at bay a bit. Daddy started complaining of chest pains, and for some reason it finally hit me. He was having a heart attack. There wasn’t anything they could do because of the internal bleeding. If they gave him the types of drugs you give people having heart attacks, then his blood would thin and he could bleed out. We sat in that tiny room and watched my father suffer a heart attack. There was nothing else we could do. He was talking to us, and he kept insisting that on a scale of 1-10 that his pain was maybe a 3. Bullshit. I had a hair appointment in town that day, and he was insistent that I go. So, I did. Al sat with me, and I alternated between just being able to talk and silent tears rolling down my face. My stylist was finishing up, and my phone rang. It was my sister. “You need to get here now. Right now. We are on the 2^nd floor.” Al rushed me there. The cardiologist had done a heart cath. My daddy had three major blocks. Emergency open-heart surgery was a must. The cardiologist was grim. “He may not live through the night for surgery.” That’s what he said. He was admitted to the critical care unit, and we waited to see him. As we were waiting, we ended up being able to talk to one of his nurses. My mother, who never really shows much emotion and hadn’t that day, spoke up to the nurse. “I like him. Please save him.” It was so simple and so sweet. And, it just seemed more powerful than I love him. He’s her friend, and she needed him.

We went back to spend some time with him. Visitation was limited because of his condition. My sis and I just stood there talking as silent tears rolled down our faces. He was in so much pain. His surgeon came in and explained what would happen. If he made it through the night, then open-heart surgery would be first thing in the morning. If he started to lose him in the middle of the night, then he was going in no matter what. It was the surgeon’s version of a hail mary. He had no idea if my dad was still bleeding internally or where it was coming from. He just knew that if he opened this man up and performed open-heart surgery with all of the blood thinners he would have to use, then he could lose him. My mom, sister, and I stood at the end of his bed and prepared to say goodnight. We knew it was more than that. My dad smiled. He raised his hand in a small wave to us. He said, “Well, it’s been a good ride. I love you all.” It was sweet. It was wonderful. And, it was so, so painful and scary. I had come to a place in my life where I had to possibly hear my daddy’s last words to me. We headed back to my sister’s house.

We opened the door, and I saw Al. I lost it. I sobbed. I screamed. I snotted up the entire joint. My 11-year-old nephew wrapped his arms around me from behind. He has always called me MizAnt and spelled it that way. He said, “MizAnt needs some support.” And he just held on. I had Al wrapped around the front of me, and I had my nephew wrapped around the back. My sister and I tried to lie down, but we were up all night. She knocked on the bedroom door at 6:00 a.m. I panicked. She immediately said, “Daddy’s alive. He’s going to surgery soon, and we need to be there at 7:00 to see him.” He had made it through the night. Was it going to be ok?

We bundled up and picked up my mom on the way. She had wanted to be by herself the night before. We got there, and he looked the same. He wanted to live. I could see it in his face. He wasn’t giving up. This was good. Very good. We spent about an hour or so with him and talked about old movies we liked. We talked a lot about The Quiet Man. We both love the visuals in that movie. He would lay there and wince in pain, but continue to feed me quotes from the movie. Everyone began to gather in his room and get him ready. We had to say goodbye again.  And we waited.

One hour in and there was an update. The bleeding was from 3 ulcers. It had stopped on its on. No bleeding going into surgery. This was the best news we could expect at this point. Two hours in and another update. Surgery going well. Yes! Over three hours had passed, and here came the surgeon. “It went very, very well. It looks good. I did three bypasses, and it looks good.” I am not a hugger, but I jumped up and latched on to that man. My sister did, too. My mom took a minute. She still wasn’t showing much emotion, but I knew something had to be going on in her. We grabbed something to eat while they got him out of surgery and in his room. We spent the next three days waiting on him to be strong enough to wake up. We would go for our limited visits that we were allowed and just talk to him and touch him. I think somewhere in the state he was in that he knew we were there. On the third day, I rounded the corner to his room and there he sat. In a chair. And staring angrily at some grits that he deemed, “Bad. These aren’t like my grits.” He was still very out of it, and I don’t know how much of it he really remembers. I know he would get emotional at the quality of care he was receiving from his nurses. He just couldn’t believe that they would take such good care of him. I really had no idea what they do either until I witnessed it. They sat on a chair at the end of his bed and tended to all of his needs. They never left his side.

He was transferred out of critical care, and he came home days later. Home.  He was fixed. His first order of business was a shower, and then he gave a soliloquy on how hell was a Hill-Rom adjustable hospital bed. He didn’t like the hospital bed. Today, he is getting back into his walking routine. Before the heart attack, my dad ate a well-balanced diet, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, wasn’t overweight, and he walked 7 miles a day. It was just genetics. He couldn’t control it. He’s going to live. This experience has changed all four of us in so many ways. Probably in ways that I will never even really comprehend. I just feel the ways. My daddy is different. My sister described the change best. “He’s still daddy. He’s just his best self.” And he is. And he’s here—Marching Fourth.

Jessie

I met Jessie through one of my old blogs. It’s defunct now, but my friendship with Jessie is anything but. If memory serves me correctly, this was back in 2008 or 2009. We would comment on each other’s writing and daily lives. We would also send each other fun packages—or I like to think I sent her fun stuff. I did. I did. Jessie would send me everything from homemade beef jerky to knitted thongs for the many bridal showers I was attending at the time. I sent her spicy peanuts and retro notebooks. We clicked.

We ended up becoming “friends” on Facebook and our friendship became closer. We interacted with each other everyday and still read each other’s blogs. I should say, though, that in most ways we are completely different. If you were to look at a timeline of my life compared to Jessie’s life, there would be few similarities. During this time, Jessie also became close to my sister. My sis and I can be a bit of a matched pair, so this wasn’t very unusual.

After many years of friendship, we had the opportunity to meet Jessie and her family in person. In April of 2013, my mom, sis, and I found ourselves near Yucaipa, California. We were gonna get to visit Jessie! We went to Jessie’s house, and it was just like showing up to any of our friend’s houses. We knew better than to hug her (Jessie doesn’t do hugs), but she did greet us with a giant smile and many, many air flappy hugs. She got us all piled in our rental car, and she gave us a tour of Yucaipa, which ended with us picking up some fantastic, authentic Mexican food. We had to head back to the hotel because we were flying out and heading back to South Carolina. Jessie packed us each our own bags. My mom got a handmade scarf and pieces of a bottle tree that she wanted to try and root back home. My sis and I got a handmade scarf, some blood oranges from a tree right near Jessie’s house, and some sage to take home and dry.  The sage was neatly wrapped up in some yarn for travel. My carry on bag smelled heavenly for months.

Back at home, I found myself realizing how much I relied on Jessie and her friendship. When I would feel not so confident in myself, I would call Jessie. When I had a funny story to tell, I would call Jessie. You see where I’m going with this? You do. When something good would happen to me, I would call her and she would say, “This is good. Write it down. When you start to feel down about this, then go back to your notes and read this. It will remind you that you are good at this.”

I got to go back and visit Jessie in February. It was a fast paced trip, but it was good. Jessie, her family, and I were all crammed into her two-bedroom apartment for a few days (there were five of us, three cats, and a dog). There was room for me, though. Jessie always makes room for me. I’m really in awe of my friend. She is very public about her struggles, so I know she wouldn’t mind me sharing. Jessie grew up in a foster home, and it wasn’t a good situation. She was a young mom and a young wife. I grew up in a household with both parents and a sister, and I sometimes still wonder when the hell I might grow up. The only evidence so far is a mortgage and a car payment. What I’m trying to say is that I had all of this wonderful direction as a kid and young adult. Jessie did not; however, she is making this life work for her. Her kids are fantastic little human beings, who make the honor roll. She is holding down a good job and going to college. She has a path, and she makes choices each day to keep moving forward on that path.

I write all of this for Jessie. I wanted to find a way to tell her that she helps me March Fourth each day. There have been some pretty dark times for both of us, and I’d like to think I help her March Fourth each day, too. I try.

Friendships and Purpose

My mom always said I constantly had to have someone to play with. Of course, I don’t remember this, but I believe her. She said I always had lots of friends around and never wanted to leave anyone off of a party guest list. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that I’m more willing to leave people off of a party guest list. I have friends. I also have a tight inner circle. Within that inner circle, I have an even tighter family circle. As with most people, my family circle doesn’t jut consist of blood relatives. I do consider myself very fortunate that my sister, who is eight years older than me, fits snug in the family circle. I don’t know that everyone with a sibling gets to have that kind of relationship. Well, I do know, and they don’t. I was also fortunate to find my husband, who is not the least bit threatened of my relationship with my sister. In fact, he is always sure to be careful and not stomp all over it—or in it.

I had always prided myself on the fact that I had kept most of my childhood friends close to me. We might not have seen each other all the time, but we still had constant contact through phone calls, emails, texts, etc. This was important to me. It was so important to me that I may have paid more attention to how long we had known each other rather than to how the relationship benefited either one of us. There was one friend in particular whom I had known since the 3^rd grade. Let’s call her J. I remember the first time I met J. Her family had just moved to the area, so she didn’t know anyone. I liked her immediately because she had freckles and red hair. I know that’s an odd reason, but it was mine. Once I started to get to know her, I really loved how loud she was. She always seemed happy and was always laughing. I got the chance to spend the night with her, and I just knew we were meant to be friends. She had sisters, and pets, and a mom who loved to hug on me, and a dad who loved to make me laugh. Don’t get me wrong, I had a great home, but it wasn’t a loud home. I loved her fun, loud home. I loved her.

Of course, like most friends, we had ups and downs. Even through middle school “fights” and college/life distance, we still remained in touch. Fortunately, she decided to come back home to start her married life. I was her maid of honor. Just like J, her wedding was fun and loud. It still goes down in the books as one of the best times I’ve had at a wedding. I honestly don’t know if she even knows how happy I was for her. I’m not very good at telling people how I feel, so I had just hoped that she knew.

My life took some turns I didn’t expect—divorce. Ugh. It was for the best. J was there for me. She wasn’t living close to me at the time, but I could still visit her for a weekend. And that’s just what I did. Her husband decided to invite his childhood friend that same weekend. Well, well, well, can you believe that when I laid eyes on the childhood friend that there was a lightning bolt between us? I couldn’t believe it either. In fact, I tried to stomp it out and ignore it. No luck. Thank goodness! The childhood friend and I have been together for 10 years, and he is my husband. J introduced me to my husband—a man that I love so much it scares the hell out of me, even to this day.

J and her husband moved back closer to us and started an adorable family. I noticed that we had drifted apart, but I chalked it up to me being busy with my career and her being a new mom and starting her own business. There were lots of changes happening, but that was ok. That’s life. Then I found out I had cancer. J and her mother were there for me. I had phone calls, flowers, and hugs. She would even haul babies over to my house to spend time with me. I got better. Then I was diagnosed again. This time there were fewer phone calls, no flowers, and distant hugs. This time I chalked it up to her being busy. It hurt, though.

It’s important for me to mention that when I feel hurt, I retreat like a hermit crab. I fold up tight inside my shell. You can pry at my claw, but I will not open it, even if it was just to pinch you really hard. I’m locked down. I can’t put my finger on just one incident or thing that J did during this time. I think it just kept building, and I kept retreating until there really was nothing left on my end. I know she had to feel it. She did mention it once. The conversation didn’t go well. She was upset that I wouldn’t “let her in.” I was upset that all of a sudden she wanted “in.” Why now? We were just at two different ends of this mess and neither one of us was going to relent.

Do you believe we functioned like this for about two more years of friendship? We did. I know neither one of us was very happy in the friendship. In some ways, it was like when my first marriage went bad. It felt similar. When I start to feel like this, there are two people I cling to—my husband and my sister. I told them how I felt. They both understood. They also both understood that I had known her for almost 30 years and didn’t want to just let things run their course. I think there were times J and I both rallied. I know there were times where we both complained and vented to our husbands (who keep in mind were also childhood friends). That had to be hard on both of them.

Ultimately, the dam on all of those hurt feelings on both sides busted in March. I was so hurt and angry. I can only assume J felt the same.  I’m just sad now. I don’t think we were that close anymore, and I don’t think that either one of us really wanted to stay in the friendship. There was little left on either side. I just wish it hadn’t had to end the way it did. Usually I’m the more reactive of the two of us, but not in this case. J was reactive. I wonder if she regrets that? I’ve known her a long time, and if she does regret it, she would never admit it. My gut says she gets past the sad parts because she simply blames me. I guess to each her own.

Is there a good way to break up with your friend of 30 years? Probably not. For now, I remember her loud and fun home. I look at my husband and smile. Without J’s friendship, I would have never found him. I’m grateful for those 30 years of friendship. I’m Marching Fourth.