"Syke" Visit

Yesterday, our Dad had his second and final procedure to extract a clingy gall stone.  ...oooor did he???

The jokes keep coming folks and this time it came in the discovery that--oh wait--there's no stone. It was a true "syke visit" in the world of fake "hi-5s" and slicking back hair. (Until we're supplied with material other than medical visits, puns are what I have to work with. Sure we could all use a real psych visit after this.)

Diane and Dad braved the REAL winter weather (that's right DC...real) to make it to his early morning appointment. As with everything, the great Houdini act came after a new prep, anesthesia and jamming a tube down his throat. They discovered that--wonder of all wonders--the stone was missing! He apparently had passed it by his lonesome likely accounting for the bout of nausea/vomiting he experienced the day before.

So, just so we're clear, the procedure that was to be a quickie turned out to be a 6 hour doozy. The second procedure that had threats of becoming more extensive was absolutely unnecessary. Fantastic.

As if we needed another reminder, Dad's experience confirms yet again that we will have to wait until the ink is absolutely smudge proof on any marriage licenses before embarking in full "family health" disclosure.

~E

Back home

Dad left the hospital today, after spending the past few days holed up at Stillwater Medical Center.  He vomited twice once home, but otherwise seems to be hanging in there.  Diane is home taking care of him.  He'll head back to the hospital Tuesday for another go around with the surgical equipment.  Let's hope this time, everything goes as planned. -- J

Don't make me do it ...

Dad shares something in common with Craig and that is an overly cautious fear of pushing ‘the button.’  Dad’s been on a morphine pump since coming out of surgery, and though he’s allowed to push ‘the button’ every fifteen minutes, he does so with trepidation as if somewhere beyond the sturdy walls of Stillwater Medical Center awaits a trembling Bugs and a truck load of TNT.  Craig was the same way.  Though he had free reign to hit the morphine pump for an extra bolus, he’d wait until the last possible moment -- when the pain was at its peak -- and would push it only after he had sufficiently broadcasted his intention to everyone who’d listen.  When he did hit the button, he held on as if pressing it for longer than five seconds would somehow seal the deal. 

Word from Stillwater is that Dad is also detonating his morphine -- Craig and Dad were always the most similar.  Like Craig, Dad tends to alert Diane before pulling the trigger.  “Okay, I’m going to do it, I’m going to hit the button, should I hit the button, I’m going to hit the button.” Cablamy.  Explosions.  Chaos.  As Diane says, you’d think he was bombing Russia.  If only Mom were here, she’d grab it from his hands and do it herself.  ;)

Aw, the parallels.  It’s comforting to know that knowledge wasn’t the only thing Dad passed down to Craig.  They both have a healthy fear of narcotics -- or buttons.  -- J

Saturday Night Fever

We received good news yesterday that Dad's low heart rate was likely an anomaly or error in interpretation. But, for every to there is a fro. Whether from the pain, his increasingly distended belly, or from bowels that are finally waking up, he vomited early in the day and ran a fever that spiked at 100. By nightfall, it had dropped to 99. The doctors are now concerned that the stowaway stone is "making him more sick" (to use completely generic terms). They'll monitor these new symptoms; if they worsen, they may have to expedite surgery plans for fear of conditions turning septic. By all accounts, he'll stay in the hospital until Tuesday when he'll have his second procedure to remove the stone. They hope to go through his mouth, inflate the duct and pluck the stone. If this fails, he'll have to endure yet another surgery.

Despite these new symptoms, he was able to walk without his walker for a brief time yesterday, so he's making progress. It's a shame he'll be swept back under come Tuesday. It reminds me of swimming and being aaaaalmost dry when we'd have to turn around and swim another event in freezing water. Clearly swimming and surgery are of equal weight. ;)

~E

5th Dimension

There's an all too rare event in life that is as prized and time-sensitive as spotting an exotic animal in their natural habitat or seeing a celebrity out of context. Such an event can be as memorable as watching Barack Obama be sworn in or as lackluster as seeing Sarah Jessica Parker smell her hair in Adam's Morgan. (Yep!). Many of us have been both the eager audience with popcorn in hand awaiting the anticipated event only to become lead actor in the show at a later date.  The show, in this case, usually occurs just after undergoing anesthesia or taking some other sleep-inducing agent.

It's hit or miss what might happen post-anesthesia and if you wait too long, it's likely you'll miss the antics altogether. I may still hold the crowning title for theatrics in my family after having my wisdom teeth removed. After nearly biting a nurse's leg, Jill took me home and used the childproof lock to keep me in the car as she made a round for whatever liquids I could drink at a local convenience store. As she was at the checkout counter, I somehow broke free, shuffled up the ramp and into the store. With blood slightly falling from my lips, I cracked a broad grin and, in a sing-song voice, declared to the store, "I got ouuuut".  Yes, clearly.

Once home, I broke into more than a few rounds of the 5th Dimension's "Aquarius"--in slow mo. Of course, Dad and Craig were my captive audience for this slowed down version of reality. Apparently, all I needed was a pole to complete the show. It wasn't long before I was vomiting in the family's familiar orange spit up bucket, while everyone else helped move my sisters and I into our first "college" home.

Jill and Craig were resident duds when they had their respective surgeries years later--Jill, appendix; Craig, kidney. Jill essentially dealt with her near-ruptured appendicitis issue on her own until I flew in late on the night of her surgery. Any silly business had long worn off. Craig suffered extreme nausea and dizziness after his nephrectomy, so much that we stayed in the family waiting area and kept our patient room visits to short 15 minute intervals. Any movement and noise triggered his nausea; the fact that he shared a room with Mr. Noisy van Can't-hear-a-thing and his blaring TV didn't help his condition.

I found a kindred spirit in Mom after her brain surgery when she'd break into the 5th Dimension's "Up, Up and Away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooon" or "There's a hole in the bucket, in the bucket, in the bucket..." in reference to removing her brain tumor. (It's quite uncanny we both sang Fifth Dimension songs, particularly since I'm not a big fan. Apparently, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) But, all too quickly, the anesthesia wore off, the electrolytes fell further off balance and the swelling increased; before long, Mom couldn't recognize us let alone sing a song from the '60s. 

Fast forward a year and a half and we're here in Dad's "5th Dimension". For the first time in our lifetimes, we find Dad hopped up on something other than a sugar high (or crash, as it were). I called Dad a few hours after his surgery when he was able to talk. Instead of singing or, our favorite, vomiting, he simply spoke--a mile a minute! Stream of consciousness takes on a new meaning at 100mph. How he was able to stream along sentences so quickly or coherently after what resulted in a major surgery complete with intubation was beyond me. He even paused momentarily to comment on his scratchy throat, but not in an effort to take his leave, drink water, or suggest we hang up. He was merely making an observation similar to "Hey, look! A bird", and then resumed talking about his concerns. A "stress of consciousness", if you will.

Dad is teaching a course this semester and was convinced his students have been robbed of a superior education due to this gall bladder setback. God bless him for believing it's that deep, and that student's these days give a damn. I tenderly reminded him that he'd only miss a week or two of classes and most students don't care as long as they are given the information that might appear on a test. He has competent colleagues who can pinch hit for awhile as he recovers from this freak surgery. Yet, Dad's a perfectionist and has perfected the art of ruminating even when hopped up on drugs. 

As much as it made me laugh to listen to him, I sensed a vulnerability that I wished so badly I could help, or at the least be there with him to keep him company. Seeing and hearing Dad sick makes it ever apparent how small our family has become-down to a dad and his daughters. We were fiercely protective as a unit of six. Now, that fierceness holds a hint of desperation.

~E

Update on the ongoing saga that is our life ...

Well, where to start.  Dad is still in the hospital after undergoing surgery Thursday morning.  The doctors called in a cardiologist this morning after his pulse dipped to the forties.  They suspect a partial blockage in one of his arteries but we're still awaiting the EKG results performed earlier today to make a final assessment.  He's doing as well as can be expected, despite considerable pain, and sleepless nights -- he hasn't slept since Thursday morning.  To be honest, he's absolutely miserable.  I just spoke with him and we had a nice chuckle over the situation (at least we're laughing, albeit between thin lines of frustration).  Open heart surgery would be the perfect icing for such a craptastic week/month/year. 

It may seem strange to say, but a part of me hopes that the doctors will choose to address even a small blockage now rather than wait for a major cardiac event in the future.  The gallbladder may have been the canary in the cave, in this regard.  There may be other health issues lurking below.  It would be good to take care of them now before they become life-threatening when we are least expecting it. 

More to come ...

-- J  

Why can't it be easy?

Good Lord.

So Dad went in for surgery yesterday, and true to Lawler form, it turned out to be one hell of a disaster.  Though initial reports indicated that his gallbladder was inflamed, the doctors had hoped to be able to remove the organ laparoscopically, which is typically performed as a same-day procedure.  Unfortunately for Dad, not only was his gallbladder adhesed to his stomach and inflamed, but it was packed to the rim with gall stones.  His was the worst case of gall bladder disease the doctor had ever seen.  Performing the surgery laparoscopically would have been too risky given the state of his gall bladder, so the doctor opted for standard surgery, creating a six inch incision near is lower abdomen.  Six hours and one broken instrument later, the doctor was able to remove his gallbladder, but was unable to remove a stone lodged deep in the duct to his liver.  Dad will undergo a second procedure on Tuesday to remove the remaining stone.  It’s unlikely that his liver sustained any damage from the blockage. 

He’s now in recovery, and will stay in the hospital for the next few days for observation.  He’s doing well, though he’s been having difficulty oxygenating; they put him on two liters of oxygen to help facilitate his breathing.  They’ve also given him a morphine pump to help manage the pain, which, at the moment, is quite intense.  Diane is with him in Stillwater and will stay with him until he’s back on his feet.  (I'm stuck in Bangkok, but Erin may fly in next week to trade out with Diane.)  He’ll likely be out of commission for the next few weeks, but in the end, should fully recover.

Which leads me to ask this: why can’t it be easy?  Dad was looking forward to an easy surgery, and quick recovery.  He just started his new course at OSU a week ago, and will now miss at least a week of teaching.  He was already anxious about missing a few days, let alone a week or two.  His anxiety about further procedures and being away from the office is causing his blood pressure to elevate to unhealthy levels.  

All one can do is shake their heads and mutter good freaking Lord.  Fireworks just went off outside my little Bangkok coffee shop.  With our luck, I’m surprised the coffe shop didn’t just go up in flames.  Wait, I see smoke billowing outside..maybe there’s still time.  – J  

Hiding tears from the train

It is inauguration time and the metros are elbow to elbow with the seasoned "smart card" traveler and tourist alike. For whatever reason, the metros tend to be a somber place-a quiet respite where I plug in and tune out. Stop to stop, I spend the time traversing previous conversations, previous experiences and before long, I've dug a mental ditch similar to the forts Craig and my siblings would dig as refuge from the demands of ordinary life.

Tonight, as I stood closer to two strangers than I'd ever care to be, I closed my eyes in remembrance. I wondered what Mom and Craig would think of this historic inauguration, and whether they would have made the trip with the masses to view it first hand. Craig, probably. My mom, probably not. They were so close to witnessing history. People speak of this moment in history and it hits on that deeper level like plucking the "G" string on the violin. To me, it's that jarring "E", as well--that unmistakable high pitched squeal of a string that goes no further, despite its testimony that it could. And, it's the mournful rooster's morning call.

This is Mom and Craig to me, and this weekend is a reminder of them. I wish they could be here; I wish they could be among the millions of others witnessing history, as close as they were. I wish they were a part of the metro crowd bustling home from a busted night.

Instead, I stood not feet from a man with his double pierced earrings and a sweat-stream that started first from a hidden source under his scull cap and traced down his forehead to his sideburns. I thought of Craig's "Frankenveins" he'd get near his temples after a hard workout. The other night, after a hard cry missing him, I too had Frankenveins, and I couldn't help but laugh despite the sadness.

I stood not feet from a woman's faux turquoise bracelet, encapsulated in faux gold. I thought of Mom and her penchant for turquoise. She'd almost always come home with a gem from Santa Fe or any other location she traveled. I could see her wrist, what her hand might look like holding the bar. Her hair smoky grey and  wind-kissed from a full day. Craig standing next to her, helping to keep her steady when the metro stopped. We'd stare at each other and I'd say "not yet", indicating which stop we were. If only...

I closed my eyes to stop the tears for these unbaked dreams.

And yet, it wasn't the first time I hid tears from the train.

~E

Mary in the Past Tense

It never occurred to me that there would be parameters and timing in which it is appropriate to seek a type of support group for working through this tremendous journey called "grief". Yet, alas, there are and it proves to be a veritable Plinko game ala the Price is Right as to what bracket you fall into.  Being "a freshie" (newly bereaved) might bump you one way, being too young might bump you another. You'd think with the "diversity" of our loss -- losing Mom and Craig -- I could easily find a group whether it was a parent-loss, a motherless daughters, a brotherless sisters, or a 20/30 something parent-loss group to join.

This is, indeed, a precarious time in our lives defined best by a mood -- a state as fickle as the weather. There are the panic attacks that whip out of nowhere like a straight line wind; the sulky blues that hang around like an overcast day; and the days of joy when the sun is quick on the heels. Try as you might, you can't force the 'weather' to turn or predict how long it will last. All you can do is ride it out. The passing of Mom and Craig doesn't heal in two weeks. It won't heal in a few months, long after folks have returned to their lives and the swell of support has faded. And, it still won't be "normal" a year after. It will be a long hard road toward reconciling the loss and establishing a new, acceptable, but still painfully different ‘normal'.

In an effort to stay proactive in this grieving process and not sit on the sidelines expecting it to get easier on its own, I've looked on-line, called centers, even had contacts provided to me to join a group but came up wanting at every turn. Groups had already started or will not begin until March, if at all. I held hope, however, for a group organized for motherless daughters for women who lost their moms in their 20s or 30s. For months, I checked a website for information as to the date/time/location when they would meet. I finally contacted the lead for this group only to find -- wait for it -- it had already met! Yes, being uncommunicative with the grieving is a considerate route to take, me thinks, with things being so easy breezy carefree, as they are.

This was strike three in the round of support groups, which is contrary to the promises of hospice support groups when the time came for grieving. Maybe it's a secret club where you "knock three times on the ceiling...or twice on the pipe" to get in. As with other discoveries in this process, support isn't easy to find nor is it available once found. Yet, Lawlers can always find the funny and we had a good laugh at the prospect of crashing AA or gambler's anonymous, instead. Sure, the topic change would no doubt be startling when it was my turn, but at least I'd have a group. Or, we could always adjust context to fit the audience, like change "grieving" to "gambling", for instance. "I've been having a hard time with the ‘gambling' process. I've been thinking of when my Mom would take me to the -- pregnant pause -- ‘casino' and we'd play, uh, ‘roulette'. Man I miss that." Or Diane's addition, "Anyone have a share? Erin?" "Yes, I miss craps. I miss craps every minute of every day. Nothing will fill the void in my life like craps did." These are the jokes...

Life buzzes around and we do a pretty remarkable job keeping up, by all accounts. Losing one loved one is more than enough to push one on their haunches in a corner somewhere. Yet, we have two, nearly simultaneous losses to process. Right when I'm grieving one, there's a switchback and I'm grieving the other. Then another turn. There's no "easy button" for getting through this, yet I'm trying very hard to expand my universe, keep perspective, and be proactive as much as I can. I establish daily goals, self-celebrate the "wins", take myself out. But, as much as I try, there are some realms I cannot influence and just have to accept, despite the disappointment. It would be nice if the universe would align, as Babs Streisand might remark. I'd go further and add that it would be nice if that part of the universe which has it a bit easy could man up and do small things to make it a bit easier for the other part of the universe that has it a bit rough.

So, back to the support network, ever persistent, I contacted a woman who leads the motherless daughters group, as well as a parent-loss group. I quickly realized the importance of parameters when she explained to me the differences in scope and focus. Women in the motherless daughters group had lost their mothers years sometimes decades ago, at a minimum. Focus for this group was understanding how such a loss impacts every future life stage, be it marriage, childbirth, or any other milestone. Losing your mom when you're young isn't the same as losing her when you're 55 and are established/grounded in your own family. It's far different when all the major milestones still lie before you unexposed, instead of neatly wrapped in pleasant memories. Once they were hidden gems waiting for discovery, now it seems like those milestones -- falling in love, getting married, having a child -- are blissful landmines. As happy as they are, they rip open the wound again and again when considering that she will never be there to share in the experience. I saw the pain and loss in Mom when she remembered her own mother, who passed away before Mom was married, had children, etc. The same milestones were left unshared with her mother. How the wheels turn to repeat the path. (The same is true for sharing milestones with Craig.) These women are still understanding how dramatic their life stages have shifted and how they are impacted by the loss of their moms. My sisters and I are now part of that contingency, but not quite yet.

The parent-loss group is for the "freshies" like me and my family -- those in their first year of bereavement. Day to day feedback from the masses would suggest we should be well-seasoned in this thing called grief. Whether it's an accurate perception or not, it feels as though patience for grieving has a two-week window and then the expectation to don the body-glove of normalcy begins. Her describing my family's experience as still fresh and new validates all the internal feelings of "holy crap, what the hell just happened here." The parent-loss group isn't just for women or just for the young, but it is just for those who've experienced loss recently and are picking up the pieces of a fractured life.

She asked a few questions for intake into this group. As prepared as I was for the moment of question, I didn't expect to be thrown by the simple, unadorned questions she asked. There weren't many questions and, seven months ago, I wouldn't have even remembered what was asked. But context changes everything...

"What was your Mom's name?"

There it was. Mary in the past tense.

It broke my heart beyond description. "How old was your mom when she passed? What did she die from? When was she diagnosed?" And then, "what was your brother's name?"

Craig in the past tense.

"How old was your brother? What did he die from? When was he diagnosed?" 

It's interesting how the mind weeds out this noise when it lacks context, and you pay little attention to questions like "what is your mother's or brother's name"? But the moment it becomes relevant and all you have left is the past, such a simple question can knock you off-kilter, and you're hit again by that straight-line wind.

~E

Remembrance of Time

“The clock is too early,” Craig said as he squinted at his digital clock.  “Can you adjust the time?” “Actually Craigy, that’s the correct time,” I said. 

That three months have passed since Craig’s death – and over six months since Mom’s last breath -- is a reminder that time owes no allegiance to the process of healing.  It selfishly ticks on, putting distance between today and once crisp memories.   How quickly we’ve transitioned from the process of living and creating memories to that of simply remembering.  Though that exchange occurred months ago, I can still remember in perfect clarity the events that took place in the days leading up to his death.   If only I could adjust the clock like Craig had asked, I’d turn it back by days.  I’d slow the seconds and the half-beats between.  I’d take us back to July 24, 2007, to the day before Mom was diagnosed with cancer, when we were still a healthy family of six.  I’d zip back to lazy days of conversation and laughter, to times where we were more concerned about proving our point than relishing the time we had with each other.  I wish I could.  I wish I could slow life down, or snuff it out altogether with one stroke of a flat palm.  I wish I could time travel to happier moments.  I wish I could make the pain end and the sadness stop.  But I can’t.  With odd solemnity, time stands firm like a totem, pinning down the past and staking its claim to what will be in the days and weeks to come. 

Time past is lost to us if not but for our memories.  Yet, it’s the remembering that I find so difficult.  Some days, I can remember details as if the event occurred yesterday.  On those days, unexpected memories surge forward by the presence of equally unexpected stimuli, like the scent of Mom’s favorite perfume, Bellogia, hovering over an apartment stairwell, or the sound of a certain Maroon Five song, which Craig and I saw performed live by a Filipino cover band on Halloween night in Malaysia.  Even now, as I sit at a coffee shop in Bangkok, listening to Hillary Stagg’s For My Love echo through the café’s stereo system, I’m transported back to the 11^th floor of University of Colorado, to the moments before Mom’s last breath.  I’m back sitting with Emily, Dad, Diane and Erin at 1800 Arapahoe, to long days huddled around Craig as he slowly gave his body permission to let go.  These stimuli take me back, if just for a moment.

On other days, the memories seem as distant as their once vibrant smiles.  My mind – trying to recall their exact laugh or how they looked in the morning – has suffered.  And on those days, when the memories are just a bit out of reach, I wish more than anything to go back in time, if just to remember how life was before.  If I could, their subtle aspects would become the focus of my preoccupation.  I’d do my best to record Craig’s staccato delivery, or Mom’s grainy morning voice.  I’d burn to memory his witty asides and her “Mary malapropos.”  I’d show more patience with their stories and would store to heart their careful hugs and “I love you, sweethearts.”  And I’d do it all for selfish reasons; to have something to hold on to during the rough days when the glaring reality of my lonesomeness sinks in. 

But even then, the memory would fall short of the real thing.  Memory cannot bring to life the touch of their hand after a hard day or the warmth of their embrace after disappointing news.  Memories can form only a fiction of real life, a shifting foundation of what was, but the exact origins remain lost forever.  We remember events as they relate to us.  They become altered, remembered, and shaped to create a meaningful, yet nuanced narrative which, though it strives to be exact, is a caricature of real events.  Memory takes us to a new destination slightly different from the last where exchanges and interactions take on a more selfish bent, and encounters are arranged and rearranged to suit our needs.  Through memory, we’re able to recast ourselves as central characters, scrapping less essential “staff” to create more personal experiences with selected characters. 

For me, I find myself recreating memories of Mom and Craig where I take on a more central role in the experience, though I’m not sure others would remember it quite the same way.  Indeed, no two memories are the same.  Scents and sounds change as do the words and tone of a conversation.  Aspects previously thought unimportant come to the fore, while expressions, once forgotten, become instantly recalled.  The frustration and joy comes from remembering exchanges in new and different ways. 

Does the remembrance of the clock mark time lost or memories gained?  Perhaps for some, memory has a way of escaping the tyranny of time, and all remains fresh and accurate to the life lived.  For me, the memories change in step with the clock.  But this is our mode of belonging to the world and to each other.  The amendments and reflections, hesitations and digressions, backward looks and forward glances make up life.  I would trade the memories for the real thing in a second, to have one more day with them here, but that fact has been fixed in time.  Having them here is now an eternal impossibility.  Memories -- however shifting and inexact -- will have to do.  -- J

Wisdom before death

Erin and I recently watched an online video of a little boy at the end stages of leukemia.  With just weeks to live, he launched a nation-wide campaign to help feed the homeless.  As we watched him explain his motivation, Erin and I were struck by his composure and wisdom at such a young age.  It’s the same composure and wisdom that we’ve seen in a little girl from Britain, who, at the tender age of 13, had decided to terminate treatment.  And it’s the same composure and wisdom we saw in Mom and Craig when they realized that soon their life would end. 

Most of us would imagine a different reaction, of people going out kicking and screaming or denying fate even as their bodies give way.  I’ve only witnessed the former, or the peace that comes with the realization that death is imminent.  This isn’t to say that facing death is easy.  Even days before his death, Craig expressed concern over how he was no longer able to stand or hold his bladder.  He had seen the symptoms just months before with Mom and knew what they inevitably meant.  And like the lawyer that he was, he tried to problem solve and figure out ways to stall the process, like using Therabands and marching in place.  Yet, though Craig fought hard to stall the process, he accepted his cancer and his inevitable fate with a characteristic grace and wisdom.  He always said: it is what it is.  He expressed as much during my last conversation with him when he told me that he was, and would be, "okay." 

With Mom, too, cancer was her reality.  Though she fought hard for each day, towards the end, she accepted the fact that soon she would pass away, much like her mother did some decades before.  And like Craig would do just a few short months later, she assured me that she was at peace and ready for the eventual end. 

They both had every right to be angry and disappointed and perhaps, in some way, they were.  Yet, I didn't see this side.  Like the little boy with leukemia, they arrived at a point of calm wisdom, a wisdom that comes only when one is able to relinquish control and let go.  Having been witness to both their deaths, I believe that when the time comes, I too will find wisdom and strength in the knowledge of my own passing.  This, I hope.   -- J

 

 

Symbolism in a suitcase

It's a curious thing how the smallest, most unremarkable items can hold the most meaning and tell such personal stories. I recently packed my blue suitcase for my holiday travels west to Oklahoma. The edges are worn, the frame bent. A wheel is missing and a jagged metal point juts dangerously where the handle used to be. Its unkept, humble appearance may sneak by some without notice; others might scoff at its tattered exterior as it passes on the conveyor belt. I now see it for the story it tells...

Merely a yearling when Mom was diagnosed last July, the suitcase quickly matured through heavy travel as I zigzagged between Maryland and Oklahoma, and eventually Colorado. By air or by road, I'd find my way back nearly every three weeks and, by April, I was living out of my suitcase like Diane and Jill. For six months, my sisters and I dutifully opened our luggage, put on our cleanest dirty shirts, pulled up pants (no longer form-fitting for a variety of reasons), and pulled back our hair. A limited selection of garments fell into heavy rotation as our traditionally minimalist ways left the luggage more empty than full. (Needless to say, accessories and hair dryers didn't make the cut.) All we needed were the staples, something relatively presentable, and Mom and Craig. That was enough. Apart from sidebar reflections on life, we never complained about the inconveniences of living out of suitcases for 6 months. There are far larger misfortunes to bemoan in life.

I never really paid attention to the toll that suitcase took over the last year until recently, when the wheel came off (literally). Much like a passerby wouldn't know the reason for the tired face and saggy eyes, as it circled the conveyor belt, you wouldn't know where the suitcase had been or what it had experienced for it to have earned its nicks. Another long trip to the Bahamas? Another long night at the clubs? Or, a more horrific story left untold? Looking at it now is like looking in a mirror; I see its wrinkles, its dark circles, its gaunt sides. As durable and strong as it is, the everyday wear and tear left an indelible mark upon its frame.

It's interesting how much in life goes unnoticed. Give it pause, and it can reveal so much in a moments notice. I guess the story lives in the details. ~E