On September 29, 1940 a daughter was born to Stanley & Jessie Callahan Sanderson.  She was the first daughter, after two sons.  Needless to say, she was Daddy's girl.  And the boys weren't impressed.  According to Carol Ann Sanderson they tortured her constantly.  Aaaah, siblings.  She would, a few years later, have the priviledge herself.
     Her childhood was, for the most part, a carefree one.  Walks to the pool every day in the summer, picking Hollyhocks to make toothpick dancing ladies, paper dolls of Jayne Mansfield and Betty Grable.  A blondie cutie in her younger years, she would become a beautiful brunette as years passed.
     She was popular.  A cheerleadr for the Galena Pirates for six, yes six, years.  Homecoming court (I believe), fawned over by her male classmates; friends with most of her female peers.  She had the gifts of humor, kindness, and smarts.
     While walking to high school, a young man noticed her.  After days of seeing her walk, he offered her a ride.  He was strikingly hansome--incredible smile.  Four years older.  Eventually, she would date this young man.  He was years ahead of her in experience, being born to an alcoholic father, and out of school to support the family at 16.
     The date she described that stands out in mind, was a trip to the movies in which she had to leave to use the restroom, or get popcorn or something.  She was night-blind, even then.  Walking  back into the theatre, she stood for a moment, adjusted her sight and took her place next to her date and took his hand.  Apparently, her date had super laser eyesight, because she felt his eyes bearing down on her from behind.  Oops.  He was not amused.
     He went into the army in 1957.  She waited.  They were married October 18, 1959.  They began their life in a small apartment beneath his mother.  She was a "city" girl and didn't know how to cook or take care of a household.  His mother taught her everything she knows today.  Marriage was not what she imagined it would be.  But, on September 24, 1960 she gave birth to a girl.  Her husband, now my Daddy, had been travelling to Stockton for work.  He found a nice little house to rent in Stockton.  And, her world was upside down.
     Stockton, a close knit community, didn't welcome "outsiders" openly--expecially not Galena!  A football town since, I think, it's creation, Galena was like the Packers to the Bears. The enemy!  So, this young mother felt alone.  Trapped with this infant.  She was not encouraged to make friends.  Because of this, she was not regarded as the friendly person she was.
     Eventually, Dad met a man at work that he would become very good friends with, and Mom friends with his wife.  That friendship ended abruptly when it became apparent that they were into the "social scene." 
     In the meantime, we moved to a big house on Front St. in Stockton.  This is the first house I remember.  Beautiful oak trim, spacious rooms.  It was at that house that Mom brought home a tiny bundle in 1963.  I remember being told to be careful of her.  She was very tiny.  Her name was Janet.  I had a sister.  It was pretty cool, I think, until I realized she was staying.
     A year or so later, a guy Dad worked with announced he had a house for rent in the country. We moved to this new world in the summer of '65.  I remember moving day.  I think I was told several times to get out of the way...go figure....  I remember some guys bringing in our carpet all rolled up, and pulling back when I touched it, and found that the backside was scratchy and dirty.  I don't know what Mom was doing, other than trying to keep me out of everyones way, and taking care of toddler, Janet.
     This was not an experience Mom treasured.  She'd never been in the country...alone.  And, to make matters worse, it was that year, or maybe the next, that Richard (Robert?) Speck killed a load of nurses in Chicago and was on the loose.  Mom was scared beyond imagination.  Of course, I don't remember, but I'm guessing she wept with relief when Dad returned from work.  She was that scared.  At least in town she could go running into the streets if she had to.  Here, she was a mile from most neighbors.  Who would she run to...the cattle grazing in the fields surrounding "our" property? 
     As the years went by, she tackled my clothes being ripped by my "best friend", the everpresent odor of cattle and pig--and losing two boys.  Stillborn.  I remember her being pregnant only on the day she was scheduled to go to the hospital with, I think, the second loss.  As usual, she smiled and explained something, but I don't remember that either.  My Dad was crushed, as he'd always wanted a boy.  No more children were born.
     I remember 1968.  By this time, my sister was actually a playmate, be it one to be tortured.  And Mom would show us moves from her cheerleading days.  It became my passion.  Mom had a class reunion coming up.  She would be thin, or not go.  She went from house dresses to capris and blouses tied at the waist.  One day, while my sister and I played under the Big Maple Tree, she came out of the house with a blanket.  She was laying out.  In shorts.  And a tied blouse.  Who was this pretty lady?  Wow, Mom was a girl!  And a pretty one, at that.  I remember seeing pics of her reunion and it was clear that she had taken the weight loss too far, but she was still a standout.
     After some years, Mom & Dad bought that house in the country.  The property included a trailer, rental, and a four room house, rental.  The "little house" was not much of a problem, as the renter didn't come by much.  But, the trailer....oh the trailer.  Renters included a couple that fought all the time, sometimes the woman running into the night in her nitie.  I think they were asked to leave.  The Burkhart's.  Mom a model for Spiegel catalog, Dad a Ken doll and two girls that became our constant playmates. Kathy and Connie.  I can't remember why they left.  I remember Kathy being in my class for a couple years, at least.  And the Conlins.  Mexican(?) couple with an adorable daughter, Donna.  She was younger than we were, but we included her as much as we could...until my Mega Pixie Stick magic wand cut her eyeball.   I know that's not why they left, but boy did I take it for that!!  I remember having to go to the trailer and personally apologize to them for my recklessness.  Very humbling.  I don't think I ever got a Jumbo Pixie Stick again, them being lethal weapons and all.
     Dad took on a second full time job somewhere along the line.  He was gone 16hrs a day.  We never saw him, but after 3:00pm on weekends, or all weekend if it was his weekend off at the Kraft plant.  Mom became full time disciplinarian.  She must've discussed our actions with Dad at some point, because many punishments came from Dad's hand, or instructions.  She became accustomed to being a bit of a single parent, but spent time laying on the couch.  Tired.  Well, being a mom is exhaustinig.  We didn't know it at the time, but she was chronically depressed.  No one talked about that then.  She'd had post partum depression after my birth, and I suspect Janet's.  But, she had days that she was just silly or helped us with crafts or taught us to bake.  And teach us cheerleading.  She did the jumps!  In the kitchen!  She was amazing.
     She had things she did to make us into morning people, which we still are not.  She would dance our cereal to the table.  Or sing while pouring it.  There was that one day, though, when she must've had a bad night and poured OJ on the Froot Loops.  And was not in the  mood, and made us eat them.  Not sure I unpuckered until Jr. High.  And she baked.  Oh Grandma Radabaugh taught her well, and she was a good study!  Homemade bread...sometimes she's let us punch it down.  Making cookies, swearing that if you stand by the stove and pointed your left toe, they baked to perfection.  God knows, they were damn good cookies!
     To add to her duties, she was nurse, as my sister got a serious case of anemia, suspected to be leukemia.  And I got Red Measles in every, yes every, orafice possible.  She sat by me on the couch, worried, as this was a serious disease in 1969.  All drapes were closed; sunlight could blind me.  I cheated, of course, and peeked out the window to see our new trailer neighbors, the Burkhart girls.  She actually took quite a liking to the medical field, reading "I Am Joe's Liver"(Pancreas, Brain, Skin) from Reader's Digest to us.  She passed this to me,and I can be quite annoying with my "knowledge" of medicine.  She was also a wealth of soap opera information, updating us on the goings on as we ate supper.  Oh, and the grocery list.  Who knew reading the abbreviation could be hysterically funny!  "We need tpap, tpste, mluk, jce, and eggs."  Eggs?  I know that word!  She became part meteorologist as well, giving new names to combo weather such as snain, and taught reading in a unique manner, twisting letters so that when I actually got into school I thought we ate marcony and cheese.
     I hit puberty.  And boys.  An obsession for boys, that is.  She became Counselor.  God Bless her for listening to every move my crush of the day/week made.  I was way to geeky to actually ever have a boyfriend, but she assured me that, 1)they didn't see what she saw, and 2) some people are late bloomers.  As this was not the case with my sister--she bloomed right on schedule--I didn't put much stock in her wisdom.  I watched my sister become more and more beautiful, and I seemed to just get dorkier.  Yes, I was jealous of her.  Somehow, Mom kept it in perspective for me, and I learned to joke about it. "...Yeah, all her prom dress sizes combined is what size I take..."  She and her family's humor was gratefully passed on to me.  Without it, Dad would not have known I was alive except to demand chores and then complain that he could've done better.  His declarations of my homliness and that "no man would ever want me" could be somehow masked with a joke, even while devastating me.
     Yes, after many years of working two jobs, and then working all day at home on his days off, Dad became a bear.  It turned the once confident, popular cheerleader into a woman of submission.  It was pointed out to me by someone I love very much that when he spoke, Mom actually lowered her head.  We had all become victims of emotional abuse...though not knowing for many years.  To this day, if I am not doing something, anything, I am a nervous wreck.  I am still afraid of "getting into trouble". 
     Mom began working somewhere around '73 or '74.  Assembling switches.  Second shift.  I was in charge.  She got some calls that were not appreciated.  But one, a delicate problem was explained to me so that I could be sensitive to my sister's needs.  I remember her coming home with pieces of switches that had fallen into her purse, and her stories of a smelly friend.  Mom was not unkind, but a person can only take so much!  She landed a job at the Stockton Bank eventually, and worked there until she moved to Galena in '90.  The bank job saved my ass many a time, as she didn't have to pay for overdrafts, and I, in my irresponsible late teens and early twenties, put that to the test.  She would sneak money into my account to keep it above water.  I owe her tens of thousands of dollars.
     There came a time, I remember when I had to become the nurse and counselor for her.  A frantic phone call.  "Don't panic..."  Well, surely someone had died.  "I was sewing your dad's pants...(heavy breathing)...and the needle...(more breathing)...went through my finger".  Normally, I'd have made a joke, but the heavy breathing kicked me into my "help" mode.  This would later be called "being cold", but it's how I deal in the moment.  Anyway, I asked her what she meant-'went through'.  She told me the needle had broken off in her finger after going all the way through the bone.  OkeeDokee.  "Okay," I calmy told her, "Go and get a bowl and the peroxide.  Can you do that?"  She could.  "Pour the peroxide in the bowl and submerge your whole finger."  She did, and I began to talk her down.  I'm not sure what we talked about, but she did, after ten or so minutes, calm down, breathe right.  "Okay," she said, "I'm going out to the garage.  Please stay on the phone."  I did.  I'm not sure how much time passed.  She returned, out of breath again, "Okay, it's out."  What had she done?  This superwoman had taken the strongest pliers she could find, put her hand between her legs, and pulled.  And pulled.  Out of the bone.  "Well, get your finger back in the peroxide!" I exclaimed.  I can't remember if she ever went to the doctor for this.  She was able to move her finger, so I expect not.  Years later, fencing wire would come loose and pierce her through the palm of her hand.  Dad was home for that one, and he took her to the ER.  Poor woman.  When people got hurt, Dad got angry.  I just hope he wasn't cussing her out all the way to Galena.
    Fast forward--finally--.  Mom turned 70 yesterday.  We gathered at the nursing home that none of us ever saw coming, and celebrated another year conquered.  She seemed a bit down.  But, she would have never imagined herself confined to a nursing home two years earlier.  She was a movie-aholic, shopaholic, on the go gal.  Remarried to a doting, wonderful man, after leaving Dad in '89.  They spent winters in Tuscon for awhile, and took trips to San Francisco to see my stepsister, Teresa.  She was funny, hip, and mostly supportive.  She'd come to realize as years went on, that having children was a gift.  She phoned often, I did not.  Rotten kid.  Now, she sits in a wheelchair, little use of her right arm, right foot turning in, breath seems hard to come by.  They say that's normal.  She's had several infections and her mind doesn't always work the way she wants it to.  Her personality is different, but, and this is big, she can talk.  For six weeks we waited for her brain to heal, post stroke, and give her her words back.  And one day Nubs walked into her room and she said "Hello!"  "All things are possible through Christ..."  And she had countless folks praying for her!
     Her greatest gift now is Janet.  The daughter she gave birth to second, the daughter she sparred with first.  For years, they just didn't get along.  Janet is more like Dad, though much softer.  I've always been more like Mom, except for the crying at the drop of a hat.  Janet lives several blocks from the nursing home.  She visits five times a week.  Hounds the aids and nurses if things aren't just so.  Attends the progress meetings with complaints and approvals.  She is Mom's main advocate.  This wears her out immensely, as she also has Fibromyalgia, along with a myriad of other health problems.  She now knows Mom better than I do.  Truly my loss.  She feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility for making sure Mom is taken care of.  Nubs is there everyday, several times, my Aunt Reen stops by once a week, my Aunt Janice pops in, she has more visitors than YouTube!  But, Janet has guilt.  She knows it, but she has to do what she does.  And, she is very, very good at it.  She is still living with the guilt over my Dad's death, as if there were anything any of us could've done for a man that admitted he was trying to kill himself through the bottle.  But, the day before she'd called and he didn't answer.  And the next day.  And, as she might have at another time, she didnt drive to Stockton to check on him.  One of his best young buddies did go to the house, and after banging on the windows, as instructed by Dad if he didn't answer the door, he went in and found Dad, passed.  Janet's guilt consumes her at times.  And fuels her advocacy for Mom.  I wish I could take her torture away.  I don't make it to see Mom, but once a month.  I know Janet resents me for it.  I suppose I would.  I call Mom once a week now.  Just to let her know that I love her, and am so proud of her.  I send emails and pictures.  I don't deserve such a wonderful woman to be my mom.  Or sister.
     Yesterday, September 29, 2010 we celebrated Carol Sanderson Radabaugh Cole.  Today, I look out at the cloudless sky and thank God for her life.  And, Nubs'.  And Janet.  And Reen.  I don't deserve it, but I am so blessed.

I Made It

     This is it.  Half century.  I made it.  There were many times over 50 years that I wondered if I would.  Ironically, today is, so far, one of them.
     The day started out teary with panic.  Just the way I went to bed.  Rent is due, and the bargain I struck with the landlord and the bank has come back to bite me in the ass.  Nick got up, dragged himself to the bathroom, showered and took his seat on the love seat to eat breakfast.  We sat in silence as the minutes ticked by to school time.  We dragged ourselves down to the garage, into the noisy little "beep beep", and took off.  As I said my usual, "have a good day bud", he said "Happy Birthday, Mom.  I love you".  I fought back tears as I told him thank you, and I told God thank you on the short drive back to the apartment.  I crawled back into bed, surprisingly sleeping for just over an hour.  I figured I'd better get up and get going, as I had a trip to WalMart for a few groceries and meds. 
     On the drive up, it was as if I were overcome with a spirit.  I noticed the tips of leaves turning orange.  The Sumac, bright maroon.  I needed these groceries, so whatever that meant to the rent, so be it. 
     And then I got to the checkout.  Debit card denied.  I'd just checked my bank balance, so I knew the money was there.  And it all just came spilling out.  Right there at the checkout.  "Happy birthday, too me", I said with anger.  The only thing in that cart that was a "want", not a "need" was beer.  I had to have the scripts.  As I stood sobbing, I searched through the bags for my meds.  Perhaps, they thought, those would go through.  They did.  W T F???  I left the store, leaving my milk, toilet paper and cereal staring at me in disbelief.  I was in full sob mode as I walked through the doors.  After sitting in the car sobbing for a few minutes, I thought "no", somethings up.  So I called the bank, then I called the debit card.  There was a solution.  Now, I had to walk back into "the WalMart" with swollen eyes, makeup gone, and try to retrieve all but $50.00 of what I'd gotten.  After some amazing head addition, mission accomplished.
     The drive home was very different.  I was exhausted, and still had to haul the groceries up 19 stairs.  I didn't notice anything but the road.  This would have upset me any day.  Public humiliation, frustration, defeat.  But, today is my 50th birthday.  My plans for today were so much different.  But, those were MY plans.  God's plans--apparently much different.
     My plans were to run a couple errands, relax, sleep, go to the football game and head downtown for some birthday beers.  Reality is, I kept the beer in the grocery cart--out of spite I think--so I will have a few of those while Facebooking and watching TV.  Yep, it's just another day.  And, really isn't it?
     However, these things have not escaped me on this day.
     I have been allowed to live for 50 years.  God's plan.  I was gifted a beautiful, smart, kind, talented son.  God's plan.  I survived divorce, having to sell a house I loved, moving to a smaller place, the loss of a favorite pet and several loved ones-all in just over a year.  Survived.  God's plan.  As I sit her now, I have a roof over my head, heat, water, and now, food in the cupboards.  Thank you Lord.  I have friends of many different kinds from many different places, thanks to social networking.  Thank you Lord for giving an "aha" moment to a college kid years ago.  I have many diseases, but they can be somewhat controlled with meds.  Thank you Lord for Doctors, Pharmacists, Scientists and Medicare.  Thank you for the ability to walk, talk, write.  There are many things I don't do well.  This gives me the opportunity to learn.
     Tomorrow is the beginning of part II.  I will still not know how to pay the rent I promised, and believed would be easy to pay, at the time.  But, I know all things are possible through Christ.  He has lifted me out of despair and set me down in hope before.
     I made it.  God's plan.

Prospective

    Perhaps I am fortunate in an unfortunate way.  I stay home.  I clean when I want, I take a break when I want, I don't do anything---when I want.  How many times have I been told how lucky I am?  Too many.
     I am home due to disabilties. All-Over-24/7 Pain, overwhelming fatigue, panic attacks, depression, to name the headliners.  Yes, I am fortunate.
     I was granted disabilty in 1999, after fighting for two years.  I'd worked all my life up to that point.  First for a demanding, unappreciative, emotionally degrading man, then for a woman with the same "management" style. True, that was only 17 years of my 25 working years. But, the toll that just those two "managers" had on my body and mind was devastating.  Working your ass off and being told it's wrong or not good enough, is not only exhausting, but it breaks you emotionally.  And as it turns out, physically.
     Fibromyalgia is thought to be triggered by trauma or chronic stress.  That I, my sister, and my mother have been diagnosed with it, is no accident.  We lived in stress mode everyday, whether the source of the stress was physically present, or not.  And, I worked for 11 years, in an insurance company, under the same intense stress.  Mistakes were screamed in front of a gathered group of peers.  Many were able to blow her off, but for me it was a continuation of previous degredation. 
     Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is thought to be brought on by a serious infection, such as mono, hepatitis, or today's H1N1.  The body's handy immune system gets so excited at being put to work to fight those infections...it forgets to stop fighting.  It is in full battle mode, fighting even the good stuff.  After time, this wears a body out.  Imagine being a soldier in a battle that never stops and never gives you a break...ever.
     I worked in several jobs, mostly in the insurance industry until 1997, when I was fired for absenteeism. I'd had my son five months earlier.  The Fibro kicked into high gear.  The Chronic Fatigue was exasurbated by the natural sleepless nights of having a baby.  And, borderline Post Partum Psychosis added to the mix, causing me to miss alot of work.  I cried so much at the thought of being fired, but I know now that it was God's time out sign.  And for awhile, a blessing.  I got to be home to raise my son.  My beautiful boy.  The joy that has brought me is immeasurable.  I was able to be home when my stepdaughter got home from school.  No babysitter, no latch-key.  During that time I was looked at with a bit of envy.  All the while, my body screaming in pain; my mind spinning.
     And now, I am going to celebrate 50 years on the earth.  And people look at my staying home differently.  My son is almost 14--quite self-sufficient.  My stepdaughter is a junior in college.  I am still home.  "What do you do for a living", I am asked when I meet new people.  I am embarrassed.  I reply that I stay home.  "Oh, you have kids?"  Yes I do.  "How old?"  My son is almost 14.  And then I have to endure "the look."  By this time, I can read most people.  "Living off the government." 
     My sister was the one that took that feeling of shame and helped me kick it to the curb.  After all, I paid into Social Security for 19 years.  When asked what she does, she tells the inquirer that she worked in the special needs industry until she became ill.  Simple.  That is what I tell you now.  I worked for 25 years, mostly in the insurance industry, until I became too ill to work. 
     God, I'm lucky.

A Day Lived Through Webster

     So many thoughts today.  They're just jumping everywhere, so this entry will be a potpourri of emotions.
     Lonely: Being without companion.  This, although I swore it wouldn't after my divorce, is shadowing my days.  No, I will not remarry.  But, to have someone care about me, and want to be with me, because I am me, does leave my heart sort of achey breaky.  I want to be someone's number one, not their number two, or when no one else is home. That's what I have been up until this day.  Good enough until something better comes along. And why have I let this be the case?  The obvious answer is that I don't put myself first or feel that I am worthy of first.  That was the case, many times.  I played second fiddle to a ghost for many years.  It seemed noble.  There is nothing noble about it.  I was as lonely then as I am now.
     And then my son was born.  I was his number one.  He looked at me in a way that only a handful of people in my entire life ever looked at me.  Even today, though his Dad is his best buddy, I know that I am still his number one.  His description of what he will do to any man that hurts me, sort of gives it away.  It is a wonderful feeling.
     Compassion: Sympathetic feeling.  Empathy: The experiencing as one's own, the feelings of another.  Sympathy: A relationship between persons wherein whatever affects one similarly affects the other.  Sorry: Feeling sorrow, regret or penitence.  Gracious: Marked by kindness and courtesy.  Heartbreak: Crushing grief.  These words have been in my head for awhile. They've applied to several situations.
     One situation makes my heart ache relentlessly.  One makes it soar with joy.  One makes me very sad and guilty.  One makes me angry due to lack of it.  In order to crawl out of  Heartbreak, I try to concentrate on Gracious.  To deal with Sorry, I have to face Heartbreak.  The cousins Compassion and Sympathy, lead me back to Sorry. 
     On my luckiest days I catch a glimpse of Empathy and Gracious.  Sadly, Empathy is a rare commodity. But, Gracious....only lately....has been more present, more often.  I do use Gracious to get through the Heartbreak. Gracious also soothes Sorry.  Gracious eases my Guilt: The feeling of responsiblity for wrongdoing. Thank You, Gracious. For your Compassion and Empathy.  It is with Grace: Honor, that I accept your existence, and move through my days.