STILL PROUD AFTER ALL THE...STUFF

I am an American.   I am proud of that.  Still.

I am proud of a country that comes together during tragedy.  I am proud of a country that

allows me to write this blog, speak my discontent, sing the songs I like.

"Speak my discontent."  Discontent?  With what, those from other countries may ask.  In the "land of opportunity", what could you possibly be discontented about?  From their view, this country is light years better than from where they came.  Perhaps they escaped starvation, oppression, and torture.  Worse than that of the United States.  Worse.

For the first time, recently, I posted my disappointment with our Commander In Chief.  It was a big step.  I'd not done so earlier, simply because I was embarrassed.  Embarrassed that I'd voted...again...for "change".  I voted, I thought, for the lesser of two evils.  Or at least an evil I could live with, as the complete lack of concern for the middle class the opponent represented infuriated me.  Of course, all of my discontent is not piled on the President.  The "mean kid" fights going on in the legislature is appalling.  And yet, I am proud to be an American.

I was raised watching my Mother moved to tears at every parade, as the color guard, or the Veterans passed by.  I knew there must be something very special about them at a young age.  Unfortunately, during my selfish years, feeling patriotic was near the bottom of my list. Oh, I was still glad to be in America, just not proud of it. 

And then The Gulf War became the first "real" war I remember.  I had vague memories of Vietnam, but it was mostly the ghostly body counts announced at the end of newscasts.  But, now, it was in my face.  I remember crying at the announcement, for all the young soldiers being put in harms way.  I walked the Memorial Day parade to the courthouse of the county seat to hear uplifting stories, and sing "God Bless The USA with the crowd, through tears.  A proud American was born.  To this day that song brings me to tears. "Where at least I know I'm free".

Free.  Our Constitution assures us that, indeed, we are free.  Our government is steadily putting that luxury is question.  And it scares me.  A lot.  As a disabled American, depending on disability, I am terrified of losing my health care; losing some of my income.  Because an out of touch President, Congress, and House don't care about the middle class.  How ironic.

What keeps me proud, however, are the men and women who volunteer to stand up for this country, warts and all.  They put their young lives on the line to ensure that the lack of freedoms of other lands do not land on our shores.  They do exactly what they are ordered to do, even if that request is pampering spoiled government.

And now.  Now, I prepare myself for my own son to enter into that world.  In January of 2014 he will sign up for the U.S. Marine Corps.  It has been his dream since he was nine years old.  His is the kind of proud of this country that our own government needs to be.

As his mother, my emotions are mixed, of course.  It makes my heart ache, and my eyes tear.  But, I could not be more proud!  Perhaps, I did something right. 

So, on this Memorial Day, I salute those who "gave all".  Hoping, praying, that my young Marine-to-be won't end up one of them, but proud that he loves this country enough to chance it.

Semper Fi, son.

ANYTHING BUT BLUE~~"MY BRANDON"

I could not be more blue!
I'm all decked out in blue--the only blue I own--changed my Facebook color to a special blue, and my profile to one of the symbols that represent the reason for my blue day.

Today is "Go Blue For Autism" day. April is Autism Awareness Month. The numbers are staggering. Today, 1 in 88 children are born with some form of Autism. Earlier in 2012 the odds were 1 in 166. In the eighties the odds were 1 in 10,000, the nineties, 1 in 2500, as time went on, 1 in 1,000. Someone you know, probably has, or knows a child or adult with some form of Autism. Questions swirl in the medical world to explain the increase. So many theories are put forth, many are received by the parents as ludicrous, as they live with the challenges, and can discount ideas of parental actions causing it. So much needs to be discovered!

My interest in Autism goes back to High School, when I chose a book about a little "lost boy" as my English book report. The book was called "Dibs, In Search of Self" by Virginia Axline. The world that Dibs lived in was mysterious, unlocked by no one, until the author, a psychologist, tried some, then unproven, methods to bring Dibs into "our world". Through intensive , exhaustive therapy sessions, Dibs became a functioning member of "our world". I shared the victorious feeling of the author, and the interest in Autism stayed with me.

Last year, I had the pleasure of "meeting" a wonderful young man named Brandon on Facebook. He had Asperger's-very high functioning. I'd like to share our friendship with you.

I had already met his entire family, when his oldest brother let him chat on his Facebook account. He'd heard my name around his home, due to my friendship with his brother, and wanted to meet me. Our first chat was shortly after his brother, Jake, passed away after a 7 year battle with Leukemia. His first conversation consisted of confusion. Why, he wondered, did his mother always call his brother "her baby" when he was neither the youngest, or her birth son? I gave an explanation, and he seemed satisfied. And so began our learning from each other.

Brandon's life became tumultuous after his brother passed. His mother that did not understand, nor care to learn, how he saw life, and abused him as a result. He was torn between hating her and feeling he had to like her because she was his mother. Her time, nearly his entire life, was spent on Brandon's ill brother. Taking her place, was his oldest brother, who at age 14 was struggling with Brandon's episodes, and teaching him to talk. You see, he was mute for the first eight years of his life. And one day, he spoke. In sentences. His brother's love did that, sparking Brandon's dream was to be a doctor.

As we grew closer, our chats became daily, and lengthy. Our conversations would start with his greeting of "hi", so I would say "hi". He would repeat, "hi", and I would too, and then one of us would throw another word in there like "low", and the game would continue until one of us asked how the other was. Brandon was empathic to my medical struggles. Yes, I said empathetic. Not a term associated with Autism. Brandon had a wonderful sense of humor. I had to be mindful of my "sillies" though, because, as Aspies do, he would take exaggerations and sarcasms literally. It could be a challenge explaining the figure of speech to him, but it was part of our learning from each other.

During the summer of last year, he got pneumonia, and long story, short, he suffered injustices and abuse that led to a lung transplant. Sadly, after being in the wrong hands, medically, led to the fail of the lungs. And a second transplant. During this time, our conversations continued, and he relayed the discomfort of his illness to me. It was heart wrenching to see "why am I so sick?" in my message box almost daily. He became weaker and weaker, and I think we had some of our best conversations during those times. 

Brandon, while in his hospital bed, explained to me one day, how his world looked, tasted, sounded. It was amazing. How some days seeing too many things overwhelmed him and made him angry with everyone. And of course, that is when he would hit, kick, bite...anything to get his point across. He tasted color. I asked if he meant like purple tasted like grapes, and he replied, "No, grapes taste like grapes." Silly me! He tried very hard to explain that one, but I just settled for the concept. Some days he could hear every single thing, and it would lump all together into an enormous mind engulfing sound. At one point, he shut down for three days. He was within himself. There was the danger that he may not come back. Oh how we rejoiced when he came back to us! 

By this time, Brandon's second lung transplant was failing, and to make his life even more difficult, a mass was found at the back of his head. Surgery was unable to get it all, and his health declined. All the while, he was chatting with me. Even during his darkest days, he told me what he saw, and how he felt. At one point, Brandon passed for a short time. He told me the most wonderful accounts of Heaven. We had had chats about religion in the past, and he always said he was afraid to die because God scared him. He was too big. But, after his visit to Heaven he returned comforted that "it wasn't so bad." He saw his brother, Jake, and was happy to see that Jake had hair and could walk. We talked about Heaven and how he, too would feel better some day. 

As he became more ill, he would drift in and out of consciousness, and see Jake who was trying to get him to join him, which ticked him off because he didn't want to leave us. One day he relayed to me that Jake had made a new friend in Heaven. How wonderful, I said. There was something coy about the way he said it. You see, my Mom passed away 10-12, after 4 years suffering the results of a stroke. "Your Mom's name is Carol". At first I stared at the screen. When realization hit, I sobbed loud, guttural sobs that Brandon probably would have found too loud! He then told me her first and last name. I had not ever discussed my Mom with him other than to say she was ill. Jake's new friend was my Mom. "She's really pretty", came Brandon's assessment. I agreed through sobs. Jake had found Mom like I told him to, before he passed, and now he was introducing her to Brandon. 

From time to time during the following 10 days he would tell me he talked to his brother, and many times Mom was there. My heart soared and I thanked him for sharing that sight with me. His time was running short, and, having spent so much time visiting with Jake, he knew the exact time of his death. He wanted me "there". It would be in the middle of the night, so I set my alarm, and got up to joke with him one last time. I'd prayed for Mom to help with his transition, and when the time grew near, he told me all his angels were there waiting to take him. I asked him if my mother was there and felt so happy to hear she was! The minutes ticked away, and he finally said he had to go now. "Have fun with your puppy"...and he was gone. At the exact moment he foretold. 

There was nothing "blue" about Brandon. He didn't even like blue because it tasted bad. But, today I wear blue to support the millions of parents and their very unique children--and adults--that live their lives around some spectrum of Autism. A reason for it's existence needs to be found, but until then, please support them. Read. Watch TV specials, Google, but learn about Autism. With odds going at the rate they are, you WILL have contact with someone with it. Please be kind and educated.  

Seven Months

     Well, nearly seven months blog-free is unacceptable in the World Wide Blogging Community.  Most are blogging daily plans, recipes, or miles run. Some blog on fashion, some on pets, some on music.  My life is very simple, and although for the most part I like that, it does get humdrum, and downright lonely.
     I still Facebook, and the young man I wrote of previously, lost his battle with Leukemia, June 2nd.  How fortunate was I, to be asked by him if it was alright "to go".  He didn't want to disappoint all of those cheer-leading "You can beat this, buddy!" and "You can do it!".  I tearfully told him, that only he and God knew if it was time, and that the people cheering him on are doing it more for themselves, so they don't lose him, than for him. He would not be disappointing anyone.
     My connection to him led to connections with the whole family, and their lives have been one massive trial after another. I've seen a mother lose her grip with reality, an Autistic brother be abandoned, abused, and die...three times.  An older brother, a doctor, lose hope, then regain it time and again, and a bouncy, cheerful girlfriend turn into a bouncier fiancee'  I chat with them every day, several times a day...even through the night in times of deep trouble.  I've learned so much about Asperger's by chatting with the youngest, I wish it for everyone.  It is a complex world, but so worth knowing.  Perhaps because he doesn't have to actually see me, he has shared how things look, taste, smell, sound, and feel to him.  For instance, he tastes colors.  Of course he can't explain that to me, but knowing it is amazing for me to hear.  How some days he can feel every hair on his head, and hear every minute sound around him and want to run away from it, but he can't so he yells.  But, when he said "I love you." to me, I was overcome.  These words do not come casually from an Autistic.  In  most cases, not at all.
     Last month, my mother took a turn for the worse, and passed October 12th.  The very next day, my little SUV slid off an oily slick road and rolled three times into a deep culvert.  When word got to my "CA family", they were prepared to do anything for me, even offering to fly here to comfort me.  The youngest, although compassion isn't exactly felt by him, told me over and over how sorry he was, and how much he loved me.  This young man, just 12 years old has touched me very deeply in just seven months.  
    The past few days I have become especially emotional.  I try very hard not to cry when my son is around, because it makes him angry.  But, not angry like 'how dare you'.  Frustrated, angry.  Because he feels powerless.  What does he do?  Hug me?  God forbid!  He is nearly 16!  So, in frustration, he retreats to his room, quite possibly hoping that all will be dry when he steps out.  However, it seems that events of the past months have hit me like an old lady slugs a mugger.  Tears come out of nowhere over things that don't deserve them.  And, anger.  I am not about anger.  I am about peace and kind words, and taking a deep breath, and praying.  But, a mis-delivered package, a letter from the school...sent me into a rage, followed by tears, then back to anger.  My stomach is sick, my head hurts, I can't sleep (worse than usual). And I don't want to talk to anyone.  Even my CA family.  For the first time in four years, I turned off my phone last night.  Is this normal?  I am told, yes.  But, it feels all wrong.  Not me.  Not any "me" I want to know, anyway.
     How has my son handled losing eight loved ones in the past nearly-five years?  Barely, that's how.  And I give him huge props for every day that he doesn't punch, yet another, hole in the wall.    Because that is where I am.  Too much of a wuss to actually punch, but enough anger to want to. 
     I prayed for strength--for myself-- this afternoon, while I tried to grab a hold of some sleep.  I haven't prayed for myself in so long, it felt selfish.  But, I need God's touch, His soothing whispers, and His Love.  
     And I need "real time" hugs.  Human interaction that doesn't include "{{ }}" signs around it.  I am blessed to know I am loved.  But, I am starving for the physical confirmation.
     In closing:
     I love you Mom.  I wish I'd told you that so many, many years ago.  I hope I told you enough while you were ill.  I know you are still with me, in some way...even though saving my life in the accident was an awfully fast call of duty.  Help to soothe me.  Like you did when I was young, please rub my tummy to chase away the bad things.  Thank you for shaping me into someone  that is about peace and kinds words.  Even though being so has landed me as the butt of jokes.  I would rather be the butt of the joke, than the butt telling the joke. ;)

WHEN IT GETS REAL

     Facebook has been many thing to me.  A way to reconnect with old classmates, co-workers, and family.  A place to escape to tiny farms, zoos and mystery crime scenes.  Along with that came "friendships" with people from all over the world to help me complete the latest mission.  After nearly four years, many, many of those people have become real live friends...just not readily available "live".  But, that is the case with most classmates, and many family.


     I joke about my "addiction" to Facebook, and that may be accurate....okay, that is accurate.  But, with limited capabilities due to physical and mental issues, it makes the time go by, and I've come to depend on the fellowship, as my budget does not allow for actual socializing.  And some of the most caring people are inside this little box, because they, too, are unable to work outside the home due to illness of their own or a loved one.


     I've been able to keep up on breaking news, sad, mad and glad.  The one that stands out the most is seeing the breaking story of bin Laden's demise.  I was the first in my list of friends to see, and posted: "Ding dong, the bastard's dead! bin Laden has been killed!"  And it was like fire to gasoline across Facebook!  Of course I was sobbing like an idiot, but as I watched post after post declare victory over this dark, monstrous figure, I was in awe of the capabilities of today's communication.


     And the causes from A - Z that people fight for are amazing.  I've always considered myself pretty open minded, but thanks to some pages, some videos am right there in the fight.  That is how my own page, Climb, came about.


     The concept came from hundreds of other "feel good" pages offering inspiring quotes and pictures for those needing a pick-up on any given day.  And some of those pages were funny, to boot!  But, the "cause" that I adopted, was one I was seeing cross my page by local kids, struggling with self-image, and being bullied and called names by teachers.  It had to stop.  It HAS to stop!  The number of kids committing suicide each day is staggering.  And Climb was born.


     It was a slow climb, though.  I searched the web for great, positive words that would give a child in turmoil some peace.  Slowly, the numbers grew, and then I started creating my own.  My writing gift finally had a home.  And it was appreciated.  I now stand at nearly 700 "likes", and thousands of followers.  And that's how I met Jakob.


     I got a friend request a few weeks ago from a 13 year old boy, named Jakob.  It threw me for a loop, because I'd been scammed online before on a dating site.  How do I know this kid is really 13 and not some lonely 48 year old creep? I went to his page, which was--lucky for me--fully accessible. And there I saw his story.  Still slightly skeptical, I confirmed the request, and within 1/2 hour he popped up to chat.  I asked him how he found me, and he said my picture popped up and I looked like an "awesome person to talk to." Aaahh, we had a friend in common....so I asked him if he was friends with that friend, and he "haha'd", and said "yeah".


     Jakob was adopted somewhere around ten years ago.  Forgive me, I can't remember  every detail.  Shortly after the adoption of him, and his brothers, his father was killed, leaving his Mom with three young boys.  Not long after, when Jake was 7-ish, he was diagnosed with leukemia.  Since then life has been in and out of hospitals.  And through all that his body was fighting, the kids were fighting him.  They made fun of him for being bald (due to  chemo), smaller, and behind in his studies due to the amount of time away from school.  They pushed him, punched him, you name it they did it.  And they knew that doing so could break one  of his worn out bones...or kill him.  There was no reasoning with the school.  Jakob never fought back.  Because he's been taught that to do so could hurt him.


     I talk to Jake everyday.  At his suggestion, I friended his mother.  He said she needed someone to talk to, too.  He was right.  Jake is not doing very well.  After all, his body has been fighting this disease for seven years.  He told me a couple days ago, that on "bad days" he is unable to sit up, let alone get out of bed.  He is even unable to roll over in his sleep.  I could not imagine.  Even on my worst days, I can make my way to sitting up.  He is struggling with malnutrition because he is often sick, with fevers of 103 degrees, and can't keep anything down.  But, in order to get his pain medication down, he must eat something.  He is in so much pain, that some nights he does not sleep.  He just keeps squirming to get comfortable.  And by his side, trying to coax a cracker and some juice into him, is his mother.


     Saturday night, his mother told me what he had told me in less eloquent words..."We all know he doesn't have much time."  How, I asked her, does she get through each day knowing this?  After seven years, she's had time to prepare, in a way.  And, as she watches him get worse this past year, would rather he out of pain.  


     He's gotten worse just in the few weeks I've "known" him.  Much weaker.  Can't keep anything down.  Last night, while talking to his Mom, he had awakened and gotten sick.  Again.  Another trip to the hospital may be in order.  There has not been recent talk of doing the surgery on his brain for tumors found.  He can't stay well (no virus/fever) long enough.


     Facebook got real the day Jakob friended me.  I'm honored to be someone he can talk to, in a world that has left him without buddies, other than his brothers.  His spirit is amazing, and I thank him for sharing that with me. After telling me that "this thing is gonna kill me" (followed by a :( ), he proceeded with how glad he is to have been adopted my his Mom, and shared his life with her, and what a great momma she is. That she is.


     Jakob turned 14 a couple of weeks ago.  I wasn't sure if I should have wished him a blessed coming year, or to tell him to do the best he can, and look forward to the pain-free glory that will be his, sooner than seems fair.

IT'S LIKE THAT

     When I started this blog, it was going to be about what it was like to live with numerous ailments and raise a son as a single mom, among other things.  I'm not sure I've done that.  Today, I need someone to talk to.  A real person.  The kind of person that makes your skin feel warm because they hugged you.  As much as I love my Facebook world, I can't feel the virtual hugs....though they are greatly, immensely appreciated!

      Today I am grateful that it is not so windy and the sky is blue, but I observe it alone. This pains me and satisfies me at the same time. I am in a strange flux in my life. Glad to be my own person, but not so keen of the lack of companionship.  I've vowed time and time again that I will never answer to anyone but myself again.  But it would nice if someone smiled because I was here waiting for them.  I'm alone, but not always lonely.  But, today, it's like that.  Very lonely.  Very teary. And not able to let the tears out because my son hates it when I cry.  

     He doesn't know what to do with tears, how to help, so he gets angry.  My Dad was the same way.  So, I float.  Treading months of built up tears.  Mom always said I had nothing to be depressed about; others have it much worse.  To this day I refuse to say that to anyone.  Although, it's true so many people are worse off than I, my pain is MY pain to endure.  So, it's like that.  Tears to cry, not in public, because I don't deserve to be depressed.  But today, I am sad. 

     Sad that I can't be telling this to someone while they hold me and even pretend to care.  Sad that this past four years have been so hard on my son, and I can't make things all better for him.  Being a teenager is hard enough without the things he's been forced to experience.  And I'm sad that I can't scrape for enough money to buy him the things he wants.  And that sometimes I do, at the expense of the gas or water bill.  Then fret about how to pay them...yep, it's like that.

     I've become too comfortable in my little apartment.  After several years of not socializing due to money shortages, I now find myself dreading having to go anywhere.  I'm not at agoraphobic yet, but it is serious enough that my son encourages me to get out.  No, not so he can be home alone with the guys--some weekends he is with his Dad--but even at 15 he knows that no one should be so isolated.  So...it's like that, too.

     And, it's fearing that with my long laundry list of ailments, and depending on disability for income, no man on Earth will be interested enough--if I ever do leave the apartment---to get past that garbage and accept me for what I know I am.  Funny, intelligent, kind and creative, with a bit of kooky thrown in.  Cause it's not what they want to put up with, or even believe I suffer...cause it's been like that, too.

     So, now it's like this.  I dry my eyes, and smile when my son comes in the door with tales of fish caught in our local creek, while goofing off with his buddies. He has so many great friends.  Good guys. And I'm proud of his decisions on who to hang out with.  He's not perfect, and at times we don't talk for the entire day....but, he's a teenager...and.... they're like that.

        

I HAVE NO RIGHT TO FEEL SO AWFUL!

     It's a beautiful day in Northwest Illinois today.  It is March 14, and the temperature is to be 80 degrees!  Sunshine, birds chirping, children outside playing. I have thanked God for such a fabulous day!  


     I feel miserable.  Numb, or sad--I'm not sure.  And I feel guilty as hell.  How dare I feel this miserable on a record-breaking temperature day.  Do I appreciate nothing?!? 


     The thing is, I do appreciated it all!  How amazing is the world!?  I just don't feel it.  At all.  I want to sleep.  Not unusual because of the Fibro and the Chronic Fatigue, but this is different.  There are things that need to get done.  I look at them, hate them, then don't do them.  Two floors need scrubbing, entertainment center needs dusting, legs need shaving.  Not getting done.  I do the laundry.  Simply because my son's school has a dress code.  And more guilt.


     When my son is home I am attentive, joking, always making sure the depression mask is covered by the LOL mask.  And at some point, that wears me down, and the very thing I was trying to hide from him spills out all over.  He hates when I cry.  I think he feels helpless, or that it's his fault.  Of course, most of the time it is not.


     I've been taking anti-depressants of various types for 26 years. In 2002, or so, I happened upon a psychopharmacologist, and together we tried various combinations to try to conquer my various ailments.  It took about 8 years to find a winner for my depression/anxiety.  And, as it turns out, it also helps with the Fibromyalgia pain.  But night time was a bigger challenge.  I have Bi-Polar II, and my main mania symptom is mega racing thoughts at nights. We found one med that worked beautifully, but as the dose increased, so did my weight.  We decided to try different combinations that mimicked what the previous had done.  After months and months, we ended up back at square one, but a lower dose, coupled with something else.  So far, so good.


     So what is going on??  I am alone, couple-wise.  But, generally I enjoy my own company.  I had surgery six weeks ago on my shoulder, and am finally at the "toss the sling" stage, and moving well.  There is always pain in the healing, but why should that bother me?  I live with pain every day.  My budget is slowly becoming manageable, with a couple of exceptions.  We're coming up on a dry stretch financially simply due to the space between pays, but I've been down that road before.  Nothing is different that at any other time when I am feeling like a stoned hippie, wishing peace and goodness to all.  Except, I'm not feeling the peace or the goodness.  And to make me feel even more guilty, I am administrator of two support Facebook pages that encourage positive thinking.  How hypocritical of me to post puppies and butterflies when I feel like dung and maggots?  AAAaaaarrrgghh!!


     The answer is, I guess, remember this is a phase.  God is always with me.  He has brought me through some horrible times, and I am the stronger for it.  I will put the wet laundry into the dryer.  I will create more support posts and give other struggling people a lift or a giggle.  I may even vacuum.


     After I take another nap.................. or a giggle. I may even vacuum.


     After I take another nap........

ROOM TO JUDGE

     Last Saturday Whitney Houston, iconic pop singer, passed away unexpectedly. Upon seeing it scroll across the bottom of my TV screen, I was stunned. And yet not. At just a couple years younger than me, the thought that death could be so close was unsettling, even though it was most likely due to her lifestyle--her choices in spouse, "support" circle, and recreation. How many of us speculated, even to ourselves, that her lifestyle would kill her.


     Today, as I get reacquainted with her work, it occurred to me, that my lifestyle could easily be endangering my life. In fact, my recent doctor appointments would suggest just that. I am 100 pounds over an even remotely healthy weight.  As a result I struggle with high blood pressure, borderline cholesterol, and activity induced asthma.  My "drugs" of choice?  Birthday Cake Ice Cream, Reese's--sugar in general. Poor diet. No fruit or veggies because they would go bad before I could eat them all, and I can't afford to waste one cent.  So, that leaves alot of peanut butter sandwiches, not on whole wheat because I am the only family member (of two) that will eat it.  And NO activity. Fibromyalgia limits what I can do, as does the asthma.  It just seems ridiculous to me to exercise for 30 minutes to be unable to move without searing pain for a week. 


     So, you see I am in no position to judge her life, her struggles, her choices. I am no position to judge anyone.  Ever.


     As social media does, it has run this unfortunate story into the ground.  At first, as I said, I was stunned and saddened to have a true songbird stifled.  Then the comparison pictures started circulating. Pictures of Ms. Houston next to starving children stating tears are shed for her and not them.  Or her picture next to the coffins of our fallen war heroes, again stating our heroes are not grieved.  I take offense to both.


     It is like apples and oranges.  One set is with us every single day.  Children starving everywhere, even in our own neighborhoods.  It is angering and gut wrenching.  I've never understood how a game show can give away a million dollars, while people starve.


     The other, our fallen war heroes, are again--at least for me--present in my consciousness daily.  I am honored to know many that have fought, and by God's grace returned to us.  I can't imagine being the parent to see the uniforms walk up their sidewalk, knowing why they are there. As I said, this is an ever present thought, because, you see, my 15 year old has wanted to enter the service since age nine.  And I knew when he first told me, he was serious.  At first it was Navy. So much so that the gals in the school office called him "Navy Nick".  For a couple years now, it has been the Marines.  So serious is he, that the school counselor had a Marine come to the school for my Freshman boy.  That's just not done.  He is going to be a Marine, plain and simple.  So, in 3 1//2 years, if the world continues on the track that it is, he will be in a war. And that makes the fallen of this war a punch in the gut everytime I hear of, or see coverage of hundreds of caskets draped in our Flag.


     So don't you dare accuse me of not shedding tears for our fallen.


     Apples to oranges.  Ms. Houston's passing was a shock, much like waiting for the toast to pop up, then jumping when it does.  She was young.  She was famous, not just for her life's challenges, but for a dynamic voice that many have tried to duplicate, but have not even come close.  A beautiful, young, gifted woman that suddenly passes will send shock waves whether she is famous or not.  What makes her passing different is the fame, the press, and social media. I have chosen to avoid the televised funeral because I believe funerals are for family and closest of friends.  I am neither.  I am simply a fan.  And I have shed some tears...for her music.  Much of it affected me deeply as a young woman, not knowing what she was to this world, or what she was doing in this world.  Belting out "The Greatest Love of All" through tears still reminds me who that young woman was, and why she was here.


Thank you Ms. Houston, for your unique service to the world.  Rest now.