tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47791682870136558892024-03-05T23:44:31.587-08:00Pessimistically OptimisticShannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-32620715166635356132023-08-30T11:51:00.000-07:002023-08-30T11:51:32.545-07:00Please, let me tell you about my boy....<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: medium;">It seems like every year on the anniversary of Keeghan’s death, I talk about my own grief. I talk about how losing a child affects our family. This year - the 15th anniversary of his death - I want to talk about Keeghan. I want those of you who will take the time to read this to know my son better. Rest assured, dear reader, that you missed out on knowing an amazing young man .</span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As a baby, he was perfectly content to just watch his big sister. She turned 2 just four days after he was born, so she was still a toddler. As he reached the age to be old enough to sit on his own, he would watch her running around like a crazy child (which she was) and just smile. Anything she wanted to do, anywhere she went, he followed. First with his eyes only. Then as he was able to crawl and walk, he followed. Whatever she wanted to do to him, he allowed. That’s how we ended up with pictures of them both covered in ballpoint ink. She was nice enough to draw on her own face so that they at least matched! It’s also how they ended up covering a room in baby powder at their grandparents house once! They were beautiful trouble together.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The first way Keeghan ever pronounced “I love you” was “I sush oo” (sush sounds like “lush” and the oo sounds like the oo in tattoo). To this day, Mackenzie still says it that way to me and I love it.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeghan was never a morning person. As a baby, I could change his diaper and get him completely dressed for daycare and he would not wake up. I started talking him through the whole process of getting dressed as a way to engage him and get him to wake up. I’d say, “Left sock, right sock, pants, shirt - tag goes in the back…” as I got him dressed. Eventually it became our fun Mama-and-Keeghan morning routine and he’d say the words. I think he was probably in school before he stopped saying “tag goes in the back” when he put his shirt on!</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He was 3-years-old and in daycare in November 2000 when George W. Bush was running against Al Gore for President. The day before the election was school picture day. As he hopped up into the chair, the photographer asked him who he was voting for. Without skipping a beat Keeghan replied, “Al Gore!” He had obviously been listening to us talk at home and formed his own idea of who to vote for! The photographer - an older gentleman as I recall (although he probably was younger than I am now, so how funny is it that I remember him as being “older”?) - laughed out loud, which then made Keeghan giggle. That was the moment the picture was taken. To this day, it is one of my absolute favorite pictures of Keeghan!</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just a couple of months after the election, we took a trip to visit Mike’s parents in Texas to ring in the year 2000 with the whole family. Mike had told me many times about how when he was a kid, if he asked his dad about anything, his dad would tell him to go look it up. On this particular visit to Texas, Keeghan somehow got into a conversation with his grandad about whether or not tomatoes are a fruit or a vegetable. Grandad insisted they are a vegetable. Keeghan - who even at that age took great pride in how many facts he knew - looked at his grandfather and said, “It has seeds, so it is a fruit. Look it up.” He then turned his back and walked away - it was the pre-schooler equivalent of a mic drop! The best part though was the look on both Mike’s and his father’s face. Mike told me later that he thought for sure his dad was going to kill his son! </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeghan always had this innate <i>coolness</i> about him. I have no idea where he got that! I volunteered at the kids’ school often and I was always amazed at the older kids who would pass Keeghan in the hall and high-five him and say, “Whassup, Keeghan!” And my little 5-year-old would high five them back, acting all cool like these were his homies! It wasn’t just other boys though. At the end of his first day of 1st grade, I was standing with him outside the school waiting for Mackenzie to get out of class. Keeghan was sitting on his bike (I let him ride it to school, but I was still walking behind him). A little girl who had been in his kindergarten class the previous year, but wasn’t in his class for 1st grade ran up to him and said, “Keeghan, I MISS you!” She threw her arms around him and hugged him. He kept one hand on his handlebars and put the other around her, patting her on the back like such a stud! I know my mouth had to be hanging open in shock. Who was this kid???</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the same time that he was so cool, he also had no shame when it came to showing love for his family. There was a boy in his kindergarten class who was a serious problem child. This little boy would scream at his mother if she walked too close to him on the walk to or from school. He didn’t want to be seen with her. Keeghan, on the other hand, would proudly hold my hand. When that boy criticized him for holding his mom’s hand, Keeghan replied, “I love my mom. You should love yours, too.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeghan was so smart, but sometimes that was a bit…limiting. He was a very concrete thinker. He took everything at face value as a little boy. Case in point - I was going to college full-time in the evenings from the time Keeghan was almost 2 until he was 5. We were stationed in North Dakota at the time. Mike would come home from work and I would immediately leave to go to evening classes until 10:00pm. One night, Mike was playing a video game and the kids were playing. He didn’t realize how much mess they were making in the house, but when he eventually did, he said, “You guys, we have to get this cleaned up before Mama gets home or she’s going to kill us!” Instead of immediately starting to pick up their mess, both kids fell apart in hysterical tears. “Why would Mama KILL us?” Mike managed to calm them down and get the house picked up before I got home, but the way he told me the story almost had me in tears laughing! You had to be very careful in how you said things to Keeghan at that age!<br />
<br />
That concreteness lasted his whole life in many ways, but in later years it was evidenced more in his sarcasm. We moved from North Carolina to Texas in 2004, just before Keeghan started 3rd grade and Mackenzie started 5th grade. On the bus on the way home from the first day of school, a bully on the bus told Keeghan he was going to throw him out the window. Keeghan looked at the window and then back at the kid and said, “I won’t fit.” Thank God for a savior in the form of a big sister at that point! Mackenzie dropped her backpack and got in the bully’s face and told him he’d have to go through her first. This was the day she gained the nickname “Maxx” because the bus thug asked her what her name was. She told him it was Mackenzie, but the next day when she passed him at school, he said, “Yo Maxx, what’s up?” And it stuck.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeghan told us when he was about 3 years old what he wanted to be when he grew up. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I want to be a maker guy, just like Daddy.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike was a lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force, so we were clueless as to what a “maker guy” was. <br />
<br />
“What does a maker guy do, Keeghan?”<br />
<br />
“He makes dinner!”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That eventually graduated to being a “cooker guy.” It wasn’t until he was 5 that he watched a show about sharks and learned that they are resistant to cancer. That was when he decided that he was going to become a marine biologist when he grew up so that he could find a cure for cancer. That ambition stuck from that point on. In fact, when we were told in the hospital five years later that he had cancer, I think I said “No, he can’t HAVE cancer. He’s going to CURE cancer.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Keeghan was never much of a behavior problem. In fact, I don’t remember ever having to discipline him much. He liked to please people. I guess that is why his kindergarten experience of misbehaving in class stands out in my memory. The teacher had a board in the classroom where each student had a paper frog. The frogs started every day on their lily pad. If the student had to be told to behave, they would have to move their frog. I honestly don’t recall what the progression of movement was. I only remember that eventually, if they had to move it enough times, it ended up in the pond. Keeghan was having problems one particular week with keeping his frog on its lily pad. Knowing him, it was because he was talking too much when he should be listening, because he never really got in trouble for anything else. After a few days of him moving his frog each day, we had a talk with him and told hm that if he had to move his frog the next day, he was going to lose being able to play outside after school.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day I was there waiting when he came out of the school. As soon as he walked out of the building, I knew. His little face crumpled in tears. He dropped his backpack and ran to me. I hit my knees and just gathered him in. I think I cried right along with him. He just kept saying, “I TRIED, Mama, I really tried!” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I know he was telling the truth, too. His heartbreak was proof of that. I had to stick to my guns though and made him stay in the house that day while his sister and other friends got to play outside. I think it hurt me just as much as it hurt him. It must have worked though, because he never had multiple days in a row of moving his frog again!</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We always said that Keeghan was an old soul or that he was the wise old man of our Fantastic Four. Since his death, Mackenzie has said that Keeghan actually lived to be 85. He just did it in 12 years. One of the things he used to do that made me think he was an old soul trapped in a little boy’s body was when he would disappear on the trampoline. If dinner time rolled around and we couldn’t figure out where he was, we merely had to go out to the backyard and look at the trampoline. Many times we found him out there by himself, lying on his back staring up at the sky. I have no idea what went through his mind during those zen trampoline breaks. I sure wish I did though.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another example of Keeghan’s funny brain at work happened one afternoon when he was probably about 7- or 8-years-old. Mike was in the kitchen cooking and I was just around the corner in the living room playing a video game that the kids often played. Keeghan ran through the room, stopped to look at where I was at in the game, and said, “Yeah, I’ve played that part, too.” I sarcastically responded with some comment about how he’d done everything before. His response was, “I’ve never had diphtheria.” <br />
<br />
Mike walked into the living room and asked, “Did he just say he’s never had diphtheria?” I think I was still just staring at Keeghan, speechless. We asked him how he even knew that word. He then told us all about the movie Balto and how the girl in the movie had diphtheria. Perfectly logical explanation, but it still cracked us up that he remembered (and could say) diphtheria!</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Going back to that story about moving his frog…I’m sure that I cried with him when he came out of the school and sobbed because I always cried when he cried. In fact, I’ve always had a hard time seeing either of my children cry without crying along with them. When Keeghan was getting chemotherapy at Walter Reed, we had a routine that we went through while he was getting his port accessed because even though they put cream on the port site to numb it before sticking him with the (huge) needle, it was still very scary. So I would lean over him, almost nose-to-nose, and tell him to blow my hair. He would focus on blowing my hair out of my face so that he wasn’t paying attention to the needle coming at him. One day it was all just too much though. He was trying to blow my hair, but he couldn’t stop the tears from streaming. Seeing that destroyed me, so of course I ended up crying right along with him. The nurse who had the needle asked me why I was crying. Before I could reply, Keeghan very matter-of-factly said, “It’s ok. When I cry, she cries. It’s what we do.” Laughing and crying at the same time happened a lot when he was in treatment.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On one of our many trips across Washington, DC, to get from the base we lived on to Walter Reed for a chemo appointment, Keeghan killed us with his sarcastic wit. There was an intersection in the District that we always got stopped at and there was always someone on the median selling something - bottled water, flowers, fruit. Always. On one particular day, however, the median was empty. I commented that it was the first time we’d ever been stopped there and not seen someone selling something. From the back seat, Keeghan very drily replied, “Wow, Mama…I’m so glad we were able to be here to share this experience with you.” I looked at Mackenzie, who was sitting beside me in the front seat, and her mouth was hanging open like, “Oh no, he didn’t just say that!” Then we both started laughing. As soon as we started laughing, Keeghan started giggling. I think we laughed the rest of the way home!</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the last days of Keeghan’s life, when he was no longer able to walk on his own and spent a lot of time either laying in his bed or on the sofa, he said something to me that, to this day, haunts me. He was in his bed and I was leaning over him, talking to him. At one point I ran my hand through his hair and I said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.” This was something I’d said to him since he was little. But this time he shook his head, as if to disagree. I asked why he didn’t think he was a good man. He was slow to form words by this stage, but when he could get them out he said, “Because I have cancer.” I vehemently told him that cancer was not who he was and that he damn well WAS a good man! But it has tortured my mind for 15 years now that he may have died thinking he wasn’t good because he had cancer. Children should never have to feel like they have somehow failed because they are sick.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are so many stories I could tell. I could tell you how the only request he had of his neurosurgeon before his first surgery was that he not make him stupid or that he asked if he could have the tumor to keep in a jar after surgery. I could tell you about how he always thought about others before himself, even has he himself was dying. I could tell you that he had the best laugh, gave the best hugs, danced in his chair when food tasted good or that he loved coffee with his breakfast (with one half-and-half creamer and one Irish creamer). Honestly, I could go on forever. Keeghan was amazing. He wanted so many things out of life and did not get most of them. The one thing he got plenty of though was love. He was so loved in life and he is still so loved now.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, there you have it…for now. My boy in (more than) a few words. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-28029941755239856782023-05-28T15:39:00.003-07:002023-05-29T19:08:06.216-07:00Musical is visceral.<blockquote style="border: medium; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWHQWGghgOKz9lX_CONPEMjdlYa8Ty9-fLy0zrbjd0gEo5WwKrGMeyfjF8pqkaqdizO-kt3MC4CjsbOP7V8g6g7rm6wZWsRo8-C2h0Ofw_fHdePA6AhMtEIVjTYg9yVMj6-TuefnrAXI1VFKXbpwYeZTKdFlbiR-KY87j1rUfc2sMewyNyF3C6A0/s960/45s.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWHQWGghgOKz9lX_CONPEMjdlYa8Ty9-fLy0zrbjd0gEo5WwKrGMeyfjF8pqkaqdizO-kt3MC4CjsbOP7V8g6g7rm6wZWsRo8-C2h0Ofw_fHdePA6AhMtEIVjTYg9yVMj6-TuefnrAXI1VFKXbpwYeZTKdFlbiR-KY87j1rUfc2sMewyNyF3C6A0/w402-h302/45s.jpeg" width="402" /></a></div><p></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><br />I have a strange relationship with music. I can't play an instrument. I'm not a great singer. I can hear a song though and tell you exactly where I was the first time I heard it, or who I was with. If it is a song from my childhood or young-adult life, I can probably tell you what year it was released. That drives my husband crazy.</p><p>I can tell you that "A Little More Love" by Olivia Newton John was the first song I ever slow danced with a boy to. His name was Georgie and he was my next-door neighbor. I'm pretty sure he felt sorry for me and that is why he asked me to dance.</p><p>The first album I ever bought - which really means the first one my parents ever paid for - was a Donny Osmond album that I chose at Tower Records in Stockton when I was 7-years-old. But the first "real" album I ever bought was when I was 11 and it was Foreigner's eponymous first album. "Feels Like the First Time" and "Cold as Ice" still take me back to a carefree summer of laying on my bed at night, feeling like a grown-up because I was listening to rock music and not teen idol pop.</p><p>Music is visceral for me. I started buying albums and 45 rpm records young and I've never stopped. My life has been a series of playlists since before there even was such a thing. I got my first stereo for Christmas in 1977. It was one of those single-turntable deals that had two speakers and a smoky-gray plastic top that lifted up. It even had an FM radio built in! I thought I was seriously cool. I could stack ten 45's at a time on it, so there was some planning that went into what the mix would be. </p><p>It shouldn't surprise anyone then that I was a huge fan of the mixtape. I spent hours listening to the radio to hear that one new song that I liked, ready to hit record as soon as I heard the first notes. For 8th grade graduation my parents gave me a boom box. It was the coolest! It had an 8-track player, AM/FM radio, and a dual cassette player. I could record songs from radio or from 8-tracks and then dub from one cassette to the other to create my own mixes. I was in heaven!</p><p>My high school memories are defined by the music associated with them. "Do You Believe in Love" by Huey Lewis & the News takes me back to 9th grade. I'm sitting with a new boyfriend on a set of bleachers at a baseball diamond, flirting and feeling so happy. "Open Arms" by Journey takes me back to 10th grade and that same boy, but this time we've been apart for a while and are back together. Breakup songs are the theme for 11th grade. Early Duran Duran and U2 are 12th grade, all the way. </p><p>My brain holds specific playlists for so many things. College, my early-twenties, my time in the Army. "We Belong" by Pat Benatar takes me back to riding in a car in Texas with my brother and hearing it for the first time. Play Peter Gabriel's "So" album and I am immediately in a barracks in Germany with my future husband with nothing more than hopes and dreams. There are playlists for my children's early years. I have a Keeghan list that I listen to when I'm missing my baby. There are so many lists for Mackenzie - girl pop for elementary school, emo for middle school, K-Pop for high school. Most of the time, these songs are happy reminders of good memories. Sometimes they can bring me to tears in just a few notes. That is how music works for me.</p><p>The first time I was ever separated from having music constantly playing was in basic training. The only "music" the Army allowed during that time was the cadence we sang while marching and running. About midway through my eight weeks of training, we were supposed to be bivouacking in the field, meaning we were supposed to be camping out in small tents, when it started to rain. When it rains in South Carolina, it doesn't mess around. We had rivers running through our tents. The drill sergeants screamed at us to gather up our gear and head for a bus that had just arrived. I wasted no time doing so!</p><p>As I got on the bus, I sat right behind the driver. He had the radio playing! Oh, sweet lord...I almost cried. "Here With Me" by REO Speedwagon was playing. I closed my eyes and silently sang along. Another group of females got on the bus and one of them yelled, "Can you change the station." Before the bus driver could respond, I did for him. "No! He can't!" The driver looked up into the big mirror over his head, made eye contact with me and slightly smiled. "I wasn't going to change it, Private." In my mind, that bus ride is one of the best memories I have from Army basic training.</p><p>The one thing I have never done is listen to music that I don't like. Sure, there are plenty of songs and genres of music that I don't necessarily like, but listening to them was always optional. I could change a radio station or, in the case of school dances, walk outside and talk to friends if I didn't like a song. Sometimes there were songs that my friends liked and I would suffer through. That usually ended in me getting angry if it happened too often though. I (yes, selfishly) wanted to listen to what made me happy, not what irritated me. I've never been able to change in that respect - I do not tolerate lousy music well.</p><p>The proof, then, that I am getting old is that I have a hard time finding new music to connect with. The most visceral reaction I have to most current music is to want to run any place I can get where it isn't playing. Everything is auto-tuned. I don't believe any of these people can actually sing! There are rock bands that I love - Godsmack, Shinedown, Three Days Grace, Pop Evil - but to get in the car and just turn on the radio to a local pop station is a thing of the past. I just can't do it anymore.</p><p>For someone who wants...no, <i>needs</i>...music, that is incredibly sad. </p>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-49747050127424460012023-05-16T19:23:00.002-07:002023-05-16T19:23:31.720-07:00The Shadow at the End of the Hall<p>I grew up as a shadow. I didn't have an identity of my own. I followed behind, always. I was the shadow at the end of the hall.</p><p>I found myself when I left home, but even when I found my own personality and learned that I could be front and center, the shadow always told me I needed to get behind. There was always doubt...that I wasn't good enough to be in the spotlight. I didn't belong there.</p><p>It wasn't until a very handsome Army Corporal showed me attention that I discovered I didn't need to be noticed by everyone. I only needed to be noticed by him. That was incredibly liberating!</p><p>Fast-forward a few decades and I have learned to be okay with being noticed, but the only one who really matters is still him. I can speak up now. I no longer feel like I am not enough. I know that I am smart and capable. Sometimes I can even be cocky about things that I know I am good at. It's not something I am proud of!</p><p>After a while though, I start to miss being the shadow at the end of the hall. I don't want to see other people. I don't want other people trying to take up my time. When others put expectations on me, even if those expectations are merely that they want to see me or spend time with me, I want to run. </p><p>The worst part is that I start to dislike people that really haven't done anything wrong. But because they are making me feel awkward and uncomfortable, I want to say or do something to make them not want to be around me. </p><p>That is where I'm at right now. The difference is that I'm not the child in the room at the end of the hall, spending my time with my stereo and my cat. I need to behave like an adult, be polite, smile. Be nice. </p><p>I'd rather run.</p>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-17518975803511400402022-12-15T12:48:00.001-08:002022-12-15T12:50:58.289-08:00Paying Tribute<p>This was written ten days after Dad died. For many reasons, however, I waited until now to publish it.</p><p><br /></p><p>How do you eulogize a man who never wanted a eulogy?</p><p>My Dad died ten days ago. Out of respect for his wishes, there was no service for him. If you knew Dad, you'd understand how truly fitting that was.</p><p>Dad was the youngest child of a large family. He was born late in both of his parents' lives. He had four older brothers and two older sisters, one of whom died at age 9 before Dad was even born. I don't know a lot about his childhood beyond where he was born (Arkansas) and how old he was when he moved to California. He didn't talk about it. I know that he married young, had two children and was divorced all before his 30th birthday. Then he met my mom. In my mind, that is where his story began. Not because I discount anything that happened before that. It is merely the beginning of the story that he would tell and, later on, that I would live with him.</p><p>I grew up at ballparks. Dad was a pitcher in a number of fast-pitch softball leagues. He was good. Living in California, the weather allowed him to play in summer and winter leagues. I can still remember being fascinated by him pitching, the way he was so calm out there on the mound and then that lightning-fast swing of his arm in a full circle and the release of the ball. It was mesmerizing. Mom was his biggest fan in the stands, usually razzing the other team's pitcher mercilessly. In fact, on a few occasions she was asked by umpires to keep it down!</p><p>When Dad eventually decided he was too old for pitching, he took up golf. For more than three decades he took every chance he got to be on the links. He took it serious, too! Dad was quietly competitive. He expected everyone to play their best or not play at all, something I think he passed on to his son. Dad loved watching Brad play! Whether it was football, basketball, track or baseball, Dad was there watching. He wasn't that father that expected a win or else though. What I remember about Dad is that he expected effort and good sportsmanship, win or lose. He expected honor on any playing field.</p><p>He wasn't a perfect man though and I would never want to paint him as such. He certainly had regrets in life. There were relationships that I know he wished had been better. Maybe he didn't try enough to foster them when he could. Maybe he did try and got burned. I will never know. On two occasions I was fortunate enough to spend long hours in a car with him when he helped my family move from one military assignment to another. I tried picking his brain about what his childhood was like and why his relationships with his family were the way they were and he'd just laugh and give me some generic answer. </p><p>"We don't have anything in common." </p><p>"I'm too busy."</p><p>I think a lot of it was that Dad liked being a bit of a loner. He was <i>not</i> a social butterfly - at all! As a younger man, he often spent hours in his garage with all of his tools. If something needed fixing, he fixed it. Need something built? He would build it for you. He was always efficient with his time. Get to the golf course, play, leave. Go to a restaurant, eat, leave. When I called him on the phone, our conversations were short and to the point. He did not like to yammer on. </p><p>That's where I drove him nuts! As a child on car rides, he always teased me for talking too much! It was always with a smile though. That's how you knew you were loved by Dad...if he teased you, he liked you. You knew how much he liked you by the way he hugged you. Because I married a career military man, I never lived close to my parents. When we would go home to visit, I'd always get one of Dad's big bear hugs when I arrived and then again when I left. He wasn't big on words. His "I love you" was in the bone-crushing hug he gave you. </p><p>So how <i>do</i> you eulogize a man who never wanted attention, who was content to just be in his own corner of the world? A man who quietly provided for and loved his family. A man who never wanted his life put on display and certainly wouldn't want his death put on display either. For me, the best I can do is offer up the words I hope he always knew.</p><p>I love you, Dad. I always missed you. You were the rock in my childhood and I was lucky to have you. I will forever miss your silly chuckle, your teasing nature and your big heart. Thank you for being mine.</p><p>Sis</p>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-29472609568299318182021-10-28T16:59:00.000-07:002021-10-28T16:59:13.999-07:00How does an atheist become Catholic?<p>A few weeks ago, I officially became Catholic. The question that seems to keep finding its way to me is, "How does an atheist become Catholic?"</p><p>My knee-jerk response to that (in my head) is, "What ever made you truly believe I was an atheist?"</p><p>So here is the story...get some popcorn, because this might take a bit.</p><p>I'm pretty sure my mother was raised Lutheran and my father was raised Baptist. I don't think either of them were frequent flyers in a church though. I could be wrong; I honestly don't know though because they never talked about it. When Mom was in the Navy, she converted to being Catholic. My older brother and I were baptized as infants in a Catholic church, but we never attended mass. By the time I was old enough to remember going to church, Mom had begun what I think of as "The Great Quest" for the perfect church. We attended the Methodist and Presbyterian churches for a bit, but never officially joined the religion. When I was 11, Mom enrolled me in a Seventh Day Adventist school because she was worried about the drugs that were so rampant in the public schools back then. Throughout The Great Quest, I was the only other member of the family that was dragged to all of these various houses of God. When I was 13, Mom became interested in Mormonism because her mother joined that church. </p><p>And that was when I said, "Peace, out!"</p><p>I attended Catholic mass a couple of times as a teenager, but only because my boyfriend was Catholic and wanted me to go. I asked him once (after watching him serve as an altar boy), how he justified the things we did on Saturday nights with being an altar boy and he said, "I just go to confession, say a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys and I'm clear." </p><p>"After a while, can't you recite those prayers and be thinking about something else at the same time?"</p><p>:::laughs:::</p><p>"Of course! I can be thinking about when we will do the things we did on Saturday night again!"</p><p>Needless to say, my interest in Catholicism disappeared at that point. I will say, however, that I did attend mass all through Army Basic Training, but that was only because if I didn't attend church, I had to help clean the barracks. So off to mass I went every Sunday!</p><p>I did marry an atheist though. I think when we got married, I thought of myself as an agnostic. I wanted to believe in a higher power, but I felt like I hadn't really found much example of it in my young life. Being married to an atheist opened my mind to other possibilities. I spent many years studying different religions and traditions. I still love a lot of pagan traditions mainly because I like the nature-centric way of viewing the world. But even with those, I never found exactly what I thought "religion" or "God" should be.</p><p>Then cancer entered our lives. If you don't have a strong faith to begin with, it's pretty hard to find God while watching your child die. It's even harder when there are other children out there surviving their (less lethal) cancer and seeing the parents say things like, "Thanks be to God!" I hated those people. Not because their child lived and mine died, but because the message they were sending, and that they fully believed, was that God CHOSE to save their child and not mine. To add salt to the wound, people would make comments about how they fully believed their kids were healthy because they've always gone to mass every week. </p><p>Then there were the people (and by people, I mean my mother) who said things like, "God has a purpose for Keeghan." Or my personal favorite, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle."</p><p>I hated those comments the most. Try finding a faith that you've never felt in the middle of that. I prayed constantly for God to heal my child. I begged, I bargained. He didn't listen. Or so I thought at the time.</p><p>My mother eventually gave up on her quest. She never went to another church after becoming Mormon, but she didn't remain active in that church for very long. She used to say that she stopped going to church because of "Sunday-only Christians." She didn't like it that people would be so nice to her on Sunday, but then act like they had no idea who she was if she ran into them at the grocery store on Tuesday. With her last church, it was the gossip that did her in. She worked for a chiropractor who was a member of the Mormon church that she attended and many of the parishioners were patients. The way they talked about other parishioners was just too much.</p><p>Fast forward to 2019 and my incredibly wonderful and meddlesome friend who I will refer to as V. After hearing that I had toured a couple of Catholic churches in our new home of Erie, PA, she decided to call the Diocese here. She was on a quest of her own - to find me a church. It turns out that she had heard of the priest at one of the churches I had toured and she thought he would be PERFECT for us. She made me promise I would go to mass just once.</p><p>We went for the first time in January 2020. The first time I sat in that church (in the back row, so that if we started smoking we could make a hasty exit), Father Larry said something to the congregation that made me sit up and listen. He said, "You can come to mass every Sunday and pray the rosary every day and still go to hell!"</p><p>Wait...what???</p><p>"If you are only going through the ritual and there is no relationship, you will still go to hell."</p><p>Mike and I looked at each other that day with raised eyebrows, like "Did he really just call out his parishioners and tell them they could still go to hell, even though they are sitting here in church?" I was intrigued. We went back a couple more times, but then COVID hit. We didn't go back until early 2021. In the time between though, I had stayed friends with a young woman who was the first to reach out to me after V put me in touch with the church. I bugged this poor woman with questions a lot. Like...A LOT. She was a trooper though and was always quick to answer. When we started attending church again, she became more than just my Catholic Google. She became my friend.</p><p>Once we started back to church, we found that we constantly wanted more. We didn't necessarily always feel welcome in the church though. People gave us the side-eye a lot. I wasn't there for them though. I was there for The Word. I found myself not just hanging on every word of the readings, but also the homily. What Father had to say became very important to me because he does not shy away from brutal honesty.</p><p>Something I can relate to, right?</p><p>We decided that we wanted to find out more about becoming Catholic. We started meeting with Father and going through the process. As in most things with us though, we kept it on the down low. We are <i>not</i> showy people. We also started volunteering at the church, which opened us up to meeting new people. I learned something then...it's nice to have friends who share your faith. That's when it hit me...Mom wasn't looking for God. She was looking for friends, but the places where she tried to find them didn't produce any so she quit. I learned something else as well: just like with family, you will not like everyone you go to church with and they will not all like you and that is ok. It's sad, because my mother gave up so quickly. We came close to doing the same, but decided that we weren't there for those people; we were there for God. Mom died without a single friend. There was no one to notify of her death. I wish she would have stuck it out somewhere; maybe her life would have been happier.</p><p>But...back to the question of how an atheist becomes a Catholic. I don't think anyone who has ever taken the time to really get to know me well believes I was an atheist. There are a handful of women who have (crazily) remained my friends since Keeghan's death who probably saw this coming all along. I know they've been praying for it. I stopped looking for a perfect religion and instead found a relationship with God.</p><p>As for my husband, the actual atheist? Well, his story is just that...his. It's a great story! Maybe he can tell it sometime if he wants. </p><p>So...there you go. I don't know how an atheist becomes a Catholic. I only know how Shannon did it. With the help of a meddlesome friend (who I will forever be thankful for) and a lot of love and support and prayer from my huge family of friends.</p>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-39674202460260833612020-05-12T17:41:00.000-07:002020-05-12T17:41:04.632-07:00Borrowed time.<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s been a good day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course, aren’t all days good when you’re living on borrowed time?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been having major anger issues lately. Sure, some of it might be from this stupid COVID-19 mess, but a lot of it is just me being mad at my own body. Since moving to Pennsylvania nearly a year ago, I have had labs drawn a few times. I don’t even know what prompted my doctor to check whatever mysterious level in my blood it is that indicates I might have an issue with gluten, but check it she did. The first time this level was checked, my blood sugar was also checked and came back crazy high. It made zero sense, because at the time I had been on a diabetic diet for a little over a year. The doctor, of course, defended the lab stating that “this level is rarely incorrect.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Well, it was wrong. Way, WAY wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So when she told me I “might have celiac disease” I didn’t believe it and asked for the labs to be drawn again. I had no symptoms of celiac (and believe me, I looked them up) so I figured the lab screwed up again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The results were the same the second time. Long story short, I got referred to a specialist in Pittsburgh who decided I need to have some scope procedure done where they shove a camera down my throat and look at my small intestines. This is apparently the only way to get a definitive diagnosis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Enter COVID-19.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That procedure has been postponed indefinitely. In the meantime, another set of labs were drawn and <i>still </i>indicate celiac disease. Like it or not, for now I have to live my life on the assumption that I have it and need to be on a gluten-free diet for the rest of my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been pretty angry about it for a few weeks now because it doesn’t affect only me. There are two of us in this house and we are not going to make different meals for each of us, so Mike now has to eat gluten free as well. It sucks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Today was a good day though. I’m lucky that Mike has embraced this whole lifestyle change. He knows how much I love baking, so he’s made sure I have a plethora of gluten-free ingredients. For the first time since before Christmas, I got the stand mixer out today and baked. It was glorious! I made oatmeal raisin cookies that are not only free of the evil gluten, but also mostly sugar free, and I made flourless peanut butter cookies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Life is good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thinking about all of this while I was baking got me thinking about my life and the different ailments I have dealt with over the last 20 years. It was July 2000 when I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, an autoimmune disorder that affects the thyroid causing hyperthyroidism. After a decade of that flaring up and being treated with medication, I finally had my thyroid removed in 2010. Since then, other than having to take a thyroid pill every day, life has been pretty simple.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then in 2018 I was told that I was very close to being diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. That prompted a major lifestyle change! My doctor at the time didn’t think I could change my eating and exercise habits enough to avoid the diagnosis. In one year, I did just that though. I lost 25+ pounds and changed my eating habits. I was officially no longer on the brink of diabetes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Life was good again! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now this. I’ve always loved the idea that from the day we are born, we are dying. Every day should be lived and appreciated to its full extent. Losing our son to cancer at such a young age also taught us that lesson. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But damn…sometimes I feel like my body is hellbent on getting me to death faster than I want to go! Never with anything that is guaranteed to kill me. Just this little thorn-in-my-side stuff. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Here’s where the borrowed time comes in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am incredibly fortunate to live in a time when there is knowledge of these disorders and treatment options available. I may not like having to give up some foods, but at least I know that is how to deal with it. If I had been born 100 years ago, I might have had any (or all) of these ailments and not known that I had them at all! Who knows if they would have killed me or not. When my Graves’ Disease flared up, I would sometimes have a resting heart rate of about 110 beats per minute and only be able to get 2-3 hours of sleep per night and that would go on for days until the medicine the doctors prescribed kicked in and got it under control. Without medication, who knows how long my body could have withstood that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So yeah…maybe this time that I have now is not time I was meant to have. Instead of wasting time being angry over this new twist in my life, I’m choosing to consider it my next great adventure! Like all adventures, there will be struggles…kind of like taking a beautiful hike in the mountains and getting bit by mosquitoes and falling into a patch of poison ivy. It’s all part of the whole experience, right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If my body is determined to keep throwing these curveballs at me, it better be prepared for a battle because I love a good challenge!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bring on the gluten-free cookies!</span></div>
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Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-19432804550632246662020-03-22T15:16:00.001-07:002020-03-22T15:16:34.839-07:00Feeling lost.<div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1c1e21; direction: ltr; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; margin: 0px auto 28px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap; width: 700px;">
The world is in quarantine. In many places it is a crime to break quarantine. People are out of work. Businesses are suffering. Many small businesses are likely to fold if this quarantine goes on for very long. </div>
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I am watching the government with hope. This is a situation unlike any we’ve faced before and I want to believe that they are doing their best to figure out what is right for the people of our country. At the same time, I see so many who cannot hide their hope that this government fails because it is not the government of their choosing. I see our elected officials using this virus to get their own agendas passed and it sickens me. What sickens me more is the glee that others find in those same actions.</div>
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This is one of those odd times where I’m glad that Keeghan didn’t live to see this world. I worry for Mackenzie - what kind of world does she have to look forward to? She’s young. She should have hope for the future. All young people should have hope for the future. Instead, this society seems hell-bent on imploding into a black hole of despair and anger.</div>
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I like to read dystopian books. I never thought I’d be living in one.</div>
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I have to wonder what it will be like in a year. Will this all be over, with everyone talking about it like some great success that we all made it through together. I certainly hope that is how we are able to look back on it. Or will it just be the fuel for more anger and hatred (something we already have too much of). Worse, will we move on from this and forget about it, learning nothing, like we seem to have done with the events of 9/11?</div>
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Sometimes it is so hard to live in this world not knowing any of the answers. Why is it so hard for us humans to work together?</div>
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The end of this story...or this chapter of this story...is not known yet. I feel like we can each affect it. The problem is that we all have different ideas of who the hero is in the story and...well, I <span class="_4yxp" style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic;">think</span> that the heroes should be us, not those we are expecting to fix everything. Can we do that?</div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-21685878756098350402020-03-18T09:23:00.002-07:002020-03-18T09:23:59.543-07:00Dear Parents in COVID-19 Quarantine Dear Parents,<br />
<br />
By now, if you weren't already a stay-at-home parent, you probably are, quarantined from the COVID-19 pandemic currently sweeping the world. You might feel like your life has gone straight to hell and that you're never going to make it through this. Your kids might be getting on your very last nerve. Wine has become your best friend and that thing you start looking forward to as soon as your feet hit the floor in the morning.<br />
<br />
Sound about right?<br />
<br />
Well, get over it. What you're dealing with is difficult, for sure, but I'm here to tell you there is an entire population of parents in this country who are viewing your "horrible plight" and rolling their eyes in disgust. I am one of those parents.<br />
<br />
We are the cancer parents. People who have dealt in the past, or are dealing currently, with having a child with cancer. Children whose immune systems are completely shot due to chemotherapy and/or radiation. Parents who know that something as innocent as touching a door knob and then scratching their nose is enough to cause a fever and a week in the hospital on IV antibiotics, praying the entire time that it doesn't get worse and that the antibiotics do what they're supposed to.<br />
<br />
My 10-year-old son, Keeghan, was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor in 2006. After weeks of intense chemotherapy and 32 whole-brain radiation treatments, all in a span of 6 weeks, his immune system was nonexistent. We were a military family, however, and had to move from Texas to Washington, DC. Two cars, three adults, and a 12-year-old sister managed to get Keeghan moved without ever spiking that dreaded fever. We were an army of Germ Warriors, always ready with hand sanitizer and a hand to lend to open doors so that he stayed free of deadly - yes, DEADLY - germs.<br />
<br />
I emphasize that word for a reason. The first funeral I ever attended for a child - and I have been to a few, sadly - was for a 7-year-old little boy. It was not the cancer he was fighting that killed him. No. It was the sepsis he contracted when his immune system had nothing left and he was somehow exposed to some germ...probably something innocuous that you or I could fight off easily. His little body was so depleted from chemotherapy though that he could not fight it off.<br />
<br />
Seven-year-olds should not die.<br />
<br />
Because of cancer, I had to homeschool both of my children. I began homeschooling when they were in 5th and 7th grades. To say that it was difficult is laughable. I had no idea what I was doing. I figured it out though. Here are some lessons I learned along the way:<br />
<br />
- I did not have to actively "educate" them from 8am to 3pm - the hours that they were normally in school. They did not receive seven hours of one-on-one attention from their teachers at school; therefore, why should I think they needed that much from me? We spent as much time as was needed on the lesson. If they finished a reading assignment in 30 minutes when I had an hour blocked off for it, that was ok.<br />
<br />
- some subjects can be taught without a textbook, under a blanket while cuddling on the couch. Oftentimes with a cat in the cuddle somewhere. That's ok, too.<br />
<br />
- flexibility is key. Because Keeghan was going through chemo, some days were better than others. If he wasn't feeling up to math, we didn't do math that day. Go with the flow of the child.<br />
<br />
- making activities fun creates wonderful memories that you will never forget. Trying to keep things regimented creates horrible memories that also will not be forgotten. Trust me when I say that it is better to have the wonderful memories years from now than it is to have the horrible ones.<br />
<br />
You might think what you are dealing with is the worst thing you've ever experienced. Cancer parents would beg to differ. My son died in 2008. We just passed what would have been his 24th birthday. My daughter is now 26 and on her own. I am watching from the sidelines as so many of you "suffer" through this quarantine with your children and I am jealous. I am so incredibly jealous of this gift of time home with your children that you have been given. You have the opportunity, <i>right now</i>, to create lifelong memories with these incredible little humans you created. Don't pass it up. Don't look at it as some kind of punishment. This virus spreading around the world is a horrible thing. There are positives to be found in it though if you only take the time to see them.<br />
<br />
Take advantage. If for no other reason, take advantage of this time for me, so that I can experience it vicariously.<br />
<br />
Please.Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-27619897874182612452020-03-13T08:22:00.000-07:002020-03-13T11:06:37.708-07:00COVID-19 and politics should not mixI’m so exhausted.<br />
<br />
No, I do not have coronavirus.<br />
<br />
I am exhausted from listening to the many different arguments surrounding this current COVID-19 pandemic.<br />
<br />
I gave my husband a ride to work today. On the ride home, I listened to a local morning show on the radio. Callers were arguing for and against how our government is dealing with this outbreak. Should we have halted flights from Europe? Did we ban travel from China quickly enough? Was this virus created by the Democrats to interfere with the election this year? Was this virus created by the Republicans to interfere with the election this year? Everyone has an argument to support their stance on the subject and they all believe themselves to be absolutely correct. No news there. Isn’t that the beauty of being American? We can think for ourselves and come to our own conclusions and make decisions for ourselves based on those conclusions, whether they are based in true fact or not.<br />
<br />
Where the whole thing went south for me was when the host of the radio show got irritated with a caller who was defending the president’s decision to halt travel from the EU for 30 days. He said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah...I see now. You’re one of those Trumper Fan Boys.” The caller was (understandably) offended by that comment and said so. The host then said, “I don’t care if you’re offended. It’s true. I can hear it in your voice. As far as you’re concerned, Trump can do no wrong. You’re part of his cult.”<br />
<br />
The caller was not saying anything that could really be construed as wild or far-fetched; only that he thought it was good that travel from countries more heavily affected by the virus is being halted for a while in order to let the virus run its course. The radio host, however, went on the attack. I honestly wanted to call in, because in my opinion the radio show host was being over-the-top dramatic by taking what this caller said and turning it into childish name-calling rather than having an intelligent discussion.<br />
<br />
It brought to mind a conversation I had with someone yesterday. I respect this person a great deal, but we are on opposite sides politically. She sees this president as a toxin. I see many of the prominent Democrats in Congress as a far worse and widespread toxin. But here’s the thing that I pointed out to her: she can voice her opinion without fear of being attacked, verbally and physically. I cannot.<br />
<br />
My husband jokes about wanting to buy himself a MAGA hat. It isn’t that he thinks they look good or are a wise fashion choice. He just doesn’t like the fact that everyone on the left can scream and yell and cry and stomp their feet and protest and, generally, force their political opinions and feelings and beliefs down the throats of everyone and we’re all supposed to just take it, but he can’t wear something that shows who he supports without fear of physical attack.<br />
<br />
What is wrong with that picture?<br />
<br />
Of course, because I love my husband and would prefer he not be physically attacked or shoot anyone, I have asked that he not wear a MAGA hat or anything else that shows he supports President Trump. Instead, we just plan to vote.<br />
<br />
Back to COVID-19 though. This virus is no joke, to be sure. Neither was H1N1, Ebola, SARS or any of the others we have faced in the past. Do I believe there should be widespread panic and a run on toilet paper? No, I don’t. Of course, why should you believe me? I’m not a doctor. I’m just a logical person. If you take proper precautions - wash your hands, cover your cough/sneeze, stay home if you are having cold or flu symptoms, don’t go into large crowds if you don’t have to - then you are probably safe. Personally, I would not be traveling right now, but that’s just me.<br />
<br />
On a larger level, I think closing our borders is a great idea. If there is a possibility that we will have more cases needing hospital beds than we have hospital beds for, why would we be foolish enough to let more people into the country? I care about humanity, but I’ll be honest - the freedoms that we enjoy as Americans should not be AS free or AS readily available to non-Americans in times like these. I should not have to worry that, should I need a hospital bed, one is not available because it is already taken by someone here illegally. That is not saying that I think an illegal alien should not be treated if they are already in the country and become sick. Of course I think all people should be treated, but if we can stop more illegal people from entering the country and possibly taking up beds in hospitals that (I feel) American citizens should have priority for, then yes, I think we should close our borders.<br />
<br />
It is absolutely ridiculous in a time like this that people are still playing partisan political games. If you are one of those doing it, just stop. Seriously. Unless you have completely lost your ability to be human, stop. That is not who we should be.<br />
<br />
Now, back to your regular programming.Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-64905267735582109542019-05-16T18:39:00.002-07:002019-05-16T18:39:40.615-07:00Find your peace, Mom.My mom died today.<br />
<br />
That is so surreal to type. I've lived 52 years knowing that someday I would say those words, but it is still so strange to finally say.<br />
<br />
I've had a strained relationship with my mom for a very long time, but that is a whole other blog post. I've wanted to tell Mom's story for a long time now, mainly because I think she has been short-changed in a lot of ways in life. Now is finally the time.<br />
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I can only tell it as it has been told to me. I'm sure there might be some who read this who say it is not correct, but I am telling it from Mom's perspective which is likely different from those who knew her. So be it.<br />
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Mom was born in South Dakota in 1942. My grandfather was in the Army. I don't know if he was in the Army when she was born, or if he joined later on. I only know that he was in the Army after she was born because she always said she learned to talk in Louisiana (hence her pronunciation of "towel" as "tal" and "wash" as "warsh" according to her).<br />
<br />
Eventually, she ended up in Illinois. I don't know how old she was when she moved there; only that she attended high school in Raymond, Illinois.<br />
<br />
When Mom was 14, her mother gave birth to a boy. As Mom told the story, everyone in town knew the child was not my grandfather's. In fact, Mom would freely say that she was the child of the town drunk and town whore (her words, not mine). As soon as the child, Rusty, was born, my grandmother moved his crib into Mom's room and told her he was hers to raise.<br />
<br />
That's a lot for a 14-year-old girl. At one point as a baby, Rusty got sick and ran a high fever. Mom spoke of sitting up with him all night long, trying to soothe the miserable baby. Rusty ended up with "brain damage" because of the illness that caused him to always have problems developmentally. He never read well. He could sign his name; that was about it.<br />
<br />
Sometime during her high school years, she dated a guy named Cliff. Because she had to take Rusty everywhere with her, they had a toddler chaperone on most dates. Cliff was older and in the Navy. He was Mom's first love. Unfortunately, at some point, he ended up cheating on her and having a child with another woman.<br />
<br />
I think that experience put the seed of an idea in Mom's mind though. After graduating high school, she decided to join the Navy herself. Keep in mind, it was 1960. Not very many women joined the military at that time. My great grandmother's last words to my mother before she left for boot camp were, "Only bad girls join the military."<br />
<br />
I have always wondered if Mom joined the Navy to escape Cliff and his new wife, to escape having to mother her younger sibling, or just to escape all of it. At 18, she had already been a "grown-up" for quite a while.<br />
<br />
Mom went to boot camp in Bainbridge, Maryland and later was stationed in Long Beach, California. She had great stories of her Navy time! She worked as a medic (I honestly don't know what her technical title was), and she talked about giving sailors vaccinations in the clinic. Once, a sailor in for shots asked her if it would hurt. She told him that it would not. After she gave him his shot, he immediately said it hurt and bit her on the back of her hand. He bit hard enough to break the skin. She said that she developed an infection from it. The sailor was not punished, but eventually, he had to come through for shots again. When he did, instead of giving him the vaccination he was in for, she gave him a shot of isopropyl alcohol. Apparently, that "stings like a bitch."<br />
<br />
Mom was a bit of a badass.<br />
<br />
Another story that I heard many times was of a guy who asked Mom out while she was in the Navy. He bragged to his buddies that he would "get in her pants." Fortunately for my mother, one of the buddies told her his plans. Mom played along, going to a hotel with him. She told him to get comfortable and went to the bathroom to "get ready" only to come back out with a bucket of cold water. She dumped it on him as he laid in wait on the bed and then left.<br />
<br />
Again, badass.<br />
<br />
By the time Mom got out of the Navy, her parents, older brother and his wife and younger brother had moved to California from Illinois. Also, Cliff had been discharged from the Navy and was divorced from his first wife. Mom and Cliff were married on January 1, 1964. She'd finally found her happily ever after, marrying her first love!<br />
<br />
On January 31st, just 30 days after getting married, Mom was driving in Byron, California, where she and Cliff lived, and she came upon a car accident. Because she had medical training from her military time, she got out of her car and walked up to the accident to see if she could help in any way. That was how she found out that her husband had died. She only found out that she was pregnant later when she miscarried.<br />
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Honestly, I cannot imagine going through all of that at just 21-years-old.<br />
<br />
I don't know if she was already working as a waitress at that time or if she began that job later, but three months after Cliff died, while working as a waitress in a local restaurant, she met a new guy. His name was Al and he was recently divorced. He was a few years older than her and had two boys from his first marriage. The owners of the restaurant she worked at were Al's ex-wife's parents.<br />
<br />
I don't know if you can say they dated or not, but three weeks after they started seeing each other, they went to Reno and got married. My mother, a 21-year-old widow, became not only a wife again, but also a stepmother to a 7- and 4-year-old.<br />
<br />
I did not become a mother until I was nearly 28-years-old and I still felt like I had no idea what I was doing. I cannot imagine instantly becoming a mother to two children at 21!<br />
<br />
Add to all of that a new pregnancy. My brother, Brad, was born nine months and two days after my parents were married (and he was one day late!).<br />
<br />
Dad had custody of his older boys, but they still spent time with their mother occasionally. Because of the reasons they divorced, it was a strained relationship. His first wife had cheated on him, becoming pregnant by another man. My dad, fool that he is (in my opinion), helped find a family to adopt that child and then took her back. It was only after the second time she cheated and became pregnant (by yet another man) that Dad divorced her.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, when the older boys were with their mother, she did not have kind words about my mom. Mom told me stories of the boys coming back from being with their mother and telling her that she couldn't tell them what to do because she wasn't their mother. At one point, the younger boy went through a phase of biting his older brother. At a loss as to what to do, Mom finally held him down and let the older boy bite him back! Was that the best solution? Of course not. Did it work? According to Mom, yes, it did.<br />
<br />
Dad told me once that he would sometimes come home at the end of a workday and find Mom sitting on the front porch, crying, while the boys were in the house destroying things. Again, I cannot imagine what I would do in the same situation.<br />
<br />
On top of all of this, Mom never felt that she was accepted into Dad's family. He was the youngest, with four older brothers and an older sister. My mom was not only the second wife, but she was also much younger than Dad's brothers and sisters-in-law. I don't know exactly what the reasons were for her not being accepted into the family and I never will as most of those family members are long gone. His father, my grandfather, was always welcoming of Mom, but he died only a few months after they were married.<br />
<br />
The one person she did become close to was my grandmother, maybe because Grandma Kelley was also a second wife. Grandma once told my mom that her "greatest sin was marrying a Kelley." When Grandma was alive, we were always included in family gatherings. Grandma died when I was 12-years-old and I don't remember attending more than a couple family gatherings after that.<br />
<br />
Eventually, Dad sent his two older boys back to live with their mother fulltime. Maybe there was some judgment against Mom about that, but those people didn't know the difficulties my mom was dealing with. The judgment was not disguised in any way though. I remember going to one uncle's house because he had a pool. He was always very loving and welcoming when we went to visit. I was so young that I never thought it odd that we never saw my aunt in those visits. We never went in the house and she never came out. Mom would sit by the edge of the pool watching us swim the whole time.<br />
<br />
It's a strange thing to be the children of the second wife. You're never really a part of the family and that is so unfair - to us and to Mom.<br />
<br />
But Mom survived all of that. We continued on as our own little family unit, separate from everyone else and she made sure we never felt like we were missing anything. She always had our backs and we always felt loved. She was never perfect, and for sure I have had my issues with her over the years, but considering all that she dealt with as a young woman, her strength is beyond question.<br />
<br />
Her later years are another story. There are many, many stories that I will tell over the coming months, both good and bad. For now, though, I want to remember the badass that she was.<br />
<br />
<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-33482342384864313702018-08-31T08:35:00.000-07:002018-08-31T09:18:38.861-07:0010 years...<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ve been writing this in my head for a few months now and every time I tell myself it is time to sit down and get it all out, I find an excuse not to. I don’t even know what it is exactly </span>that<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I want to say. I’ve just felt this need to write about him.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Today marks ten years since Keeghan left us. Damn it…just typing those words has me in tears. It’s still that unreal to me…so unreal that seeing the words in black and white stab like a knife. Ten years and that is still the same.</span><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">In so many ways, it feels like just yesterday that we were on that wild cancer journey. For two and a half years, he fought - we all fought - that damn beast and as crazy as it sounds, I miss it. I miss the way we were The Fantastic Four. The hospital visits always included so much laughter, because no matter where we were, we found reasons to laugh.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I miss the sound of his laughter so much.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It took a while to find laughter again. I won’t lie…I remember very little about the first three years after Keeghan died. I remember so many good friends being there for us in DC. I remember moving to California and being so damn lonely.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">We left DC nine months after his death. In the months between his death and that move to California, I spent a lot of time just hanging out in his room. It was where I went to write, to open his drawers and smell his clothes, like somehow that would bring a little bit of him back. I listened to the radio in there a lot and to this day, there are still songs that take me right back to that desk beside his bed, looking out the window on Chandler Drive.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">We bought a three-bedroom house when we got to California. There was no need to have a “Keeghan’s Room” so we left his bed and mattress in the garage. That lasted about two months I think. One day while Mike was at work and Mackenzie was at school, after a flood of tears and hand-wringing, I said fuck it and brought it all in. I hauled it up the stairs and put that damn third bedroom together just like his room in DC was, right down to the DC United, Baltimore Ravens and Washington Nationals foam fingers hung on the wall. I wasn’t ready to not have his room yet. I’m sure Mike and Mackenzie both thought I’d lost it when they got home that day, but bless them for not ever saying it out loud.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Those two years in California were not fun. We tried, we really did, but we just didn’t get what we had hoped for…what we needed…from living there. Grief is such a bitch. We were all grieving the same loss, but we didn’t know how to be there for each other and it almost destroyed our marriage. I had no idea what it felt like for a man to lose his only son. He had no idea what it was like for me to lose my baby. We neither one knew what it was like to lose your only sibling. We were three people who loved each other beyond measure but just couldn’t help each other.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Luckily it all came to a head one day when Mike and I got into a fight that almost ended in him leaving. To this day, we cannot remember what that fight was about. I just remember screaming at the top of my lungs at him. In that moment, all of my pain and hatred and sadness and helplessness came out and got directed right at him. It took Mackenzie crying and begging him not to go when he had his keys in his hand to wake me up and make me realize I was about to lose him. From that moment forward, we’ve been solid. Stronger than we’ve ever been as a couple probably. But that day was the catalyst and afterward, I knew I had to get away from that place because I’d been in a fog ever since we got there and it needed to end.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So while moving to California was one of the worst choices we’ve ever made, moving to Japan in 2011 was the smartest. It took us half a world away from everyone and allowed the three of us to heal. The strength of our bond had to change because a major piece was missing. It didn’t mean Keeghan was no longer a part of us; it meant that instead of being part of the circle, he was now the piece in the middle that the three of us circle around.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Let me make something very clear here though…healing does not mean getting over it or letting it go. That shit pisses me off when people say it. A secretary from one of the squadrons Mike belonged to before Keeghan died said that to me once. “I didn’t realize you were still grieving I thought you’d be over that by now.” Grief never leaves and Death becomes a member of the family. The pain of Keeghan not being here has never left. We just know how to control it better and part of that controlling is knowing who and when and where we are free to grieve. It also means knowing which people are good for your soul and which are not and cutting those who are not out. That sounds harsh, but it is necessary.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My mind scatters when I get on this subject. In the past ten years we’ve dealt with so many people who have said some really horrible things to us. I know they had no idea they were hurting us, but knowing that doesn’t change anything. We were asked not to talk about death in our own home because it made <i>them </i>uncomfortable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’ve been told that I make others uncomfortable. I’ve met new people and had them immediately quit talking to me and start avoiding me when they found out my son died.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Did they think cancer is contagious?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I saw what was supposed to be a grief therapist in those first couple of years. One session, as I told her about how lonely it was to have new people give you the cold shoulder as soon as they find out your child died, she suggested I not tell people about Keeghan. She said maybe I should tell people I only have one child and then once they had time to get to know me and like me, I could tell them then about my son who died.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I do have a son. Not I <i>did</i> have one. I fucking DO have a son. For as long as I live and breathe, he will be here and real and he will always be my son and I will not deny his existence.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Don’t even get me started on survivor’s guilt. I’ve heard that phrase so many times and I’m here to tell you, it’s bullshit. It’s an indulgent way for people to make my loss be about them. I don’t feel guilty for living. I don’t even feel guilty for not being able to save him anymore. Moms are not all-powerful. I get that now.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So how are things different ten years later? I look different. Sometimes I let myself be stupid and wonder if he would even recognize me now. I have more tattoos and piercings. My hair is a different style and a different color…would he know me?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Stupid, i know but grief does that to you.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I know he would recognize me, just as I would know him. He was always mine. That sounds strange, but it’s the only way to describe it. When the four of us got out of the car anywhere, Mackenzie always grabbed Daddy’s hand and Keeghan held mine. It never had to be said; it was just a given. He was mine to hold, always.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">That was another of those things that took a while to work through after he left. Even as a teenager, Mackenzie would always do her normal thing and reach for Daddy’s hand when we got out of the car. I didn’t have a hand to hold anymore. I remember walking behind them in the parking lot of a mall in Maryland and completely breaking down because I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand! <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Only a person who has lost a child understands those everyday moments that just destroy you.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There have been times over the years where I have absolutely hated myself for the thoughts that I’d have. At my darkest moments, I hate other parents who haven’t lost a child. I hate the asshole children that I see and wonder why they couldn’t have been the one to die. I hate people who try to give me reasons for why he died…the people who throw their religion at me like their faith in some myth is the reason it happened to our family and not theirs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’d like to introduce them to the multitude of parents I’ve met on this cancer journey who shared their faith and still lost a child.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That is one thing that has not changed at all in the last decade. I was not religious before Keeghan was diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t find religion while he fought for his life. I have not found a belief in any religion since. My son didn’t die because we are not Christians (or any other religion). He died because he had a disease that has no cure. It happens.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">That is the one truth I have accepted, as much as I hate it. Shit. Fucking. Happens.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t care what kind of life you live, if you pray, eat vegan, grow your own vegetables, live off the grid, or if you eat nothing but KFC, drink bad scotch and get high every day…you can still get cancer. Deal with it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I sat down to write about how we are different ten years later and, as usual, went off on a tangent. I don’t get to sit down and write nearly enough these days, so this is what happens - I get a mad case of word diarrhea and can’t stop rambling.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So how am I different?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have less of a filter. I am brutally honest. So much so that I piss a lot of people off and don’t really care. It isn’t that I want to hurt anyone. I just don’t have time to sugar coat or pussyfoot around things. I say what I feel and you can like it or not. Your choice.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I still love just as fiercely as I did then. I’m just less generous with that love.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’m still very lonely, even when there are others around. I always feel different than everyone else. Even when I see myself in pictures with other smiling people, I see myself as the one who doesn’t belong.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Side story…right after Keeghan died, I went back to my monthly bunco group with ladies I had been playing with for months before he died. It was October…so not quite two months had gone by. Understandably, I think I was less “fun” than normal. I remember standing on the edge of everything. It was my first experience of that feeling of being different from everyone. About half way through the evening, one of the women came up to me and said, “If you don’t want to play with us anymore, Shannon, we’ll all understand.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t know if she meant it the way I took it, but I took it as, “Hey Shannon, you’re bringing us all down so why don’t you just quit coming, k?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Whether it was meant the way I took it or not I’ll never know, but that was exactly how I took it and I walked out and cried all the way home. I also quit going to bunco. That has been my MO ever since then. If I don’t feel comfortable in a situation or around someone, I just avoid that situation or person. Life is easier that way.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But none of it brings him back or makes me forget. Nothing makes me forget the sound of his laugh, the way he’d roll his eyes at Daddy’s silly jokes, the way he loved hanging out with his sister. Nothing makes me forget the way I’d lean over him on the hospital bed and make him focus on blowing my hair out of my face to distract him every time they had to stick that huge damn needle in his chest to give him chemo. Nothing makes me forget the ambulance ride in the middle of the night with him seizing the entire way, but still saying my name, “Mama…Mama.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Nothing makes me forget the slow way that cancer destroyed him. Nothing makes me forget what he looked like lying on the sofa, lifeless, while we waited for a funeral home to come take his body.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Nothing makes me forget how it soothed my soul to just hug him and know that right then, in that moment, he was still with me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ten years and it still hurts so much. I don’t think time can change that.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then there are the good memories. The funny, sweet memories of Keeghan are what keep me sane sometimes. They usually come out of nowhere and bring a smile. Again, it took a few years to get to that point, where the good memories bring a smile and not debilitating tears. We al remember different things, which is beautiful because the things that Mike and Mackenzie remember remind me of time that I forgot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Just last night, Mike reminded me of what a little zen dude Keeghan was. Before cancer became a part of our world, we lived in North Carolina and had a big trampoline in the backyard. There were times when Keeghan would just disappear and we’d find him on his back in the middle of the trampoline, staring up at the big pine tree overhead, just chilling out. He was always able to find an inner peace that the rest of us weren’t. He’d do it in a barber’s chair while getting a haircut too. It was hilarious! His eyes would glaze over and he’d just zen out.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">After his cancer diagnosis, his zen place became the pool in the backyard. It was one of those small pools with the inflatable ring on top that you can buy at your local big box store. Mike remembers how he’d come home from work and put a bathing suit on and he and Keeghan would go out back to the pool and discuss his day. Keeghan would lay on his boogie board and float, looking up at Mike and asking him about his day. Their little big of nightly man time.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One of my sweetest memories of Keeghan was as a baby. He was only a few months old. We lived in Illinois and Mike was still in college, working nights as a phlebotomist at a local hospital. One evening, after getting Mackenzie put to bed, I was sitting on our bed holding Keeghan. He’d just fallen asleep and I was enjoying just holding him for a little while before putting him in his crib.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I leaned down and kissed his forehead and said, “I love you.” In his sleep, he smiled. It was so funny, so I tried it again. “I love you” - another smile. Mike was in the room getting ready to leave for work, so I told him to watch and said it again. Another smile. It was so funny! Finally Mike said, “Will you let that poor boy sleep!” I’ve never forgotten that though; even in his sleep he was the happiest baby.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Of course, he could have been faking sleep. That was a skill he mastered in the hospital. The doctors would come in to see him and he’d appear asleep, so they’d talk to us and then leave, saying they’d come back later when he was awake. Then, after they left, Keeghan would open his eyes and riddle us with questions about things they’d said. We learned very quickly to be careful about what was said in the room when Keeghan was “asleep.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">He was a funny little man. He once tried getting his grandmother to buy him a new bathing suit - or babing suit as he called them at the time - when I had already told her he didn’t need a new one because he had a bunch of them already. When she asked him if he was sure he needed a new one, because his mother had already said he had quite a few, he said, “I collect them.” If I remember correctly, she cackled with laughter and then bought him a new one.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So, so, SO many good memories. Ten years later it is still hard to believe…no, hard to accept that he is gone. How can the world still be turning without his huge personality and heart in it? I wish I could go back to his baby days when he couldn’t say “I love you” yet and instead said, “I sushoo.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">He was sweet and funny and kind. His life’s goal was to cure cancer. He was meant for such great things.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I miss him so much.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I sushoo, Bubby.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-22984489479471348912016-12-04T20:36:00.003-08:002016-12-07T10:24:24.722-08:00Stop bullying.<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">At the end of my work day, when there are only a few minutes left until I can leave and I don’t want to stop in the middle of something, I read the news online. I don’t particularly like reading the news, because there’s rarely anything happy to be found there. A few days ago was a perfect example.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The first headline that jumped out at me was about a teenager who killed herself in front of her family. She was a senior in high school and had been bullied for her weight - cyberbullied. No one had nerve enough to harass her in person. Instead, these cowards who thought they were so much better than she sent text messages and created Facebook pages to bully her. She killed herself because of words said by faceless people. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The article told of how her family pleaded with her to not pull the trigger, and with them there to witness it, she shot herself in the chest.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I can’t get that mental image out of my head. It’s been haunting me for a couple of days now, mainly because it ties in with the reason I’ve been avoiding Facebook. I’m disgusted with the way so many people I consider friends are behaving lately. Mostly it has been political comments, but there are so many other comments that make me wonder if anyone really thinks about what they’re saying anymore, especially when it is being said behind the safety of a computer screen.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’ve had a love/hate relationship with social media from the beginning. People speak their minds, exercising their freedom of speech, without a thought as to how others will react. What to you might seem a completely acceptable thing to say can hurt or anger someone else. Words are THE most painful weapons, because they cut silently, deeply and without witness.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Reading about a young life lost because of the pain caused by words got me to thinking…have I ever been a cyberbully? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that yes, I have. We’ve all been bullies. Think about it…have you ever written a scathing review of a business on Yelp? Left negative feedback on eBay or Amazon that was maybe a little more harsh than it had to be? How many Facebook posts have you written about the stupidity of people who voted differently than you in the recent election? </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Would you have the nerve to say the exact same things face to face?</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">How many times have you left vague replies to a friend’s post, clearly implying you disagree or are judging that person? Have you ever got into a heated argument with a total stranger in the replies to a friend’s post? Did it make you feel superior to that person to tell them your truth?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That is an important part of all this by the way. Your truth. Not <i>the</i> truth, even though that might be what you have convinced yourself. Everyone has their own truth. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Example: I am not a Christian. I do not believe in the Bible, Jesus, God. None of it. So when you post things like, “Thanks be to God” over the fact that your child survived his/her cancer, do you stop to think how those of us whose children didn’t survive might feel? God <i>chose </i>to save your child, but <i>chose</i> to let mine die? Is that the message? If so, this god is a huge asshole. That is <i>my</i> truth. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Another religious comment that seems innocent is, “Jesus is the reason for the season.” What you should be saying is, “Jesus is the reason for <i>your </i>season,” because he is not the reason for mine. The things that I celebrate this time of year have nothing to do with Christianity. They have to do with <i>my</i> truths.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Those are fairly innocuous examples. They anger me, but they don’t harm me. I’m not insulted by them; merely disgusted with their presumptuousness. Recently though, the comments on politics have reached the point of (what I consider to be) cyberbullying. When you lambaste an entire group of people because they voted differently than you, calling them names or saying they’re all ignorant, uneducated…stupid, does it occur to you that not everyone who will see it agrees with you? Does it occur to you that you are criticizing people you supposedly consider “friends”? Do you care?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We speak without thought or tact, because we don’t have to see the reaction of others to our words. That is bullying. If you only feel better about yourself when you’re bringing someone down, you are a bully. I grew up with someone like that and it took nearly 50 years before I was able to say, “No more!” and cut that person from my life. Lives are being lost because words are being said without care. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I had no choice but to watch my son die. He wanted to live - more than anything, he wanted to live! Yet I still had to helplessly watch him die. The parents of this young girl also had to helplessly watch their child die, but it didn’t have to be that way! We need to stop spewing hate and judgement. We need to be spreading acceptance, tolerance and love. We especially need to be teaching our children to do the same.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A bullet to the chest, as she cried about not being able to deal with it all anymore. How is this the world we live in now? How? Because we are creating that world with ever word we wield. How dare we use those weapons so carelessly?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I love seeing posts about your child’s baseball team winning, new jobs, kids in Halloween costumes, couples in ugly sweaters…I want to be there to cheer you on as you fight tough life battles. I cry with you when you suffer a loss. I don’t want to be there when you post something vague, seeking attention without explanation. I don’t want to “like” a post where you are criticizing an entire group of people all because you don’t agree with them. I don’t want to help you feel better about yourself by bringing someone else down.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Social media should be fun. </span></div>
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</style>Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-40971954176488208152016-03-08T17:33:00.001-08:002016-03-08T17:33:47.638-08:00Afraid to hope.For someone who operates on 90% emotion and 10% control, I try very hard to appear calm, cool and collected. Or, at the very least, I try to control which emotion is visible. The emotion that is easiest to let loose is anger, because being an angry person who scares the hell out of people is preferable to being that chick who cries over everything. The sad truth is, I do cry over a lot of things. I just try to do it where only a select few...ok, a select <i>two</i>...see me do it.<br />
<br />
In the past few months, life has held many twists and stabs. I've fought very hard to keep it all under control so no one sees that, emotionally, I am like a ball of rubber bands, tightly wound. Occasionally, a band snaps, but the majority of the ball is still holding together, albeit tightly. My fear is that soon, numerous bands will snap at once.<br />
<br />
Have you ever seen the inside of a golf ball? <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfT-wF9Wctc" target="_blank">This is what I fear is eventually going to happen to all of the emotions I fight so hard to keep in</a>.<br />
<br />
I want peace for us. I want a place to call home, not an apartment with loud neighbors and apathetic management. I want a place for my dog to roam off leash. I want to be able to paint a wall black if the mood hits me. To that end, we put an offer on a house a few days ago and found out today that the seller has accepted our offer. In two months, we will have a home. Will it be the home I'm seeking? It is half the size of the last house I lived in, and I am not good at paring down. In fact, nothing makes me want to cut a bitch quicker than being told, "Just get rid of stuff." I am not a hoarder, but I have 24 years worth of memories in the shape of toys, pictures, books, gifts from my children...all of which are not just "stuff" to be discarded. Every rock, seashell, fairy, drawing and letter is precious to me. The trick is going to be ignoring those who feel they have the right to tell me what to do and finding a place for my treasures.<br />
<br />
So, will this house be the home I am looking for? I don't know. All I know is that I want it to be, for a while at least. This will be our 4th move in less than 3 years. Just the thought of movers, unpacking, and cleaning another apartment makes me tired to my bones. But the thought of coming home to a house that is mine, with a yard that I can garden in...ok, let's be honest...a yard that I can drink wine in and look at, is what is driving me.<br />
<br />
But underlying that is still the nagging thought that California is not where we are meant to be. Mike is embarking on some interesting changes professionally. I may finally be achieving some professional satisfaction soon too. Maybe the coming months will reveal a love for this place that, thus far, I have been unable to find. Someone told us recently that we don't <i>live</i> in San Diego; we just work here. That could be true. We've been here almost two years and have spent that time living in apartments, going to jobs, shopping in the community, but never actually becoming part <i>of </i> the place. Maybe living in a neighborhood and not just a building is the part that has been missing.<br />
<br />
I want so much for all three of us, yet I feel like we're all chasing after that carrot that is eternally just out of reach. I am just hoping that reaching this point of emotional stretch, with the bands feeling as though they are about to snap, is as far as it will go and that the pendulum will finally start to swing the other way and some relaxation - both physical and mental - is finally coming our way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-60346610109246515682015-10-06T16:54:00.002-07:002015-10-08T06:18:38.147-07:00The Irrational Reality of the Post Cancer MindOn September 18th I had a mammogram. As a woman over the age of 40, I go in every year for the required boob-smashing. I have no history of breast cancer on either side of my family. ZERO history. But, as the parent of a child lost to cancer, the fear is there.<br />
<br />
It's not just fear of breast cancer. It's fear of cancer. Period.<br />
<br />
So, I had the mammogram. A few years ago I asked the woman doing my exam how long it would take for me to be notified if there was something there. She had just finished my scans and told me I could go get dressed. I'll never forget her - she was a black woman, probably about my age, with a friendly smile. She looked at me and said, "Honey, if I saw something there, I wouldn't be letting you walk out the door right now."<br />
<br />
As in all previous years, that scan came back clear. Since then, I've always trusted that, if I'm allowed to get dressed and leave, the girls are good to go.<br />
<br />
Last Tuesday - a full eleven days after my mammogram - I got a call from the mammo tech saying I needed to come in for more scans. Unfortunately, I missed the call because I was at work, so I got the message on voicemail after the clinic had closed. Immediately I was shaking. Instant tears. It was just a <i>voicemail</i>, and already I knew I was dying. I had to go to a baseball game that night and put on a happy face, because I didn't want to say anything to Mackenzie yet. How do I tell my child - the only child I have left, because cancer already stole her brother, her best friend, from her seven years ago - that I will never get to see her children...that I won't get to help her shop for a wedding dress...that I'm so sorry I won't live to be old like I thought I would.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I called the radiology clinic as soon as it opened. I spoke with the tech who took my scans. She explained that there was "something" on one side that didn't appear in last year's scans (which she also took). I tried keeping my voice level, even as my insides felt like they had turned to jello. I asked when I could come back for more scans. She responded with, "I can get you in on October 13th."<br />
<br />
It was September 30th. She wanted me to wait 13 DAYS? In my head, my already raging breast cancer was guaranteed to metastasize in those 13 days, becoming tumors in my lungs, my brain, and anywhere else sticky in my insides that it could latch onto.<br />
<br />
I said, "Okay," resigned to my fate, hung up and called my husband. That is when the tears started. True to form, he blew a gasket. "What do you mean they can't get you in until the %&@#ing 13th? Did she say what it is that they saw? Can you call her back?"<br />
<br />
After a mostly-failed attempt to pull myself together, I called her back. I asked if there was anything sooner than the 13th. I told her all of the questions that Mike had asked. And then I said the words that (I think) pushed the right button with her.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry. It's just that...we lost our 12-year-old son to cancer seven years ago. Cancer is something that we all have a very real fear of."<br />
<br />
I was crying by the time I finished that simple sentence. She put me on hold, came back a few minutes later and offered to fit me in on October 6th. Technically the first appointment of the day was at 9:00 am, but she said if I came in at 8:00, she'd take my scans and then try to get a radiologist to read them as soon as she could. She warned that I might have to wait a while though. I was okay with that.<br />
<br />
For six days, I imagined the worst. I didn't want to die. I was too young...I wanted to be there for Mackenzie as she falls in love, gets married, has children of her own. My husband was too young to lose me, which...let's be honest here...means that he's young enough to go out and find another woman to love and spend his twilight years with, and that <i>does not</i> work for me. That bitch can find her own man, thankyouverymuch. Every older woman I saw, I thought to myself, "Why does <i>she</i> get to live to be old and I don't?" The morbid thoughts were endless.<br />
<br />
If you think that I am the only one with this gruesome, pessimistic nature, think again. When I finally did tell Mackenzie that I had to go for more scans, she threw her arms around me and said, "If your hair falls out, I will shave my head too!" She didn't cry or freak out, but she automatically went straight to cancer, just as I had.<br />
<br />
This morning, my husband and I got up and headed out to the hospital for the scans that I just knew would begin another journey of surgery and chemo for our family to deal with. Enough days had passed that I was thinking (slightly) more logically, hoping that my cancer was being caught early and at worst, I'd lose a boob (at best, I was hoping for a whole new rack).<br />
<br />
I think I had a total of 8 new scans done, although it felt like 30. The tech commented that she was sorry she had to be rough, but that she "wanted to get as much tissue in the scan as possible." The fact that I don't have one side dragging the ground right now is a testament to the elasticity of skin. At one point as she was pulling and smashing my poor girl, taking the exact same scan for the third time, she said, "I want to make sure I get 'it' in the scan."<br />
<br />
There it is...breast cancer. This mysterious "it" has to be a lump of some kind, right? They'd probably do an ultrasound after this, just to be sure, but then they'd come in and tell me. We'd start discussing biopsy, or maybe they'd just go right to a full radical mastectomy. Then on to oncology, maybe radiation. I wondered if I'd have to get the little dot tattoos on my chest so that the radiation would get targeted to exactly the right place.<br />
<br />
Finally, after all the scans were complete, the radiologist came in. I asked if my husband could please come in also. Mike came and stood next to me, ready to catch me when the hammer fell. I braced myself for the worst.<br />
<br />
<i>"It's a lymph node."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I'm pretty sure Mike and I both just stared at him. All of the morbid thoughts became a mist that, temporarily, fogged my brain. I can't remember (even though it was just this morning) everything else that was said. I do remember him saying that I don't have to have another mammogram until my annual exam next year and I must have still been looking doubtful (or just stupid, which is highly possible). He then said, "I would say the same thing if I saw this in my wife, my sister, or my mother. It's just a lymph node."<br />
<br />
As Mike and I walked out of the clinic, each of us had our phones out and were texting the folks that we'd had waiting in the wings to be there for us, just as they had been when Keeghan was diagnosed 9 years ago. Because that is how it is when you already bear the scars of cancer. At the slightest hint that cancer might be rearing its hideous head in your life again, you start to circle the wagons. You prepare for the worst, because the worst has already happened once. Is it irrational? Of course. But until you have proof that there is no cancer...there is.<br />
<br />
<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-44807912614220042052015-08-30T08:26:00.003-07:002015-08-30T08:26:30.720-07:00I miss you, Bubby.<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Seven years ago today was the last time I saw him alive. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I know everyone thinks that August 31st, the day he died, is the hard day for me. It isn’t. It’s today.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Mike’s dad had been with us for a few days visiting, but left on the 30th. Mike helped me to get Keeghan and I settled on the sofa in our standard position - me sitting sideways with Keeghan between my legs, leaning back against my chest - before he and his dad left. We spent the afternoon watching movies, most notably his favorite movie - Transformers.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It was a good day if you don’t think about the fact that Keeghan could no longer walk, talk, or do anything other than click the remote to change channels on the TV. I had a whole day to just hold him and at that point, that was a good day.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Mike woke me up the next morning at 4:30 to tell me he was gone. I think he probably would have died sooner, but was holding on for a day when it was just us, The Fantastic Four, together. That moment wasn’t meant to be shared with anyone else.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Seven years. I just don’t understand how I have gotten through that much time without him. I miss the little moments…watching him eat his cereal and drink his coffee (with exactly one Irish creamer, thankyouverymuch), looking like a grumpy old man until he’d been properly fed and caffeinated, every morning. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Seeing him watching TV with that big old cat, Buddy, curled up in his arms like a baby. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The way he would look at Mackenzie in utter confusion as to how they were even related when she said something goofy.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Hearing his voice say, “I love you, Mama.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I have so much love in my life, and I know I am still so blessed to have the amazing husband and daughter that I have. Without them, I would not be here, and that is a fact. But damn it, I miss my son so much. He should be here. He should be in college, working toward that goal of finding a cure for cancer like he told us he would when he was 5-years-old.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Instead, I get to see pictures of other boys his age doing the things he never got to do. Some are children of my friends or coworkers; others are children I knew when Keeghan was alive, children he should have been out running around and playing with, but couldn’t because he was going through chemo at the time. No longer children, but young adults now. I get to see them live the dreams I had for my own son.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Even worse are the ones whose children survived cancer. Again, I don’t wish Keeghan’s fate on those children at all and am happy that they survived. It’s how the parents address that survival that can set me off on a flight of anger that can soar for days. Thanking some god for a miracle that implies that child was deserving of one when my son wasn’t is, at best, naive. At worst, it’s offensive to the families of all those children who have died. Thank a doctor, a research scientist…hell, thank Lady Luck that your child had the right type of cancer that was caught at the right time by the right group of medical providers. But DO NOT imply that your child’s survival was solely attributable to some mythical being who, apparently, thinks your child is more deserving of a life than mine.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Yes, I am bitter sometimes. I don’t wish Keeghan’s fate on anyone else, but I can’t lie - seeing those other children doing things Keeghan should be doing makes me angry. Not <i>at </i>them per se; just angry in general. It isn’t right.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I don’t know if other parents who have lost a child feel the same way. Many have religion in their lives to lean on; maybe that helps them to not look around at all the opportunities their children were denied and accept it. Perhaps some feel exactly as I do, but are too nice to say it, or are too afraid of the backlash from others.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I have always been the person who doesn’t really give a damn if I hurt your feelings with my honesty. You aren’t me and have no idea what I feel; therefore, you have no right to judge my feelings. I do a good job most of the time keeping my feelings to myself. Today is the day that honesty gets to be at the forefront though. Because today is the day that all of those years, months and days of watching him fight to live, only to see him slowly fade away and die, hit me all over again, the pain as fresh as it was seven years ago. Today is the day I allow myself to rail at the universe.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>THIS IS NOT RIGHT! </i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">HE DESERVED MORE!</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He deserved a chance, like all the rest.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He was so good, so sweet and compassionate…so smart! He had so much to offer this world. He wanted to be a father someday, so he could be just as good a Daddy as his own was. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We all deserved to get to see him reach those goals.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">For seven years, this world has missed his light, even if most didn’t even know it ever glowed to begin with.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Oh, what they missed out on, and oh, how I miss that light.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I miss you, Bubby.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-65936515544348155762015-08-02T20:22:00.001-07:002015-08-02T20:22:35.876-07:00Will it ever end?As August begins, once again I have to ask...what the hell happened to January through July? What evil time warp switches on in January and makes time zip by until August?<br />
<br />
And then it begins again...the endless memories and mental tortures that August brings. At the beginning of August, he could walk and talk, but he'd begun to have seizures.<br />
<br />
New drug trial....<br />
<br />
Hope....<br />
<br />
Then the treatment almost kills him.<br />
<br />
<i>There's nothing more we can do for him</i>. <i>Take him home, keep him comfortable.</i><br />
<br />
How do you tell a 12-year-old the doctors can't help him anymore?<br />
<br />
How do you tell a 14-year-old her brother will soon die?<br />
<br />
No more speech. Can't walk. But those eyes...those wise old eyes in a little boy's face! Right to the end, they looked at me with so much knowledge. He knew so much, but couldn't tell us.<br />
<br />
Helplessness of the absolute worst kind.<br />
<br />
Then Death came.<br />
<br />
Seven years...how can it be so long since all of that happened and yet still feel so fresh?<br />
<br />
This year brings a new challenge for me in that it is the first year since Keeghan's death that I have had a job. For the past six Augusts, I've been able to face the month with the knowledge that, when it was necessary, I could break down. No boundaries to limit my need to feel. Now, I have got to keep it together 40+ hours per week.<br />
<br />
On top of that, I have to deal with the invariable comments and questions that, while not asked with any malice, cut to the soul. The people who can't come close to imagining what it feels like to watch your child die...thinking that it gets easier with time, that at some point you get over it...move on...make peace with the loss.<br />
<br />
It really should be legal to occasionally throat punch people. Truly.<br />
<br />
So it begins. Twenty-nine more days until we once again mark that anniversary that has no name. I just call it The Day Keeghan Left, because calling it The Day That My Heart Broke in a Way That Can Never Heal takes too long.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-46740560123754008792015-06-01T18:54:00.000-07:002015-06-01T19:20:56.536-07:00Honestly...me.I'm pretty sure I have posted before about my honesty. Some would call it brutal honesty. I can't pinpoint exactly when I became so hellbent on being honest, but I know I haven't always been this way.<br />
<br />
Maybe at some point in my life I twisted the truth and it came back to bite me bad enough that I just decided to always be honest. A lot of it comes from having put up with treatment that I didn't like but never said anything, because I didn't want to create hard feelings. But eventually, you have to say, "enough is enough" and speak up for yourself.<br />
<br />
In my case, I think I went from one extreme to the other. After years of allowing myself to be mistreated by people, I hit the proverbial wall and won't put up with <i>anything</i> now.<br />
<br />
One of my biggest pet peeves that I am wholeheartedly brutal about is following rules. It is something that makes me very unpopular where I live. So be it. I do not believe that rules are made to make anyone's life miserable. I truly believe there is a reason for every rule. Sure, I may not always like them, but I will not blatantly break them.<br />
<br />
There are some rules that are a bit fluid. I don't try to drive faster than the posted speed limit, but if me doing the speed limit impedes the traffic flow, I will keep pace with the traffic around me. Within reason, of course.<br />
<br />
We live in an apartment complex that has beautiful amenities, but they come with rules. Would I like to be able to sit out by the fire pit past 10:00pm? Sometimes, yes. I know there are others in the building who think the pool should be open past 10:00pm, as well. But, I also understand that there are residents who live near those amenities and could be disturbed by people using them after a certain time, so I am <i>respectful</i> of the rules and go home at 10:00pm.<br />
<br />
The same goes for dogs being off leash. There are <i>rules</i> that state dogs must be on a leash at all times in the common areas around our building. The majority of the dogs here are friendly and would never hurt anyone, but if one person is allowed to break the rules, then everyone is given free license to do the same. This opens the door for the person with the dog who <i>does</i> bite to have a dog off leash, allowing someone to get hurt.<br />
<br />
It's really just that simple. The only way to ensure bad things don't happen is for people to follow rules. Yes, it sucks sometimes. Being an adult sucks sometimes, but like it or not, we are adults and must act as such.<br />
<br />
The things I believe in are what make me who I am. It has never been my goal to be liked by everyone. I'm not out to have 7,000 friends on Facebook, or be the person whose name everyone yells with glee when I walk into the room. That kind of thing is never real anyway. But I am proud of who I am.<br />
<br />
While others might think I'm crazy, I'm proud of the fact that I believe in...<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>rules</li>
<li>saying, "I love you" often</li>
<li>saying, "I'm sorry," but only if I mean it</li>
<li>expecting apologies when they are owed to me</li>
<li>shared bank accounts</li>
<li>sharing chores</li>
<li>taking responsibility for my actions</li>
<li>not being a bully</li>
<li>not thinking I'm better than anyone</li>
<li>leaving high school in the past</li>
<li>giving more than just the minimum expected of me</li>
<li>calling bullshit when I see it</li>
<li>not being a hypocrite</li>
<li>not being pretentious</li>
<li>active parenting</li>
<li>spiritual freedom</li>
<li>hugs</li>
<li>being on time</li>
<li>working hard</li>
<li>recognizing that "family" does not always mean "blood"</li>
<li>accountability</li>
<li>doing the right thing, even when no one is looking</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I could go on, but I'm sure you get the idea. I have high expectations...of myself, of those around me. Really, of everyone, even though I know that sets me up for disappointment because that just isn't the norm in our society. It would be nice if it was though. Life is short and we all want to live a happy life. Unless you live your life like a hermit, other people's actions are going to affect your life. If everyone lives as though the universe revolves around him or her, we will all be disappointed. If we stop and think about how our actions affect those around us, instead of only thinking of what will make us happy, we could all have a much higher level of life satisfaction. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Simple, right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And there I go again, setting myself up for disappointment. </div>
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<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-82198436033980656452015-05-31T21:24:00.001-07:002015-05-31T21:28:23.368-07:00It's been so long since I last sat down to write. We've been in San Diego almost a year now. I haven't made any new jewelry pieces and I haven't really spent any time writing since moving here. All of this "downsizing" to fit into a downtown apartment seemed like a great idea, but a year later I feel like I've given up so many things that made me me.<br />
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The first place we chose to live in San Diego has been a big fail. Nice place. New building, very fancy, great location. Here's the problem though...too many people with too much money and not enough maturity to deal with it. An example of the things we've dealt with in the past 12 months:<br />
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<li>20-somethings getting SO drunk by the pool that they walk around with certain body parts hanging out that, in polite society, are normally covered;</li>
<li>a total disregard for rules, such as "no dogs in the pool area" and "no dogs off leash," which resulted in Mike being bitten by an evil little mutt of a canine;</li>
<li>a sloppy drunk neighbor telling us how so many others in the complex hate us for getting the dog kicked off of the property;</li>
<li>same sloppy drunk neighbor putting the moves on me right in front of my husband (which, honestly, I didn't take seriously but it was still incredibly awkward);</li>
<li>garbage left everywhere;</li>
<li>dog feces in hallways (because entitled people apparently don't have to clean up after their pets);</li>
<li>and the list goes on.</li>
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Needless to say, this place hasn't been a good experience. </div>
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Overall, San Diego as a whole has not lived up to the expectation we had when we moved here. Sure, it is beautiful if you like the majority of your year to be sunny. For me, personally, I like everything in moderation, to include sunshine. And like most cities, traffic is hell, people are self-centered, and the cost is beyond ridiculous. </div>
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Not my idea of a "happily ever after" place.</div>
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It's been said that we haven't given the place a chance. I think we've given San Diego plenty of "chance." I'm not sure how much more chance I need to give it. I've lived here for a year, worked here for almost a year. Probably seen, experienced, and explored more of the city than many. We've certainly experienced more than the hipster bars of the trendy areas. San Diego has a lot to offer a snooty, entitled hipster. Or maybe a tourist. But not me. It doesn't have what I need.</div>
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And what do I need you might ask? </div>
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I need....</div>
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<li>seasons</li>
<li>less congestion</li>
<li>less expense</li>
<li>less "look at me, look at me"</li>
<li>more space</li>
<li>more time with my husband</li>
<li>less need to work</li>
<li>friendlier people</li>
<li>lake house</li>
<li>less entitled people</li>
<li>a yard for my dog</li>
<li>and that is just the tip of the iceberg.</li>
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All in all, we are not pretentious enough or materialistic enough for where we live right now. I'm hoping that moving outside of downtown will make things more bearable. But either way, I want out of here. I want to be far away from this place, these people...all of it. Mike and I are good with each other and with our child. We don't do well with others. Whether that is a good thing or not doesn't really matter - it works for us. We know this now and we accept it.</div>
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Bring it on - Tennessee, North Carolina, Pennsylvania...Thailand, Vietnam or Kuala Lumpur. Whatever...as long as it is just us, it will be good.</div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-41460539073961217952015-01-08T12:58:00.002-08:002015-01-08T14:09:40.543-08:00DivorceI recently asked my friends to suggest blog topics for me. Not that I need help finding topics bouncing around in my head so much as sometimes it's fun to force myself to write about a topic NOT bouncing around in my head.<br />
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This subject isn't a "fun" one to write about, but I think it is one that I have a different perspective on - a perspective that isn't written about often.<br />
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My parents are not divorced...from each other at least. My dad was married before though and has two sons from that marriage. Growing up, I never thought much about it other than knowing that I had these two brothers who had a different mother than my own. The implications of being a child of the second wife didn't hit me until well into my adult years.<br />
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Looking back, I remember my mother commenting that none of my aunts liked her. I remember going to one uncle's house to swim in his pool and my mom staying outside with us kids the whole time while my aunt stayed in the house. Because this happened every time we went there, I just thought it was normal. Again, looking back, I now see the oddness of that.<br />
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The point being, even though my own parents never divorced, I still experienced the repercussions of a divorce - not invited to family gatherings, never having close relationships with cousins, not feeling like a "real" member of the family. We were the second set of children, never truly fitting in with the rest of the family.<br />
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Children of divorced parents face so much that I cannot imagine. Two sets of parents. Feeling like you're betraying one parent if you enjoy time with the other. Multiple "sets" of siblings - those you share a mother with, those you share a father with, and those you share both parents with. Multiple extended families. I'm sure those children, like myself as a child, have a hard time figuring out where they fit in.<br />
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I was married once before and technically got divorced, but I really can't say I know what it feels like for a marriage to end. My first "husband" (I have a hard time even calling him that) and I never lived together. We were both in the Army - he stationed in California, me in Germany - and by the time I came home from Germany I was in love with my current husband and wanting a divorce from the first one. I tell people that he was really just a boyfriend that required paperwork to break up with.<br />
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So I don't claim to know what it feels like to get divorced. Just the thought of it makes my chest hurt though. I look at my husband and imagine him telling me he doesn't love me anymore and that he's leaving, or worse...that he loves someone else now...and it makes me feel physically ill. I can't imagine how I would react to that, yet men and women have that happen to them every day and have no choice but to continue on with their lives.<br />
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While it isn't the same, I can relate to the idea of having to continue on. When my son died - something I never <i>wanted</i> to happen for sure, but also something I had no control over - I couldn't imagine how I could continue to live without him. But, six years later, I'm still here. Broken in many ways; stronger in many as well.<br />
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So I think if there is anything I can say to people experiencing divorce, and possibly questioning how they're going to get through it, the only thing I can say with any certainty is "you just do." In the beginning, I'm sure it is nothing more than going through the motions of life, doing the things you know you have to do, but over time I would assume that you gradually start finding things to be happy about again.<br />
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As it was with us dealing with the death of a child, a big part of it will be allowing yourself to be happy again. It's very easy to wallow in misery. Sometimes being happy is a choice and you have to make that choice...as in, consciously tell yourself it's ok to be happy...before it can happen.<br />
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In my heart, I wish people would just work harder at their relationships. If you're unhappy, talk about it. Work together to find ways to be happy again. Never forget why you got together in the first place. Flirt. Go on dates. Say "I love you" every day.<br />
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In many cases - such as my first marriage - make sure you're getting married for the right reasons, and when you do - <i>commit to it</i>. Don't think of your marriage as something you can walk away from if it doesn't work...and it <i>is </i>work making a marriage successful. Just because you're crazy happy in the beginning does not mean you always will be. You have to work at it. If you're not willing to do that, you should stay single.<br />
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Easier said than done, though, right?<br />
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<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-72317367810541935632015-01-06T11:01:00.000-08:002015-01-06T11:01:22.942-08:00Filterless - read only if you don't mind being offended.<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
I really hate having to use sick leave for being sick. I'd far rather use it for a much-needed mental health/shopping day. I only get sick about once every five years though, and apparently it is time for my quinquennial illness. </div>
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So, as I sit here on the sofa with my tissues, hand sanitizer and coffee (because seriously, coffee NEVER tastes bad) and look at my News Feed on Facebook, I find that my normal barely-there filter has gone completely AWOL in the face of my snotty-nosed misery. So while I'm feeling lousy and just don't care, let me share a few thoughts on topics recently trending on my wall.</div>
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Marriage. Specifically, youngsters getting married. How do I define "youngster"? I don't consider anyone under the age of 25 to completely be an adult. Sorry. You're just not. Are you old enough to fall in love? Sure. Be hormonal and think that is love? Absolutely. Play house like real adults? Yep. Choose the person you are meant to spend the rest of your life with? </div>
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Hell no.</div>
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I know there are those of you who married your high school sweetheart and beg to differ, but you know what? Every statistical observation has outliers. I accept that. </div>
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Then there are you young people who are just <i>so in LOVE.</i> </div>
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I can hear you all now. </div>
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<i>But Shannon, you just don't understand. I </i>KNOW<i> this is right. </i></div>
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All I can say is - WHATEVER!</div>
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You don't even know who you are yet - because you haven't even become the person you're meant to be yet. I firmly believe you have to go through a few of life's trials on your own - as an adult - before you know yourself well enough to make an informed decision on whether or not another adult is the right person for you. Did your parents marry young? Are they still married? Are they happy?</div>
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That last one is the killer question in my mind. I know a few people who have been married for decades, but are not happy. They just reached the point where their marriage was a hard habit to break, so they continued to share space, but not feeling.</div>
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I married someone when I was 24 (not yet an "adult" by my definition) and it was a huge mistake. I met Mike while I was married to that other person. I won't say that meeting Mike was what made me realize my first marriage was a mistake though; I knew that within 24 hours of walking out of that tacky little wedding chapel in Lake Tahoe. But I knew when I met Mike that he was the one I was supposed to be with (see "<a href="http://skeleigh.blogspot.com/2012/01/how-i-met-your-father-part-1.html" target="_blank">How I Met Your Father, Part 1</a>").</div>
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Here's the thing - there were a few other times before that where I <i>knew</i> the current guy was "the one." It wasn't until I did meet the right one and could compare that feeling to all the other times I <i>thought</i> I had met the right one that I was able to see that those first few were nothing more than infatuation. I was in love with the idea of being in love. </div>
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Sorry, but you are too.</div>
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I had a young lady - a friend of a friend, if you will - add me as a friend on Facebook a few years ago. She was a senior in high school. Her boyfriend had just graduated and left for the Marines. She wanted to be friends with me because we were both "military wives." </div>
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::snort::</div>
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She and all her little friends who were the girlfriends of young military men (not full adults yet) were amusing, but just like I knew would happen, those relationships ended. Little girls playing at being women. </div>
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So, excuse me for not "liking" all of your posts about how happy you are, because me thinks you are trying too hard to convince me. The bottom line is that whether your relationship works or not really doesn't matter to me. So, instead of wasting my wall space trying to convince the world that getting married young is so great, just live your life. Time will be your evidence of either being right or wrong.</div>
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Whew...that topic went on longer than I expected. Next up in the flow of filterless ravings from a sick woman is parenting.</div>
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I will try to keep this one a little less verbose. Please do not perceive that as me being less opinionated on the subject. I just need a nap.</div>
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I am not a bible thumper, therefore I don't subscribe to the "judge not" idea that no one else subscribes to either, but swears that they do because of their religion. I judge you. Sometimes harshly. Especially if your children are wee beasties that show no signs of ever having been given boundaries or consequences.</div>
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In an effort to keep this short and reach my nap faster, here are the actions that I see all around me that make me turn to my daughter and say, "If you ever let your children act that way, I will steal them from you and raise them myself."</div>
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1. Throwing fits in stores. </div>
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My kids knew when we were in the grocery store that they had to have one hand on the cart at all times and that the answer to every request to buy something was "no." If they didn't, the cart would be left in the store - full if necessary - and we'd be taking a trip to the car where some form of discipline would take place.</div>
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To answer your question - yes, it happened. In grocery stores, malls...you name it. We followed through. So consistently, in fact, that Keeghan once said to me upon seeing another child misbehaving in public, "Mama, we'd get in so much trouble if we acted that way." </div>
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Start young. Set limits. Establish consequences. Follow through. It's not that hard. Which brings me to my next observation:</div>
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2. You are never too tired to parent.</div>
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From the moment that first child is born, you don't get to stop being a parent. You don't get to hand that duty off to someone else. Sure, if you're lucky, you and your spouse give each other breaks occasionally, but you can't count on those. If you wake up tired, oh well! When you start letting your child get away with being a brat because you're just "too tired" to deal with it, you have become a bad parent in my book. </div>
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Because here's the thing...when you start phoning it in as a parent, other people stop wanting to be around you. A bratty child is the biggest social life killer of all, because no one wants to spend their down time watching you let your kids get away with bad behavior. When my children were small, I would have been horribly offended if I knew that someone else wanted to discipline my child for me because I wasn't doing my job well as a parent. Consequently, I was probably more strict than most, but it paid off. I was never embarrassed to have my children around other adults. Are you?</div>
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Lastly, here is my current parenting pet peeve.</div>
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3. Stop letting video games, television and iPads raise your children. </div>
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I see it everywhere. Toddlers with expensive iPads in their hands while riding in the grocery cart at the commissary and God help everyone in the building if the battery dies! Child is bored? Heaven forbid you interact with the child to entertain them. No! Just hand them your smart phone and let them play Angry Birds for two hours.</div>
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Don't get me wrong - my kids watched TV, too. From 2000 to 2001, while Mike was in Korea for a year and Keeghan only went to preschool three mornings a week, Nick Jr. was my favorite babysitter in the mornings so I could get homework done. But I was always right there in the same room with him, and if he wanted to talk to me about something that was happening on Dora the Explorer or Blue's Clues, I stopped and interacted with him. </div>
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My kids watched movies. We played video games, but always with me in the room with them. Oftentimes, I was the one playing the game with them watching (I can't count the hours spent playing Spyro the Dragon with Mackenzie and Keeghan yelling out to tell me where all the gems were that I needed to collect). Both children learned to use the mouse on the computer by sitting on my lap and playing JumpStart Toddler. </div>
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The point being - we <i>interacted</i>.</div>
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That interaction is what I see missing. Parents are phoning it in far too often. They're giving their children everything they want and nothing that they need. It frightens me to imagine what the world will be like when these children hit the adult world and find that everything isn't easy and free and that they'll actually have to earn people's affection and abide by the rules of society.</div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
Meh...they'll probably just get married young so they can get it from their buddy/spouse.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-81814762758077400322014-12-14T20:21:00.002-08:002014-12-14T20:22:25.799-08:00Goodbye to a Lousy Year2014 is almost over.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's about damn time!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This has not been a friendly year. I can't pinpoint one thing that made it bad; it was just an overall feeling of the year being...<i>off</i>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Regrets about choices made. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lousy bosses. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Living in a place that gives new meaning to depressing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Goodbyes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Uncertainty. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So many words to describe this year bounce through my mind; none of them positive. I know there were good times, friends made, laughs. But the negative seems to have ruled 2014.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As we face the last few days of this year, I am hopeful that 2015 is going to be our year. Better jobs, better place to live, new friends, new freedom...my hopes for the new year are high and they are wide open, not locked down to a specific place or a specific job. Whatever feels right and fits <i>us</i> is what I'm hoping for.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All things are possible. </div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-7575491933684396542014-11-16T15:12:00.001-08:002014-11-16T15:12:10.839-08:00Life is Short<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is short….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s what I hear at least. I had a conversation with my
husband this morning about just that. In recent weeks, we have been faced with
people our age dying – some suddenly, others battling horrible diseases. It’s
so strange to think that we have made it to an age where our peers dying isn't
all that strange a thing. Granted, dying in your late-40s is still far too
young, but in a country where obesity and laziness are two of the top traits
that identify us as Americans (Merica!), it’s not really all that shocking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But with 50 just around the corner for us, we discussed what
it is that keeps us feeling young, because I have to say I do not feel anywhere
near 50. Holy cow, 50 is old, right? I don’t feel old. Sure, the body has more
aches than it used to, but I don’t feel any different in my head than the
person who met and fell in love with a Canadian boy on a hill in Germany 23
years ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think that last statement is part of what keeps us young.
Seriously, who can say something like that? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m American and I met my Canadian husband on a hill in
Germany.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up in a town where many of my peers (and family
members for that matter) graduated high school and never left. Some went off to
college, yet still came back to that same small town (for the record, just the
thought makes me physically ill!). For them, I guess the consistency of being
in that same place is comforting. To my mind, that is the definition of
stagnation. Adventure keeps me alive!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who cares where it takes us? Let’s get on and see where it
goes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2013, my husband and I went to Shanghai, China, for our
20<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary. We were living in Japan at the time, so it
isn't like it was a long trip, but still…CHINA! When we walked off of the
plane, having no real idea yet of what life in China was like, we were
freaking out a little, but at the same time it was so damn exhilarating! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excitement, fear, anticipation, curiosity…my heart raced with it all!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We soon found out that China (or Shanghai, at least) is
nothing like we feared “Red China” would be. It was an amazingly vibrant city
with friendly people, beautiful architecture and art, shopping, restaurants…it
had everything. One day, as we were walking along <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4f/Crowded_Bund_on_summer_evening.jpg" target="_blank">The Bund</a>, we came to a window
selling ferry tickets. Because we could not read Chinese, we had no idea where
the ferry was going. Mike suggested we buy tickets and get on. My initial reaction
was, “What the hell is wrong with you? What if it carries us 20 miles down the
river and dumps us off in some unknown place?” As his response above so
obviously demonstrates, he didn't care. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got on the ferry that day. Turns out it did nothing more
than take us across the river to <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0f/Shanghai_-_Pudong_-_Lujiazui.jpg" target="_blank">Pudong</a>, but that one leap into the unknown has
become my motto in life. Don’t fear where the path will take you; instead,
trust in yourself to be able to deal with whatever adventure lies at the end of the path.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think this mentality is what keeps us young. Yes, we are
almost 50. Mike just retired after 24 years in the military. He has a master’s
degree in health services administration. While he waits out the slow hiring
process for the executive level positions he is applying for, he’s decided to
go to culinary school. He’s always loved cooking and works some serious magic
in a kitchen, so why not? It’s never too late to chase a dream. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that same
vein, I am considering getting a master’s degree. I finished two bachelor’s
degrees in 2001 and then decided it was more important to be home with my
children, so now I have two pieces of paper that do nothing for me because I
don’t have experience in those fields. So maybe a master’s degree is a good
idea. Or maybe I just want to get certified to teach English as a second
language so that we can go to another country for a while. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OH! And I want to get braces. I've always hated my teeth. I
despise pictures of myself because of my teeth. So I want to get braces. Who
cares that I’m almost 50…right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing protects us from dying. Absolutely nothing. You can
be in your late 70s, having lived a healthy lifestyle forever and get cancer.
Or, you can be in your late 70s, having smoked for over 50 years, be
overweight, and still golf three times a week. You can drop dead of a stroke or
a heart attack at 48. You just don’t know when your time will come. But I think
keeping yourself <i>alive</i>…having an
adventure every day, even if it is just to walk down a street you've never
explored, or go to a city with no plan on where you’re going to go, but just to
walk and see what you find – is what keeps you young. Mind, body and soul need
an adventure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Get on the ferry. I dare you.<o:p></o:p></div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-3824641837821710262014-08-17T19:57:00.002-07:002014-08-17T20:30:51.931-07:00August again.It's August. I hate August. Fortunately, we've been so busy this year that it has taken a while for it to really hit me.<br />
<br />
Small blessings.<br />
<br />
This past week I got some items back that have been in storage for more than three years. Before leaving for Japan in 2011 I put these things . . . special things . . . in storage so that they could not possible be lost or damaged in the move. Among those things were my children's baby books. My wedding album. Old photos. Bankers boxes full of all the art work created in the past 20 years by my kids.<br />
<br />
The programs I created for the Celebration of Life we had five days after Keeghan died. A scrapbook made by a dear woman from Special Love chronicling Keeghan's week at camp, just two weeks before he died. The clothes he was wearing when he died.<br />
<br />
Died.<br />
<br />
One of the items I've had for a few years and have moved all around the world with me is a brown paper bag full of film canisters. Undeveloped film mostly. Back when Mike and I were young parents, we took tons of pictures of our kids. We weren't always able to afford to have all the film we took developed. Over time, I forgot about the bag, but every time we move - which is about every 1-2 years - I find it again.<br />
<br />
Then Keeghan died. After that, every time I found that bag, I died a little inside myself because I knew that there were probably pictures of him on that undeveloped film. Pictures of my happy, smiling, seemingly healthy, precious little boy. Pictures not yet seen by anyone. Pictures that would be such a gift, and such torture at the same time.<br />
<br />
One of the first things I noticed when we moved into our apartment here in San Diego was that there is a camera store just two blocks away. Besides selling cameras and accessories, they also develop film. It seemed like a sign. Over the past six years since Keeghan died, I've found that brown paper bag four times. Each time I have told myself that I couldn't get the film developed because I didn't know of a place to take it. Here, I couldn't use that excuse.<br />
<br />
So I dropped the bag of film off today. It may all be for naught because, after all these years, the film may not even develop. I'll find out tomorrow I guess.<br />
<br />
If it does develop though, August seems like the right time to see pictures of Mackenzie and Keeghan that I've never seen before. Maybe there will be new pictures of Mike and I as well. New photos of my three greatest treasures.<br />
<br />
None of it will change anything though. In fourteen days, we will still mark the six year anniversary of Keeghan's death. Six years . . . and it still doesn't feel real. I found stories today that he wrote . . . he loved to write just like I do. One of them, a story he wrote about his dad, started with, "My dad's name is Michael. His nickname is Dork." Instant laughter, followed by helpless tears.<br />
<br />
I miss him. So much.<br />
<br />
I hate August.<br />
<br />
<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-73812609489829960972014-07-09T11:15:00.002-07:002014-07-09T11:15:52.191-07:00Baby steps . . .I took a step toward something today that was more difficult than I thought it would be, and I'm still completely terrified about it.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I had an appointment at the VA Hospital here to get set up with a new Primary Care Manager. In discussing my medical history, Keeghan's death came up. The doctor asked me if I needed a referral to a counselor to talk about it. As I was saying my normal, "No, I'm fine" my husband was sitting behind the doctor nodding "yes" at me. I'm not sure why, but that reaction from him immediately had me in tears. So of course, the doctor immediately put in a referral to psychiatry for me.<br />
<br />
I received a call a few days later from a Social Work Supervisor who was very kind, starting the conversation by extending his condolences. He then talked to me for a few minutes about possibly referring me to a support group for grief management, stating he thought that might be more helpful than individual counseling.<br />
<br />
For the past few years, I have "used" my friends in the cancer community as my support group, but I now know that really wasn't helping. Instead, it was having the exact opposite effect, making me feel even more isolated because so many of them are not where I am. They still kiss their children goodnight. Their children have unique post-treatment issues of their own, something I will never understand, but damn it . . . they can still hug their child, tell him they love him, fight for him. They have no understanding of how helpless I feel not being able to do any of those things.<br />
<br />
So maybe this group therapy thing will be good. I've not had good luck with individual therapists because I've never had one who actually gets it. They have education and fancy titles, but they haven't experienced it. They just don't <i>know</i>. But I'm so scared. Getting into a room with others who <i>do</i> get it, opening up and sharing ... I don't know if I can do it. It's easy like this, behind my computer screen, no one to see how often I have to walk away and sob to get through typing a few paragraphs. In a room of strangers ... I just don't know.<br />
<br />
But I'm going to give it a try. I called the social worker today and discussed finding groups that are cancer specific, preferably <i>childhood</i> cancer specific. I'm going to call a couple myself and he is going to put out feelers to see what he can find.<br />
<br />
Baby steps. That's what it has been since Keeghan left. A little bit at a time.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck.<br />
<br />
<br />Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4779168287013655889.post-41808071621872610642014-07-07T19:22:00.002-07:002014-07-07T19:22:55.979-07:00Broken thinking.<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>life begins . . .</i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">grow, play, listen, learn</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">life’s early challenges</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">plan, prepare, study, apply</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">youth’s dedication</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">choose, try, work, earn</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">high expectations</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">fall, plan, love, hope</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a shared journey</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">conceive, deliver, routine, normal</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">life in motion</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">tragedy, fear, nightmare, death</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">wait, what?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">wish, pray, beg, cower</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">how can this be?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">struggle, hurt, question, continue</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">what choice is there?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">different, misfit, pariah, lonely</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">not my fault</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">want, need, chance, opportunity</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">is it too late to start anew?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">doubt, frustration, anxiety, impatience</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">just let me prove myself!</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>life so far . . .</i></span></div>
Shannon Kelley-Barryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01841899164264606872noreply@blogger.com0