Musical is visceral.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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!

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. 

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

For someone who wants...no, needs...music, that is incredibly sad. 

The Shadow at the End of the Hall

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.

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.

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!

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!

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. 

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. 

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. 

I'd rather run.

Paying Tribute

This was written ten days after Dad died. For many reasons, however, I waited until now to publish it.

How do you eulogize a man who never wanted a eulogy?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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. 

"We don't have anything in common." 

"I'm too busy."

I think a lot of it was that Dad liked being a bit of a loner. He was not 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. 

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. 

So how do 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.

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.

Sis

How does an atheist become Catholic?

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?"

My knee-jerk response to that (in my head) is, "What ever made you truly believe I was an atheist?"

So here is the story...get some popcorn, because this might take a bit.

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. 

And that was when I said, "Peace, out!"

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." 

"After a while, can't you recite those prayers and be thinking about something else at the same time?"

:::laughs:::

"Of course! I can be thinking about when we will do the things we did on Saturday night again!"

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!

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.

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. 

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."

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.

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.

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.

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!"

Wait...what???

"If you are only going through the ritual and there is no relationship, you will still go to hell."

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.

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.

Something I can relate to, right?

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 not 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.

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.

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. 

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.

Borrowed time.

It’s been a good day.

Of course, aren’t all days good when you’re living on borrowed time?

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.”

Well, it was wrong. Way, WAY wrong.

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.

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.

Enter COVID-19.

That procedure has been postponed indefinitely. In the meantime, another set of labs were drawn and still 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.

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.

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.

Life is good. 

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.

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.

Life was good again! 

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. 

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. 

Here’s where the borrowed time comes in.

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. 

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?

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!

Bring on the gluten-free cookies!

Feeling lost.

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.

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.

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.

I like to read dystopian books. I never thought I’d be living in one.

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?

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?

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 think that the heroes should be us, not those we are expecting to fix everything. Can we do that?

Dear Parents in COVID-19 Quarantine

Dear Parents,

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.

Sound about right?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Seven-year-olds should not die.

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:

- 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.

- 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.

- 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.

- 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.

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, right now, 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.

Take advantage. If for no other reason, take advantage of this time for me, so that I can experience it vicariously.

Please.