Our Thousand Days

On September 11th, this picture showed up on my Timehop, and I posted it on Instagram and Facebook and said a blog post was coming that night. That was 36 days ago.  It’s October 17th and I’m just now able to start to put the words together to try and say what I’ve thought about for 36 days…and for just two days shy of six years.  By the time you read this, it will be October 18th and another day will be added to that tally..and it will be one day away from October 19th instead of two…and one day closer to that day when everything changed.

There has only been one time in my life where I knew I had to sit down and have a conversation that would fundamentally, irrevocably change someone’s life. Only one time where I had knowledge I had yet to share that I prayed over and cried over and practiced over and over in my head how I would say words that I knew would break someone’s heart.  That happened not too long ago, and is a story for another day, but it was the worst feeling in the world, and I know it was exactly how my dad felt on October 19th, six years ago.

My dad always drove a Chevrolet SUV.  He always kept a hand towel in the console and a glass of ice and a cup of coffee in the cup holders, and a small soft side cooler of canned Cokes behind his passenger seat.  He would drink his coffee and smoke his Winston cigarettes, and time would pass for the ice to melt in his cup just enough to take a drink of water to wash down his BC Powder.  He’d crack open a Coke and pour it over the ice that was left in his cup, and when he was finished, it was usually time to stop at a gas station and refill and start over.  In the fall, every Saturday, dad would make the drive from Springfield to Rogers to watch Brooks and Connor play fifth grade football.  For the short two hour drive, he probably only had one cup of coffee, and one BC Powder, and one can of Coke, and 5 or 6 cigarettes.  And Randy Travis probably was in his cassette player while he sang along to Digging up Bones, and when he got to the game, he was always overdressed for the weather, with a collared polo shirt under at least one, if not two layers.  It was late August, or early September and sometimes the mornings were chilly but game time was always, always in the sun and always hot.

In this picture, dad was at one of the boys’ games.  He was standing with Shawn on the sideline with his arms crossed and he still was holding on to a tan from the summer on the golf course.  I remember taking this picture and thinking how lucky I was to have both of them there.  Shawn looked young and strong, and I noticed dad’s hair was thinning and there was more gray peeking through.  And I remember thinking how glad I was that he made that drive each week and how neat it would be for him to watch them grow up.  I remember when I downloaded the picture, I loved how the composition of the photo showed dad out of focus and Shawn seemed so strong and proud of his boys.  I didn’t realize at the time that he really was fading out of the picture.

Just a week after this photo, dad came to a game and as we were leaving the stadium, I noticed he was off balance.  He was walking like his leg had fallen asleep, and as I was behind him, I remember thinking that he looked thin.  I asked if he was ok, and he said that he had been fighting a cold for a couple of weeks, and that his vision was off a little, which was making him dizzy.  He said that colors seemed very vivid but that it seemed like he “was looking through a screen door”.  Dad was never sick, and never complained, so I encouraged him to see his doctor, and to make an appointment to have his eyes checked.

He called me the next week, the first week in October, and told me not to worry, that his PCP had just called him with his lab results that looked perfect. Every value was within range, and he thought it was just viral.  I was relieved…and foolish. He was scheduled to see his eye doctor later that week, and when he did, he found that his retina had a separation, which explained the vivid colors and distorted vision.  He called to say that the eye doctor wanted him to have a chest x-ray because this type of retina separation was sometimes seen in patients with tuberculosis.  It all seemed very disconnected, but he was glad to be ruling out anything major.  His x-ray showed a spot that was concerning and the radiologist recommended a follow up CT.  The subsequent imaging showed a mass in his lung, and he was referred to a pulmonologist.

Keep in mind, other than having balance and vision disturbances, he felt fine.  His labs were perfect, and he had no other symptoms.  His pulmonologist wanted to do a biopsy and some additional testing just to rule out anything major.  And then it was October 19th.

It was a Friday morning and I was in my office at work, emailing the other coaches’ wives about riding together to the game that night, and was hoping that I could get out of work in enough time to run some errands before I had to be at the stadium in Springdale. Then the phone rang.

Dad had a follow up appointment with his doctor that morning, so I was expecting to hear from him at some point.  I expected to hear that worst case scenario, he might have to have surgery to remove the mass on his lung, or have to undergo radiation or chemo.  I didn’t know that he knew that he was about to tell me something that would fundamentally, irrevocably change my life.  My dad called to tell me that he had stage four cancer that had metastasized to his lymph nodes and to his brain, and that he likely only had six months to live.  The next words to me were “Hannah, I am so proud of you and I love you so much”.

In his most vulnerable, most difficult moment, delivering the worst news he could say, his focus was to let me know those things.  I remember feeling like the entire world stopped spinning.  All I could say was “NO, please No” and very quickly follow by saying “thank you, and I love you too”.  I had never felt more devastated, more completely shattered, more desperate, and more loved all in a single breath.  I knew in that moment that he was dying.  And I also knew that the greatest gift he was leaving me was his love.

That was October 19th.  And for six years, October 19th has kept appearing on the calendar.  It has been the line in the sand….the divide between what was and what will be…and the day that changed my life.  Without fail, on this day every year, the leaves have started to change, and there is a chill in the air that reminds me of my dad’s favorite season, and I see how the trees are changing colors and the animals are slowing down and the Earth is preparing to rest…and I am reminded of how much beauty there is in letting go.

And I see this picture.  I see my dad fading into the background as my husband is standing strong and proud and looking over his boys.  I see this picture and I wonder if he knew.  I wonder if he worried that something was wrong so much longer before he ever spoke up.  I look at this and I know that in this picture, he had cancer.  He had the cells that eventually took his life.  In this picture though, all he was was proud.  He was soaking in the chilly morning and Randy Travis and coffee and Coke and BC and the warm sun.  He was about to get right back in his car and drive home to Springfield and tell mom all about the game.  He was going to call me on Sunday and tell me how proud he was of the boys and how glad he was that he got to see Perry.  He was going to come back the next week, dressed in too many layers, and stand on the sidelines and be so proud.

And I look at this picture and know that he only was able to do this four or five more times before he was too weak, and before the last time he was able to come to a game where I had to hold his hand and steady him up the ramp and when we sat on the metal bleachers and I looked over and saw a tear roll down his cheeks that were still tanned from the summer on the golf course.  I see this picture and think about October 19th six years ago.

But today is not October 19th.  It’s not the day that changed everything.  It’s not the day that I realized that the first man I ever loved was slipping away and the last man I’ll ever love was stepping into a new role.  It’s not the day that is so represented by this picture.  Even though the calendar has turned over six times, it is still a reminder, still a gut punch, and still a day that will always be unavoidable.  A reminder of a dividing line and a life changing conversation.  But also a reminder of a magical two months that were a gift of time, and a gift of life.  Two months where I got to know my dad in a way I’d never known before and where I saw grace, bravery, and strength from him that I didn’t know were possible.

Today is October 17th, and I finally found the words to talk about the picture.  The picture that was the handoff, the transfer of love, authority, oversight and strength from my amazing father to my amazing husband, even though none of us knew what was happening.  I am absolutely the luckiest person alive to have known love from two such incredible men.

There’s more to this story, but for tonight I’ll let this picture speak these nearly 2,000 words.  I’ll enjoy the changing leaves and the chilly mornings, and the Friday that will be October 19th.  I will send love and light and peace your way, just like my dad taught me.  Until next time.

-H

Dear Brooks and Connor-

It’s 8:00pm the night before your birthday and I’m waiting for you to come home from football practice.  To drive here, on your own, because you don’t need a ride anymore, and all day I’ve been flooded with memories of what this night and the next day felt like 17 years ago.

You were supposed to be born on the 6th.  It was sweltering that summer, and when I sat down, my belly stuck out past my knees.  It was convenient only because I rested my dinner plate, my fingernail polish, or the book I was reading on the ledge created by my body making room for you.  I loved being pregnant.  Even huge and hot and barely fitting into your dad’s t-shirts stretched tight across me, I loved every single minute of it.  Your dad was amazing and told me every day that he thought I was beautiful, when I knew what he truly meant was how beautiful it was to see this incredible gift of life taking shape right in front of both of us.

On August 2nd, an ultrasound showed that “Baby A” was outgrowing “Baby B” pretty rapidly and it was time to induce.  The night before I went to the hospital, everyone took bets on delivery time, weight, and length.  Your uncle Jason, who’s birthday is also on the 7th, bet that you’d be born then, instead of the 6th as planned.  36 hours and a C-section later, Jason won the bet.

I will never ever forget the first time I heard that sweet cry.  Literally the breath you took took mine away, and I instantly knew exactly why I was put on this Earth.  A minute later, and suddenly there was a symphony of sweet, loud baby cries, and your dad’s tears and mine made a salty mess mixed together on the pillow of that operating table.

Brooks, you were first.  You were a pound heavier and had the most beautiful skin I’d ever seen, you still do.  You were strong, and loud, and from the moment you were born, you looked for Connor, and you wanted to be close to him.  In every sense of the word, you were the big brother.

Connor, you were Baby B.  Your legs were long and skinny and you had a gentleness and an eagerness in your eyes that I still see today.  When you were wrapped in a blanket, you always wiggled one arm out and rested it gently on Brooks.  You were the caretaker, the soft heart and the lover.

I remember every minute of that day and how despite the pain and the stretch marks and all the things that come with pregnancy, in all the many ways that I felt physically broken, I knew that I never ever wanted to be put together the way I was before.  You boys changed my life that day and it was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

And here we are, 17 years later, and it feels like a crossroads, a precipice…a cliff’s edge.  You have your licenses, you’ve taken the ACT, you’re considering being collegiate athletes, you both have amazing girlfriends, and you are about to start your junior year of high school.  All of the ups and downs and ins and outs and lessons learned have brought you right here. To this edge.

I know that way too quickly, you’re going to use those wings you’ve been testing, and you’re going to take that leap.  And when you do, I want you to run full force, without fear and hesitation, right into whatever is next for you.  And I’m going to be here watching and cheering you on.

But before you do, let me leave you with this….

Brooks, never, ever stop being the big brother.  Not only to Connor and Perry, but don’t ever stop loving and giving to everyone you come in to contact with.  From the time you were old enough to know how, you always took care of everyone first before yourself.  Your Gigi loves to tells the story of how you would ask for “coo coos”, which were cookies, and when she handed you one, you would say “dis one for my brudder” and the second one was for you.  It’s what you’ve always done.  You’ve literally given the shirt off of your back for someone in need.  You’ve emptied your wallet and your heart countless times to make sure a stranger had a meal, or a ride, or a friend.  No matter how old you are, in 17 or 77 years from now, Connor will need you.  We all will.  But as you’re taking care of him and of all of us, take care of you.  Remember that you cannot pour from an empty cup.  You need space and time alone to reflect; to grow; to heal and to recharge.  You’ve always needed that, even as a little boy.  Recognize when your cup is running low, and fill it up.  Surround yourself with people and places and things that make you better, and keep adding value to everyone you come into contact with.  God has given you an incredible gift of serving and loving those in need, and I cannot wait to watch you fully grow into it.  This world is a better place with you in it.

Connor, I envy you.  You are the most disciplined and dedicated person I have ever met.  You make life look easy, even when it’s not.  You have always had that “thing” that people can’t describe.  The “secret sauce” of a natural born leader, on and off any field of play.  I love the dichotomy of your amazing academic intelligence, and your sometimes total lack of common sense!  I hold on to the innocence you have when you get nervous talking to people that you don’t know and am reminded of your huge heart when you come right in the door and hug and kiss me and tell me you love me.  You are going places, and you make me so so incredibly proud.  But on your path to that amazing place you’re headed, slow down.  Be ok with mistakes.  Remember that you are either “green and growing, or ripe and rotting”.  Not knowing all the answers is ok.  Not being everything everyone expects you to be is ok.  Being YOU is more than ok.  It’s amazing and it’s such a blessing that God gave you to me.

So there you are, twin brothers, 17 years old, holding hands on the edge of where you’ve been and where you’re going.  You are two halves of a perfect gift, an infinite blessing, and the greatest challenge I’ve ever faced.  Please, don’t run and jump yet….not quite yet.  Let’s make 17 your best year.

Thank you for letting me be your momma.

-H

July is for long days and hot nights and counting the weeks until school starts and realizing you’re more than halfway there.  It means the house is full of girlfriends, and friends, and laughter, and lots of dirty dishes and halfway finished chores and barely making curfew.  July means two weeks of no obligations, no practices, no waking up early.

For us, July has meant all of that and more.

Teenagers are tough and work was hard and marriage takes effort and some days you need your momma.  So in July, I snuck away and spent two night with mine in her precious new house.

It gave us time to just sit in a rocking chair and laugh and cry and fill my cup with the love only a mother can provide.

In July we took a last minute spontaneous Sunday and rented a boat and turned up the music and our shoulders got pink and we laughed and we ended the day with a beautiful sunset, a paper football tournament and good food.

In July, lacrosse wrapped up and volleyball and football began.  Perry traveled to Branson and to Nebraska for camps and the boys had 7 on 7 tournaments and we felt the energy of what we hope will be an exciting year for all of them.  

In July, in the middle of the busyness, my garden was in full bloom.  It reminded me to stop.  To slow down.  To breathe deeply and realize the beauty in simplicity.

In July I made my 39th trip around the sun and was showered and spoiled and loved on by so many people I am so blessed to call friends.  I was reminded once again that the very best gift is the gift of time and the gift of friendship and love.

And finally, in the last days of July, I fell in love with Shawn all over again, just as I’ve done a million times before.  We held on to the final days before, as a football coach, he becomes a leader, a confidant, an encourager, and sometimes a father figure for dozens of boys who eagerly anticipate playing under those bright Friday night lights.

We drove to Eureka Springs with the top down on the car and said over and over how very perfect the weather was.  We soaked in the view of the lake from the covered deck on our cabin in the woods and we ate great food and drank good wine and slowed down and were thankful for eachother.

In July, I found myself staring at Shawn as he read the paper and drank his coffee and grinned his sideways smile when he caught me looking.  And when we sat outside and played card games and listened to the rain in the trees, I stared again, and I thanked God for a man who loves me the way he does.

In July we hurt, we celebrated, we grew, we were spontaneous, we struggled, we reconnected, and we forged ahead.

-H

Like so many nights before, I fell asleep earlier than I planned last night, which meant that I didn’t set my alarm, which meant that I felt like I slept with one eye open all night because I was afraid of not getting on my 8:00 am conference call, of not getting up and getting on the treadmill or doing 30 minutes of yoga.  So when I woke up too early and checked my phone to see that I would indeed make my conference call, but definitely wouldn’t have time for a workout…again…I saw that my high school science teacher was the first to wish me a Happy Birthday on Facebook.  Mr. Sims, just as he had for at least ten years, before anyone else, reminded me I had made another trip around the sun.  Today, I turned 39.

I am the youngest of 3, and earlier today on the phone with my middle brother, Kyle, he joked about me hanging on to this last year of my thirties, because “damn, Han, once you get over that hump, we are all officially OLD!”. What is that hump that you get over?  Has it all been up hill and now it’s all downhill from here? And maybe he’s right.  Maybe me at 40, him at 43 and Jason at 46 really means we are old. Maybe it means we are wise.  Maybe we will never know.

But of course I remember being my kids’ age and thinking that 40 was ancient. So old, in fact, that on my dad’s 40th birthday, I bought him a balloon that said “Older Than Dirt”……oh if I’d only known.   But somehow 39 truly does feel like a crossroad, a divide where maybe I’m halfway through, but I’m certain the best is yet to come.  39 is a point where I can look back and be proud and reflect on all of the lessons, the growth, the letdowns, the pain and the joy that have brought me to today..my 39th birthday.  I can look ahead and pray that I am blessed with at least 39 more to be better, to do better, and to continue on this incredible journey “over the hill”…

At 39, we talk with our girlfriends about struggling through The Whole 30 or what type of foundation doesn’t make our skin oily, or what eyeliner really doesn’t run.  We dish about our husbands and our kids and ask for coupons to Bed Bath and Beyond and we celebrate our kids getting drivers licenses and jobs and we sit on our decks and drink wine in our pajamas.  And at 39, our circle of those friends is smaller, but so so so much deeper.  I’ve learned the difference between a friend and someone who just exists in your orbit.  I’ve been burned and I’ve been used but I have been so lifted up and so encouraged and loved when I really really needed it by women who will forever be my tribe.  And for that I am grateful.

At 39, we wish we would have used sunscreen more often instead of putting iodine in our baby oil and lemon juice in our hair and laying for hours by the pool at the Elk’s Lodge.  But at 39 I’m willing to spend money to take care of me, either through necessity or extravagance…I don’t feel guilty about either one.  And for that I am grateful.

At 39, the word cancer isn’t just for old people anymore.  We know someone, or too many someones, who have faced the monster head on.  We over-analyze every bump, every change in color in every spot.  We stare up-close at our skin, we press and prod on our breasts, we over-Google, and over-self-diagnose, and borrow trouble and fear the worst.  But at 39, I’m taking better care of myself than I ever have.  I’m making my health a priority, and today, I woke up and breathed in a full breath and soaked up the sunshine and knew that I was given a gift of health.  And for that I am grateful.

At 39, too many of us have lost a parent, or a sibling, or a childhood friend. We’ve felt pain that we really only thought existed under the hot lights of a stage or on a big screen or in a sad song.  We’ve sat beside our dad and held his hand and told him it’s ok to let go because we knew the only reason he was hanging on was for us.  We’ve gotten a phone call in the middle of a meeting to say that our very best friend growing up somehow couldn’t find the will to live any longer and we’ve struggled with what we could have done to save him.  But at 39, I’ve watched my mother grow a brand new set of wings and fly out of a nest that she lived in for 40 years and find HER again.  I’ve watched in awe as she dug deep for her own independence and her voice and has built a firm foundation for a new life she never asked to live.  I’ve been able to share amazing stories of those who are no longer with us and hold tight to the words and the lessons they left behind.  And for that I am grateful.

At 39, I walked into my office to find my favorite bottle of wine, a gift certificate for a spa day, hilarious cards from my best friend who I’m lucky enough to work with every single day, and so many other sweet gifts from my amazing team I have the privilege of leading.  All my friends and coworkers gathered in my office and sang Happy Birthday to me and I was treated to a delicious lunch.  Shawn sent two beautiful plants to my office and I came home to a delicious home cooked meal and real, sincere, deep hugs from my kids.  At 39, I have never ever felt more at peace, at ease, and fulfilled than I do at this very single moment.  My gratitude is overwhelming and I am humbled to have been given the gift of these last 39 years.

All the lessons, all the growth, all the love, all the mistakes, all the lessons, all the years.  All 39 of them.  For that I am grateful.

-H

A thousand days sounds like a lifetime when you’re newly 15 like my daughter, Perry, or when you’re less than a month from turning 17 like my boys, Brooks and Connor.  When you get to sleep until noon and 20 hours of work feels exhausting and the fact that your unreasonable parents actually give you CHORES in the summer, and you leave baskets of laundry on the steps for four or five days because putting clothes in your drawers is dumb, and when you haven’t actually made your bed in…well maybe ever…and your biggest worry is who “left you on read”, a thousand days feels like FOR.EV.AH…..

But when you’re days away from turning 39 and you have to color your hair every six weeks instead of eight to cover the gray that keeps coming in faster and faster, and you do your best to stay awake until midnight so you can hear the front door lock when your kids barely make curfew, and you have to schedule time for family dinners because your chaotic days barely allow for more than a “hello” or “can you transfer some money to my account”, and when you’re all the sudden the shortest one in the house, and the push-pull between hanging on and letting go can make you swell with pride and break you in half all in one breath; when your conversations with your husband are about rediscovering each other and learning to love each other in a whole new way because all the sudden it’s just you and him; when you look at three beautiful humans that God somehow thought you were worthy to give birth to and you realize that they are what makes your heart keep beating and you’re trying to soak up every single second you have left with them under your roof……..a thousand days feels like a thief standing right around the corner ready to take everything that feels normal and good.

In two years, our boys will graduate high school, and the very next year, Perry will too.  So it’s about a thousand days that is inspiring this blog, and my feeble attempt to slow down the second hand, step back, and soak it in.  Over the next days and weeks, I will introduce you to my family and to my life.  And I will continue to share in the most raw and honest ways I know how.

Enjoy. -H