Those that know me, (even those that don’t know me that well) are aware of a few things about me:

I plan. I love planning, making lists and basically “knowing” what lies ahead… I like to know what’s for dinner, what the weekend holds, when house guests are leaving, and  around what time my husband should be home.

Jesus says: “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

I also say, “People plan, God laughs.”

“Each day has enough trouble of it’s own”, of course. There are many times “my plans” fall apart. There are days that bring seasons of trouble, of pain, sadness, grief and tears.  If I would have had known the  “plans” for what lay ahead of me two years ago, I probably would have burned my day planner and never gotten out of bed.

Over the past two years,  our family fell apart, when my stepdaughter I raised 9 years left to live with her biological mother. I felt defeated, abandoned and resentful.

Over the past year the unthinkable happened to my own daughter, and we worked through the trauma of abuse. I felt helpless, lost, and confused.

Over the past six months, my father began the final months of his life, and he crossed over on April 7th. I felt sadness, guilt, and emptiness.

And, finally over the past month a hope I had for many years was laid to rest.

I felt hopeless.

The past two years have not been all misery, however. The past two years held gems of memories, of healing, hope and victory.

Healing of families. Reunification of mothers and daughters that belong together.

Healing of trauma. There is life after abuse. Things do get better.

Healing of grief. Make every day count. Make the best of whatever time you’re given. Make memories. Don’t stress.

Finding hope. This is probably the most difficult…

Hope is like a small treasure, that can easily be lost in the grasp of the enemy.

I lose hope often. Most people don’t know that about me. I am usually that friend that will cheer you up and help you to see the brighter side of things…. I just have a hard time doing that to myself. I lose hope more than people lose socks.  So, when I find a treasure of hope glimmering in my thoughts, I say “don’t get your hopes up”. I crush it every time.

This time I’m not.

I know that He didn’t put me through these last two years of rainy seasons for nothing. I know that His plans are greater than mine. I know that His storms brought me back to His shore, and His path that lay ahead.

Can I say I’m ready? No. Nobody is  ever ready for any of the “curve balls” of life. I am never completely  “ready” for the unknown. But, being more aware of my trials, and recognizing  that each trial birthed a new fragment of  myself.

I realize that it’s not these past two years that has shaped me… it has been my ENTIRE  life.  Memories from years ago, resurfacing to be exposed and used for the  good. For empathy, for sympathy. For healing. Sometimes, when things resurface, you can finally see them, and answer the question why.

I’m staring to see all the “whys” of my life. I’m finally seeing the answers float to the surface like life savers in the sea.

As a child, I was the caregiver for my mother as she struggled with addiction, one day, a social worker followed me home from school . She was assigned to do a welfare check.

I remember the fear,  unlocking the door, her pulling up in the driveway just behind me, instructing me to get my mother.

My mother was sleeping.  This was the norm during this period. On days she picked me up from  school, it was well after the teachers and faculty had left. Some days I walked home because I knew it would be faster to walk than to wait.

“Mama,” I said. “You need to wake up. A lady is here. I’m scared she’s gonna take me.”

My other staggered up, put on a robe, and put the dogs in the back.

“I have the flu.” she said.

The social worker sat down, asking questions about my dad, abuse and why I had missed 46 days of school the year before. Then she took me aside, and asked me if my dad or anyone ever touched me.

“No.” I said. “I’m happy here”

And, she picked up her clipboard and left.

As bad as things were at my home, it wasn’t bad enough to remove me. Today, it would have been different, I’m sure. I would have been removed long before that day.

The thing is, it’s happening still. There are kids out there with less than perfect lives, and they are not safe and it’s not healthy for them to stay. But, no matter how bad it is, they still don’t want to go.

They don’t know it can be better.

They don’t know that their moms and dads can get better.

They don’t know hope.

And, the people come, and the storm arises. Children are removed and placed in systems across the country. Sometimes, they are placed in a family home- the closest thing to a “normal” family is best. Other times, there are no families that are licensed, there are no rooms. Then, it’s an institutionalized group “home”.

I was placed in a group treatment center as a teenager. A chronic runaway, “something had to be done with me”, the authorities told my parents. I was 13. My mom had just completed treatment and was now attempting to restrict me, while my life I had grown accustomed to caring for her. The roles were reversed and I could not cope. I was angry, resentful and bitter. Toss in some hormones and boys and I was a toxic stew of teenage angst. I was placed in a long term  teen treatment center.

My first hour  there, a female nurse had to do a full cavity search. Apparently, kids here liked to smuggle drugs in various parts  of their bodies. I didn’t do drugs. I was just mad.

I hadn’t eaten, I was thirsty… outside my room I had seen a fridge that kids were getting milk cartons and juice cups from. I finally got so thirsty I quietly made my way to the fridge to get a juice.

“What are you doing?” A nurse sternly questioned me.

“I… I’m thirsty.” I stammered.

“It’s not snack time.” It’s lock down and you are not to leave your room. You have a pitcher of water in there.

But, I didn’t. And I was too scared to ask for one.  The next day, I learned the strict routine of meals, snacks, school and group after group…

I had never had routine. I had never had “regular” meals. There, I awoke to a feast of bagels, jams, cream cheese, cereal and plenty of juice.  And there were the daytime nurses. They were nice, caring- different from the nighttime ones. The new day, brought forth order, security… and food.  I loved looking at the color coordinated white board, and seeing the perks of working up levels. You could work up a level and eat at the cafeteria. Where, the kids said: “the food was rad.” You could work up to a level and go outside. There was a playground and a pool. You could even work up a level and get a three hour pass with a parent and go off the compound.  “I could run away and see Darby” I thought. (Darby was my boyfriend, and clearly I needed some therapy if this was my mindset) Over several months, I worked through the program and levels, the structure and order… and, finally I got to go home ready to adjust to my now “normal” life.

This period in my life, although moments of it still haunt me in dreams… the hard cold plastic beds, the crazy roommates, and the nighttime nurses.

But, it taught me. It taught me structure, order, and most of all coping skills I didn’t know I needed. Sometimes, the parts of life you detest at the time, actually grow you the most.  Although it may take decades…. the waiting for the pieces to fit.

They will all fit together one day.

For the past four years, I had a weekly breakfast with my dad. This may not seem like a big thing to most people. I’m sure lots of people share meals with a parent or two, but… for me it was different.

You see, my dad moved out when I was 8, and although he still took me to school daily for several years after that, I had built a wall around my heart I never recognized until later in life.  I seldom spoke to him on those car rides, and I would duck down so my peers would not see me in the 1965 Volkswagen Bug he would escort me in.  My dad was 43 when I was born, and the cruelty of kids in elementary school only added to the youthful angst of my less than perfect family. “Is that your grandpa? His car is run by a lawnmower!”, they would taunt me daily. He was 63, about to retire and driving my ungrateful shell of a human every day to school. He was living in a small one bedroom apartment, and working to provide for not only himself, but both my mother, my sister and myself. He never divorced my mom, and eventually accepted the fact that they would eternally “go steady”.

Time goes on.

I grew up, and he grew old.

As I matured, I realized that more often than not, it was my dad that always saved the day.

He taught me to drive stick shift.

He jumped my car on more than one occasion.

He came to rescue me after my first car accident.

He took me to the mall when I got a 3 hour  pass from “the center”. ( I was placed in a rehabilitation home for kids when I was 13. I was a chronic runaway and the authorities said it was that or Juvenile detention)

He helped me get my first car loan.

He and I built a turtle cage together.

He would take me thrift shopping when I wanted furniture to paint for my room.

He watched my dogs when I went on vacation.

After my mom was diagnosed with cancer, she began a less than active lifestyle, and their days of going to lunch and the  movies ceased. He would golf in the morning and wait. Wait for her to awaken, wait to see what the afternoon would bring.

So, one day, I asked if he’d like to do breakfast after I dropped my daughter off at school. I assumed he’d say no, he would golf every morning and he was 80, after all and he was pretty much set in his ways. But, he said yes.

After a few months, I began to badger him to let me tidy up his apartment. It had not been cleaned in years… he said no, then, finally he said yes.

So, our breakfasts became that. A hearty meal and a way for me to thank him for all those years I was so ungrateful. He would call me every evening, and tell me how nice things looked, and how good it smelled. One Christmas, my daughter and I “broke in” and laid new door mats and bath towels out. I set up his Christmas trees, and changed batteries in smoke alarms, and set clocks after time changes….

Six months ago, he said to me; “You know, Michelle, the apartment was only supposed to be for 6 months. I would have never gotten it if I knew it was going to be longer.”

He got older.

He stopped golfing…

He seemed tired.

One week we had a breakfast planned, but I had to change it to a few days later. He called me for help walking his dog  the next  morning. He said he took and Advil and felt like it was stuck in his throat. I came over and walked his dog, warmed his coffee, and noticed his feet looked swollen. He said they were fine. I asked if he wanted me to call the medics, he said “No. Absolutely not.”

Hindsight: Sometimes, it’s okay to disobey your parents.

Later that afternoon, I told my mom I was worried about him. she said she spoke with him and he was fine.

The next day, she called me. She hadn’t heard form him in 24 hours, and wanted me to go check on him. I have to admit. I was scared. I had my daughter with me, what if… something happened? But, after a persuasion from my husband, we left. My heart boomed in my chest, making my coffee and cereal swirl up from my stomach to my throat.

We arrived, finding him naked, face down into the carpet, mumbling about teenagers and falling.

I called the medics.

They came, and I did my best to answer questions.

“How old is he?”

“84”

“He lives alone?”

“Yes”

” Alone?!”

Then, silence. I looked  at him, only  to receive  a glare and a head shake that said “How can you let him live alone? What kind of daughter are you?”

They took him away. That was the last time he saw his home, his bird and his dog.

At the hospital he was confused, but the doctors  and had no definitive diagnosis, CAT and PET scans clear, no stroke, no heart attack. They summed up to  congestive heart failure and kidneys were off. He had an esophageal diverticulum that prevented them from offering him any food by mouth, due to the possibility of silent aspiration. He was unable to swallow properly, or feed himself, so a feeding tube was placed in his abdomen.

He was in the hospital nine days. He could no longer walk or eat.

He was placed into rehab, to regain his mobility and strength. I wrote about our daily visits here: (rehab visits)

When they allowed food once more, I was able to see him eat grilled cheese, spaghetti,  eclairs, and soup. I brought him grits, mashed potatoes, egg salad and breakfast from our restaurant. But, he still  wasn’t eating enough to sustain him, so the tube remained. He was gaining his strength, but not to the point where he felt he should be. He was discouraged and disappointed that  he wasn’t getting better. He’d complain that people would say “You’re doing better!” But, he could not see the progress he wanted to.

He began to get depressed.

His slight dementia began to increase, and he would pick fights with my mom, accusing her of pole dancing and doing drugs. He was terrified of being alone at night and would beg me to spend the night at the nursing home.

He developed pneumonia from the silent aspiration and was back in the hospital 8 days. He got better, but once again no more food was allowed. Nothing by mouth, they’d say.

As they began to offer him food once more, he was not as happy as he was previously. He didn’t want the ice cream, grits, potatoes or soups both me and my mom would bring.  He was constantly scared he’s “over do it”. To him, two bites was too many.

He had developed a UTI, and we were waiting for the antibiotics to start. He had one previously and it made him confused, and agitated. We were hoping that may be the reason for his recent mood swing….

My daughter urged us to go visit him one Monday. I was trying to see him every other day instead of every day like I had been, but my daughter said, “No. Let’s go see him today.”

We went outside, and I said to him, “What can I do to help encourage you? You seem so sad.”

He asked for a Coke.

He got a Coke and drank it, he said it was real good and he was looking forward to the masters coming on in a couple weeks.

Two hours later, I got a phone call that his lab work came back off and they were putting him in the hospital for “observation”. We went to see him, and I asked how he was feeling, he said “I feel fine, I’m just tired. Where’s that Coke you gave me? Can you go get it?”

The nurse said he had fluid in his bladder and had to give him a catheter. We left and said we’d see him the following day.

That afternoon, my mom called from the hospital. He was screaming in pain from the catheter, and hesitantly, hospital staff removed it. That night, he had somehow fallen from his bed, and was rushed to ICU with low blood pressure. We went to see him in the morning, and his hands were wrapped in what looked like white boxing gloves, he was moaning and incoherent. He had unknown fluid accumulating in his abdomen, and they needed to do surgery to see what was going on.

He made it through the surgery but his system was failing. The meds to keep his blood pressure up were putting a strain on his heart, and the excess fluid building up was not leaving his body fast enough. He stopped producing urine and he was not a candidate for dialysis I was told.

I was called in the middle of the night, a doctor asked me if his heart were to stop, would I want chest compression. Chest compression that would break his ribs…

I consulted my mom. She said yes.

My heart sank, thinking of not only my dad, but the medic, crushing an old man’s chest…

Fortunately, it never came to that.

The hospital called me in, one early Sunday morning. Three doctors approached me. One lined it up:

“Normally I am very graceful in these situations. Today, however, I’m going to be honest and blunt. He’s not getting better. He’s terminal. Why are you putting him through this?”

Again, my mind flashed to the medic.  Shame on you, you bad daughter.

I stammered, tears welling up in my eyes, I lost it. I knew he had a living will, I knew the feeding tube went against it, I knew my mom was holding onto every ounce of hope and my sister as well. I also knew that I could no longer keep hope alive.

I knew.

Hospice was called, and papers needed to be signed by my mother.

She wasn’t ready.

So he stayed in a comatose state, kidneys failing…

Finally, she agreed.

A day later, the overnight hospice nurse called me, she said based on his stats he probally would pass quickly. She called and said the breathing tuble was removed. He was breathing on his own, sleeping… snoring.

She called 45 minuted later.

Blood pressure is low, breathing is stable.

An hour later.

She’s off her shift, to call again in a couple hours.

I managed and hour and a half sleep, the next day he was transitioned into a hospice room, still snoring…. I had my daughter with me, I was hesitant to go see him. I was torn, my mom didn’t want to and my sisters were both out of town.

Nurse called.

BP dropping.

I asked my daughter how she felt about it. She said she wanted to say goodbye. So we rushed to the hospital, ran up six flights of stairs and found him. Peaceful, snoring, on his side. Like a baby in an old man’s body.

I got my mom on speakerphone.

She assured him everything was okay, his eyes opened and his snoring stopped. She hung up. I told him, “People are  waiting, Jesus is waiting. It’s  time to go home, and everything will be okay.” He closed his eyes and began to snore again.  My daughter began to get distraught….

The Masters was about to start in an hour and forty minutes, I made sure it was on his TV.

I said, “I love you” gave him a hug and we walked away.

A hour and forty two minutes later, I call a phone call.

My dad had passed.

Each day we are given choices,  simple choices. You can chose to live for yourself or you can chose to give of  yourself.

My dad’s life  taught me to give of yourself, because in the end; it’s not what you did for yourself that matters.

It’s what you did for others.

Never take a day for granted.

Make each one count. Even the bad ones.

They are the only days we get.

RIP JAMES BEST JACKSON 1931-2016