The Little Things

Heather:

Recent weeks have found me in four different states, three different homes, and two different hotels.  I've logged hundreds of miles in my car and hundreds more in a friend's car.  I've brewed many, many pots of coffee and steeped several cups of tea.

I have not done a single load of laundry.

Just over a week ago, Gran fell and broke both her left hip and her left shoulder.  Life came to a halt, as I frantically headed to the emergency room. Thus began a week of fracturing speed limit laws almost every time I got into the car.  A week ago yesterday, Gran had hip replacement surgery.  She's had a bout with pneumonia, but is doing much better.  How do I know?  She was mocking me last night for buying more books and we were able to play the entire game of Jeopardy. (It's my understanding that some people merely watch the show.  Gran and I have played along--keeping score--for about as long as I can remember.)  After a stint in rehab, she should be as good as new.

There were a few moments during all of this that I thought I might go crazy.  I was worried about Gran, trying to stay on top of things at work, and dealing with graduate school assignments.  My to-do list was daunting.  I felt myself sinking.

I didn't sink, though.

Why?  Because a neighbor called to see how Gran was getting along.  Because my boss's husband made trays of snacks and delivered them to me.  Because my students could tell I was having a hard time and they stepped up to help out.  Because Mom is the most selfless person I know.  Because a friend reminded me to see the beauty in ordinary things.  Because another friend drove 5 hours, one way, to have lunch with me.

I might get buried under the mountain of dirty laundry at my apartment, but I have learned that I can handle what life throws my way because I have good people around me.  I don't know why it's easier to focus on the negative things that happen, but we should all be spending more time on the positive things in our lives.  How have I practiced that this week?  Well, I started by trying to let go of some of my anger.  It's not something that will happen over night, but it's a start.  I've also sent cards.  You know--those things you write by hand, put a stamp on, and take to the post office.  Some have been cards of thanks, some cards to just say hello, and other cards to remind people that they rock.  A handwritten message has a way of brightening a day, but I also felt pretty good after posting them.  I also stopped to look at the daffodils that blanket sections of campus.  Something about the sunny flower always makes me smile.

It's been a bit of a battle--this focusing on the good and not snapping at people out of frustration and lack of sleep.  I think it's one worth fighting, though.

Here's your assignment.  Yeah, you read that correctly. I'm giving you an assignment.  Go outside today and see what nature has to offer you.  Maybe you'll spot a daffodil.  Maybe you'll hear birds chirping.  Maybe you'll find something that makes you smile.  Whatever you find, I bet it makes your day.

Rulers, Pay checks, or Coffee Spoons? How Do You Measure a Year?

Courtney

Paper coffee cups.  Laughter.  The warmth of a child sitting on my lap.  Cell phone games. Friends.  In one swift elevator ride, all of that comfort was replaced with an achy, hollow feeling that settled itself in my chest.  Smeared mascara.  Hoodie sleeve tissues.  My second last kiss.  I was suddenly aware that the hospital smelled like sanitizer, salt, and sickness.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to run to my car and drive as fast as those four wheels could roll, but I didn’t.  I told my friends to go home and I waited with my family for the funeral director to come for Dad. 

For a while after Papa Bear’s death I carried that hollow feeling with me constantly.  Now, almost four years later, the Beast only rears his ugly head every so often.  I don’t know if that feeling ever really fully heals after losing a parent, and part of me doesn’t want it to.  Every time my heart constricts in that way it is kind of a reminder of the man I carry with me. Because of this I have noticed that I have a bit of a problem. 

They say that the first step is admitting to having a problem.  I am not entirely sure who “they” are, but “they” may be onto something.  Once I admitted that I needed to fix myself, life became so much lighter.  You see I, Courtney Taylor, do not know how to measure.  I am not talking about busting out the ruler here.  I am talking about life.  How am I measuring life? 

One day I looked down at my coffee cup and silently wondered just how many cups I go through a year.  Then, I started thinking about other everyday things that I so very often take for granted.  How many smiles are there in a year?  How many hand written letters?  So for one year I want to chronicle the journey of bettering myself.  I want to stuff the days with too many pictures and not enough sleep.  Let’s go zip lining.  Let’s be kind to one another.  Let’s all take the time to smile more.  Let’s measure life differently this year.  So pack an overnight bag, come on, and bring your jukebox money.

Heather

On a March day, much like this one, my life changed with one phone call.  It was a short call—maybe two minutes in length, but in that time I learned that Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.   The months that followed were filled with doctor’s appointments and treatments.  I began carrying a bag that became known as my hospital readiness bag.  It contained snacks, tissues, bottles of water, books, notebooks, and pens.  Days blurred together as I put in a day at work and then either went home or to the hospital to see Dad.

On July 30, 2010, my life changed again.  I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late because I remember it being dark outside and the main lobby was nearly deserted.  My sister and I had been on the sixth floor with family for several days straight and had gone to the lobby to talk to some friends who had come to check on us.  When our brother stepped off the elevator, my heart sank.  The next several hours are a blur to me.  I know that we rushed back to Dad’s room and I know that there were tears.  I know that I couldn’t be in the room or even in the hallway when the funeral director came to take Dad away.  The next thing I remember is sitting at my Nan’s table with a cup of coffee thinking that I couldn’t go home because at home it would all be real.  I wasn’t sure that I could stand waking up in a world that didn’t include Dad.

My sorrow swallowed me and I buried myself in work.  If I stayed busy, I didn’t feel the emptiness.  One summer evening I was driving from my apartment to Mom’s and I passed the truck that Dad used to drive.  I reached for my phone to call him—and then I remembered.  I put the phone down and thought about what he might have said to me if I had been able to call him. 

Dad was a character.  He had a story for every occasion and he talk to everyone—for hours on end.  At the funeral home, people told me stories of their adventures with him.  He had really lived.  There were stories of motorcycle rides, senior pranks, parties, and truck pulls. 

I will always carry my grief for Dad, but, like my sister, I need a lesson in measuring.  Instead of measuring my days with meetings and time spent behind a desk, I need to start measuring it in the things that really matter.  I need to spend more time with friends and family.  I need to spend more time doing the things I always promised I would do later.  There is no more “later.”  There is only now.  My sister once asked me, “We all know life is hard, so why are we so mean to each other?”  My question is this: We all know life is short, so why don’t we make the most out of each and every day we’re given?

See the theme? 

This year, I’m going to really live and I’m going to share my story. 

Are you ready? 

I am.