Update 12 - Finding healing and comfort

I was swinging on the swing with Carly. I need to see River. I had just showered and needed to workout the schedule for the week and when is should leave today. Carly is recovering physically, and she has found her tears. Miller was sleeping peacefully, and Fielder played in the landscape around the house. 

There is a medium evergreen tree that anchors the left side of the landscape and draws your attention toward the patio where we were swinging. When you are on the swing you look right at it. Fielder said, “dad that tree looks like the abominable snowman.” He loves Monsters INC. I encouraged him to go touch it and see what it feels like. Each bare foot was placed with surgical precision. He was avoiding the briars and weeds that surfaced since I’ve neglected the landscape over the last month. He said, “it feels like broccoli.” 

As he tiptoed through the pine straw and weeds he talked to himself. Rather, he talked to his imaginary friends. “We got to be careful. There is monsters in these woods.” He found a pocket in the landscape between the bushes that was perfect for a makeshift hut. I remember finding pockets like this in the woods behind our house at 6422 Jane Drive. I was the only boy that lived on Jane drive. Jennifer and Lindsay Goddard lived two doors down, but they were girls. Kenny Autry and Blake McPherson had grandparents on the street, but we only got to play after school and in the summers. We would build forts and spend hours playing together. Every other time, I pretended by myself. I explored. I knocked on the doors of neighbors and would talk to them. I was a regular Dennis the Mennis. Seriously. I can’t make this up.

One time at Jane Drive I got mad at my mom. I have no clue how old I was. I was young, but old enough to pack my legos, “don’t break the ice” game, and baseball cards into a turquoise bag with wrapped rope handles and run away. I knocked on Mr. and Mrs Vaughts door. Their house number was 6420. I asked if I could live with them. She opened the large brown trimmed glass door and let me in, but called my mom to let her know I was safe. We played a game of Don’t Break The Ice before I got hungry and went back home.

I feel like the little red man in the center of the game. Prior to Monday all the ice cubes were in their places. Time after time each doctor would take their turn. Their green scrubs remind me of the green hammers. With each turn every doctor knocked cubes out of place; Some came out in chunks. Others one at a time. There are still cubes. The game isn’t over. The blue frame continues to provide support for the little red man, but the cubes are in a cross and the next move will end the game. Let’s not finish the game. God please break the green hammers and put the ice cubes back in place. 

I can relate to Fielder. I had imaginary friends as a kid. I could never really call out one. I just felt surrounded by an imaginary entourage. I seriously remember them, but none of them ever had names. So far, Bowdie, Bowdie 2, Bowdie 3, daughby, and sawso have made repeat appearances and I can recall their names. As we rocked back and forth I told Carly that kids and adults have so much in common.

We both talk to ourselves. Kids talk to themselves through their imaginary friends. You may think I’m crazy, but I believe it’s healthy. It’s his way of coping. 

Today Fielder asked me to enter his fort. I tried, but couldn’t fit. He was in the shade, but I crouched outside the door, the sun pounding on my back. I was sweating badly. It felt like bandcamp. I sweat profusely and I had not used any gold bond today. I retreated back to the swing and Fielder talked to his friends. 

Suddenly, Fielder yelled oh no a fox! Run Bowdie. Unfortunately Fielder escaped, but he couldn’t save Bowdie. He asked me to go back and get him. I obliged. For perspective, at the pool yesterday I asked Fielder, “how big is Bowdie?” He pinched his fingers together and raised them about an inch from each other and said, “He’s this big.” I imagined he was Pinocchio. And Bowdie was Jiminy Cricket; his conscience. I went in to get Bowdie and return him to Fielder. He took Bowdies small Frame from my hands and mourned, “oh no! Bowdie died.” He picked up a rock and put Bowdie underneath and said, it’s okay Bowdie this is heaven. 

I CAN’T MAKE THIS UP!

He moved on and kept playing. He came in the house and started conducting. I had no clue he knew what a conductor was. I wish I could move on as quickly as he does. He led us ina rendition of bushel and a peck. It was great. 

As adults we also talk to ourselves not imaginary friends. Sometimes our head talk is positive. But more often than not it’s negative. We suffer with comparison, with fear of failure, self doubt, and a litany of talk that doesn’t edify. It tears down. 

I’ve been in my head talking to myself a lot. Asking questions. Today while swinging I sat and looked at the two trees in our front yard. They were planted there at the same time 7 years ago. I trimmed them for the first time this year. I had help. I asked a professional from New Urban Forestry to come out and quote trimming all the landscape. They came out and said this job is too small, but they encouraged me and gave me the confidence that I could do it myself. They even showed me how. With courage I leaned in and attempted to manicure the landscape. Everything went well. Almost Everything is thriving. Except for the big trees in the front yard. One is thriving, while the other is dying. The symbolism is unshakeable. Each midsummer day more leaves fall. Last week before the birth of our twins a big wind storm knocked a large limb off the tree. Foreshadowing?

I packed and started my drive into Atlanta. I cranked the playlist up but for some reason it wasn’t satisfying my emotional need at the moment. Yesterday around the sadness of the house it was great. Today, in the car it was poignant. I needed something to express some road rage productively. I drum on the steering wheel a lot. I use my feet against the floorboard like a double kick drum. It helps me think. My boss has called me the little drummer boy before. I catch myself in meetings drumming away absorbing all the information around me. Almost like daydreaming. I’m engrossed in the meeting and everyone else is distracted or annoyed  by the idiot in the corner doing his best Carter Beauford impression. He’s my second favorite drummer. Check out Kit Chatham. He also taught me to drum on the steering wheel. Except at times, mostly in fast food drive throughs, he would use sticks. I’m not that talented. My hands and feet are all I make work. 

I drummed to Champion by Carrie Underwood drumming aggressively before the playlist mood changed. I swapped the station again to a Ludacris song titled “Move B.” I’ve Got to keep the reading PG. My sweet grandmother is having these posts printed so she can read them and follow along. She wants me to create a book. She is a light. Watching her be strong during my namesake paternal Grandfather’s death at the hands of cancer gives me strength. On the phone the other day she encouraged me. She told me, “your grandfather led a long and fruitful life.” She explained to me that It wasn't even the worst thing she lived through. Instead, her father’s death at 50 left deeper scars. To those really paying attention, that may be counterintuitive. She just confirmed that a life with more potential, something left to give should cut deeper. It did for her, and I bet when I look back it will, but you are focused on the wrong protagonist in my grandmother's story. I’m focused on my grandmother. She made it through. I can too. 

I stopped for gas and sent Jon Terrell a text. I explained the song I had just listened to really captured what I was feeling perfectly. Aggressive, but reserved. For those of you familiar with “ Move B” and confused, it was the Dan Henning version. Same lyrics, but in a coffee shop style. Something about the irony of his parodies really makes me laugh. I need to laugh. If you are offended by cussing do not look any of these up. Sorry Grandmomma. 

I explained to Jon What I needed. I told him my rap game was weak. In fact my rap game is just the songs I remember from Jon’s rap game. Jon texted the perfect song for my mood: “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit. Again rated R. I apologize if you're offended, but it's me. I’m real. 

I entered the hospital with energy. I had hope again. My hiatus did its job. The time with Carly, Fielder, and Miller was good for my soul. I brought back so much stuff for River. Two signs: One says JUJU and the other BOBO. These are the names fielder has given the girls. Nathan and Caroline made them and were excited to meet the twins. I’ve been in their shoes. They love their cousin. I ache for Morgan and Sam. I don’t know how to explain the reality that kids can endure such pain. I’m trying myself, but it’s Brutal. I also had a letter from Fielder and a picture he drew of the family. He even signed it with a F just like his letter. Finally, I had a woodburned sign we had made with the twins' names. 

I was excited to decorate. I wanted to make this room feel special for River. I signed in and washed my hands for 30 seconds. The backs of my hands are raw from washing them so much. The last two days delivered negative news. The long term outcome was still the same, but the short term felt good. Hopeful. I was hoping that her swelling had improved. Carly needs to see her for closure, but not like that. While walking with the nurse she explained she is now receiving phenobarbital injections with her continuous drip of versed for the seizures; She only had one today. Win. I walked around the corner, bag in tow, and ready to decorate, hopeful that the swelling had improved, but was punched in the gut. Loss. I was Deflated. She’s more swollen than before. She is stable, but in renal failure. She will not improve.Pray for healing to be swift. We don’t have much time.