Broken Straws

A few years ago my friend, Laurie, shared a theory with me. She said, "Pick up a straw and bend it. Let it straighten out and bend it again." It bent in the same spot. Over and over and over again. Her theory is that when we are forced to bend, we tend to bend at the exact spot where we were first hurt. We go to that place emotionally and that is how we behave.

As time has passed, I have explained that theory to my kids, my friends, my family and strangers. I find it spot on.

Time and time again I emotionally land right where I was broken. My problem? I'm not sure exactly where I became broken. As of late, I have spent many sleepless nights looking inward. I yearn for answers, yet I find muddy memories filled with confusion.

When Aunt Joanne coerced and threatened and inevitably scheduled a meeting for me to figure out all of the "how to's" on signing up for college, I decided to get my degree in graphic design. Of course (at the time) it was the most expensive degree that UVSC offered and my pell grant would not cover the supplies needed in the program. Beckie told me about Job Training Partnership of America (JTPA). If I could get the scholarship my books and supplies would be covered.

I tested. And tested. And tested. Out of 500 applicants, I was chosen for the scholarship. My books, supplies, parking pass, locker and all school necessities were paid for by this scholarship. In return, I had to meet with my assigned counselor every other week to talk about what I needed and HOPEFULLY sludge through some of the baggage I was toting around.

I joke that my Dr. Phil would need a Dr. Phil after finishing with me. He did. For two years, we spent every other week in his office talking and discussing. I don't think that he expected the bends and breaks in my straw and after a few sessions he said "PTSD is beyond my capabilities" and turned our time to school, leaving me to my own madness.

I loved school. I'll brag and let you know that I was on the Dean's list and a member of the Honor Society every term. I was a single mom and learned very quickly to take the kids to the playland at the local McDonald's. Playtime for them. Study time for me. Win-win situation for all parties involved.

However, my straw remains broken. If wishes were granted it would have never been broken. But it was. I am. And I want it fixed.

I have found the fight in me waning. I think that OPCA has played a factor. I wonder why I am fighting a freight train bearing down on me. It's going to hit, right? So why am I shucking and jiving?

I do know the answer. Because my family deserves to see me fight. They deserve a mother/wife that wants to be here and is happy. I desire to be happy. I yearn to be rid of the demons that have haunted me.

I will do it, you know. I will put a new bend in my straw.

My Red Shirt

I'm wearing a red flannel shirt today.

Last year a family member that I love was going through a pretty rough time. I wondered and pondered what I could do to help her realize that she wasn't to endure everything alone. As I was thinking, the thought struck me that everyone in my family would eventually be faced with problems that (at times) would leave them feeling alone and vulnerable.

My favorite television series of all time is Parenthood. I love Ron Howard and feel that everything he touches is golden. SO when I found out he was doing a television series? Yeah. I held my breath with anticipation and wasn't let down. Not one tiny bit. 

Season 4 rolled around and I watched as Kristina was diagnosed with breast cancer. When Kristina embarked on her chemotherapy journey, her mother-in-law, Camille, brought her a fuzzy red shirt to wear throughout her chemo sessions.

As the story progressed, we discovered that the red shirt had been passed along to offer comfort and warmth to several cancer patients and had landed with Kristina. At the end of the episode, we were prompted to go online and find out the story behind the shirt. I did.

I've looked and looked to find the story again, but I can't locate it. SO to make a long story short? Several members of the production crew had been touched by breast cancer, whether it be a loved one or themselves, so there REALLY was a shirt that had been passed around and that very shirt was the one used in the episode.

Thus began my own red shirt and the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Red Shirts" gang.

I liked the idea of something to wrap up in that reminded the wearer that they are not alone. Ever.

A meeting was held, the radically-awesome Deason gals met and were inducted into the sisterhood. I shall not give away our secrets. But the ever-so-covert meeting ends with a gift from each girl to the person in need and the shirt that is to be worn whenever love is needed.

Little did I know that I would eventually be the recipient of the shirt.

Last night I got a text from Pat. She is in the hospital. She has pneumonia and sepsis. The cancer has spread to her sternum, lungs, liver, skin and now to her brain. She is sick. Wow. That's such a small word for how horrible she feels. However, sick it is. AND sick she is.

I dropped Jaden at school this morning and went to the hospital to sit with my friend for a few hours.

When I got home, I took a hot bath and wrapped myself in my shirt.

I sit here trying to express my feelings in black and white. I'm angry. And afraid. And powerless. And afraid. And sad. And afraid. And afraid. And afraid.

And there isn't a dang thing I can do about it.

So I wear my shirt and feel the love of my family. My girls. And I'm stronger because of it.