Hannah Grace

When I was around ten my mom showed me this doll in, I believe, the Canadian Tire flier, and asked me if I wanted one for Christmas. I said no. I thought they were ugly. Sadly for me, that doll was the most popular doll that Christmas, and most of my friends showed up with one at school in January. And then they showed up with them at birthday parties, and sleepovers, and pretty much everywhere for years after that.

And I couldn't bring myself to ask for one, even though by then I really wanted one, and had decided that they were cute... Too embarrassed.

So Hannah had to have one. And Abbey. I ordered them online, the 25th anniversary ones, so that I could get ones that looked like their cute little owners, and so that I could name them and have birth certificates with Hannah and Abbey's birthdays on them. (Don't you think Hannah Grace and Abigail Dawn are perfect names for Cabbage Patches? I do.)

Anyways. I only had one problem. The closest doll I could get to looking like Hannah had either pale skin, red hair, and GREEN eyes, OR it had tanned skin, red hair, and blue eyes. I went with the tanned one hoping that in real life it wouldn't look as tanned as it did in the picture. When we got it, it looked more tanned. Sigh. This was disappointing to me and I thought about it often as Christmas got closer. The only thing was, of course, it was ridiculous to think of buying another doll. I'd already spent enough. But she was just SO tanned and Hannah is SO pale...

And then I snapped. I had found this website that will restore or customize your Cabbage Patches. So I ordered Hannah a new doll. The one with the green eyes. And I sent her in to the Cabbage Patch Spa to get some blue contacts.

I got this picture in my email yesterday to confirm that Hannah Grace had safely arrived and was being well looked after:
LOL. Oh man, Karen (the lady who does this) really knows how to run a business. I wanna order more things to be done to Hannah Grace just to see what pictures I get back. I can't wait till she is sent back all ready for Hannah's first birthday.

And yes, I do see how completely over the top this is, and that I've completely lost my mind. Also, is anyone interested in a red-haired, blue-eyed, tanned cabbage patch named Isabella Glynda? Because I happen to have one to spare.

Keep Breathing

Imagine someone lying injured and bleeding somewhere. Someone discovers them, surveys the damage and tells them, "You're alive. That's enough. Just keep breathing."

A while ago, I would have thought that was an insensitive thing to say. Everything we know tells us that just breathing is not enough. There is a way to fix things, to stop the bleeding, to bind the wounds, to speed the healing. Telling someone to just keep breathing, to keep living because you have to... That's not enough. There must be something we can do, that they can do. Because there should be more. There should be healing, and wholeness, and hope. At least there should be hope. They should be able to want more, and find a way to get there, and a true friend should help them to see that, and maybe even help them get it.

But now, I see what a relief it is. To have it put so clearly. When something terrible happens it feels like there are a million things to do. Let go. Never forget. Forgive. Hold it in. Let it out. Be grateful. Pray. Be vulnerable. Be strong. Let people help you. Learn to stand on your own. Cry. Smile. Laugh again. Be wounded. Heal. HEAL. (That's a big one.)

It's too much. It's a relief to focus on one thing. Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep walking. Keep living. If you can do that for long enough...

Someone said something like that for Mom a while back. She was out for lunch and someone asked her how she was, with that sad please-break-down-and-cry-right-here-in-public-so-I-can-comfort-you look that we are all way too familiar with now, and another lady replied for Mom, "She's fine, because she has to be."

And that's it.

I would love to lay down and stop breathing. I think about it often. Stop hurting. Stop missing. Just stop. But I can't. So I breath. And I do the things I need to do. Because I have to.

And that's enough for now. It has to be.

A friend burned this song onto a disc for me. I cry every time I listen to it. And I let go of all the other stuff that I, or other people, expect of me or want for me. I let it go and I focus. On breathing.

Dreaming

I dreamed about Dad last night.

He got to come home from heaven for a visit. He just walked in the door at Mom and Dad's house. And we were all so happy. And I got to show him Hannah. He thought she was funny, of course, because she is, and he was amazed at how big she is now and all the things she can do. It was amazing to be able to show her to him, such a relief. Like everything that was tight inside me loosened.

(It occurs to me as I write this, that maybe that's why I talk so much about her to everyone. I catch myself doing it a lot more with her than I even did with the boys. I want to tell everyone every tiny little detail because I have this need to tell him, and I can't.)

And we watched some TV and we visited in the living room, with Mom wandering in and out of the living room like it was no big deal, like we had all the time in the world, happy and relaxed. We all felt like that. Like it would be a really long visit. Maybe years.

And then he was in the kitchen on a chair by the phone, and I walked up to him and put my arms around him where he sat. And I rested my cheek on the top of his head... On his soft hair.

I said, "This is what I should have been doing the whole time. I just want to hug you and hug you and hug you. " And then I said, "I miss you so much, we miss you so much." And we cried.

And then I woke up.

The Moving Finger

Apparently, Mom wasn't done with the last round of Balderdash. I wasn't either. It kills me that I didn't think of this till Ang told me she was expecting me to write something like this. So I'm posting it here. Because this is the movie plot that should have been:

Little Dudey finds himself stranded away from home over the holidays and joins up with a fat man in a Winnebago to find his way home. The coming of age story that will move you, inspire you, and change you forever.

On Hold

I wonder when this will feel real. I wonder when I will stop replaying the first months when you were in pain and didn't know why, then the diagnosis, the hospital stays, and finally Seattle over and over in my head just to convince myself that this really happened.

How did this happen?

How did you go from laughing and alive to buried and gone? It seems like one minute you were here, and the next gone... Or more and more... Like you were just a dream. Because this can't have happened. I can't have had you for my dad and lost you. You can't be gone. I can't watch my kids grow up without you. I can't.

I can't.

So this can't be real. This can't have happened. How can this have happened?

It can't be real, that I call your house and I hear your voice, but it's only the answering machine, and I find myself hitting redial, hoping for I don't know what. I have to tell you how Ben and Sam are driving me crazy this winter because they've discovered wrestling. Naked wrestling. I have to watch you laugh at Hannah's silly little wiggle crawl that she does. I have to hear you say, "Hello BenjOmin!" Dad. I have to.

How did this happen?

I feel like I'm waiting for something, but I don't know what.

Haiti Help: UPDATED

I couldn't believe this poll could be right when I first saw it. I went back to the homepage and clicked again just to be sure.

As I see it, this poll and the comment underneath it sum up the problem with our world today perfectly and almost entirely. Basically it's this: "Someone else will help them, I've got my own problems right here." Really and truly appalling. I'm ashamed to be from Saskatchewan today. I know it's just a poll, but still. 72% of the people who answered it can't be bothered to make even a small sacrifice of time and finances to help people who's lives have been torn to shreds. (At least they're honest right?)

Just another heartbreak in this stupid messed up world of ours. It makes me cry.

Here are a few links to organizations that are helping in Haiti, in case you're not made from the same cold hard mold as the majority of the people who answered this poll:

Red Cross
World Vision
Doctors Without Borders

UPDATE: I've been schooled today. At the beginning of this post I wrote that I thought the problem with our world can be summed up in one sentence. I missed a second one. "They wouldn't help me if the tables were turned." That is the response from more than one commenter on the poll. I really, can't even believe it. This day has reminded me of why I don't usually watch/read the news. When I do, I just end up feeling hopeless in the face of so much nastiness. I feel sick. And sad.

I'm going to go play Sims, where everyone is thin and good-looking, and a maid comes to clean my house, and no one is mean to each other because I'm the boss and that's how I programmed them, and if they aren't nice I just delete them. It's probably a very good thing that I'm not God today.

The Thing Is...

You train yourself to hope. You make yourself push away fear and despair. Every time you start to feel yourself going there, you tell yourself things.

"He's fine. He'll be fine. You're not going to lose him for a long time yet. You're over-reacting. It's fine. It'll be fine."

Over and over and over you push down the terror and you grab onto hope and belief with everything in you. And then he's gone.

And you're left standing there, shocked. Disbelieving. Suddenly without any hope that he's going to make it... That you aren't going to lose your dad to cancer. And all those years of training are still screaming at you, and you find yourself unable to accept that this really happened. You're so used to grabbing onto hope, to fighting, that even though there's nothing left to fight for you feel anxious because you're not. Like you're missing something. You've forgotten something. There must be something you have to do. To fix it.

And obviously. There is hope. There is belief. There is life.

But you aren't trained for this. You have to teach yourself all over again.

"He's gone. It's not okay, but someday it will be. He's happy and he wants you to be happy again."

I'm sure there's more. I know there are other things that I need to be telling myself, but I don't feel ready to hear them yet. I'm already struggling just to be able to tell myself that he's gone. That this really happened. Replacing the things I used to tell myself just to make it through... With new things. So I can make it through.