For most of my life, I haven’t had grandparents.

My mothers parents passed away when she was in her 30’s, and her father had Parkinson’s/dementia all the years I knew him.

So I never “knew” him.

My dad’s father was estranged, and I only have a fleeting few memories of him. Always smoking. Had clear blue mints with him all the time – the kind with a dent in the middle. That’s the extent of my memories of him.

I was an Air Force brat, so moving every 1-3 years my entire life until I was 18 didn’t help me establish relationships with them. I would get birthday cards from my paternal grandmother, but like most kids, I was looking for cash, not meaningful exchanges.

My dad’s mother lived to the age of 93 – and she lived with me toward the end of her life for a few months. She had a rapier wit, and a sparkle in her eyes – I loved those months, and wished I had more time with her.

My parents have been a huge part in the lives of their grandchildren. As a single mother for many years, my dad filled in the gap where the absent father should have been. My mother stepped in to make sure my kids got off to school when I came home from a night shift as a young nurse.

Each of my kids has lived for a spell with my parents, cooling their jets for a rebellious period, or to escape the stress at my home.

Now my husband and I have six grandchildren – all boys. The oldest is 8, and the rest are under 3. Only one baby is in our zip code. The rest are in states far away.

My father has been at the birth, or shortly after, of each of his six great grandchildren, and the first birthdays as well.

I think it’s amazing that my children have grown to adulthood with grandparents – especially ones that have been so supportive in every way.

Now I’m trying to be the best Nana I can be. I try to see all of the distant grandsons at least twice a year. I rejoice at FaceTime, where I can talk to and see the boys as they grow. I spend a day a week with the grandson who lives here, while his parents work.

I always felt something was missing when I was growing up, not seeing my grandparents. Not knowing them! I find multigenerational families inspirational, and so important.

When I remarried, my kids got to briefly experience the kind of grandparents I want to emulate. My in-laws had the house on the farm, acres of land to run, fireflies and dogs and family dinners and church together. It was heavenly.

The first loss was the farm, sold when Mom started to get forgetful. She passed away last March…and nothing has been the same.

I want my husband and I to be the safe place for our grandchildren. I want the home in the country that everyone comes and visits – a place big enough for the boys (and hopefully a girl or two one day) to play and explore. I want big family meals with all the families sitting together, breaking bread.

It’s important.

The world is more than a little mad right now. I want my family close to us. I want to impart our love, prayers, and wisdom to the next generation.

It’s new territory for us – but I’m acutely aware of the importance of grandparents.

I can only pray my children see the importance, too.

I was not an easy kid to raise.

I am a middle child, and the only girl.

I felt like the odd girl out, and I resented it. As a result, I was constantly questioning. Everything! I wanted things to be fair. I demanded a level playing field. I didn’t take no for an answer – I wanted to know WHY!

In my twenties, amidst a disaster of a marriage, and with a chronically ill young child, I looked out my window from my seat beside my sons hospital bed. I saw a school of nursing. Hmm, I thought. Here’s a way I can support my family, and I will always have job security – and health insurance.

Never mind that I had never been around blood, surgery, hospital work, or any patient care, beside my loving but hapless attempts to care for my ill son.

I refused to spend the rest of my life struggling. I knew there had to be more – so I figured out how to go to college, and set about doing it.

I had been terminally bored in high school, giving as little effort as possible and still graduating in the upper part of my graduating class. College, however, was a challenge – and I loved it! Sure, by now I had another child, was pregnant, and was finally getting divorced, but I would find a way to support my soon to be single mom lead family. With abundant help from my church, parents who helped me over several tough hills and paid for childcare, and a lot of stress, I plowed through my prerequisites, and did it on the Dean’s list.

Now the real work began – actual clinicals, patient care, skills labs, and practicing what I was learning.

I distinctly remember my first nursing school instructor giving me my first clinical semester review.

As I sat in her cubicle, she told me I would never make it as a nurse. “Why?” I asked, truly perplexed. “Because you are too high faluting” she responded, with a smirk of disgust. “What does that mean??” She sighed in exasperation. “It means you ask too many questions. Quit asking questions. You are the nurse. Just learn to do the grunt work.”

This did not sit well with me. I took it with a grain of salt – I couldn’t believe that I, as a nurse, was there to change bedpans only. My idea was to know what was going on behind the scenes – to understand the basics of the patient anatomy and physiology. To have at least an idea of the disease processes I was involved with in caring for my patients.

For the rest of my nursing school career, my other instructors liked me. They appreciated my questioning – or at least, they never admonished me for asking them. They encouraged me to never stop learning. They smiled at my enthusiasm.

I graduated in a class of 44- a class that started with over 100 students. I graduated with 10 and 6 year old sons, and a 2 1/2 year old daughter.

I now had a career. Financial security. Health insurance. As a bonus, I loved what I did. I would never stop learning! I could care for people, and everyone was different – the variables were never ending. I constantly picked the brains of my fellow nurses and the physicians I worked with. I ended up working in labor and delivery as well as CCU, loving the autonomy of working with patients one on one.

My dad used to tell me, “Daughter, you have a strong personality. It’s not necessarily a bad thing – it’s just difficult to live with.” (I will say here as an aside that my father was career military, and retired as a Colonel. It may run in the family.)

Relationships were difficult for me. Because of my strong personality, abusive or broken men were drawn to me. Was it the challenge? The nurturing nurse? Who knows. It was a hard couple of decades until I finally figured out I needed to take care of my family – by taking care of me.

Thirteen years ago, I met my husband. Strong enough to handle my personality, but not broken or abusive. A safe partner. A sigh of relief. I continued my nursing career, ironically getting into my longest term job just before I met my husband.

Nine years ago, I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. I set about finding about everything I could, and I set my chin to kicking its butt. Over the next few years, I went from sedentary to runner – I ran 22 half marathons and many other races over the last 6 years. I brought my blood sugar down. Why did I get type 2 diabetes? Well, I’d fight it.

Except three years ago, I found out I was misdiagnosed, and actually had type 1 diabetes. This was a whole new kettle of fish. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t overwhelmed. I was not expecting this – I didn’t even know that I could get insulin dependent diabetes at my age!

As if that wasn’t enough, I was diagnosed with asthma that same year.

I felt like I was falling apart.

I had some “woe is me” time. I also had a supportive husband. And kids. Family. And a grandson.

So the girl that has to know why began to ask. Why was this happening? What could I do to make things better? What made things worse? What could I control – and what was out of my control?

Today, I put on the running clothes that I set out each day to motivate me to exercise daily. As I stepped outside to set my running program, a clap of thunder was immediately followed by a downpour. I went back inside.

After lunch, I went out again, under cloudy, thunder free skies. When I had clocked a mile and a quarter, my blood sugars began to drop at a critical rate. Signing, I walked back home, turned off my insulin pump, and recovered from the pending hypoglycemia.

A couple of hours later, I finally completed my 4.6 miles for the day. Out of sheer determination.

I’m a work in progress. I somehow just realized today that my determination has gotten me through a lot in my life. What was seen as a personality flaw as a child is the very thing that is propelling me forward, decades later.

Sheer, stubborn determination. A strong personality…which, as it turns out, can help you overcome fear, failure, pain, and maybe even illness.

After all these years, I’m grateful that I was given this personality. It might just be keeping me alive.

It’s 0430 in the foothills of the blue ridge mountains in north Georgia.

This morning I was scheduled to be cruising south toward Key West…but in cancelled 2020, we had to come up with a plan B if we wanted a getaway.

So we headed north, hoping to get a glimpse of fall, and explore the waterfalls and trails that are abundant here.

This is a family vacation, by choice – and my German Shepherd is beside me on the couch, while the Aussie is at my feet.

Deciding to bring them on this week long journey meant alternative lodging, and I found a home built in 1947.

According to the history provided by the owner, this house was the home of a single family for 53 years.

They raised their three children here in this cozy 2 bedroom, I bath home.

The focus of the living room is the fireplace – framed by two wood encased windows. There are large windows in every room, to catch all the natural light.

Being a southern home, of course there is a big front porch – from the kitchen sink I can see the tendrils of the flowering vines on the metal railing that brings a charming view from either vantage point.

A squeaky metal screen door opens to a small mud room – necessary to keep the Georgia clay mud and dirt out of the all wooden floored house.

I can hear every step my dogs make as these wood floors squeak in protest. The house is a lot noisier than the one I left.

But when we are still, it’s an enclave. Trees and vines surround it on all sides, to the point where it seems a battle for the house is being waged – not just by time, but by the forest and land that was here eons before the house was. The caretaker is a gardener, and he lovingly tends to the heritage flowers and plants around the cottage.

I try to imagine a family of five in this space. Cozy is a great word that comes to mind, but in our day of 2000+ square foot homes, I find comfort in the simplicity of this place. Every window looks out onto trees and greenery. The back corner view is of the mountains rising in the distance.

I woke because the bedroom door was shut, and despite the box fan running in the room, it was hot.

Sitting in the living room, the open doors allow the fall coolness to keep the house almost chilly. Every section of this house, though, can be boxed off by the wooden doors – keeping the warm or cool air circulation better in the areas where the family gathered.

The family is the four of us this weekend – my husband, myself, and the dogs.

Entertainment is card games and putting together a puzzle. No television watching. No internet browsing.

Days were spent hiking to the waterfalls that are scattered throughout the foothills of north Georgia, not working behind desks.

We stepped back in time.

I can’t wait to do it again.

In 2007, I went on my first cruise with my husband.

We have cruised at least once a year ever since.

I get a very strong reaction from everyone I talk to about cruising. They either love it, hate it, or have no interest in it.

I love it!!

To me, it is the most relaxing vacation option.

We do NOT sign up for the Internet packages. When we said away, our phones are used for photos, and for future blogs (this one).

We spend a lot of time reading books…the kind you hold in your hand, and turn the pages. Sitting on a recliner in the shade onboard, watching the cobalt sea roll by, feeling the salty breeze caress me….it’s wonderful.

We love to eat in the main dining room (MDR). White table cloths and napkins. Three courses, served with personalized cheer and fun. “Show Time” – where the wait staff dances and sings and has us all grinning with pure happiness.

And sleep…glorious, uninterrupted sleep. The rooms are cool, with down comforters and feather pillows. Our beds are made daily, with a whimsical towel animal perched on the bed. The cool white sheets, the dark room, the sound of the ocean rolling past the balcony…it all adds up to the best sleep ever.

Where else can I see the world so easily? We have been to Cozumel, Playa Del Carmen, Tulum, Belize, Roatan, Aruba, Curaçao, St Thomas, St Martin/Maarten, St John, Dominican Republican, Grand Turk, the Bahamas…and I am sure I am forgetting some place.

As I write this (albeit with some intense, potentially torn rotator cuff pain), I am in a lounge chair on the Dominican Republic. Palm trees above, the ocean before me, local food free for my taking in the all inclusive resort.

We got this cruise for a song, booked last minute after my doctor put me on time out for said shoulder. I didn’t think I’d be cruising this year of pandemic – especially after having two cruises cancel on us this year.

Here I am, though. Four days in to an amazing cruise. I admit I got a little misty eyed as I crossed the gangway from land onto ship.

I never took the blessing of travel for granted – but after 2020, I embrace the amazing blessing of this ship, sailing at half capacity, and carrying me to Bimini, Half Moon Cay (most beautiful place ever!), and today, Dominican Republic.

I’ll breathe the salty air. I’ll buy locally made souvenirs. I’ll enjoy my sea day tomorrow, reading and napping.

Then disembark on Saturday, more grateful than ever for the privilege of cruising.

Then I’ll get my MRI and see if this painful shoulder needs surgery.

Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic

I miss running.

Three words I never though I would string together – but this thought has been in my mind lately.

Eleven years ago, I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

I’ve never been an athlete. I hated going to gym when I was in school. I have been, most of my life, anywhere from slender to a few pounds overweight, despite my distain for all physical activity.

I didn’t fit the typical diabetic shape. I did fit the sedentary part!!

I decided to start exercising, and I did.

I began by walking 5k a day – 3.12 miles.

I got the Jeff Galloway 5k app on the phone and began to increase my pace.

Long story short, in the next six years, I bought half marathon training apps, ran 22 half marathons, 2 15k’s, several 10k’s, and countless 5k’s.

I still don’t consider myself an athlete – but I had a habit that contributed to my physical and mental health, and that kept me going.

Being diagnosed almost 5 years ago with type 1 diabetes, the correct diagnosis, brought all that to a halt.

Now I was dealing with monitoring my blood sugar, changing my diet, giving myself insulin.

I tried to do my usual 5k run around the neighborhood, and my blood sugar would plummet. I’d have to call my hubby to come pick me up, a glass of orange juice at the ready

My metabolism was changing, and I had a hard time keeping up.

Fast forward to 4.5 years since diagnosis – and I got Covid. it was a mild case – or so I thought.

That was January.

Since then, I have gotten completely winded with exertion. I’ve been to my doctor, had a heart monitor, saw the cardiologist.

He’s doing more testing. God willing, when they are okay, I can resume training. 

I am looking at a destination half marathon in a year. I’m motivated, excited, and hope that my tests are normal, and I can slowly begin.

Again.

In the mean time, I’m following diabetic athletes – reading books, listening to podcasts. I know that this is just another hurdle to figure out.

I will run again!

I’m in a challenging time of life.

A lot of my time is spent trying to get adequate sleep.

My nights are filled with troubling dreams, interrupted sleep, tormenting thoughts.

I’m exhausted – mentally and physically. It’s exhausting to focus on breathing. Eating. Living.

I know my current transition is the healing I have needed…for decades.

Yesterday I noticed as I lay in bed, fitfully trying to rest, a tiny chirping noise.

Every day, behind me, beyond the windows, the peeping noise gets a little louder, and and a little more frequent.

I curled up in my bed, reading, watching TV.

Praying.

Pleading.

Each day, that cute little noise.

Yesterday, I had to go and look for the source.

One by one, I peered into the azalea bushes, being careful not to disrupt the leaves.

In the second bush, I found them.

Three lay there, silent with my interfering. One seemed to be looking at me, a tiny dark eye observing.

A nest of cardinal chicks.

I know it’s a cardinal nest, because I’ve seen the red birds frequently in the yard, and around the azalea bush.

I took a quick picture, and withdrew as suddenly as I arrived.

This morning, they have begun their high pitched peeps.

When I moved to the living room, after a couple of minutes doing my devotions, a movement caught my eye outside, and I noticed a golden crowned sparrow fluttering around the vibrant blooming red geraniums.

Life is all around me.

Life…keeps me moving forward.

About a month ago, as I was driving down the two lane road in my burgeoning, fast growing suburb, I notice a “sold” sign on a piece of land next to the newest grocery store.

This piqued my interest, and over the next few weeks as I sat in standstill traffic, I’d look at the lot.

A mid-century brick home sat back in the middle of a large lot, and I saw there was a very big back yard behind it. Two white washed garage doors were bright relief against the multicolored brick that shaped the home.

The back yard, like the front, was not fenced – I could see planned azalea bushes set just so, riotously waving their fuchsia blooms in the spring breeze.

An old clothes line pole stood as a sentinel in the backyard, reminding me of days when clothes were hung out to dry on bright spring days such as these.

The front yard was somewhat overgrown from the months or years of abandonment, but evidence of a gardeners love was seen. Here, a giant wisteria, draping it’s lavender clusters of flowers next to the showy azaleas.

There, by the front steps, lilies were shooting up their spiked green leaves, signaling the flowers to come.

One day a sign announced that this piece of land was slotted to become a car wash…exactly like the new one just a few short miles at the end of that very road.

I grew wistful.

I was a military brat, moving every 1-2 years my entire childhood. I only saw my grandparents a handful of times, and three of them passed away before I reached high school.

Because of the formerly rural history of the area I live in, I began to imagine the life of the family that had occupied that empty brick house.

Maybe they lived there 50 years or more, and by the time the house sold, both the children and the grandchildren had played in that big yard, chasing butterflies, and running from drunken bumblebees that gorged on the feast of lavender and fuchsia flowers that were so well established…and at one time, well loved.

Today, before the bulldozers begin the clearing of the house and land, I got some wisteria cuttings.

I bought the correct soil, and some rooting powder.

I drove to my sons house nearby, and my daughter in love, three year old grandson and I filled pots with soil and manure.

We dipped the freshly cut green wood cuttings into the powder, and planted them in the pots.

Together, the three generations of us worked on trying to capture and grow just a little bit of what that long ago homeowner started.

We, too, made memories with the wisteria.

For this, I am grateful. 

For the past few months, while I am sleeping at night, I feel more submerged than asleep.

At least once an hour, my mind will try to surface. I will hear the dogs rustling. The wind blowing. My husband snoring.

I feel my body rising from the depths, and as my head nearly breaks the surface of consciousness, I will sink back again, sinking into darkness…and sleep.

My dreams have been surreal – otherworldly, different than dreams from years past.

I wonder how much of this is post Covid. My heart rate was affected, and has not normalized in the weeks since my mild case.

Or is it because I am beginning EMDR trauma therapy?

Am I trying to escape the unconsciousness – or sink back into it?

What I am not getting is rest.

So, for now, I am just “being”. I am not working, for the first time since I was 15 years old.

The struggle is within the state of calm – the not having to rush, to struggle.

The struggle from deep within.

I’m looking forward to healing.

I wake up in the utter silence of predawn – a time before birdsong, with the light from the street lamp compressed by the fog in this still morning.

My birthday.

I think of the friends I have lost – three of my closest friends, two of whom I have outlived in years.

As the birds begin to waken, bringing life to the hushed world, I count my blessings.

Waking up.

Parents who are alive and in good health.

A devoted and loving husband.

Five kids that are my pride and joy, who love me despite my frailty and failings – three I gave birth to, others whom were born in my heart.

Eight grandchildren, loved by me with a fierce protectiveness I didn’t know was possible.

Freedom. Peace. I pray for my dear daughter in loves family in Ukraine. For my lost country here.

My dog padded into the living room with me. I’m grateful for the canines who make me laugh, keep me company, sense my needs.

Today I will savor the day. I will go to the Gulf of Mexico and walk the powder soft white sands, hand in hand with my beloved, and listen to the waves. The gulls. Chase the pipers. Observe the slow, swirling clouds.

It is good to be alive.

I am officially off the meta verse.

I have disconnected from all social media. Somewhere in the DSM-5, there has to be a diagnosis of self harm by social media.

The negatives all began to outweigh the positives. In the way that is so common to me, inevitably my self destructive nature came forth.

So I unplugged.

All of it.

Multiple, multiple times a day I find myself trying to share a quote, a picture of the sunset, or look at pictures of Jeeps.

I see how dependent I have become on the daily feeding on social media.

What seemed to be fleeting glances at my devices was slowly ebbing time away from my husband. My family.

Reality.

My life of travel and working two jobs ends February 7. I go from 60hrs a week, drive time, and two jobs…to being home.

Off the meta verse.

Once I get over the withdrawals, I know I will fill the time spent looking at a phone or tablet with taking time to care for my husband. Care for myself. Gardening, walking dogs, even cleaning the pool – activity! – will fill that wasted time.

Back to normal.

For me, the new normal will be old school.

It’s the healthiest choice I’ve made in a long time.