The Lost Colony - One More Time

There is a bit of sacred ground on the north end of Roanoke Island…where, each summer for the last five years, we gather to share the story of The Lost Colony. 

Our first summer, Little Miss portrayed the roll of a child in the audience, chosen by the narrator to hear the story of the New World, and all that entailed. She walked with him each evening, looking on intently as he talked of Indian battles and the birth of the first English child. That year, Daddy took her to the theater often. On the evenings he would drop her off, I could count on my phone ringing shortly before showtime.

“Hey Bud…I’m gonna stay. I’ve just got to watch it one more time,” he would say.

I hear those words ring over and over today- one more time- when I think of all the things I should be doing at home- the ever-growing pile of laundry, the stalls that need to be cleaned, dinner that has been frozen or fast-food for too many nights in a row. But no…one more time, I remind myself- and I stay at Waterside Theater.

Rehearsal season #2 began just a few days after Daddy’s passing. We were all still numb. The words of sympathy and hugs were appreciated but I don’t know if they were truly absorbed. Little Miss was given the role of a young colonist, with lines. Mom and I shared a silent look- Daddy told every nurse in the hospital that his granddaughter was going to be returning for her second season, and would have lines- something we had no way of knowing at the time. (The scene was later cut and I never forgave that year’s production manager, who is likely being haunted by an angry farmer.)

Throughout that season and every season since, I have felt Daddy's presence so strong on the sound side, leaning against an old Oak tree, watching…one more time.

An interesting fact about, well, any theater production really- however it seems to ring truer in this particular show- is that you will never see the same show twice. The family of actors changes- some new, some returning…some returning in different roles. New Old Tom says this line quirkier than the last, this Eleanor Dare shoots a gun, this Queen is local, blond, and rides horses in her spare time…wait, what? (One can only wish.)

I’m a firm believer that God places people in our paths for specific reasons- to teach us, nurture us, learn from us, etc. In five seasons, I have watched Little Miss make some of her best friends in the sand at Waterside Theater. Unconventional, fly-across-the-country, strong, amazing friendships. From these actors, she has learned as many life-lessons as stage-lessons. She’s learned that life throws curves at us- you may start out in one role, and end up in another! She’s learned the importance of showing up. (And surprise-visits!) The talent and confidence she’s absorbed from her peers is invaluable. 

This season, she was cast (among other roles) as a dead body. She was delighted to add something new to her resume- a stage fall. Each night, she was painted green during intermission and placed behind a curtain where- when she hears her cue- she throws herself out onto the wooden stage. Once there, she has to lay perfectly still…because you know, she’s dead. (Mosquitos feasting…rain falling…perfectly still.)

“Mama, I think it makes sense for me to be in prologue…since I’m a dead body,” she told me, a few rehearsals in. (During prologue, spirits of the lost colonist appear behind the narrator.)

“That’s a great idea! Why don’t you mention it?” I encouraged.

Before I knew it, Little Miss’s twelve-year-old-self had shared her vision with her director- Ira David Wood, III. (Who is extremely-talented, and thankfully, humble.) He approved her request to be the first child-addition in the prologue.

A blink of an eye and some 70+ shows later, the cast of the 82nd season walked its final march. (The actual final show was cancelled due to a lightning storm that seemed to hover directly over the theater.) All the sweat and exhaustion of the summer faded in the moments we heard the announcement…one more time.

Little Miss hugged her cast-mates and shared tears. I watched as the adults were equally as sad as she, to say goodbye. 

As we walked in the rain to the parking lot, we were joined by our favorite narrator. He is one of those friends who is now family- one of those friends who just shows up, sharing encouragement, advice, and sarcasm. (And on Little Miss’s first ever audition, joined her onstage because she had an unexpected moment of stage-fright.) As the path ended, we said our good-byes, which since we all live here, was not as dreary as the weather.

“Love you!!” Little Miss said to him.

I started to cry. Little Miss only says those words if she feels it in her heart and equally, feels it from the other party.

We got in the truck and I tried my best to get my shit together. Little Miss was oblivious to the rain shower flying out of my eyeballs.

“He doesn’t look like Grandad…or sound like him. But…he is always proud of me…and it makes me want to make him proud, like grandad,” she said, looking out the window, almost talking to herself.

…

As we drove away from our 5th season…I thanked God for the paths he crossed with ours, for popcorn dinners that allowed me to watch one more time and for an unconventional closing night that gave us a few extra moments with our people…

Thank you, The Lost Colony…you will be remembered. 

I'm Right Where I Need to Be

Life is made up of many seasons. When your little, the seasons consist of the beginning of school, Christmas break, winter-time, and summer-time. When you get older, you look back on significant moments and judge the season by where you worked, how old your child was, or by what relatives were beside you. 

A few months ago, several things changed in my life and while some were a little nerve-wrecking, today I am thankful for the season we are finding ourselves in.

To start- I decided to return to East Carolina University to complete my degree in communication. (Remember back when I decided to move to NYC and have a baby roughly 12 years ago? Although I only lacked a few Pirate-credit hours, they’re pretty insistent that I actually complete those. Technicality.) I’m very excited to complete something I began many moons ago- while also feeling a bit like a nerdy dinosaur. College, Take-2 is off to a marvelous start! (Who knew if we took away the alcohol, and sprinkled on some ‘focus’ I could literally bring my A game!)

Near the time of my college-revelation, changes were swirling about at my legal-assiting gig. We were about to be on the move again...but this time my potential new office would involve a longer drive and a new position. It was a wonderful opportunity that I’m incredibly grateful for, but the more I thought about the changes and the distance from home- the more my stomach hurt. To put it in prospective, I worried over taking/passing on said position as if I had been up all night with a colicing horse. #shitwasreal 

Each evening I came home from the office, sat on our John Deere with my husband...and evaluated the situation- over...and over…and over again. (God bless him, he listened to whatever side of the fence I was on and supported me and my decision.) Was I being ungrateful for not even giving the new gig a shot? Was I being irrational by even thinking I was being ungrateful...duh, you’re a mom...you can’t be further away from home. 

I did the only thing I knew to do...I prayed really hard about it. I prayed for a sign that this opportunity was actually for me...I prayed for a position closer to home...I prayed for God to just tell me what the hell to do…#GodandItalklikethat

Then it happened...over lunch with my sweet-friend- she shared she was leaving her position at Bayliss Boatworks and moving closer to her family. I instantly got a lump in my throat. I saw God’s billboard sign, flashing with big neon letters. (The flashing neon said “I can’t get you any closer to home...what more of a sign to you need, kid?!”)

Shortly thereafter, the third anniversary of Daddy’s death left me a sobbing mess. I wasn’t prepared to be such a baby on year three...but I was. I just wanted his advice on everything...was it a good idea to even interview for a job with my spouse? Should I just try the original position further north? Will either position be a position that will make you proud?

Mid-ugly cry on my way home, somewhere on the beach-road...I yelled to no one.

Why. WHY!? I just want to hear his voice...or see some kind of sign that shows me I am not f*cking up.

A few hours later...my phone dinged. Look outside towards the shop.

I walked outside on the porch to see a huge, gorgeous rainbow...that landed on top of Bayliss Boatworks.

Thanks, Daddy.

A few days later, I accepted my current position as the new construction coordinator...and my commute takes roughly 35 seconds, if there is traffic. (Oh and on that evening, another double rainbow appeared. Between God and Daddy, I think they’re making damn sure I get the signs.)

In this season of life, I’m going to complete my degree...and learn how to speak boat. After all- life can change without our permission- and even the most strong-willed cowgirls cannot control that...but we can control our attitudes and that is what determines the ride. 

Chris & George

March 30, 2019 was a day I will never, as long as I live, forget. I think my husband would agree- it is right up there with our wedding day. On this fateful day, we got to see Chris Stapleton and George Strait perform live in Atlanta.

We woke up at 4am and were out the door by 4:30. My sweet husband drove the entire way to Atlanta while I serenaded him with everything from Eric Church to Eminem. #luckyhusband We arrived at our hotel just in time to change and haul ass to the stadium. We still arrived hours before Chris or George were set to take the stage, but I couldn’t settle down until we got to our seats. I just wanted to know we were where we needed to be- together- drinking $10 beers with 80,000 rednecks. #everycowgirlsdream

Chris Janson opened for Chris Stapleton, and another gal did too, but we missed her set because we couldn’t figure out how to get into the parking lot. #bigcityproblems Chris ran onstage and within about 30 seconds, I felt like we were the only people in a tiny honky-tonk bar. The man sang to.my.soul. He talked about his ‘bonus children’ the way we talk about our girls, and maybe it was the lack of sleep, the high elevation, or just me missing our girls…but eyes filled up to the brim.

“Step kid just sounds like they aren’t as special,” he said to the crowd.

In a world of selfies and made up languages (I’m talking to you, Cardi-B) it was refreshing to hear a man stand on stage in front of thousands of people talk about his family…his bonus children…and his wife. That is real life.

While I dried my eyes, the seats around us filled with cowboy boots and plaid shirts...and cellphones. Literally every person in front of us was either taking selfies or videoing every moment of the evening on SnapChat.

Pardon me while I step onto my soapbox for a moment…

I took one selfie and one video...why? I wanted something to remember the evening- which is why we take photos, correct? A photo allows us to travel in time back to that moment and remember the feelings, the smells, the laughter, the tears...the memories attached to the photo is what makes the photo special. HOWfreakingEVER, filming every second of the evening removes the emotion completely. It takes away from the excitement of seeing George Strait dance onto the stage with his guitar...a two-step that continued for over two hours. There were times that I felt it was only George and his guitar...the band members faded into the shadows, the screaming fans disappeared...and it was just George and his dance partner- his acoustic guitar.

How can you feel that if your version of living in the moment is living through a snapchat filter?

Shoutout to the lady-beside-me- your constant filming made me sing louder, knowing that my tone-deaf vocals would be the memory saved in your iphone. #yourewelcome

Our generation and those younger do not know how to enjoy a single moment without documenting it. (The irony here is that I’m writing about this experience on my blog...which will be posted on social media for all ten of you to read. Hi, Bailey!) Whether a concert or a dinner plate, each and every moment is documented, filtered, and shared for hundreds of their closest friends to judge, like, and comment on.

Is this really what our generation will be remembered for? An addiction to filtered memories?

Allow me to climb down off the soapbox.

I wouldn’t change a thing about our evening with Chris x 2 and George. There is not one single song I had hoped to hear that they didn’t perform...and perform so well that I still hear it playing in my mind. George sang several Merle Haggard tunes. The soundtrack of my parents love story includes many Merle-melodies, which made the performance even more emotional for me. I often feel my father’s presence but during that particular moment...I could see his grin smiling back at me.

If you ever get the chance to see any of the three mentioned performers, do whatever you have to do to get there...call in sick, sell your favorite pair of boots, whatever you have to give up- I promise you, it will be worth it.

And for the love of God, put your cellphone down and listen once you get there. ;-)

The Significance in a Date

Four. Twenty Three.

Some dates stand out in your memory and remain highlighted for the rest of your life.

4.23.16

It was a windy day. I had a local wedding to shoot in Colington. I was in a fog when I walked into the venue- but remember thinking of the irony in the purple decor, in light of Prince’s recent passing. The true irony was that my brain was allowing me to focus on anything but the black cloud hanging over my head.

My Daddy was in the hospital. The sand was running out in his hourglass of life and there was nothing I could do to slow it down.

“He has pancreatic cancer,” I told my {amazing} photog-assistant, Dana.

A little over two weeks, he left us for heaven.

Each year, 4.23 begins the remember where we were in 2016...today, we were transferred to different hospital...today, he said he was sorry he had to go- and promised to visit my dreams...today, he got taken off all his IVs and danced into the hallway- fell & got a black eye. Our memories drive us down the path we walked, and remind us how short life truly is.

As difficult as it is to relive some of those memories, I wouldn't trade them for the world. I soak in every detail, every tear drop, every smile, every bit of every memory...

4.23.17

I ran my first ever half marathon in Daddy’s honor. It was the perfect distraction for a date so significant in our lives. I felt him with me the entire run, whispering words of encouragement.

Mama stood proudly at the finish line, wearing his hat, and while tears flowed down my face- so much symbolism hit me. I finished my race...on a date that began Daddy’s race to his heavenly home. #13.1mileswillmakeyouthink

4.23.18

I went to work and cried silently at my desk. I kept the significance of the date to myself.

I felt like my insides were going to explode. Note to self: #dontdothatagain

4.23.19

It will be my mom’s last day as director of Roanoke Island Presbyterian Daycare. God chose her, almost 30 years ago, to do his work in a childcare ministry...something she’d never done before. She has not only been a director, teacher, and friend to many, but a mother to the babies and young parents she served. Now, God is telling her to rest and enjoy watching the ministry grow from the outside.

My mom is a glass-is-half-full kind of person. It can rain for days and she will remind you how beautiful the garden will be because of it. I know she chose this day to redirect our sadness into something happy. Daddy’s dream for her was to retire and enjoy life’s little details, without the worry of what she was falling behind on.

This year, I am looking forward to celebrating 4.23 and all of the lives mom has touched throughout her career. I can’t wait to get the phone call on a random Wednesday morning, from a happy retiree in her beach chair in the sand.

Happy Retirement, Mama!!

Tales of a Not-So-Tough Dog Named Tuff: Hunting Lessons

I will never forget the day we brought our lab home for the first time 5 years ago. We had lost one of our older fur-babies a few months prior- and saw the lab-litter posted online shortly thereafter. We knew it was meant to be for this tiny ball of white fur to come live with us. He would comfortably fit in the hood of my sweatshirt, which is where he snuggled many mornings while I edited photos in my home-office.

“I think we should call him Chief,” my husband said.

I disagreed emphatically, flashing through dozens of horses from days-gone-by named Chief. #alljackasses

“How about Tuff...for Tuff Hedeman,” I suggested, adding fun facts about the bull rider.

It is still a joke today that because I named him, he's my dog. The name is the biggest oxymoron of all.freaking.time. While my husband had high hopes and dreams of many hunting adventures with his handsome side-kick, Tuff mostly hunts for snuggles, kisses, and any spare sock left in sight. #mastersockhunter #mamasboy

Full disclosure: this last duck season, my husband became completely addicted to quack. We appreciate your prayers during this difficult time. #sendwine

During said season, my sweet man decided to give my our sock-hunting pup another chance and started working with him on sit, stay, go get the duck, lessons. Tuff did all the things perfectly, retrieving his rubber-ducky like a champ. Duck calls made him jump for joy...which equally, made the husband jump for joy.

“I think he’s actually going to be a hunting dog. He is smart,” said my sweet man.

“He is smart, but I think unless you get him a wetsuit, he may hate every second of hunting...or drown because he can’t swim...at all,” I replied. (Seriously, he sinks like a rock if you can get him to go near any body of water.)

Nonetheless, the lessons continued until the fateful morning when ducks were brought home from a hunting trip. #deadasadoornail They were laying on the concrete when Tuff’s entire day was ruined. He ran outside, overly excited to see his Daddy when he saw them, sniffed them...and his sweet little heart broke.

“Here, bud...it’s a duck!”

They are not breathing!!! Why aren’t they breathing!?! Hang on, little guy. Maybe I could administer CPR...Mom is going to kill you, Dad. I had nothing to do with the death of these poor creatures, you murderer.

“Here...just sniff it…”

*sniffs again* No!! They’re definitely dead. Too far gone for CPR. I feel sick. I can’t even breathe with that thing near me. I may vomit. These poor ducks…you monster.

“Tuff...just take the duck in your mouth, it's just like your duck!”

Liar. It is not and I will not open my mouth. Absolutely the hell not. Mom told me never to my mouth on the birds...now I see why. She told me they were fragile. Get a crowbar because my jaws are shut and will continue to be shut until you get that lifeless body away from it. I will not take the blame for your wrongdoing...nope...nope...nope. Mom is going to be so mad. She loves our birds.

About the time that Tuff looks like he’s going to have a nervous breakdown, I walk outside.

“What is that, Tuffy?!”

Ask Dad. Tuff sits down, staring back at me wide-eyed, like he’s done something very wrong. Then looks at Kirk, like you’re in for it now. Have fun living outside- I’m taking your side of the bed.

“I think our lessons are over. He’s scared of the dead ducks,”

I giggled to myself.

Oh Tuff- to be named for a cowboy who loved to jokingly call Lane Frost a “puss”...you are indeed, a puss yourself. But if snuggling was an olympic sport, you would be a gold medal winner every time.

Spare Mare Monday

“Ummm Mama…did we get a new horse?” Little Miss asks, while peaking out her window Monday morning.

Now, I know I’m overtired. (We’d traveled to Atlanta over the weekend.) I know that I have only slept roughly 12 hours total in the last three days…but I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a new horse- or offer for anyone’s horse to come live with us. Like….90% sure…fairly certain.

I look out the window and as sure as the day is long, there is a spare horse is in our driveway. I throw on my muck boots, grab a halter, and take off.

About the time I reach the bottom step, I hear what sounds like thunder followed by an earth shattering squeal.

Tristan, the majestic unicorn comes flying towards the fence- ears forward, head arched, tail straight up in the air. He comes to a screeching halt, inches before hitting the electric wire- dust flies as if he's a rockstar walking onto the stage. #prettyflywhiteguy

T, I do not have time for you to fall in love with this mare right now. I could see it was already too late- his pupils were already shaped like hearts.

I almost have my hands on spare-mare when a truck that I don’t recognize stops.

“Do you need help, miss?” Asked the stranger, as the spare trots away, unicorn in tow.

Frustrated, I spun around to ask ‘what makes you think I need help’ when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the truck. Half-done makeup, hair in last-night’s bun, no coffee and work-clothes…I see his point- to say I looked a little confused and disheveled would certainly be the understatement of the year. I thanked him for his kindness and assured said stranger “I’ve got this.” #hedidntbelieveme

Meanwhile, Tristan is doing everything he can to impress the spare-mare. Prancing, batting his big blue eyes, promising her the world…all.of.it. Harry? Harry is in his stall waiting patiently like, “Excuse me…will the lady be delaying our dining time?”

Much to Tristan’s dismay, spare-mare’s owners arrived shortly after she did to take her home. You know, to her real home, not the summer-home Tristan had promised her in their fairy-tale life together.

As she walked away, I could practically feel his heart shatter. It was like watching an old movie, when the husband goes off to war…but with horses. He screamed…he bucked…he paced with his head down while snorting in protest. (After spending a mere few minutes with his gal- talk about love at first sight.)

Harry- still in his stall. Still patiently awaiting breakfast.

The dust settles, quite literally, everyone eats and off to work I go. (I did comb my hair and finish my makeup, don’t fret.)

Cut to later that evening, I go outside to tuck in the horses for bed. (Doesn’t everyone do that?) #totallynormal I walk downstairs and see a very happy unicorn standing in the corner, next to the love of his life…spare-mare.

“Mom, she’s returned! I knew she’d come back to me!” His eyes said it all. (Is it weird that I imagine what he would say? If so, we can’t be friends.)

I sigh and shake my head, hoping we have a few more years before we have to deal with the actual teenage-human-heartbreak.

Endoscopy & Honesty

The day after I made the appointment for my endoscopy, I started silently worrying something would go wrong. It is my nature to joke about things that worry me. #moonwalk {See previous post}

I hugged Little Miss a little extra. I snuggled my horses a little longer. I did all the things a little extra in preparation for a minor (but really how minor is a camera going down one's throat) procedure before we set out for my early morning appointment.

We arrived early. While I am a better-late-than-never kind of person, my husband is more of a you're-late-if-you aren't-early kind of fella. #yethereweare So...we are early- he's sipping his coffee, when I realize I should probably look over the instructions for my procedure. I hadn't eaten, that was one instruction I remembered vividly.

"Huh...no nail polish? Well I'm not doing that. No makeup? I'm glad I didn't read this last night. Bunch of negativity is all this is," I mumbled.

We sat quietly for a few minutes and I knew I had to speak my irrational, yet completely rational-in-the-moment thoughts.

"If I die...do NOT sell my horses," I said.

He almost spit out his coffee.

"What? You'll be fine!" 

"I'm serious. You cannot under any circumstances sell them. IF you can't care for them, which would make me really haunt you...they can go to one of the following two places," I said while listing off pre-approved homes.

My sweet husband let out a deep sigh. 

"And...also...this was not til death...this," I said, pointing at our wedding bands, "is forever."

I'm not sure which was making him more nervous, my post-mortem instructions or my pending procedure. Regardless, it was showtime.

They took me back relatively quickly. I was instructed to put on a lovely gown and hop onto the bed to wait for my IV. I sat quietly, twirling my necklace. Shit, I was supposed to take off my jewelry. 

After my IV was in, I listened to the conversations going on beside me. An older man had just had a colonoscopy and his wife was telling him he couldn't drive home. He argued that he was still a better driver than her.

I hope I don't say everything I am thinking after this, I thought to myself.

"You look nervous," said the little Asian anesthesiologist, as she opened the curtain.

Oh dear, she looks just like Kai-Lan. 

My mind flashed back to yester-year, when Little Miss watched endless amounts of Ni Hao, Kai-Lan and I worried she would learn to speak English with a Chinese accent. My real-life concern at that moment was that as soon as she administered my happy meds, I would tell her. Or order an egg roll because lets face it, I was starving. #jesustakethewheel #alwaysfivetenminute

"Will you be with me the whole time?" I asked.

"Yep! Don't worry...you be fine," she replied. 

The last thing I remember was telling the gastroenterologist that I wanted to go out to breakfast- not with him, but I wanted him to put it in my release order that my husband was to take me to Cracker Barrel...and Chic-Fil-A. (I consciously didn't mention Chinese food.)

It felt like seconds later, I was in recovery. Apparently, I had a lengthy conversation with a nurse about how ridiculous it was to tell patients they can't wear nail polish or makeup. #dumbrule

I may have whisper-yelled something about being a rebel.  

#nobodyputsbabyinacornerwithoutmascara

"You might want to take her phone from her...she will tell people what she really thinks today and that might not be good for her work," the nurse explained.

"I work for a lawyer," I slurred.

"Oh yes. Hide her phone," she said.

All in all, the procedure was a success. My doctor, who did leave instructions to stop for food on the way home, said he found nothing alarming in my esophagus. I do have reflux but he feels we can manage it with medication. #bless

"Did I tell you my anesthesiologist was Asian?" I asked my husband on the way home.

"Yes, about five different times," he said, chuckling.

"Oh...I think I ordered us dinner from her...at least I didn't moonwalk," I said, proudly.

At least...I don't think I did. 

**Thank you for all the prayers!**

Down with the Sickness...or Thickness?

It started back in the fall...I felt off- something wasn’t exactly right, but I pressed on. It was a weird thickness or knot in my throat that I just couldn’t accurately describe to anyone. (Plus, my mind is in the gutter 98% of the time so...you know, had the shoe been on the other foot and a friend of mine came to me with said complaint- I would make a dirty joke. #itisaterriblethingtowaste)

Weeks went by....I google-diagnosed myself with a number of illnesses. I spent too much money on OTC meds to count...nothing worked. I decided to visit Urgent Care, simply b/c it was closer to work and I wouldn’t have to take off. #loyalemployee

“Potentially sinuses...here is a zpack. If it doesn’t feel better, come back in,” the doctor said.

Part of me felt better, part of me was calling some serious bullshit. I’ve had sinus issues since I was old enough to properly pronounce the word allergy. This wasn’t that.

After a few more weeks went by, I met with my regular doctor to describe what I had then diagnosed as a potential ulcer. The uncomfortable knot in my throat had been joined with a weird pain in my side...google pointed to my gallbladder- while my doctor pointed out questions as to why I’d stopped taking my anxiety meds last year. #thishasnothingtodowiththat #focuslady

“Okay...I’m going to order an ultrasound of your side for the pain...but what about stress? Is anything new worrying you that could be causing or helping to create an ulcer?” she asked.

“Well...my best friend was just diagnosed with cancer...for the second time. My horse has a respiratory issue and can’t breathe. I can’t fix either of them...so,” she stopped me.

“You can’t worry yourself with things you can’t control,” she said, in a very namaste fashion.

Bullshit, lady. And just who are you to tell me what I can and can’t worry about?! With God all things are possible...and I’m worrying about every last one of them. #withallduerespectmaam

Moving forward, I continued to have the weird throat thickness daily, although the pain in my side faded. I was not overly concerned with the results from my ultrasound because my issue was much further north.

I logged on to mychart.com to check my results- and read a word I’d never seen before. Angiomyolipoma. Angiomyolipoma!? On my kidney!?! I turned to Dr. Google, while rapidly speed dialing my doctor for an explanation. She assured me it was nothing. I think she’s lying, naturally, because if it was nothing why was I being ordered to get a CT-Scan? (Plus according to google, it is a benign tumor- but if it ruptures...you can bleed to death. #minordetail)

Meanwhile...thickness in my throat...still there...every.time.I.swallow. Remember how the doctor said it could be stress related? Adding a new potential diagnosis to the table was not making the stress level go down, no matter how many yoga positions I tried.

CT Scan...midday...and I haven’t been able to eat since the night before so I’m a real peach to be around. I’ve been assured the scan does not include the dye-contrast. (My dad had a reaction to it so I asked because of the likelihood of me having a reaction, as well.)

I get situated on the table, with a tech on each side of me. One is explaining what will happen, while the other begins an IV.

“WAIT...I’m not supposed to have an IV. I don’t get the dye. No dye contrast! NO DYE!” I yelled, snatching my arm away from her, as if I was speaking to someone who didn’t speak a lick of english. (I am not sure why I did that but I needed to be clear, ese.)

“Who told you that? Well, they misinformed you,” the tech assured me.

At this point, I have on no-pants so it’s not like I can just prance my happy ass out of the room in protest. I was feeling a bit like those actresses with Harvey Weinstein, to be honest. #toosoon?

“You’re going to feel like you’re peeing...you’re not,” they say, in complete monotone.

I definitely felt like I had to pee...then an overwhelming urge to sneeze took over my entire body. Don’t panic, do not panic, do not freak out...you don’t have to sneeze, you are not peeing...you can’t sneeze b/c then you may, very well, pee….don’t sneeze, don’t pee...don’t sneeze, don’t pee.

Finally, it was over. At last, I could eat. A week (and a tiny-temper tantrum in the doctor’s office) later, I received the results that the angiomyolipoma was nothing to be concerned with.

“Great...that’s fantastic news. So...about my original issue- my throat is still not right,” I explained.

After I assured her I had not just swallowed something wrong…(seriously, it’s like God was testing my ability to stop myself from saying something inappropriate)...for the last three months, I was referred to a gastroenterologist. While it took two months to get an appointment- I was still excited to have someone, anyone, who may have some answers to the weirdness.

Seconds after meeting my new doctor, I explained all my feelings, while she nodded along.

“I have tried everything. Prilosec for a full month, nothing. I stopped eating any foods that caused issues...even gluten because I read online that it can be a trigger for GERD. It helped some but the odd feeling is still there. I feel crazy,” I said.

“You aren’t crazy...this is one of two things- I think we need to do an endoscopy...and just pop in there and take a look. It is not a big deal- it's a minor procedure..we will give you propofol…”

“Wait...that is what took out Michael Jackson!” I screeched.

She laughed, assuring me they wouldn’t give me that much.

“So more thriller than killer?” I joked.

“Oh...we will have fun with you,” she laughed.

I smiled...hoping she doesn’t plan to video me moonwalking out of the office post-endoscopy.

My youtube debut is tentatively scheduled for 3/26. Fingers crossed for some answers- I’m bringing my sparkly glove just in case. #futureyoutubesensation **Keep my sister/friend in your prayers...Ging is kicking some cancer tail & getting shiny, new stem cells to help her battle. She's our person...our hero...a huge part of our world...and we can't wait until she's back at home!**

PTHSD

I'm not sure what is tougher, losing a loved one or watching them suffer until you ultimately lose them. For months, I had watched, stressed, and researched Doc's condition- trying everything from modern medicine to voodoo tricks to make him feel better, all to no avail. 

A few days after losing him, I found myself lost. We'd welcomed a new equine beauty to our farm, partly to help our unicorn with his separation anxiety...partly to help with my own. Harry, the beautiful, gentle giant with the sweetest brown eyes I've ever seen- partnered with Tristan, the equally beautiful, scared of everything, majestical unicorn. My hope was they would quite literally be the yin to each others yang, all while helping to distract my brain.

The loss I felt was not just in sadness- I literally felt like I was forgetting to do something. I over-checked everything, retraced my steps, etc. but it was only a loss felt in regards to the horses. I began somewhat obsessing over their health- are they drinking enough? do they need extra supplements? the weather is changing, I need to make sure they are wearing the right blankets... I was waking up in the middle of the night, or not sleeping at all, because I was obsessively worried about my horses. As a horse person, this isn't exactly abnormal. 

One warm evening at around midnight, I couldn't sleep. I tossed, turned, and finally decided to go outside and check on the horses. (Because at midnight, certainly, they needed me...and I would absolutely be able to fix anything that ailed them alone, in the dark. Stop judging me.) I peep out the back window- Tristan, goats....no Harry. Granted, Harry is black as night, so he isn't as easy to spot as the unicorn.

I check the barn. No Harry. My heart starts beating in my ears. I call his name....nothing. #yourwelcomeneighbors

I'm sweating, nauseous and tears are welling up in my eyes...borderline about to lose my shit.

Tristan approaches me, calmly, as if to say mom, you're losing your shit. I give him a treat and walk around the back side of the hay-hut, where there is absolutely no light. My gait somewhat brisk b/c again, I'm losing my shit. My foot catches on something and I'm tossed into the air. Treats fly in the opposite direction...Tristan takes off, the goats start yelling...and I land on a startled Harry- who is now scrambling to get up from his slumber with me sprawled out ontop of him.

"Well there you are!!" I squeal, hugging him. #maybecryingalittle

"Ugggggggh" Harry lets out an aggravated sigh, while stretching.

Tristan continues to prance and snort as far as possible away from the hay hut- certain a monster had taken both me and Harry out. #cautiousunicorn

After we all calmed down, I returned to my bed- laughing a little at myself. I hadn't expected Harry to be curled up like a cat sound asleep. I guess it's good he didn't trample me, considering no one else in the house was up. 

Is Post Traumatic Horse-Stress Disorder a real thing? I wondered.

Probably. All cowgirls are high-maintenance in the most unconventional of ways. PTHSD would make perfect sense. 

Doc

If you're ever given the chance to own your dream horse, take it. Sell whatever you have to in order to make that dream a reality. #advicefromacowgirl

My daddy and my husband would share similar reasoning in saying that any horse that walked into my life would quickly become my dream horse. Each arguing that any equine in my line of sight, is the most beautiful, magnificent creature that ever walked God's green earth. They're both correct. 

I remember the day so clearly- where I was sitting, what I was doing- when I was offered the opportunity to own a dream horse. It was a bittersweet text sent from my friend, saying her husband had found his dream horse and was ready to rehome Doc. 

Doc is so special to us and needs a good home. He still has many trail miles left in him...do you know of anyone who would love him like we do?

I responded, "I do. I want him! I have to sell Kirk's mare...but I want him. I mean, you know, for Kirk."

We were in the middle of planning our surprise wedding. I responded without even talking to Kirk. I knew he would be on board because....it was Doc. Doc was the horse we would see at trail rides- hell, anyone, horses included, would see at rides and bow down in respect to his authority. #seriously

The day after our wedding, we brought Doc home. (Yes, when most people pack up to head out on a honeymoon...we traveled west about 45 miles to pick up a new horse.) As excited as I was to marry my dream-man the day before, I was just as excited to bring home our dream horse.

Doc settled in quickly to our little farm- quickly letting Tristan know he was the boss of all things. He enjoyed the extra snuggles, treats, and kisses. Nothing phased the big man- the opposite of his pasture-mate. He often looked over at Tristan as if to say, "Seriously, man...get it together. You're supposed to be a majestic creature."

A few years into our journey, I noticed some labored breathing in my sweet man, Doc. We began jumping through hoops to try to make breathing not so much of a chore. Rides were halted until the frigid winter months, when he seemed to breathe easy. We soaked hay, gave steroid injections, oral medication, and an ocean's worth of tears on the bad days. In true Doc-style, he was a gentleman through it all. 

Owning horses is not for the faint at heart, especially when it comes to making decisions like the one I knew was coming. Doc's breathing was steadily getting worse and his body was covered in sweat, even with the cool temperatures. We made the call- knowing it was the last kind thing we could do for our friend.

The nights prior, I had the same dream during the few minutes of sleep I managed to get. My daddy was sitting on Brandy, my childhood horse, in a huge field. Brandy was eating grass and Daddy was waving with both hands. (Like Lane Frost in 8 Seconds...if you haven't watched that movie, stop reading now and go watch it.) He wasn't smiling necessarily, he was just waving like he always did. Just seeing him made me smile- but I was too preoccupied to put much thought into the meaning behind the dream.

The day we had to say goodbye- also known as the absolute shittiest day of a cowgirl's life. (And ya'll, we deal with some shit. #punintended) Doc did it his way...and we let him. We held his head and gave him all the treats he could stand. We kissed him and cried over him in the rain.

He laid down gently...and I saw his ears move forward and his hooves begin to move. My heart sank...he's having a seizure. His hooves moved into a canter, as his body lay still...our vet grabbed my hand.

He's already running in the meadow. {my dream} Daddy's waving him over.

In that moment as the tears ran down my cheeks, it all made sense to me. The bad days with horses, the sick times, the hardest times...they were always spent with Daddy. He was always the voice that said "This is hard but its what has to be done, Bud...we've done all we can do here"...it was what I was missing- his reassurance. He was right there beside me, taking Doc's lead and saying "Come on, boy..."

Later that evening as I stood in the barn, I thanked God for trusting me to care for such marvelous creatures. As I kissed the muzzle of my other two dream horses, I smiled knowing Daddy was doing the same.

Take my advice...never pass up the opportunity to own your dream horse.

Goals

I don't set resolutions for myself. I feel like setting a resolution tends to set me up to fail. However, if I set a goal...it seems much more attainable. 

In setting goals, I've learned a lot about myself. I've learned that while I hate to disappoint others, (ie: let others down) I will quickly cancel on myself. In the fall, I read "Girl, Wash Your Face" and while it didn't completely rock my world, I did walk away from it with one big reminder- to show up for myself. Whether it is an hour spent in the horse-barn or a two mile run...show up. Sometimes just showing up is half the battle.

In order to show up, you have to make a plan- set that goal. Putting myself out there and sharing my goals is another way to hold myself accountable. (Because I can't very well let my four faithful blogreaders down. Hi, Mom!)

The Goals-

- Show up & hold myself accountable to things that are important 

- Don't show up to social media. It is SO okay to not be online-accessible all the time. If the world is ending, someone will call. Seriously. The more we are on it, the more we feel the urgency to be on it. Set social media times and stick to them.

- Write. Journal. Blog. Creativity fuels creativity.

- Read a chapter of something every day.

- Re-read goals list...check yourself before you wreck yourself.

So in keeping with my goals...it has been quite sometime since I've blogged, while I've kept a wildly sporadic journal over the last year or so, my blog has gone dark. 

Part of me that wants to write about 2018- the ups and downs- the happiness and sadness...the OCD in me wants to catch this page up from the lack of entries over the last year. But a bigger part of me doesn't. Ultimately, the big picture is the same from year to year...I still have a little farm with a lot of animals...I still talk about my horses almost as much as I do my kids and my husband...I still attend weddings for one career and divorces for another...I'm still really, insanely sarcastic and think I'm funnier than I actually am...and I'm still the friend who says what everyone else is thinking. 

Well...that satisfies the need to catch up. Here's to reaching goals in 2019!