There's a story, more like an account actually, of something that happened a while back when the kids were young. I emailed it to a few friends at the time. I wish I could find that original version of it. I related it back when it was fresh. I'll never retell it as well as I told it originally but because you're reading this, I'll try my best.

This weekend David and I did our usual Sunday morning thing. I worked out then took a bath. He watched. We talked. I told him about this blog. I haven't let him read it yet. I told him that it was hard for me to tell him about the blog because for some reason, I don't mind if friends or perfect strangers read it but it embarrases me to think that he might see it. I've been that way as long as I can remember. I suppose it is because he is the person in the world whom I'd most like to impress. What if he thinks it is silly? He'll chuckle when he reads it regardless.

Anyway, I washed, he watched and we talked. I told him some stories. He'd forgotten about this one. It is as clear to me now as it was the day it happened.

Ours has always been the house where the kids play. There are always those parents, the ones who open their basement to the neighborhood, which in our case is an 1800 square foot, essentially child proof, unfinished concrete slab. I've gone downstairs to find tempra paint handprints covering portions of walls and sheets nailed to the rafters to craft homemade playroom boundaries. Child proof, not child safe.

At one point, the neighborhood children occupying our basement were a group of about 7 or so, stairstepped in age...a 10 year old, a nine...mine, an eight, two sevens...male and female fraternal twins..., a six and a five. There may have been a four. I don't remember. That portion of my life is somewhat a blur. The 10 year old and 8 year old belonged to the neighbors behind us, a family of British expatriates.

Mothers don't often take time for themselves because it makes us feel guilty. The day of this story, I'd wandered over to the Brits' house. We talked. It was glorious. I don't even remember what we talked about. It sounds so cliche but it is true when I say that in those days, I didn't often have adult conversations. I talked mosly to my kids.

I think I was probably gone for about 10 minutes. Kids can get in a lot of trouble in 10 minutes, especially when they're in a large group. I know this now. I probably knew it then but at the time, the rewards of a few moments peace outweighed the danger of unsupervised playtime.

Tootsie was our dog at the time, a beautiful and kindly dachshund mix. Her coat was shiny and smooth. She was gentle with children.

After chatting with my neighbor I returned home to find that my beautiful, kindly, glossy-black dachsund mix had been spray painted flat white latex.

The funny thing is, David remembered none of it when I mentioned it last Sunday. Typically he remembers virtually everything. In fact, he repeatedly relates a story about how he, at around age four, presented a bathroom scale to a plump female friend who'd stopped by to visit his mother. He also obviously remembers in detail each and every misstep I've made since approximately 3 months into our twenty year marriage. Oh, and in case you wondered, yes, she stepped on the scale.

David almost had me convinced I'd dreamt the white flat latex story. When I asked Will, my 13 year old about it, his eyes widened and he told me that it was the twins' idea :)

It took me over a week to write this. I couldn't decide how to finish it. Tonight, it finished itself.

I'm sure now that I owe Will an apology. You see, at the time, I thought it was his idea to spray paint the dog. But tonight Hope (my daugher) and Jennifer (the female member of the set of fraternal twins) crept into the house. They tried to sneak downstairs with a toy baby carrier covered by a cloth, under which were 7 marker painted fresh eggs from my downstairs fridge. Guilty!

I saw my dad for the first time this morning since "this thing" happened on Monday night. His speech is a little slurred, not obviously so. He's weak on his right side. He's fallen down quite a few times but none that I've seen. We've still got my mother in law's cane; the kids play hospital with it from time to time. I suggested he use it to steady himself. He agreed immediately. That was surprising.

The most amazing thing happened.

My mom is old enough for Medicare but my dad is only 63. He has no health insurance at all. Back up a bit...

I think that the only reason I found out at all about what happened to my dad (my brother is still clueless), is because my mom wasn't going to be able to take the kids to school this morning. She called me last night to trade days. She's MWF and I'm Tu/Th .

Turns out, Dad was actually supposed to have an MRI yesterday but arrived at the hospital to find out that the fee would be approximately 3 grand and "we'll need to collect that up front". Obviously he wasn't able to come up with that on the spot or with a reasonable expectation that the check would clear. He left.

He headed back to the primary care guy who, I fantasize, Froogle'd MRI and sent him to Winston for a $600 budget equivalent. Why he wound up with 'Pimp my MRI' in the first place is a mystery. Surely primary care guy was already aware of the health coverage situation. More on that in a minute.

I digress. Back to the amazing thing...

The most amazing thing happened. We're riding down the road following the printed directions to 'MRI-Mart'. We pass a VA outpatient clinic, blessedly and conveniently co-located two buildings up and opposite MRI-Mart. My parents start chatting about the clinic, how they should have signed up for VA medical a long time ago...when dad lost health coverage, etc. I'm like "Woah. Wait a minute. You qualify for VA benefits?"

Flash back to remember Monica telling me about John's VA benefits. How they'd also pay for HER prescriptions, co-pays, etc. Flash forward to mom's cancer drug, the $30/month, soon to be $300/month wonder pill she has to take for 4 more years but that Medicare only covers for 5 more months.

So wasn't it amazing that Dad refused the $3K, that MRI-mart was within spitting distance of the VA outpatient clinic, that I was present to hear their VA conversation, that Monica told me about John?

It is pathetic, really, how the System relates to people without coverage. Dad's primary care physician actually spoke with us in the hallway, cell phone jingling. We all hear it ringing. Nice of you to ignore it, by the way, but pause, reach into your pocket and turn it off. "Jingle Bells"seemed quite relieved when my parents mentioned the VA possibility, at this point hopefully for us a certainty.

Jingle did at least give a thumbs-up to the VA hospital in Durham. He recommended it over Salisbury and said that the same neurologists that work at Duke rotate to the VA hospital as well. Neurologist, because the MRI showed that although he'd had small strokes in the past that are at this point irrelevant for diagnosing what is happening right now, there wasn't conclusive MRI-Mart evidence of a recent one. Of course the things I buy at Wal-mart are often soon repurchased as higher quality, Target alternatives.

I write this because it is cathartic, therapeutic. Back when Hope was little and I was frazzled, my mom gave me a book. I wondered when in the world I'd have time to read and why in the world she thought that it was a practical gift. I frankly thought she'd lost her mind.

The book was a murder mystery by Anne Perry. She gave me the book because she knew that when I was young, I'd read three books simultaneously...one in the bed at night, one on my back on the living room sofa, the third...well, you can guess where. The place where most all of my quiet time happens now, a mom's only sanctuary.

I found time to read the Anne Perry. I've been reading a printed book or listening to one on audio virtually continuously since then. My Mom new that reading was essential to my survival. I've realized that writing is too.

I write this because it is cathartic, therapeutic. You read this because you are my friend!

Tales of a 4th grade something...

Steve Hill died today. Funny but I never called him Steve while he was alive but for some reason, I feel compelled to do so now. Will, Hope and I spooned on Will's futon with me in the middle. We cried together, a 13 year old boy, a 9 year old girl and me, their mother.

Steve was at yoga at the YMCA three weeks ago. I wonder if the feeling I have now that he seemed distant and distracted last time we saw him is my imagination or whether he knew.

Every time we saw him Hope gave him a hug. She wanted to be in his class next year. Will had him in 4th grade. He was ex-military; stern and beloved.

We haven't heard what happened. I guess it doesn't really matter. It won't make a difference. We wouldn't feel any safer no matter how rare the disease or unlikely the circumstances.

I had to ask David where the phone charger was. It felt disrespectful. I wasn't really ready yet to address mundane things.

I may have lunch at school with my daughter tomorrow. I think I need to be around other people who feel this senseless loss. I want the children to know that talking about it makes me sad and happy at the same time. I know that they feel it too.

Another teacher at our Elementary school died last year. Last night when he heard about Mr. Hill, Will said today that he didn't care when that happened. He said, "She was stupid". I know what he meant. He didn't care for her like he cared for Steve Hill. That was his 13 year old way of expressing that although people around us die often, our feelings vary. Steve's death has sliced us open.

This is my first blog post but the second time is as many weeks that I've been compelled to think out loud. I think it is time in my life for me to end each day (as often as possible), certainly the stressful ones, with my voice on paper. Next time, I'll take the Ambien earlier :) I must fall asleep tonight to "The Secret Life of Bees" compliments of the North Carolina Digital Library. Books on audio chase away the busy brain.

I wonder what Steve's 16 year old daughter is doing right now. If this were a week ago this past Wednesday, she'd be doing yoga with him.

Father, countryman, 4th grade teacher and friend. Goodbye~~~~