Grandma

When my grandfather passed away, we sort of knew was coming.  There was time to prepare, time to gather our thoughts and reflect about his noble life, our relationships with him, and how losing him would impact the life of each person in our family and other people who loved and respected him.

Grandma decided to take a different route.

Mary Ruth made a quick and quiet exit, leaving us all a little stunned and befuddled. We feel content that she has been able to reunite with Grandpa and has been able to leave behind her physical pains and troubles here on earth, but that is coupled with sadness and regret over not having time to say goodbye or comfort her more when the end was near.

So now we are left to comfort one another in her absence.  This is my way of coping and comforting: putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard - - not as poetic sounding) to save memories and stories that will forever be Grandma.  As the oldest of her 12 grandkids, I was fortunate enough to have had the most time with her - - and then everybody else came along and I had to share all of the attention.  Humpf.  Just kidding.  Due to this fact, I think some of my memories are distinct - - or unique - - - maybe even weird - - while at the same time, I’m sure that my aunts, uncles, cousins, my parents or anyone else who knew my grandma will be able to relate in many ways.

Chocolate pudding pie, Planter’s cheese balls, Ande’s chocolate mints, Ragu spaghetti, vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate sauce, and Klondike bars.  None of these are glamorous, but these are Grandma’s comfort foods.  They remind me of her house, her essence . . . just her.  I spent the night at her house quite a bit, and she would always make me waffles in her waffle iron.  They were delicious . . . and probably contributed to some added childhood pudge that I carried around with me at the time.  I loved those waffles so much that I had my mom come to my kindergarten class to try to duplicate them.   The waffle iron blew a fuse.  No one got to share in my precious waffles!! To this day I cannot replicate the flavor, nor can I find a waffle iron like hers.  This is probably best . . .for my figure anyway.

Our grandparents lived by a little man-made lake.  I used to think that living by this lake was one of the most luxurious attributes of their home. Grandma always had plenty of bread from her breadbox to tote down to lake for feeding the fish.  Rolling up gummy bread pebbles between our fingers, we’d sit on the dock dropping them down to into the murky water, looking to see how far down we could see the little bluegills.  Sometimes we’d spot a turtle or a snake.  Other times, she’d alert me to that rubber-band twang of a frog call.  The lake had a small beach, and in the summers I would take a towel down and go swimming.  My grandma had a beach!! What other fourth grader could say that?  My best friend Susan and I spent the night at Grandma’s house once, and it felt like we were on summer vay-cay.  We got to sleep upstairs in my mom and aunts’ old room, Grandma made us waffles, and we went to the beach at the lake.  I’d book that same vacation tomorrow if I could.

Along with the lake, Grandma reminds me of nature in general.  She loved to watch birds.  Her back yard was a virtual aviary.  We’d wait and watch for hummingbirds, her favorite, to drink from her feeder that was placed right by the backdoor to her house.  We’d sit and look out the big picture window in her living room and watch finches, blue jays. cardinals, sparrows, and orioles perch on the birdfeeders hanging from the backyard trees.  Sometimes, we’d watch Grandpa rig up an anti-squirrel device on one of the birdfeeders. “Oh, Earl,” she’d say and shake her head. There were bird books on the coffee tables, just incase we spotted something new we’d never seen before.  Grandma was the first person to teach me that Canadian geese mate for life.  We were driving up the road to her house when we saw one looking lost and sad with its mate lying on the ground.  She stopped the car for a minute, told me about their forever partnerships, and we both looked at each other and started crying.  Since then, I can’t see a pair of geese without thinking of my grandparents. 

Of the lessons my grandma taught me, one of the most resonant was to love your spouse no matter how much he drives you crazy.  My grandpa was a do-it-yourselfer.  He was always building something, fixing something, mowing something, planting something, cutting something, and he could often be found . . . on the roof.  My grandfather being on the roof made Grandma a nervous wreck.  She would go outside with him and hold the ladder, phone in pocket in the event that he fell.  She would call my mom and say, “Your father’s on the roof again.”  I used to mistake her nerves for anger until I grew mature enough to realize that she loved him so much that she couldn’t bear for him to have an accident.  She did not want to be the heart-broken goose.  My grandparents were not outwardly affectionate towards each other, but they raised a wonderful family of five children, for whom they were there every step of the way, through the births of twelve grandchildren, new home purchases, holidays, events for their friends, volunteer work.  They had a steady, consistent, and constant type of love - - a time-honored commitment that is admirable and something to emulate.  My grandfather did things that made my grandma say, “Oh, murder,” but she loved him anyway, and she was always there to hold the ladder.

I could go on about specific memories.  I have stories about Grandma that are dear to my heart, like when she would have me say, “Open sesame,” to her garage door and make me think I had opened it magically while she secretly pressed the garage-door opener, or the times she would pick me up from school and be crying because I was just growing up too fast.  But I suppose the most important role of my grandma’s to remember - - for all of us to remember - - is something that we should carry on in our own lives, and that would be the role of the caretaker.  According to my mom, Grandma took care of her older relatives, driving over to Norwalk sometimes twice a week to make sure that they were okay.  Her own mother, my great-grandmother, lived with my grandparents after her husband passed away, and my grandmother cared for her until she was well into her nineties.  Grandma, of course, took care of and raised her own children and each one of us grandkids, including my sister, who is severely mentally and physically handicapped.  She supported my mom though the life-changing event of having my sister and never let her down when she needed a break or some extra help.  My immediate family - - mom, dad, Kathy, and I - - couldn’t have carried on as well as we did without her love and support. 

I think the best way to honor my grandmother’s life is to remember the things she has taught me and pay it forward by passing them on to people in my own life.  Most of my memories and stories of Grandma include helping, caring for, loving others, and making others feel special.  My own children were fortunate enough to know my grandmother for a short time.  They’ve fed the fish, they’ve seen the birds, but I have a lot of time to teach them about caring for others and constant, unfaltering support.   I know that we will all carry Grandma in our hearts as we take her spirit and make it a part of our own. It will be hard to be without her here, but the stories and lessons she left us with to carry on will be a constant reminder of the time we shared with her while she was with us.

Runner with a Drinking Problem

Up to this point, I think I’ve mastered the 5K.  Note that I did not say that I’ve “dominated” the 5K.  What I mean is that I can run 3.1 miles without much discomfort in a time that is average . . . okay probably a little below average.  Since I’m a teacher and I often think in terms of my students’ abilities to master a concept or skill, I guess I would give myself a C when it comes to running a 5K.  If I could get my time down to 10-minute miles and stay there, I’d give myself a B, but anyway, one of the great things about running a 5K is that I do not require water while I am running one.  At these races, there are usually water stations with gracious volunteers balancing paper Gatorade cups on their palms with anxious, inviting looks on their faces, almost pleading with you to take their cup.

“Water?” they ask. 

There’s that anxious look.  It’s saying, “You look beat, lady, you know you want some.”

“Pshhh. Please, I do not need water when I am only running for 32 minutes (Okay, sometimes 33 or 34 . . . and even 35 on a really bad day),” and I run right on by.

It’s all good.  Little race requires little water.  Awesome. 

Unfortunately, however, as time has rolled along and I’ve been busy working on being average, Darth Vader (my husband for those of you playing along) and some of my runner friends have magically gotten better (and by magically, I mean working their butts off . . . quite literally in most cases).  With this increase in abilities, these people want to run longer distances. The nerve!  Ugh.  Well, I am not a person who enjoys being left behind, so I have tagged along, dabbling in 10Ks and couple of different 5-mile distances . . . and one time I tried training for a half-marathon, a moment in time that I have chosen to block out for now.

One of the problems with this, aside from sore legs, achy joints, burning lungs and more time spent pounding the pavement, is the need for increased hydration WHILE you are running, especially if it’s hot, and especially if you are like me functioning in a half-dehydrated state on most days because you simply don’t drink enough water. 

Okay, so it sounds easy enough.  Take the water from the nice water-station lady instead of going by, right?  Right.  But have you ever tried drinking from a paper cup while running?  If you haven’t, grab a paper cup, fill it three-fourths of the way full, and then head outside and run while trying to drink it.  It’s okay. I’ll wait . . .

You spilled it all over yourself, didn’t you?  That is precisely what I am talking about.  It’s definitely an art or another skill that I am bound and determined to master if I’m going to keep running longer distances, and my experience in the Akron Marathon relay yesterday solidifies my main reason: to not look like an idiot in an attempt to stay hydrated.

So here’s the scene:  I’m running.  I’m thirsty.  I’ve gone approximately 3.5-4 miles. I’m at Highland Square, an area with lots of spectators on the route.  I’ve bypassed 2-3 hydration stations.  My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth.  Must. Drink. Water.  I grab the cup and bend the lip into kind of a point because I remember Vader talking about this technique before he mastered the skill long ago. The problem is that I forgot to pay attention to the rest of the directions.  Oh well.  I put the point to my mouth and attempt to drink. 

I’m immediately overwhelmed by the sensation of suffocating!! The water not only filled my mouth, but my nose, too!  OMG. Disaster!

In a state of panic, I spit all of the water out and blew it all out of my nose (while still being careful not to soak the runner behind me, thank you very much).  I imagine that I looked like a horse that has just took a drink from a bucket or some kind of watering trough.  Sigh.

So add another skill to my list of items to work on while running. I give myself an F for water drinking.  Looks like I need some interventions or maybe a running IEP.  I guess I’ll start by getting the rest of those directions from my in-house tutor.

Until next time, I raise my paper cup to you all for reading! Cheers - - stand still before you drink!

Pens, Pencils, and Perturbed People

Over the past 2 days, I have heard of or personally witnessed 3 separate, very angry people from three different communities complaining about the lack of a high school supply list that comes home over the summer.  Each one, let me repeat, was very angry - - hostile even - - about the absence of a list.

My response (which I've kept to myself until now - - 'cuz I don't engage strangers in arguments):
1. Calm down.  Notebooks and pens are no reason to get all in a tizzy.
2. Think.  Your kid is going to have many different teachers - - like 7-8 at my school (woah!).  They all require different stuff.  They'll tell you what it is when you get there.  They really will, and they'll even give you a piece of paper with the supplies/materials all listed on there for you.  Your kid doesn't even have to listen or pay attention to the teacher when he/she tells the kids what they need for his/her class because it will be right there - - on a precious, precious list - - as long as your precious, precious kid brings it home.
3. Stop being so angsty about schools.
4. Check your school's website.  I'm willing to hazard a guess that many teachers have their supplies listed somewhere on their class page.  (I don't, but that's another story.)  If you have your kid's schedule - - check the pages, but be prepared for that list to change by the 1st day of school.  You never know when the teacher last updated the page.
5.  Don't refer to "those damned teachers" to a "damned teacher" or she will unleash her fiery rage upon you on Facebook (or her blog that gets very sporadic use - - like only when her facebook status starts to get too long) where there is no possible way for you to know that she secretly wishes that you trip and fall in a muddy pothole on your way to your car in the parking lot.

Don't make the teacher, who you don't know is a teacher, angry at Target!!

The end.

New Kicks, Katy Perry and a Ferocious Beast

I went running for 35 minutes today, and when I got back, sweat dripping in my eyes, face the color of my neighbor’s ripe tomatoes, Darth Vader (my husband, for those of you playing along) asks the usual, “How’d it go?” I’m almost 100% certain that he normally doesn’t listen for the answer, but today I came back with more than the obligatory, “Fine.”

“Well, I have, like, six stories. Which one do you want to hear first?”

 “Six stories?”

“Yes! That’s, like, a story every almost every five minutes! (I am a mathematical genius.) Where shall we start?”

For you, I will begin with the good news. The beginning of my run was dream-like - - especially for a person like me, who’s only partially committed and who usually can’t wait for the run to be over about five minutes after it begins. My love/hate relationship with running doesn’t just “run” deep, there are grooves and twists and turns that no normal person should have when it comes to putting one foot in front of the other. Basically, I am a head case, but that topic is for another time.

I attribute the awesomeness of the first mile partially to my new shoes and partially to Katy Perry - - for serious. First off, I don’t know if it’s all in my head or what, but a new pair of kicks can sustain me for a good couple of weeks of great runs. I mean I’m sure that a part of it is definitely real. My old shoes were over a year old, and the tread was worn thin from I don’t know how many miles on the road and treadmill. Darth Vader a new pair every 500 miles. This means that he gets a new pair of shoes about four times a year. That’s insane, right?

Good. I’m glad we agree. I might, with very, very strong emphasis on that “might,” get 500 miles in a year’s time. At any rate, be it part physical or part mental, new shoes make running more fun . . . and more comfortable.

Now for Katy Perry. I’m hot and cold about her (ha-ha) in general, but I must confess that I listened to “Wide Awake” on repeat FOUR times at the beginning of my run today. I kept telling myself that I just wanted to remind myself to wake up and just get this over with, but I think it’s a little more than that. I’ll spare you my analysis of the pop star’s lyrics in relation to my life, but I am happy to report that I hit the first mile in 10:19, which for me is sprinting (Stop rolling your eyes, fest runner people. I see you!), so thank you, Katy. I think your song automatically makes it to my greatest hits running playlist.

Okay, so that was one and two of my six stories. Now for three, four, five and six, which are really just one story. I exaggerate sometimes for effect. That’s called hyperbole. There’s your English lesson for today. So I hit 10:19 on the first mile and then things go back to normal. I stop listening to Katy, the sun starts to bacon fry my skin, and I slow down some, but it’s all good. I’m checking out other people’s landscaping ideas, or lack thereof, breathing comfortably, fast approaching mile two, when I can no longer hear my music clearly because a ferocious, hairy black beast is barking its ample head off and bounding the span of its front yard headed right toward me.

“Well, everybody in this town has an electric fence,” I think.

 Dumb ass.

 I dart to the right. I hear continued barking. I see big, white incisors. I stop and put my hands up like it’s a hold up at a freaking gas station. Behind me, the dog nips my calves. I picture myself being mauled in the middle of the street. (I think there were vultures picking at my entrails in my vision. Clearly, I’ve read too much mythology. Thank you, Prometheus.)

I try not to make eye contact. I keep my hands up. I say, “Nice doggie,” (what is up with that??). I’m sure the thing smells the fear oozing out of my pores . . . but it doesn’t eat me. It’s a miracle!!

So I obviously survived the ferocious beast of my neighborhood, but I’m a little shaken. This has happened before, and I still haven’t educated myself or made the commitment to put to memory what I should do if it happens again. Suggestions are definitely appreciated!

Six stories in 35 minutes of time - - some great, some a little scary. It’s not always that exciting every time, and some may say that I would’ve avoided my potential demise by canine had I just stayed at home, but I can assure you that being out there is better than any of the excuses that I can normally come up with to stay at home. What’s today’s motivation to get out there again? Maybe a nicely crafted “make sure your dog is on lockdown” letter to tape to my neighbor’s mailbox. It could make for another good story.

What I've Learned After One Week Without Carbs

So I put myself on the South Beach Diet. It's kind of a weird story about how it happened, but, in short, Skywalker picked it out for bedtime story (seriously . . . without any prompting) for a few nights in a row, and after actually reading it (there has been at least one copy of this book in my house for at least 5 years collecting dust in the spare bedroom), while he drove cars over his pillows and pretended like he was interested, its principles made a lot of sense to me. I'm not ashamed to say that I've been struggling with some extra lbs. for quite some time now, and after busting my ass in the gym, on the treadmill, and out on the road in total, dedicated seriousness for approximately 8 weeks with no significant results on the scale whatsoever, I came to the conclusion that my diet is what has to be keeping me from achieving my goals. (Okay, and I probably could use to incorporate some strength training on a regular basis, but let's just go with diet at this point, okay?)

Basically, the South Beach Diet, if you aren't familiar, begins with two solid weeks of minimal carbs. The major premise of this is that you sort of change your blood by depleting it of foods with high glycemic levels. By doing this, you are supposedly eliminating cravings for bad foods and jumpstarting weight loss. After the first two weeks, you slowly reintroduce good carbs back into your diet. Then, after you've lost the weight you want, you go on the third phase of the diet, which is how you will eat for the rest of your life, should you chose to remain on the straight and narrow when it comes to food. I needed to start somewhere, and this sounded like as good a place as any, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Sure, it was popular like 10 years ago, but I'm okay with being late to the party if it works.

So, first two weeks: no bread, no rice, no pasta, no dairy, no cereal, no fruit, no added sugar, no alcohol (what?), no chips, no pretzels, no chicken wings, no Starbucks drinks with whipped cream, and, most important of all, no. Shamrock. shake. (I picked THE most unfortunate time to start this when it comes to my favorite artificially flavored frosty mint treat.)

It's been an interesting journey over the last six days, and I thought it would be fun to share my newfound knowledge with anybody who wants to read . . .

1. From a self-proclaimed "carb addict," being without carbs really wasn't bad . . . at all. Protein really does do what "they" say. It keeps you satisfied for longer periods of time than carbs. I've been eating these little egg cups for breakfast, which I pre-made on Sunday, throughout the week, as opposed to toast or an English muffin with peanut butter, and I have found that I don't get that second period craving that I normally have. (I'm a teacher. I talk in teacher time. First through eighth period. I don't really even know WHEN second period is. All I know is that it's my prep period, and I am usually hunting for some kind of food when it arrives.)

2. The SB book suggests having a glass of vegetable juice with your breakfast. All I can say about that is I am glad I've had lots of prior experience with the bloody Mary. There is a ginormous jug of V-8 juice in my refrigerator right now, and with each 6 oz. glass that I pour, I try to envision myself at a nice, tropical, waterfront establishment or even Frosty's at Put-in-Bay, for that matter. What is it about vodka that makes tomato juice taste so much better??? I contemplate this question each morning as I drink my virgin V-8. Darth Vader has always said that he could never look at V-8 again after fraternity hell week in college, and I can only imagine why . . .

3. I love me some steak. After almost a week of grilled chicken salad this and grilled chicken salad that, I had steak on Thursday. Holy mother. I ate like a freed hostage.

4. Ever heard of the infamous South Beach Diet mashed "potatoes"? They are actually steamed cauliflower blended with some of that butter spray stuff and a tiny bit of fat free half and half. For starters, I have to say that I'm the weird one who actually eats most of the cauliflower on a vegetable crudité platter, so I do really like it as a vegetable in general, but I gotta say, the imitation 'taters are good. I had a nice little mound of those with my steak, and I felt like I was at Flemings. Never mind the fact that I wolfed it all down and immediately went to an intense spinning class where the well-known properties of cauliflower reared their ugly heads (just in the form of some belching - - don't freak - - but uncomfortable none-the-less).

5. At the above-mentioned spinning class, I realized that some carbs are necessary for working out. Despite eating shortly before the workout, at about 40 minutes in, I got a little loopy. Like so bad that I thought I might have to sit down during a run period. I was like, "Hmmm. Sit down or possibly black out, fall off the bike while attached to the pedals, hit my head on the bike next to me, make the instructor stop the class to tend to my sorry ass, be embarrassed and never want to show my face in here again? Luckily we sat down before I had to make the decision for myself. The last 20 minutes were hazy at best. I couldn't work as hard as usual, and I just felt off. I've decided to avoid that feeling again and allow myself to have a little bit of carbs before a workout - - like part of some kind of bar. Vader keeps a lot of Cliff bars around here. I let myself have half.

6. Do not go to the store hungry. We all know this, right? Well, it's worse on this diet. It's hard to find a readily available, all protein snack. Of course there is cheese, but too much of that is a bad thing. I went to the store on Friday starving. Half way through, I was looking for meat on a stick. Seriously. Something that would satiate my intense craving for something . . . anything!! I had a breakdown in the cracker aisle - - the worst place for anyone on a low carb diet. I threw a box of Kashi cookies (I mean, they're by Kashi, the healthy food people. How bad could they be, right?) in my cart and ate three on my way to pick up the kids. UGH.

7. Finally, little set backs are not the end of the world. After my cookie binge AND having some red wine AND one piece of pizza made on multigrain flatbread, I still woke up weighing less than I did the day before. The week has been successful. The diet has made good on all of its promises in the last 6 days. It hasn't been that hard, and I feel like I'm finally getting somewhere after working my butt off and not seeing any results.

So here's a big ol' V-8 juice toast to week two. It ends with a pancake birthday party, which includes pancakes AND cake, for Princess Lea. I will be spending my week gathering my will to stay the course!!

Runners Down!!

If you believe in karma, then the Humenanskys have been a very bad couple. Paybacks have arrived for the time that they ducked the semi-acquaintance in the grocery store, lost a wedding RSVP card, left their shed to rot in the backyard, and - - worst offense of all - - let their kids eat happy meals. (You can blame that last one just on me, Darth Vader wants nothing to do with it.)

It was bad enough when I was the only one who was receiving punishment for deeds done wrong. After swearing that I would not write just to complain about my ailments, this one has gone on long enough and has affected my workout schedule so profoundly that I think it now falls under the category of things worthy to blog about when the blog’s title is “It Runs In the Family,” because nothing is running in this family right now, and from my end, it’s a stupid, end of summer cold. I have been coughing like husky, aged male for almost two weeks now, combined with the worst sore throat I have ever had. Seriously. If you looked at the back of my throat with a flashlight, you would see something out of a horror film. I forced Darth Vader to look at it from a distance, and I think he wants to banish me from the house until it goes away. When the doctor looked at it, she said . . . and before I tell you this, I have to tell you that I have this uncanny ability to bring out the “girlfriend” in all of my female doctors. My OB was always like, “Hey giiiirl,” every time I went for a checkup while I was pregnant . . . Anyway, when my GP looked at my throat, she said, “Oh man, that is some naaaaasty stuff you’ve got back there.” I love that I make people feel comfortable when they are talking to me, but sometimes, I just want the professional opinion. What exactly IS that naaaaaasty stuff, and why is it making me feel so bad?

To make a long and boring story about my health short, my after some awkward gagging with my eyes bugged out while the assistant poked swabs at the nasty stuff in my throat, my strep test was negative. As a result, I must have a virus, like one that won’t go away, because it’s four days later and I still have the same symptoms, even after being on a Z-pack. I do feel a bit more energetic, however, hence the blog writing the night before my first full day of students instead of sleeping, packing lunches, getting my clothes ready, or any of that other productive garbage!

Consequently, the workouts have come to a halt. After three weeks of working out six days a week with renewed vigor from my decision to do the little triathlon in September and assembling my team for the Akron Marathon (thank you, thank you, my team, if you are out there), everything has just stopped due to this illness robbing me of my strength. I’m approaching that point where I get nervous about starting again. What if I can’t run as far when I feel better? Will I have to build up my leg strength again to bike well? New beginnings are great, but I have never been a fan of starting over. There is a great difference between the two.

Now onto the other adult in this family from whom karma has come to collect: Darth Vader. DV came home the other night from his weekly “track workout,” where runners of unusual speed (ROUS) run multiple times as fast as they can around an oval - - or something like that. It’s way more organized and sophisticated, but I do not partake in these so called “track workouts,” so I really have no place to be discussing them at any length. He came home and slowly, very, very slowly crept up the stairs to where I was beginning to read our kids their bedtime stories. I met him in the doorway of Princess Lea’s room. It took a millisecond to see something was wrong. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sore, hurt, injured? You’re injured, aren’t you? Do you need to, like, go to the hospital? What happened? Does anyone else know about this?” I pelted him with questions. (Sometimes I am an awesome, wife, don’t you think?)

“Injured,” he said as he gingerly sat himself in the chair in Princess Lea’s room.

Simply stated, Vader is hurt . . .for the first time ever. It’s something that I’ve known could be lurking on the horizon, but never really let myself think about. You see, Darth Vader lives a simple life. Family, running, work. These are the things he does. These are his priorities, and I completely respect him for that, but what happens when number two on the priority list gets put on the injured reserve list for a bit? You are left with family and work, which could cause a person to go mad at times, I would guess.

I guess we’re about to find out.

So the man and woman of the Humenansky household are both down for the count, while Skywalker and Princess Lea take over the world. Only time will tell how long our friend karma will stick around. I should probably go pay my library fine (for keeping children’s books too long) just incase.

Sole Sisters

I feel very fortunate to have remained close with my college girlfriends. Our relationships with each other are quite similar to that of a marriage - - especially mine, since I met most of them around the same time that I met my husband. We met at a young age, have seen each other through countless life milestones, have grown as individuals within our relationships, and have basically just enjoyed sharing life together. As with a marriage, sometimes we are over-the-moon happy while we’re together, and other times we want to throw each other out the window.

In fact, this is going to sound incredibly cheesy, but we were in a sorority together, and long, long ago - - like almost 18 years - - we did sort of "vow" to be there for each other in the good times and bad. We didn’t use those words exactly. Instead, we used silly terms like “carnation sisters” and talked about three chicks named Mary, Mary and Martha - - and no, there were no farm animals involved - - but the good and bad times? That’s what we meant. We’d be there for them both. Fortunately, for us, most of the times have been pretty good . . . more than good, actually. Sure, we have all dealt with what could be referred to as "routine emergencies," sad moments, and events that have changed our career paths or outlooks on life, but overall, we've been able to dust ourselves off and keep on keepin' on, as they say.

Last summer, however, life changed dramatically for one of my friends and her family. The unfathomable happened when she lost her oldest son in a tragic way. That is certainly her story to tell, but what I will tell you is that if you have ever thought that your heart has physically ached for a friend during an above mentioned, “routine emergency,” that is nothing compared to the sorrow you feel for a friend who has lost a child. There were no words to describe it then, and despite a year passing, I still find myself searching for the right words to describe the ache that hasn’t really gone away. Simply put, this has truly been a “bad time” for which none of us could prepare.

This summer, my friends organized a team of 35 people to participate in Lifebanc’s Gift of Life Walk and Run in honor of their son. When he passed away, my friends did a completely selfless act by donating their son’s heart valves and corneas to save or heal another person’s life - - and they made the decision to do this in the midst of life as they knew it coming to a complete halt. Amazing. Lifebanc is a non-profit organization that facilitates these kinds of decisions. The run/walk and proceeds from it supports their educational programs and organ donation in general. In their first year of organizing a team, my friends raised over $3,000 for Lifebanc in honor of their son. Again, AMAZING!!

The event was emotionally moving and light-hearted at the same time - - if that is even possible! It was healing to think about how organ donation is really “paying it forward” in the ultimate way. Organ and tissue recipients are humble and beyond grateful, while organ donors, and those who make decisions like my friends did, have made an ultimate sacrifice; they define “giving” in a way that most of us cannot even comprehend. A donor often passes on, but the legacy that they begin with their passing can lead to an on-going chain of life. It’s kind of mind-boggling, if you think about it.

Being at the event and being there with my friends from college felt right, if anything can feel right that comes out of something as unfortunate as losing one’s child. It didn’t matter if we were walking or running, or how fast we were going (which is good, because the course was REALLY, REALLY hilly). We were together, we were laughing, we were crying, we were supporting, we were sharing (um, and we were sweating - - and probably smelling - - by the end). We were doing the things that we said we’d do a long time ago when we probably were not even thinking about how a pledge of friendship would carry on into our adult lives, when being a friend would include befriending husbands, boyfriends, parents, siblings, children and other friends of our friends. By definition, I do not have a large immediate family, but events like these remind me that I have some of the most precious sisters a girl could ask for. I’ll take your good times and your bad, and I’ll even forgive you when you make me want to throw you out of a window . . . chances are, you’ve wanted to do the same to me ten times over.