Braden’s Memorial – Part One

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Before Braden passed away last week he was doing the unthinkable… planning parts of his own memorial service.  He wanted to make some of the decisions so that no one else would have to.  He said it felt surreal, but he did it with an unbelievable calmness and sense of purpose.  I am still amazed.

When he asked Kid A and I to speak, we both yelled out “F*ck” in unison.  Now, I sometimes curse like an Eagles fan in a sports bar, but Kid A is not really the type, so it was kind of sweet that we both had the exact same reaction to his request.  Nevertheless, we told Braden that we were honored that he wanted us to do it and we would try our very best.

Last week was a whirlwind of tears and heartbreak and sadness for all of us.  My biggest concern was that neither Kid A nor myself would be able to make words come out of our mouths that would be loud or coherent enough to be heard over our crying.  And it is less than glamorous to have snot bubbles when you are speaking in front of a bunch of people.  But we still wanted to say something meaningful that gave honor to Braden’s memory, so we tried to make a plan.

Little did I know that Kid A’s plan involved practicing full stage makeup on the morning of the service for her part as the wolf in her ballet studio’s production of Peter and the Wolf, which is happening next weekend.  Two hours before we were leaving she came out of her room looking like this:

What are YOU wearing to the memorial service?

Fortunately, the black makeup all washed off.  When we got to the service we tried not to talk to anybody who might set us off crying.  We tried not to look at the happy pictures of Braden on the screen or leaning on the easel.  We didn’t read the Fitzgerald quote about courage on the back of the memory card that was perfectly suited for Braden.  But we listened as the guitarist played the music he loved.  And we sat in the high school auditorium seats and smiled and cried along with everyone else as his Grandad, Walt, his godmother, Lisa, and his friends, Jared, Emily, and Chris all spoke beautifully and from their hearts.  And then we stood up and walked to the podium together.

Kid A broke the tension by telling everyone that when Braden asked her to speak, she said, “F, no!”  Yes, my daughter pseudo-cursed at her ex-boyfriend’s memorial service and I could not have been more proud.  It was charming and fitting and Braden surely laughed a big belly laugh when he heard it.  Then she read a short passage that she wrote about Braden going off to college.  It was incredibly perfect for his memorial service, even though she wrote it months before he was diagnosed.  She was calm and composed and she got through the whole thing.  I asked her if it would be okay if I shared it here because it is so beautiful, and she said yes…

There once was a bird, brown – the color of hickory wood and milk
chocolate and worn leather, with wings too big for its body. It sang songs at
early hours of the morning and late at night, but never after sunrise, when
the other birds would join in. This brown bird liked to feel like it was the
only one up in the trees, the only one on the block, the only one on the
whole earth, when it sang.
It lived in the branches that rattled against our bedroom window
come summer nights, storms crashing through the sky like clockwork and
gone as quickly as they appeared. We would wake up every time it began to
sing, and though it wasn’t the prettiest birdsong we’d heard by any means,
something about what it projected had meaning, and we all knew we were
meant to listen. The brown bird sang to us about love and loss and
heartache and missing and empathy and pure joy, and about excitement
and fear and safety and comfort and family and friendship.
His big wings would have made another bird look out of proportion,
but they suited the brown bird just fine. He wouldn’t have been himself
without them, because besides singing, that bird loved to fly. He’d be gone
for days at a time, and the sticky summer air was empty without his song.
The night before a long trip, he would sing to us about all the places he’d be
going, and about how he was really just biding time in the branches outside
our window. Soon he’d leave for good. The next morning, a flash of
caramel in the waking sky would be our goodbye.
One spring, the brown bird sang for us one last time. The song wasn’t
sad, but it brought tears to our eyes. We had that bird on borrowed time,
and he had taught us about life, but we couldn’t hold him back any longer.
We listened to him sing through the night, and when the sun came up he
held a final note and was off.
We all loved that brown bird, and he loved us, but his wings were too
big for his body and they were made that way so he could fly away.
 

Then it was my turn to speak, so I wiped away my snot bubbles and held on to the podium with both hands.  Next time, I will share with you what I said to honor Braden.  Until then,

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Remembering Braden

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

You know the feeling when something bad is coming and it makes you really sad?  It is called anticipatory grief.  When you experience it, you do everything that you can to prepare yourself and you begin to think that you can handle it when it comes.  Except that when the thing actually happens, it makes you feel like you got punched in the face and then kicked in the stomach, over and over and over again.  In reality, there is no way to be prepared at all.

I had a dream early this morning that I was falling down a deep hole.  I dropped and dropped for what seemed like miles, clawing at the dirt as I flew down desperately trying to get purchase on the wall.  After a very long time, I hit the ground.  In my dream, I screamed from the utter and complete agony.  My bones were broken and my head was throbbing and spinning.  I hurt so very much all over.  And then I woke up.

But that was when the pain became really intense.  Because I remembered that Braden was gone.

Braden Dean Smith died peacefully at home in the early hours of Monday, May 13, 2013, surrounded by his family.  His fourteen-month long fight with leukemia had left his body and mind exhausted and worn, far beyond his mere nineteen years.  He tackled his illness with bravery and intensity, but the disease was simply insurmountable in the end.  He is survived by his mother, Stacy, and his father, Steve, as well as five younger brothers and sisters… Chloe, Maddie, Cameron, Rachel and Eric.  He is also loved by countless family members and friends who consider ourselves so lucky to have had him in our lives.

I am so very grateful that Braden is no longer suffering, even while we are left behind to suffer in his absence.

Braden was exceptional.  He had book and street smarts.  He was athletic.  He was funny.  He was passionate… about sports and politics and religion.  And he was also compassionate and caring and forgiving.  He was a great friend and a doting boyfriend.  He wanted to go to college and get married and have a family.  He wanted the good life.

But even when he was in the middle of the hardest battle he would ever fight, he was always looking out for those around him.  He was kind enough to indulge my anticipatory grief and go to lunch a few times with me over the last few weeks.  We talked about everything and nothing, fears and regrets, hopes and dreams.  It was inspiring to me and those conversations, as well as many others we had together, are memories I will always cherish.

I am so very sad right now.  My sadness comes in waves.  I am sad for the profound loss that his family is enduring.  A mother and father lost a son.  Siblings lost their big brother.  My daughter lost her first true love.  I am sad that a young man with so much potential had to suffer and die before his life ever really got started.  I am sad over the loss of my friend.  My grief is no longer anticipatory… it is here.

I know that it is healthy and normal to be sad and to grieve, especially over the loss of someone so young.  There is no rule book or guide to follow, but it is very important to seek counseling or fellowship immediately following the death of a loved one.  Fortunately, we have each other to lean on, confide in, reminisce with.  We need to remember Braden, talk about him, share stories about him.  It will help us and it will make Braden happy when we reach out and help each other.  Do it to honor him.

These pictures are from one of my favorite days with our whole family, including Braden, after he had been diagnosed and had gone through a transplant.  He was getting his energy back and it was a nice day, so we went over to Webb Bridge Park to play on the playground and throw around the football.  It was pure and happy and good.  Remembering that day will always make me smile.

It will not bring him back, but it will keep him eternally alive in our hearts and our memories.

I sure do miss you already, Kid.  Until we meet again…

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

You Are My Mother

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

My three sisters and I usually go in together on group gifts for all of the major holidays.  This Mother’s Day was no exception.  We got Mom a new beach cart – sweet, right?

The deal is that we also send her our own cards.  However, I frequently forget to mail mine.  This Mother’s Day was no exception.  To make up for it, I wrote my mother a song, sung to the tune of “You Are My Sunshine,” originally recorded in 1939 by the Pine Ridge Boys from Atlanta, with a copyright 1940 by Peer International Corporation, words and music by Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell.  P.S.  I’m going to butcher all of that right now.

You Are My Mother by Stacy Swiger

The other night, mom, as I lay (not) sleeping
I dreamt I mailed your Mother’s Day card
But when I awoke, Mom, it was still on the counter
So I hung my head and I cried
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your lovely card
 
I’ll always love you, because you’re my mom,
You grew me in your baby oven
You changed my diapers, you kissed my boo-boos
You were the first to give me unconditional love(n)
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your mediocre card
 
You taught me so much, like “please” and “thank you”
You taught me how to write my name
You taught me how to cook, and bake, and sew things
You showed me that having kids can drive a mom insane
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your bush-league card
 
You survived my teen years, then planned my wedding
You watched my kids when I went back to work
I am so sorry for the times I hurt you,
When I was selfish, annoying, or a jerk
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
I’m telling you now Mom, how much I love you
Oh, I’m so happy I never mailed that effing card!
 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM!

 
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A Mother of a Holiday

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

“That’s it!”

“I have had ENOUGH!”

“I am not going to put up with you ingrates any more!”

“If I have to say it one more time, my head will explode!”

“OK, I’m done.  You have broken me.  Are you happy now?”

So, it’s been fun at our house the past few days.  Please, sense my extreme sarcasm.  I have said all of the above, or comparable paraphrases, at least once in the past 24 hours.  I don’t know if it is a full moon rising or shark week right around the corner, or what, but I am a right angry mother.

Kid D has been home sick all week.  It is not his fault that he is sick, but for-the-love-of-all-things-holy, why do boys have to be so freaking needy when they are sick?  It is a cough and some mild puking.  It’s nothing to get in a kerfluffle about.  I realize that the whining is a genetic male defect, and I know that you’re bored, but please let me sit on the toilet without you knocking on the door so you can tell me that Craig Kimbrel had his 100th save against the Giants last night, and he’s the second youngest pitcher in the MLB to do it, and you’re hungry for something but you just don’t know what.

And Kid E has decided to stop sleeping through the night again.  For no reason.  He says he gets lonely.  I’m too tired to even come up with a response to that.  The broken sleep thing kills me.  There is not enough coffee in the world (especially when Sheepdog and Kid A take the very last K-cups in the house) to fix me right the next day.

And the girls are in full-on battle mode with each other.  Kid C came to me and complained that Kid B is a tyrant.  They share a bathroom, and Kid B has apparently set forth some rules that Kid C does not necessarily agree with.  They fight over time limits in there, closed doors and lights.  This morning Kid C was straightening her hair in the dark so as to not awaken the Kraken.  They fight about who left what in the shower.  And Kid A and Kid B constantly fight over clothes (clothes that NONE of them ever put away after I have lovingly washed, folded and delivered to their rooms each week, even after I have reminded them daily).  I tell them they have to learn to figure it out on their own, otherwise they will get eaten alive in a sorority house or in the workplace with dudes or on the playground with the other mommies when they grow up.  Stand up for yourself, but be kind and thoughtful to the people around you at the same time.  But nobody listens to me.

Until I have had enough.  Then they all had better lend an ear.

It got so bad with Kid A that I gave her a Come to Jesus in the kitchen when she got home yesterday.  She has had a really rough year, but enough is enough.  Enough with the disrespect.  She is dismissive to the other kids and rude to me, unless she wants something.  Her phone, laptop and car are all up on the block for repossession if things don’t improve ASAP.  She is never home and when she is, she is usually disagreeable.  To a degree she is “just being a teenager,” but there are some behaviors that are simply not acceptable.  So the rest of the kids got dressed down last night or this morning as well.

Did I mention that Sheepdog is in California for work and some biking?

Motherhood is hard.  There are no instructions or rules, so you just have to make stuff up as you roll along.  And not only do I second guess some of my decisions, but everybody else around me does as well (don’t worry… I most likely judge you right back).

Also, motherhood never ends.  You have to do it when you are sick, or tired, or sick and tired.  You have to do it on weekdays and holidays (even the federal ones).  Sometimes you have to do it when you husband is on a business trip, or crappier yet – sometimes moms have to do it all alone.

This is getting really negative.  I need to make a U-turn.

There are also a ton of rewarding things about motherhood.  I can’t articulate any of them right now, but deep down I know that there are a lot of great reasons to purposely choose motherhood as your life sentence.  There really are.  I swear.

OK, not such a great effort, so I’m heading back to my rant.

Do you know what I really hate?  I hate Mother’s Day.

There, I said it.

I hate all of the commercialism, the flowers (dead in a few days) and the cards ($5.99 for folded paper, really?) and the candy (did you not see me struggling to work out every day this week?).  I hate the stress of coming up with the perfect gifts to let my mom or mother-in-law know just how much they mean to me.  I hate that dads and kids are forced to create a perfect day for moms on this randomly designated Sunday in May, because it rarely rises to meet the mark – for the dads, the kids or the moms.  I hate that my annual trip out of town over the second Sunday in May (Mother’s Day – Run Away and No, He Didn’t!), got canceled again due to scheduling conflicts.

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So, here’s what I propose.  Get rid of Mother’s Day.  It is too much pressure on everybody involved.  Nobody has a relationship with their mother that is simple enough to be tied up with wrapping paper and a bow, and everyone involved knows it.  Just make sure to tell your mom (and any mom, for that matter) how great you think she is, whenever the thought strikes you.  You don’t have to save it for any particular day.  Crappy jewelry turns green or goes out of style; a compliment is forever.

And maybe you could also put away your clothes, stay in your own bed, don’t talk back, and be nice to your sister.  Oh, and get well soon, Kid D.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

The Good Life

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have a cousin named Ashley, who is almost 14 years younger than me.  She is the daughter of My Aunt P and my ex-uncle, G.  And, no, those are not blogging nicknames that I am giving out to provide anonymity.  I actually call them P and G; I always have.  Have you begun to sense my obsession with the alphabet?

When I was young and impressionable, they were the relatives who impressed me most.  They were cool and very hip, especially because I was a teenager with nerdy parents (really, who isn’t?).  They talked to me about things like sex and drugs (same “Just Say No” and “I learned it by watching YOU!” messages, but always in a fun and funny way).  G drove (and sometimes even let me drive) a Peugeot with a Blaupunkt stereo, on which he only listened to good, classic rock.  P was an incredibly talented artist and event planner who worked at Lord & Taylor in New York City.  P was the one who took me to my very first live concert in NYC (Shaun Cassidy, circa 1978, because we are talking about coolness that knows no bounds).  We ate nothing but McDonald’s (the best remedy for an 8-year-old’s concert hangover) and slept in her teeny, tiny studio apartment and window shopped all weekend.  G got my dad into sailing and when I was 15 they let me come with them on the boys’ weekend trips up the coast to Block Island, RI.  We played Risk and drank beers and smoked cigars and they gave me all sorts of rules and advice about dating boys and those are some of my absolute favorite teenage memories.

But by the time I started college, G had left P and the kids (they also had a son, Garrett, by then) and they eventually got a divorce.  I was all teenage angst and self-centeredness and was pretty confused and angry about it all, but I never really dealt with it because I was in college being an idiot.  Things at home just kept on keeping on, except now it was only P busting it out as a single mom.  G was persona non grata in our family and it was even too much for him to stay friends with my dad, so he just stopped coming to family events because it was awkward.

Most of my mom’s extended family lived in and around South Jersey at the time.  P and my mom are sisters, so we spent time with her and the kids a lot, and even more after the divorce because they moved down to be closer to everybody.  Kettle and 3 Pops (mom and dad to my mom, P and GMP – that’s Grand Master Pud, for those of you following along with the detailed Speed family tree) were also divorced, but always around to help out as well.  We are one, big, dysfunctional family.  But isn’t everybody?

Fast forward to April of 2011.  Kettle had died the summer before, but the rest of the family was all still alive and kicking and as dysfunctional as ever.  So, when the weekend of Ashley’s wedding to her fiancé Mike came around, everybody showed up to support them and celebrate.  Even G.

I hadn’t seen him in over 20 years.  When I got to the rehearsal dinner, I realized that he was standing over in the corner by the bar (exactly where you would expect an ex who has come back into the lion’s den to walk his daughter down the aisle.  My mom especially has made no bones about how much she dislikes him, so it was undoubtedly awkward).  I went over to talk to him anyway.  We spent parts of the weekend catching up on the past two decades of each other’s lives.

Ashley and Mike’s wedding was one of the most beautiful events I have ever been to.  Remember how I said P was an incredible event planner?  Well, she totally topped herself on this one.  The day was filled with love and laughter, meaning, thoughtfulness, candles, flowers, romance, and a moving acoustic version of the Beatles’ In My Life.  And what wedding would be complete without white people rapping, Elvis, a priest, and a leprechaun?

Do yourself a favor… take 18 minutes and watch this truly joyful video of Ashley and Mike’s Wedding.  It was produced by a Philadelphia company called Lucky Productions and they did such a fantastic job conveying the vibe of that wonderful day.

After the weekend was over, I got on a plane with my sisters and flew back to Georgia.  G and I had exchanged email addresses and we said we would continue to keep in touch.  We did, but only for a little while.

I realized shortly after we started emailing that I was mad at G.  Really, really mad.  And then I called him out on his shit.  We haven’t talked again since.

I just re-read my final email to him and it was pretty harsh.  In all honesty, Sheepdog told me at the time not to send it.  But I still believe that everything in that letter needed to be said because G was a very influential person in my life and one day he was just gone.  And not only was he gone, but P was around less and much less fun when she was because she was shouldering a bunch of crap on her own.  Now, two (or twenty-two, depending on how you’re counting) years later, here’s my take on everything…

Families are always going to be dysfunctional because they are made up of dysfunctional people.  Some people grow up in broken ones and some get still-intact ones that would be best if they were broken.  And a lucky few get in-house role models who are actually happily married.  But you have to study them carefully, because that doesn’t just happen all by itself.

The truth is that anybody can grow up and make a good life for themselves, no matter what your family looked like growing up.  Ashley and Mike are a great example of that.

Video by Lucky Productions Cinematography

Video by Lucky Productions Cinematography

You just have to work hard at fixing the things that are broken simply because they are not going to fix themselves.  New things break every day, so just get to work on fixing them.  Don’t let people in your life make excuses, and don’t you make excuses either.  It is not about money or stuff or any of the superficial things.  It is all about maintaining healthy relationships with all of the dysfunctional people (including you).  Fight hard for your good life.  Everyone deserves one.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

A Not So Awesome Surprise

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last Friday morning, just before the unholy hour of six, ante meridian, Sheepdog’s alarm started buzzing.  He dutifully crawled out of our warm bed and got up to get dressed and ready for work.  As I am wont to do, I immediately moved to the center of our king-sized bed, splayed my body out spread-eagle and started to drift back into unconsciousness for a few more minutes (dare I pray for sixty?) of glorious extra sleep.

But I dare not, because Kid E (as he is wont to do) sought me out very shortly thereafter.  Fortunately, he is little enough that he is still soft and cuddly and doesn’t yet have horrible dragon breath in the morning.  So I stayed in the middle spot, while he crawled in next to me and we curled up together in the bed.

When Sheepdog was done getting dressed, he came out into our still pitch-black bedroom.  I could not see him, but it was clear that he was in the room (Sheepdog is a boy and boys do not possess ninja stealth).

I whispered aloud, “Before you leave, you should come over to my side of the bed.  There is a pretty awesome surprise waiting for you.”

Kid E heard me and hugged me tightly.  We were co-conspirators in giving his Daddy a much-coveted kid hug before he set off for a tedious day in the salt mines.

“I’ll be right back!” Sheepdog whispered back at me as he hurried back into the bathroom.  I heard him gargling and brushing his teeth.  Uh oh, we’re going to have one unhappy camper if he thinks he’s getting some.

While Sheepdog was practicing good oral hygiene and possibly planning on a morning quickie, Kid E began to physically vibrate with his own anticipation.  He wiggled and squirmed and kicked his feet under the covers.

Finally, when he could not stand the excitement one second longer, Kid E exclaimed, “I CAN…NOT…WAIT TO SEE WHAT THE SURPRISE IS!”

Well, shucks, kid.  Seems like you and Sheepdog may be a little disappointed this morning.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Better get used to it kid... life can be full of disappointments.

Better get used to it kid… life can be full of disappointments.

Good Housekeeping

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

You may have noticed some updates to the This Is How I Do It website over the past few weeks.  I have been in the process of changing the look of my site and I even wrote a long overdue, much more current version of the Cast of Characters (2013).  Be sure to check it out if you haven’t already.

I started writing This Is How I Do It just about two years ago.  Sheepdog and I were out to dinner (alone!) about a month before and I was complaining that I still wanted to write a book, but I could never find the time to actually write.  ”It is a process, ” I whined to him, “that requires focus and discipline, but I have all of these distractions – namely Kid A, Kid B, Kid C, Kid D, Kid E and even you – that are constantly requiring my immediate attention.”

“Um, that’s your job, so suck it up and stop whining.  If you really want to write, then start with something small.  Write a blog.  Write about us.  Write about all of these kids and the distractions and our crazy lives.  People will want to read that.  And they will keep reading because you are a great writer,” said my biggest advocate.

So I sucked it up and I created this site.

I can’t believe that it has been two years.  I remember how scared I was to press “publish” on the very first day… it was a Sunday and I was doing a bunch of yard work.  I didn’t tell anybody, not even Sheepdog, that I was actually starting.  I just did it.  Afterwards, I went outside and got to my task at hand, listening to some good, angry, weed-pulling music and distracting myself from the inevitable judgment that I envisioned as people read my first real post (Guess Who’s Pregnant).  Shit, is it “who’s” or “whose?”  Do I even know proper grammar?  This is so scary!

I did not do a very good job staying away from the computer at all.  I left flowerbed dirt footprints in the foyer each time I came back in to check the web traffic (WordPress tracks everything for you so you know how much love you are getting… just like Instagram “likes,” but for blog hits).  Once I saw that I was getting good numbers, dare I say really good numbers, I didn’t stop yelling periodic updates to anyone who would listen.  By the way, no one at my house was listening.

“One hundred people have read my post!  That is one-freaking hundred hits on my first day!  On a Sunday with nice weather!  They love me, they really love me!” I yelled from my office, even though everyone else was outside and no one was paying attention.

“I’m up to one hundred fifty-seven now.  I’m on a roll!” echoed through the empty hallways a little later on.

But my enthusiasm would not be deterred.  It was like crack and I was an addict.  People were really reading what I had to write and I loved the feeling.  I had no measure as to whether they liked it or not, but I didn’t really care about that yet.  The numbers just kept on climbing and I was immediately hooked on blogging.

All in all, I got one hundred ninety-eight hits on that first day.  Over the next two years I have watched as thirty-two thousand more people have visited my website.  Some even commented, which made me feel really special.  My favorite part is that people can often relate to what I am writing, and it is truly why I continue to do this.  Nobody wants to feel alone or weird or like they suck at stuff.  So I share my stories and hopefully remind everybody that nobody is perfect and we’re all just making it up as we go along.  Life is crazy and scary and messy.  But it is also a huge gift.  So suck it up and do your job.

And if you’re really lucky, somebody will tell you how awesome you really are.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Can you define "defective?"

Can you define “defective?”