The Perfect Cat

How does one even begin to describe the perfect cat?  And trust me, Bass was perfect.  He was Jason’s cat whether I liked it or not.  I guess he got tired of missing J, so he joined him Saturday.

 

There are so many “Bass stories”.  Sherrie’s son Hunter was determined that I was going to name him Sunny Bunny.  I named him Sabastian P. Ale (yes, for the beer!  I love Bass Ale.)  It didn’t take me long to figure out that the P.  stood for Perfect.

 

He had to have weighed all of 6 ounces when I brought him home.  I took him to Tommy’s store so everyone could meet him.  He promptly began to walk across the counter, then, quick as lightening, sprawled, all four paws out, sound asleep.  He was adorable,  Red fur, the biggest golden eyes you’ve ever seen. 

 

I was a bit leery of introducing him to the dogs.  I had Bebo, Bucket and Bert.  Bucket and Bo were Mother and son, normal sized Chows, with Chow brains, or Chow lack of brains, however you choose to look at it)..  Them, I wasn’t worried about.  Then there was Bert, my beloved 200 pound St. Bernard.  Bert had no idea that he wasn’t a Chow.  He also didn’t know that he didn’t precisely fit in my lap, so that is where he frequently sat.  I walked into the kitchen with this tiny ball of fur, ready to snatch him up if I needed to.  Bass promptly walked over to Bert and slapped him on the nose.  And thus they became the best of friends.

 

He bit our best friend Barry on the nose.  We TOLD Barry that Bass was finicky.  Barry didn’t listen.  For the record, all of my furpeople have bitten Barry except Bama.  And she will if she gets half a chance.

 

Bass grew into a beautiful 25 pound Himalayan.  He was this huge ball of fluff, ruling the house.  He accidentally went outside once.  I still laugh when I think of him stepping on the grass, looking at his paw, looking at me…. and going back inside.  After that, it didn’t matter if you left the door open.  Fat P wasn’t about to go out there.

 

He had his favorite chair.  He loved to eat.  I have an auto-feeder for my cats.  When it was down to about a quarter of the way full,  Bass would find me and take me to it, to show me that he was almost out of food.  He was absolutely useless when it came to cat stuff.  There is a canal behind our house, so the entire neighborhood has cats to keep the rats away.  Bass didn’t care about the rats unless he thought his food was in jeopardy.  Then he expected me (yeah, right) to do something about it.  Bama and Buford got the last one.  Bass walked around it.

 

One of my (many) favorite memories is Jason sitting in the recliner,  Bass curled in his lap.  J had a towel tied around his head with ice packs in it… he’d just had all 4 wisdom teeth removed.  He looked at me with those huge blue eyes and said, “But Mom!  Nobody told me it was going to hurt!”  Sabastian looked totally affronted that his person was in pain.  If looks could cause physical harm, I’d have been hurt, the way Bass glared at me.  And hissed when I changed J’s ice packs.

 

He was 18, down to skin and bones.  Still loved to eat.  Wanted his treats when the dogs got theirs.  Insisted is a better word, and he could definitely be loud.

 

Before I left Friday morning, we had a long talk, Bass and I.  I told him him much I loved him, and how wonderful he was, but that it was okay for him to go find his boys and his dogs now.  He purred, for the first time in a while.  He licked my nose.

 

He’s buried in the back yard, with his favorite box and blanket.  I miss him so much already.  He was my last living piece of Jason.  In the first days of J’s absence, Bass stayed with me, curled around my head, offering comfort.  He knew.  And he mourned with me.  The same when Bo left, when Bert left, when Bucket left, especially when Rick left, when Andy left.  Through it all, Bass has been there for me.

 

To some, he was just a cat.  To me, he was an Angel.  My Mom even loved him (not as much as she loved Boomer, though!).  She called them the three old people in the house.

 

Thank you, Mr. God, for letting Bass pick me.  Thank you for 18 wonderful years.  I miss you, Bass.  I love you.  I always will.

 

Mr. God, I don’t often ask for anything for me.  There are too many other people whose needs are much greater.  But, if You could find it in your Heart to give me just a couple of days of reduced pain, I’d really appreciate it.

 

 

Mommy

 

 

 

 

Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom
 http://www.theovernight.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=extranet.personalpage&confirmid=10009264
 Life isn’t the party I’d hoped for, but I’ll dance anyway, because my sons believed I would.

 

Jason August 5, 1974 – May 7, 2000
 
Rick August 5, 1974 – August 16, 2002 found August 24, 2002
You may not think the world needed you, but it did.   For you were unique: like no one that has ever been before or will come after.   No one can speak with your voice; say your piece; smile your smile; or shine your light.   No one can take your place for it was yours alone to fill.   Because you are not here to shine your light, who knows how many travelers will lose their  way as they try to pass by  your empty place in the darkness
I miss you, Andy.  Kick their butts for me, please.
http://www.runningwiththewind.com/

 

---

 

 

2008 Walk in New York

I don’t even know where to begin to tell you how amazing the Out of the Darkness walk was this year.  It’s still all swirled together in my head, but in a good way.  A REALLY good way.  The young boy, maybe 7, who finished the walk.  I watched him as he finished.  He lay down, spread eagle.  His Mom had tears running down her face.  He was wearing “parent” honor beads.

 

The old man, he had to be 70, wearing white beads for a child.  He finished.  Before me.

 

The young man with the broken leg.  Part of the time his team mates pushed him in a wheelchair.  Sometimes he walked on his “crunches” (Jason always called crutches crunches).  They finished… some of them running at the end so the team would finish together.  As the three young people ran by me, I wanted to join them.  Jason and Rick would have run the whole 20 miles.  Had I not been with Caryn, I think I WOULD have run.  The urge was overwhelming. 

 

The ridiculous line for the ladies room at the Staten Island Ferry rest stop.  Knowing it was too far to the next rest stop to NOT use the restroom.  So, 5 of us announced our entry into the men’s room.  They didn’t have a line.  Coming out of the men’s room, to a bunch of teenaged girls asking if they could do that.  I told them sure, just announce themselves first.  The guys thought it was funny.

 

Phil and Seth.  I think that’s the best part.  Twins who had tried to end their lives.  They’re still here, praise all the Higher Powers.    They opened the ceremony with songs.  I felt my sons there.  There is no mistaking the presence of Angels, if you pay attention.  They gifted me with a CD of their music (http://www.aronsontwins.com/index.cfm).  I have listened to “Show Me The Way” non stop since I returned home.  But, they gave me a much better gift.  They gave me a real smile, and a real hug.  I felt surrounded by peace.  Such an amazing gift, one that can’t be repaid.

 

Speaking for all of those people… my speaking debut!  No, I wasn’t nervous.  I was speaking for my sons.  (If you make it to the end of this novel I’m writing, my words will be there).  What an incredible honor, to be asked to speak about my sons.  Scanning the crowd and seeing tears.  Remarkable.  I swear my boys and Mr. God did the speaking.  There is no way that I could touch people the way that they said I did.  Yep, it was my boys. 

 

The seven year old twin holding my hand after we placed beads around the luminaries at the Opening Ceremony.  She was holding on as if she were holding on for dear life.  Her sister was on the other side of her Father, clinging to him.  Unless I misheard, and I don’t think I did, their Mother had ended her life just 6 weeks ago.  I sent as much strength to her as I could…. you all know how I believe.  I asked my four Angels, Jason, Rick, my Andy, my Mom, to please help her.  She looked at me with such gratitude.  I was so blessed to be beside her.  How much pain their Mother must have been in, to leave them. 

 

Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, and seeing the Statue of Liberty standing tall.  The skyline was incredible.  Incidentally, they made the bridge longer, and made it all go uphill, at the end of the walk.  (we zig-zagged around, Chelsea, Little Italy, 5th Avenue, Broadway, and wound up where we’d stared, at Cadman Plaza).  I am absolutely certain of it.  Sort of like in Chicago, when they moved the rest stops (we’d walked 10 miles, then turned around and retraced our steps).  I KNOW that bridge wasn’t that long when I first crossed it.  Losing Marcia and Steven, my soul sister, my best friend.  Caryn suggesting we wait for them.  I stopped for a moment, and realized that if I didn’t keep going I wouldn’t finish.  Then wanting to run after that!

 

People asking me what I was doing.  Asking who Jason and Rick were.  Asking why I was walking.  KNOWING that my voice was being heard.  How amazing is that?

 

Meeting new people, seeing people I’d seen at the walks before.  Occasionally walking by myself, just me and my thoughts, feeling my boys presence.  Hearing my Mom say, “I’m here too Daughter”.  Hearing Andy tell me on that extremely long bridge that used to be shorter that he knew how “disciplined” I was, and that I’d finish.  (He was ALMOST as stubborn as I am, although he called it Marine Discipline).  Hearing him tell me that he was holding me up.  I know he was.

 

The young girl who, while I was walking by myself, grabbed me, hugged me, and told me I had made her cry in a good way.  The soldier thanking me for speaking out.  He deserves the thanks, for defending my right to speak openly.  Him placing beads to honor our military who have found the pain to stay greater than the pain to go.

 

The “Arab”, “arrow” conversation.  You had to be there.  I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.

 

People laughing at Marcia and me for pointing out clothes and shoes (I really want those shoes!) on 5th Avenue.  And I want the purple outfit, too. 

 

Geri on the ride back to Jersey.  Next time, I’m making her drive.  It will be easier on my nerves.

 

Opening innumerable bottles of wine Sunday, Steven graciously trying to find a white I liked.  He did.  Now if I only remembered what it was….  And what was that champagne I’d never had that I loved?  My Marcia conducting the orchestra (again, you had to be there).

 

The heartbreak of the homeless.  But for the grace of Mr. God go I. 

 

Starbucks open at 3 in the morning, and busy.  The lines to get into the “hot” clubs.

 

The “wedding party”.  They were all wearing white.  Not very tasteful white.   And I’m pretty sure some of the girls were really guys.  Not being critical– live and let live!– but that was….. interesting.  Especially the sequined tutued skirt that didn’t cover her {his?} crotch very well.  The shoes were great, though.

 

Jeremy and Marissa.  I love them so much.  I have to miss their engagement party, but she said that I absolutely could NOT miss the wedding.  It’s going to be the event of the year, and I have to have a new dress.  They make me feel like family.  A gift, as I have very little family.  Knowing how much their presence means to my Marcia.

 

The hugs from Adrienne.  Her volunteering to man a rest stop.  That takes a special friend, and I am honored to have her in my life.  Telling me that since she walked with me, she rarely walks without a rock now.  (Iris Bolton told me to pick up a rock at the beginning of my walks.  She said to pour all of the negativity in my life into it, then throw it as far as I can at the end of my walk.  It works.)

 

Knowing that a dear friend was with me in spirit, and knowing that it wasn’t just words.  I’m really glad I felt an uncontrollable urge to go to Newby’s to see Bev on a day that I never go there.   I believe to my toes that we were meant to meet.

 

Coming home to so many emails from the wonderful piece WJHG did on my sons.  Neysa and Scott, my deepest thanks.  I can promise you that a life was saved.  I know.  I have the mail.

 

Coming home to more issues at work.  Then, having one of my long time customers come in and ask to speak to me.  He/she has told precisely 2 people.  Me and one other.  He/she wants to leave this Earth quietly.  And I promised not to tell (I’m not revealing his/her identity).  He/she has less than a year to live.  He/she wanted me to know because, “you’re the only person who’s ever really give a shit in my life”.  Suddenly the work issues didn’t matter.  I’ve touched a life.  A blessing beyond compare.

 

Next year, we’re walking in Washington, DC.  Yes, I will be there, and yes, I will be badgering you for money!

 

If you’ve made it this far….

 

Here’s what I THINK I said.  I know I changed some words while speaking.  I simply spoke from my soul, the way I believe I should have.

 

Hi there.  My name is Brenda Adkins. I’m from Panama City Beach, Florida, and I am a Survivor of Suicide. I have buried both of my children, twin sons, and several friends to this illness.

This is my third Overnight Walk. My first was in Chicago, 3 years after my oldest child ended his life. When I first thought about it, it seemed insurmountable. I didn’t know how to ask people for money. I didn’t know how to walk 20 miles. But I did it anyway. And, by asking, I’ve raised a little over $16,000. My team, POS/FFOS, has raised more than $75,000.00. Finding the courage to ask people for money to help others not live my lifemare has taught me a lot.

It taught me that suicide, mental illness and mood disorders has had an impact on the life of every single person I’ve spoken to. Every. Single. One. A physician, a close personal friend, told me that he had attempted suicide. So did a newspaper editor and a news reporter. Why, then, are we so afraid to speak of an illness that can be treated? Why do we want to put it away and hide it, when a person with a mental illness no more “asks for it” than the person with cancer does? Why do we want to pretend that it doesn’t exist? I’ve never been quiet about the way my two children died. I am not ashamed of my sons, their lives, or their deaths. I’m from the South. I have to tell, you, we do NOT talk about mental heath issues, or mood disorders, or suicide, where I come from. It’s time to change that. There is a  stigma of perceived weakness attached to mental illness. Well, I’ve learned that the biggest sign of strength is the willingness to ask for help. It’s our job to make people understand that this IS an illness, and it CAN be treated.

I placed a Memorial in my local paper for my sons’ birthday one year. A couple of days later, a friend came up to me at work and asked me, “How long are you going to do this?” I was confused, so I asked her, “This what?”. She looked at me, this person who had known me and my children for 20 years, and said, “This suicide stuff. When are you going to stop? When will you let it go?”.

I will tell you what I told her. I will be quiet on the day that people can ask for help and not be turned away, because they don’t have the financial resources for help. I’ll be quiet the day that there is parity in mental health care, and I can get help for my aching soul as easily as I can for my aching back. The day that there are no more suicides, I will be quiet. The day that no other parent, aunt, uncle, friend, lover lives my lifemare, I will be quiet. Until then? My sons told me at a very young age that they were going to make a difference in this world. Their voices have been silenced by mental illness and suicide. Mine has not, and will not, be silenced. As long as there is breath in my body, I will fight for those who need help. I will be the listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the person to yell at, whatever it takes. Because suicide is NOT an option. The world needs all of us. No one else can speak with our voice, say our piece or shine our light. I refuse to let people pass by in the darkness because I wasn’t there to show them the way. That is why we’re here. To show them the way.

Jason and Rick, this is for you. Run with the wind Little Loves. I love you.

 

You all mean so much to me.  Thank you for being in my life.  Incidentally, I STRONGLY suggest that you not have your tonsils removed, speak before a lot of people, then walk 20 miles in the same month.)

 

Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom (their Little Mother!)
 http://www.theovernight.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=extranet.personalpage&confirmid=10009264

Speech at the 2008 walk in New York

I plan to write about it soon. Right now, I’m just a wee bit tired (okay, a lot tired. Tonsillectomies and walking 20 miles in the same month don’t go together).If you’re interested, here’s (basically) what I said. I know I changed a few things, but I was just… speaking. I don’t really remember all that I said.

My name is Brenda Adkins. I’m from Panama City Beach, Florida, and I am a Survivor of Suicide. I have buried both of my children and several friends to this illness.

This is my third Overnight Walk. My first was in Chicago, 3 years after my oldest child ended his life. When I first thought about it, it seemed insurmountable. I didn’t know how to ask people for money. I didn’t know how to walk 20 miles. But I did it anyway. And, by asking, I’ve raised a little over $16,000. My team, POS/FFOS, has raised more than $75,000.00. Finding the courage to ask people for money to help others not live my lifemare has taught me a lot.

It taught me that suicide, mental illness and mood disorders has had an impact on the life of every single person I’ve spoken to. Every. Single. One. A physician, a close personal friend, told me that he had attempted suicide. So did a newspaper editor and a news reporter. Why, then, are we so afraid to speak of an illness that can be treated? Why do we want to put it away and hide it, when a person with a mental illness no more “asks for it” than the person with cancer does? Why do we want to pretend that it doesn’t exist? I’ve never been quiet about the way my two children died. I am not ashamed of my sons, their lives, or their deaths. I’m from the South. I have to tell, you, we do NOT talk about mental heath issues, or mood disorders, or suicide, where I come from. It’s time to change that. There is a perceived stigma of weakness attached to mental illness. Well, I’ve learned that the biggest sign of strength is the willingness to ask for help. It’s our job to make people understand that this IS an illness, and it CAN be treated.

I placed a Memorial in my local paper for my sons’ birthday one year. A couple of days later, a friend came up to me at work and asked me, “How long are you going to do this?” I was confused, so I asked her, “This what?”. She looked at me, this person who had known me and my children for 20 years, and said, “This suicide stuff. When are you going to stop? When will you let it go?”.

I will tell you what I told her. I will be quiet on the day that people can ask for help and not be turned away, because they don’t have the financial resources for help. I’ll be quiet the day that there is parity in mental health care, and I can get help for my aching soul as easily as I can for my aching back. The day that there are no more suicides, I will be quiet. The day that no other parent, aunt, uncle, friend, lover lives my lifemare, I will be quiet. Until then? My sons told me at a very young age that they were going to make a difference in this world. Their voices have been silenced by mental illness and suicide. Mine has not, and will not, be silenced. As long as there is breath in my body, I will fight for those who need help. I will be the listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the person to yell at, whatever it takes. Because suicide is NOT an option. The world needs all of us. No one else can speak with our voice, say our piece or shine our light. I refuse to let people pass by in the darkness because I wasn’t there to show them the way. That is why we’re here. To show them the way.

Jason and Rick, this is for you. Run with the wind Little Loves. I love you.

Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom

This walk took place June 7, 2008

 

Another August 5th

Another August 5.  Another birthday.  Without you.

 

I keep trying to focus on the happy thoughts, the good memories.  Shipwreck Island.  The water park in Dothan.  Somehow, water was always involved in your birthday, wasn’t it?   Yet all I can remember right now is Rick not wanting to have another birthday without his brother.  “I can’t do it, Mom.  I can’t have a birthday without my brother.  Please don’t make me celebrate, not like they did last year.”  That party was a disaster, wasn’t it?  But we made it through it, together.  We made it through.  And I’ll make it through this one.  For you.

 

I remember those tiny red heads, unable to be still, even as newborns.  Kicking out of the blankets.  Squirming until you were touching.  Unable to be apart.  Jason, my strong, steady leader.  Rick, my quiet, capable healer.  As different as day is from night, yet so incredibly alike.  I remember your “father’s” mother, telling me red hair with blue eyes was ugly…. and her realizing her mistake long before my tirade ended.  You were barely a day old.  She was the first to bring out the Mother Lion in me. 

 

I remember you “kating, Mommy, kating” on the kitchen floor, where you’d poured the Crisco oil.  Rick, you distracted me, while Jason poured the oil on the floor.  Then the fun began.  You’d just turned 2.

 

I remember your language, unique to the two of you.  Did you still speak it, after you were grown?  You certainly did as wee ones.  I can close my eyes and see  you, J, barreling in head first where an Angel would fear to go, Rick right behind you, trusting his big brother to always lead the right way, babbling away, with everyone else clueless about what you were saying.

 

My quiet, capable Rick.  “Mommy, did you hear that big noise?”.  I was making lunch.  You were at Vacation Bible School.  “What noise, sweetie?”.  “That big noise, Mommy”.  So calm.  So contained.  My little man.  “Sweetie, Mommy didn’t hear a noise.”.  “You didn’t hear that big noise that car made when it ran over my brother?”. 

 

I ran out the front door like a bat out of Hell.  You turned off the oven and the stove, called your Grandmother, locked the house, and walked back down to the church in time for the ambulance to arrive.  You were 6.

 

I see two red heads, bent intently over the blonde baby held so carefully in your arms.  You didn’t know I was there.  “I’ll love you forever.”.  A hug, a kiss.  “I’ll always take care of you.”.  “We’re your big brothers, you know.”.

 

You were 8.    And so were born my three Musketeers.  My two red heads, with a blonde in the middle…. Jason, Leslie and Rick.

 

Today, for Jason and Rick, Leslie Ann and I are going bungee jumping.  Our boys wanted to take us, but we never went.  We should have.  We’re doing it today.  Scared silly, but doing it anyway.

 

We’re going to drink a glass of good red wine, for Jason, and something fruity frou frou, for Rick.  

 

We are going to laugh.  A lot.  Out loud.  Because we love them.  Because we miss them.

 

We are going to LIVE.  Because, if the past six years have taught us nothing else, they have taught us the value of LIFE.  They have taught us that the things that matter are not things. 

 

Today, for Jason and Rick, remember:

 

When you love someone, tell them.   When you miss someone, tell them.   When you fubar, say “I’m sorry”.  See the beauty in a hurricane.  Color outside of the lines.  Dance.  Sing.  Play in mud puddles.  Laugh.  Love.  LIVE.  Live your life.  You never know when it will be gone.  You never know when those that you love more than life will be gone.   Cherish your friends.  Eat ice cream.  For breakfast.  LISTEN.  Not to the words.  To what people are saying.  Those fingerprints on the wall that you need to clean, and the furniture that needs dusting?  They’ll still be there tomorrow.  Take your child to the beach, or the park, or for a walk around the block.  Have a slumber party.  Even if you’re a “grown up”.  And remember…. never go straight.  Always move forward.

 

Maximum respect,

 

Brenda, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom http://www.runningwiththewind.com/

Boy’s trivia

1. Jason was not still, ever, not from birth. Born 6 weeks early, they couldn’t find a way to keep him covered. Rick followed Jason from birth. He cried until they put him in the warmer with his brother.

2. For 2 years, neither of them would wear anything that didn’t have Sesame Street characters on it. They’d take it off the minute I put it on them if there was no Gro-Gro or Ernie or Bert or “B Bir”.

3. They thought yogurt and ice cream (not frozen yogurt–yogurt yogurt) were the same thing until they were around 7.

4. Rick started making not-A’s after Jason moved to Florida. Up to that point, both were straight A students. Once they went to college together, Rick started making A’s again.

5. They had big feet. Size 12 or 13, depending on the shoe.

6. Jason’s eyes were bigger. Rick’s nose was more defined. Rick’s hair was darker.

7. They LOVED Alabama football….. and loved to tell me that the referees on television could NOT hear me.

8. They couldn’t go an entire day without exercise of some kind, even if they were sick.

9. They tried to blame each other for things, but I always knew who really did it.

10. Rick loved Highlander. Jason loved Star Trek.

11. They owned every single He Man and the Masters of the Universe toy ever made.

12. They didn’t know that they were unique. That no one could take their place, smile their smile, or shine their light. And they should have known that.

Maximum respect,

And its fourth and 65

“And the Tornadoes have the ball at their own 15.  It’s fourth and 65.  Jason Dye set to kick.  Wait!  He’s going to run the ball!  Finally brought down after a gain of 40, but there are flags.  Let’s see what they’re for.”

 

See, Bay High had the best athletes in the county the four years my kid played. I know, because opposing coaches told me what a shame it was all the time, that our athletes had no coach.  We had a FLAWLESS game plan… run it up the right, run it up the left, run it up the middle.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Jase played both sides of the ball and special teams.  The kid really was good.  So, he was out there on that play, the one where his friend ran 40 yards.  The one where the flags were thrown.  Against Bay High.  For roughing the kicker (no, I am not making this up.  I think Jason was the one that got the call.  Bay High was playing Ft. Walton Beach.  Danny Wuerffel was their quarterback.   They did NOT need the refs help to win.  Really.  I promise.).  After the game was over, we took the team to dinner, like we always did (we referred to ourselves as The Dirty Dozen, because we WERE the football boosters, sort of like I was the track booster).

 

The kids weren’t real thrilled about the game, BUT…. they had done their best, doing EXACTLY what their coaches asked them to do.  They had been badly defeated, but there was not one single kid on that team who hadn’t done his best.  When they came in, we stood and applauded… lots of the Moms with tears in their eyes.  One of their coaches blew his whistle and SHOUTED that we would NOT clap for that sorry bunch of players.  He was standing in front of me.  Whoops.  His bad.

 

I proceeded to explain to him in my usual quiet, refined way (in other words, I snatched him up and got in his face), with all the other parents right behind me, that those were OUR children and we were proud of them, win, lose, or draw.  By the time we pointed out all of the amazing plays those kids had made, we had a room full of… not happy kids, but kids ready to try again.  Kids who knew their families were behind them 100%.

Kids who could laugh that they had to be the only team ever called for roughing their own kicker.

 

Why am I writing this today?  I don’t know.  I just know I need to.  I found a box of grief gremlins today.  There were letters in there, written at different times, for different reasons, from my boys, thanking me for never giving up on them. 

 

Please, just for today, remind your child that they matter.  Tell them you love them.  Forget the peanut butter splotch, the dropped spoon.  Thank them for that beautiful weed that they picked you, thinking it was a flower.  I can’t tell you how many bunches of “flowers” my boys brought their allergic Mom…. ones that I put in vases and kept in the house.  See, it’s only a weed if that’s what you see.  So try looking at it through a child’s eye, and see the beautiful flower.  Forget the email you have to answer, the call you have to return,  that show you want to watch on TV.  Cherish those you love.  They’re gone way too soon.

 

I have known great, great love.  I have also known great loss.  The thing is, you can’t have one without the other.  Jason, Rick, Mom, and most especially Andy…. I love you, miss you and need you a lot right now.  J & Rick, you thanked me for never giving up on you.  Why would I give up on the best?  Now don’t give up on me, please.  I love you, to forever and back.

 

Maximum respect,
 
Brenda Adkins, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom

In the crashing of waves

 I will remember him.  As long as there is breath in my body, I will say his name.  As long as I live, as long as I remember, he, too, lives.March 20. May 7. 48 days apart. A lifetime apart. A moment apart. I hate both of them, dread both of them. I don’t know which is worse. March 20, when I last felt those strong hands rub my shoulders, when I last hugged him tight, the last time he rested his elbow on my head and called me short, when he left me a note, promising to come home someday, begging me to take care of his baby brother, telling me not to worry. May 7, when they told me he was dead. They didn’t have to tell me. My soul and my heart knew. How do you put a time on when your world ended, when, every time you think it is shattered into so many pieces that it can’t ever be patched together, it shatters again? Maybe March 20 is so hard because I know that it was the beginning of the end of life as I knew it.

In the weeks and days leading up to March 20, I find myself, at the oddest times, thinking, “He was at work 6 years ago.”. “Six years ago, he put an empty ice cream container in a weird place. Thank Mr. God I just laughed at him.”.  I see him lifting the lid off a pot on the stove, dropping it because it’s hot, laughing that he was bulletproof, so he didn’t need a potholder. Six years ago, he told me he was taking me parasailing and bungee jumping, because he knew I wouldn’t do it alone. He was going to live in the mountains, where it snowed, because he loved the cold and heights as much as I dislike them. He was going to make me learn to like it, because he knew that wherever he went, I’d be there. He was going to make me get my certification from Mike, so I could go diving with him. Six years ago, he asked if I could please make spoon bread and sour cream pound cake. Six years ago, he made me run with him. Six years ago, he rested his elbow on my head and asked me when I was going to grow. Six years ago, he told me I was too little to be his Mother. Six years ago, he was a vibrant, living, loving young man.

I remember all the calls I made to everyone I knew, and some I didn’t, trying to find him. The nights spent pacing, wondering where he was, how he was, if he was eating, if he was safe. The hours spent staring into space, trying to will him home. All the while knowing in my soul that I’d never see him on this Earth again. Wondering why I couldn’t find him. Wondering why the police couldn’t find him….only to find out later that they weren’t looking, even though they said they were. Wondering why I didn’t call the one officer that I knew would move Heaven and Earth to find him. Is it because I believed they were looking for him? I don’t know. I know I had a lot of faith in our justice system then, faith that I don’t have now.

Six years. I can’t help but wonder how I have lived six years without one of the best parts of me. I can’t come up with an answer. I don’t know. His brother couldn’t live without him. How is it that I survive, not only without Jason, but without Rick, as well? I haven’t “lost” them. I hate that term. I know exactly where they are…. Wrapped safe in the arms of Mr. God. I just want them here, where I can touch them, yell at them, run with them, tease them, be teased by them. I think of the times I’ve tried to drink it away, and how it has never worked. I think of the times I’ve tried to make deals with all the Higher Powers to please just let him come home. I’ll do anything. Just let him come home, because if Jason comes home, Rick never leaves. I think of all that has happened since he left, and don’t know how I’ve survived, or why I’ve wanted to.

I wonder, would he and Holly have married? I think so. They were meant to be together. His death changed her irrevocably, too. Would their children have been blondes like her, or red heads like him? Or would Grandpapa’s jet black hair have come through? Would they have Jason’s fair skin and freckles? Or his Grandpapa’s olive skinned, easily tanned complexion? His athlete’s body? Holly’s rail thin dancer’s body? His love of the outdoors? Would they be as stubborn as he was? Would they live their lives out loud, like he did? Would they have his mischievous streak? His shit eating grin? His vibrancy? I wonder, would he have followed his own heart, his own dream, and coached, or would he have followed his “father’s” dream and gone on to med school?

Today, I want to try to celebrate his life. I want to go Bungee jumping. I want to go parasailing. I want to make spoon bread, baked ziti, sour cream pound cake, fried corn, raspberry cobbler, mashed potatoes…. all the things he loved. I want to run on the beach. I want to stand in the pouring rain and laugh at the Heaven’s. I want to look at a ketchup bottle and burst into laughter. I want someone to understand why “Blueberry Benchpress” is so funny. I want someone who understands, “Avoid the rush. Start hating Auburn now.”. I want someone who gently, lovingly points out that the referees on television cannot hear me, no matter how loudly I yell. Maybe wanting to is a start. I don’t know.

Life is so short. Too short. You blink, and those you love are gone. Don’t wait until tomorrow to say I love you. Don’t “save” your china and crystal for “special occasions”. Every day is a special occasion. Don’t put off that trip to the water park with your kids. Go to Chuck E Cheese. Play hopscotch. Go on a bike ride. Pay attention when people talk to you. Sometimes, all they need is to know that somebody, somewhere, cares just a little. Don’t shy away from that hug, that touch. Give your smile to someone who doesn’t have one. Run through the sprinklers. Sing out loud. Dance. Don’t put off saying, “I’m sorry”, when the words need to be said.

I don’t know what today is going to bring. Maybe I’ll go for a run, for the first time in forever. Maybe I’ll cut my hair. Maybe I’ll sit in the back yard and look at your hurdles, the ones you made to practice. Maybe I’ll put on some music by “some new group” that “you’ll love, Mom!”. Yes, Kidlet, I do love the Beatles! Maybe I’ll drink a glass of 150 year old Grand Ma, and smile while I remember my birthday gift… you know, the one you drank half of before you gave it to me. Maybe I’ll hide in the closet all day. Maybe I’ll finally open your storage shed. Maybe I’ll sit at your grave, and drink a bottle of really good red wine. I know I’ll remember. I’ll remember the small little boy who needed emergency surgery, the one who looked at me with those huge eyes, never shedding a tear, and said, “Mommy will fix it.”. I’ll remember the pint sized boy lying in the street after “that car ran over me”, telling the paramedic that , “Mommy will fix it.”. Again, no tears. I’ll remember all the times you said, “Mom will fix it”, and wonder why I couldn’t fix it just one more time.

I’ll remember the young man who always colored outside of the lines, the one who had no idea what “moderation“ meant. I’ll remember the excuse meister. I’ll remember you always protecting me. I’ll remember you waiting for me to figure out a challenge in a game we were playing, then expecting me to tell you how to do it. I’ll remember you taking care of me when my migraines were so bad that I couldn’t see. I’ll remember your grin as you cleaned up after the Christmas party when your Little Mother had one too many beverages, and teasing me about it unmercifully for days. I’ll remember all the emergency room visits, all the broken bones, torn ligaments, bumps and bruises, and how you never shed a tear. And I’ll remember you driving away, with tears streaming down your face, your arm raised in farewell. I’ll remember how I tried to stop you, my own tears flowing, and how I couldn’t. Oh Jason, I’d tell you how much it hurts, but you know. You know all of the unshed tears, all of the unuttered screams. You know the shaking that won’t stop. People want me to be who I used to be. I can’t do that. I know it disappoints them, but so be it.

I love you, Jason. I will always love you. To the ends of the universe and beyond, that is how much I love you. I miss you. The missing never lessens. Sometimes I think it grows. I wish you were here. I really, really, really, really wish you were here.

Run with the wind. Hurdle the clouds. Pole vault over the moon. Just, please, every now and again, remember how much I love and miss you. Remember that the day I join you in Heaven, I’m kicking your butt all the way across the sky….right after I hug the breath out of you. Thank you, my little love, for letting me be your Mom. I’ll always be your Mom, forever and always. Yesterday, I loved you. Today, I love you. Tomorrow, I will love you. You and your brother were my strength, my courage, my wisdom, my beauty, my grace. I promise you, from the depths of my soul, that I will always do my best to be who you believed I was.

Run fast, my little love. Run fast.

Your Little Mother

Maximum respect,

Remembering Rick

Thinking of my precious Rick, I remember my wonderful, volatile, handsome, athletic, brilliant son.  My Rick was incredibly volatile…..he had a *very* quick temper.  He could fly into a rage at the drop of a pin.  Yet, in the face of crisis, he was always so calm, even as a young child.

 

When he was 6, he walked in from Vacation Bible School….the church was down the street.    I was making lunch.  So calm, he said, “Mommy, did you hear that big noise?”  Distracted, putting something in the oven, I said, “What noise, baby?”  “That NOISE.  It was a really big noise.”  “No, baby, I didn’t hear it.”  Still so calm, he asked yet again, “Sure you didn’t hear that big noise?”  “I’m sure, Rickey.  I didn’t hear a noise.”  He was still so calm…..then he said, “You didn’t hear that really big noise that car made when it ran over my brother?”  I flew out of the house like a bat out of Hell.  My precious child turned off the oven, called his Grandmother at work and told her to come home, then walked back down to the church.  He never lost that calm in the face of crisis or danger.  He was a paramedic; his calmness comforted people.  I miss that.  While Tommy has been sick, I have reached for the phone innumerable times, needing Rick, needing his calm and comfort, then sadly put it back down.

 

He had a one-track mind.  Once he made up his mind about something, that was it.  No changing it.  If he thought it was taking too long to get to wherever we were going, he would be convinced that we were lost.  No amount of reassurance that I knew exactly where we were, that we would be there soon, did any good.  Once we arrived at our destination, he’d say something like, “If you hadn’t gotten lost, we’d have been here a long time ago.  When I’m old enough to drive, I wont get lost.”  Yeah, right.  He got lost, alright, because he was male, and wouldn’t ask for directions.

 

He was conservative.  I think my open-mindedness made him occasionally crazy.  When they were around 11, we opened an account for them at McRae’s.  We had a $200.00 limit on the account.  We told them they could buy their own school clothes.  Rick immediately picked out a button down shirt, a tie and a blazer.  He would never consider wearing a t-shirt to school.  My little love.

 

He was so very smart.  He graduated from Troy State one quarter ahead of his brother, first in his class of over 500.   I’ll always believe they did it on purpose, graduating apart, so they both could be first.

 

He was a scholar, an athlete, a talented musician, a healer, a teacher.  He was a counselor at summer camp for years.  He was a volunteer track coach.  He had his personal trainer certification….he had a *very* ripped body.  Abs of steel, broad shoulders, narrow waist.  He loved the mountains….he always said that he was going to practice medicine in the Appalachians so that I would be forced to go to the mountains (I dislike heights).  He loved to hike the mountains and woods in Georgia.  He loved them so much, he chose them to die in.  His idea of a quick afternoon bike ride was to jump on his bike and ride the beach road down to Carillon….a 50 mile round trip.  He knew no fear.  I had to drag him out of town when Hurricane Opal came through.  He wanted to stay and watch.  He was wonderful…so wonderful.

 

Two years ago today, my precious, intelligent, wonderful, handsome talented child ended his life, all alone, on a rock by a river in a valley in Georgia.  We finally found his body 8 days later.  I still can’t talk about his death.  I think most of me still believes he’s coming home.  That’s the message he left on my machine that fateful day…..”I’m coming home, Mom.  I love you.”  I keep waiting.

 

Today, in his memory, say, “I love you.”  Read that book that you’ve been putting off reading.  Listen to music; classical was his favorite.  Call the friend you keep meaning to call.  Let go of petty grudges and silly arguments.  Open that bottle of wine you’re saving for a special occasion.  Eat ice cream for supper….he would.  Treasure every single moment you have with those you love.

 

May Angel wings always surround you.  Be blessed.

 

Maximum respect,

 

Brenda, always Red’s & Red Man’s Mom
Jason  August 5, 1974 – May 7, 2000
Rick    August 5, 1974 – August 16, 2002  found August 24, 2002

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!