What's in a Name?

I read an article recently about how stressful some people think it is to choose a name for their child: 

"The New Baby Name Anxiety"

Like a lot of things, though, I think the way a person feels about that process really comes down to perspective.

Personally, I considered it an honor to be in a position, along with my husband, to choose a name for both of my children. When I was pregnant with my first child, I read somewhere that it can put a person in a "position of power" to have a name that follows this rule: the last syllable of the first name should start with the same sound as the first syllable of the last name.  That sounds complicated, but it really isn't; an example of this is Stephanie Nelson - the last syllable of "Stephanie" starts with an "n" sound, and so does the first syllable of the last name.  

Obviously, if someone uses a nickname and/or if a woman marries and takes her husband's surname, that pattern may not hold as intended.  I named both of my children with that guideline in mind, anyway, though.  Of course, whether or not that rule is true is really just conjecture anyway.  Who really knows what's in a name??  

Whether or not name selection seems overwhelming can depend on how the parents-to-be view things.  While I think there are definitely some names out there that are a little "out there," it's possible that some people put too much thought into what names are too trendy or popular.  When my sister Jennifer was in the second grade, there were three other girls also named "Jennifer" in her homeroom, which was obviously confusing for everyone involved.  The teacher told the Jennifers to work out what each of them would be called so that there wouldn't be any mix-ups, and one of them right away called dibs on "Jennifer."  Another said she liked to be called "Jenn" and the third one quickly chimed in that she could go by "Jenny," which left my sister as the lone non-nicknamed student.  It was a Friday, and the teacher sent her home to think about it for the weekend, as if it was a homework assignment ... or a punishment.  

My sister didn't seem to mind, though; she announced to my family that she needed a nickname and it couldn't "Jenn" or "Jenny."

"How about 'JB,' for your initials?" Dad suggested.  "OK," she agreed, and that was that.  

Except for some reason I felt the need to have some input into the situation.  Later that weekend, the newly coined "JB" and I were floating around in a swimming pool, just the two of us, and I told her that I wasn't going to call her by that nickname.  "I'll either call you 'J' or 'B,' whichever you prefer," I told her.  "I'll take 'J,'" she said, and thus her family nickname was born.

When my sister Nancy and her husband were trying to choose a name for their baby during her pregnancy, lots of different name combinations were considered.  They did not find out the gender of the baby while Nancy was pregnant, which afforded us an opportunity to chime in on ideas for names of both genders.  In no uncertain terms, there were lots of cooks in the kitchen for that project.  The girl name was easier, because Nancy had had a favorite girl name since childhood.  But the boy name was open to all kinds of possibilities.  By the baby's due date, the parents-to-be had narrowed it down to three boy name possibilities, and then, two days later when Nancy went into labor, they announced that they had shortened the "in case of boy" list to two.  A few hours later, with all of us there and with the baby's arrival getting very close, they were still discussing which boy name they preferred.  Finally, less than an hour before the baby was in Nancy's arms for the first time, she and David came up with a plan: when the baby was born, if it was a boy, they would wait to see with which hand he reached out first - if left, the name would be one of the two choices, and if right, the name would be the other.  Fast-forward to "it's a boy!" and the moment of decision - and it was the right-hand reach that won out, with the newest addition to our family essentially choosing his own name, Crosby.

The Summer of the Exchange Student

Here's something that most people I know don't know about me or my family ...

During the summer of 1984, in between my freshman and my sophomore years in high school, my family served as a host family for an exchange student.

Lots of people who have hosted an exchange student have probably had a great experience, one from which they greatly benefitted and something that they would recommend that someone else do as well.  Not so much in our case.

Corinne, with Mom and Nancy, in more clothes than I ever remember seeing her wear that summer

Our exchange student's name was Corinne.  She was from Nice, France; her father was a surgeon, and her family lived in a house on the French Riviera.

I have no idea how the match between her and my family was made by the exchange program agency.  It's possible they were desperate for placement families, or maybe they just used the exchange student's age and gender to pair the person with the family.  Suffice to say, though, that from Day One it was pretty obvious that the match wasn't a great one.

Corinne was between my sister Jennifer and me in age; one of the rules of the program was that the exchange student be given her own bedroom, and so Jennifer and I agreed to bunk together in my room during the summer and let Corinne have Jennifer's bedroom.  When Corinne got to our house, we excitedly showed her around, and she was silent.  No expression, no comments.  I thought it was a language barrier issue until later that day when she started saying things like, "OK, that's your room?" and "OK, you eat in your kitchen?" with a French accent and a condescending tone.  (Apparently someone had told her that Americans say "OK" a lot, and so she started off many of her sentences with that as a kick-off.) She went to bed really early that first night, which we thought might be because she was jet-lagged from the trip.  A week or so later, though, when she was still retreating to the bedroom pretty early on a nightly basis, we asked her if she was tired, and she said, "No, I'm just boring."  We laughed for a minute, until she clarified that she actually meant "bored."  Well ok, then.

The summertime weather in Corinne's hometown peaked out at about 80 degrees; the inside of our house was that same temperature because Dad was strict about the thermostat setting, and as usual the outside temperature in the entire state of Mississippi that summer was a hot, humid 99 degrees in the shade.  She came from a land of famous painters, sightseeing, and yachting; we had fun making pottery out of mud from our backyard, chopping the heads off water moccasins with a garden hoe, and canoeing in the lake behind our house.  She was used to fancy food and fine wine; in our neck of the woods, the menu consisted of Miller Lite for the adults and sweet tea for the kids to drink and something like beanie-weenies, grilled cheese sandwiches, or spaghetti to eat.

Some of the blaring differences in our lifestyles were actually kind of funny, although probably much more so to us than to her.  Our two dogs, who lived outside, often got ticks on them, especially during the summer months.  We thought nothing of pulling off a big, juicy tick we'd found on one of the dogs; the first time I did that in front of her, she was oddly fascinated - apparently she had never even seen a picture of a tick before.  Here's the really funny kicker to that: a week or so later, we went out to eat at a restaurant with a salad bar, and my dad put sunflower seeds on top of his salad.  When Corinne saw the sunflower seeds, her eyes got really big, and she asked in half amazement/half horror, "You put ticks on your salad?"

"You put ticks on your salad??"

One responsibility that came as part of having Corinne there that fell mostly on my mother's shoulders was policing the practices of grooming and decency of dress, both of which were obviously different in our house than what Corinne was used to.  Mom figured out that the best way to address the problem was to make a blanket announcement to my sisters, Corinne, and me.  My sisters and I had to bite the insides of our cheeks to keep from smiling or laughing whenever Mom said things like, "All girls in the house must shower tonight ... be sure to shave your legs and use soap in the shower and put on deodorant afterwards."  The first time Mom told us to get our swimsuits on to go to the pool at the Tennis Club, Corinne emerged from the bedroom wearing a string bikini that consisted of about one square inch of material in total.  "Girls, let's all wear t-shirts over our swim suits so we don't get sunburned," Mom called out, quick with the reaction.  "OK, I'm used to sun all over," Corinne informed her.  "It's a strict rule at the club," Mom told her and handed her a t-shirt.

My family went to Biloxi, Mississippi, where my dad attended a business convention during the first week in August every year when I was growing up, and we did that year too, with Corinne in tow.  I remember the expression on Corinne's face when she first saw the beach there; I guess the Redneck Riviera didn't quite compare to the French one.  We had a blast, though, like we always did; we swam for probably at least ten hours a day there.  We were thrilled that the hotel where we stayed had a bar in the swimming pool, and Dad let us charge two Shirley Temples each per day to the hotel room.  By that time in the summer, Corinne had for some reason gravitated towards Nancy, who was about five years younger than she was, rather than towards Jennifer or me; Nancy entertained herself during that entire trip by pretending she could speak French and then telling Corinne to answer her back in "real French."  Quite entertaining, for us at least.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun that summer with Corinne there.  It's just that there's wasn't much, if any, of an exchange going on between her and us; pretty much all we learned about her country or her was that we were very different.  I wonder what she said about her experience as an exchange student when she went home; people probably thought she was exaggerating or fabricating when she told them about how we tanned on the roof of our house, drank water straight out of the hose, and ran around barefooted in the backyard all summer.  All in all, I guess it was an educational experience for her, although almost certainly nothing like the way she or her parents had intended for it to be, and for us, at least, it has provided many laughs over the years when we've thought back to the Summer of the Exchange Student.

Priceless Memories

Eight years ago, my sisters, our husbands, and our children traveled from our corners of the country to meet at my grandmother's house in Alabama.  The day after we had arrived, our group of eleven piled into cars and drove across the state line to Wild Animal Safari in Pine Mountain, Georgia.

When we got there, we found out that there were 15-passenger vans available for rent to drive through the park - and the vans were zebra-striped!  We knew it would be much more fun for all of us to be together in one vehicle to travel amongst the animals who roamed free over the many acres there.  We paid the admission and the rental fee and then headed towards our Zebra Van; as we were boarding, my brother-in-law Peter walked over carrying a giant bag of animal feed.  He said it was a better deal to buy in bulk instead of purchasing individual containers of food for each of us to feed to the animals in the park.  I will never forget the look of wonder on Grandmom's face when she saw Peter carrying that huge bag; she laughed excitedly as she took her seat in the van and then said, "The animals sure are going to LOVE us!"  

Somehow it worked out so that my brother-in-law David took the wheel in the van - some of the time with my niece Daly on his lap - and with my daughter Molly in the passenger seat in front.  The rest of us sat on the bench seats in the back with our windows rolled down, ready to feed the animals as David slowly drove along the gravel road, stopping frequently as wildlife approached the van.  

There was a great variety of animals in the park, from antelopes to zebras.  We all had a blast, including and maybe especially Grandmom, who smiled ear-to-ear the whole time that we were there and laughed hysterically when a big slobbery bison leaned in through the window and tried to lick her in the face!

CLICK HERE TO PLAY VIDEO IF IT DOESN'T SHOW UP IN THE WINDOW ABOVE.

... or try clicking HERE if those options don't work ... YouTube is being bad about playback on iOS devices!

We had such a good time there that day that a couple of years later my husband, my daughters, and I went back to the park with Grandmom.  The second time, when it was just the five of us, she was moving much more slowly than the first, and we just drove through the park in our car since we were a much smaller group.  After we had driven through the safari part of the park on our return trip, we went in the gift shop.  Grandmom, who, as I've mentioned, lived on a very tight budget, thanked us for taking her and for paying for her admission, and then she said she wanted to buy a souvenir for us to take home.  Always the practical thinker, she picked out a pair of salad tongs with a zebra carved into the handle of each one.  When she gave them to me after she had paid at the counter, I noticed the price tag said $19.99.  That was a lot of money for a person of her income to spend on a non-necessity, I knew, and she knew that I knew it.  I looked at her, thinking that I should decline the gift and try to get her to return it, but then she said, "Thinking I was going to be able to take a vacation somewhere this summer, I had some money saved. Today has been as good as any vacation, and I don't need anything else, so please accept my gift."  

The zebra salad-tongs, today

A few weeks before, Grandmom had stepped into a hole in her backyard while hanging clothes on her clothesline and had broken her leg.  My dad had tried for years to get her to let him buy her a dryer, but she insisted that it was a waste of money and she didn't need it.  After all, she said, she had raised a family and had lived without one for eighty years, and who could argue with that logic?  When she had fallen, she laid in the yard, unable to get herself to a phone, for about an hour until her next-door neighbor pulled up in his driveway and saw her.  He had called the ambulance and then my dad, and my parents had come to be with her while she was in the hospital.

When I'd called the next week to check on her, she told me that she had a walking cast on her leg and that she would appreciate some help with a couple of things so she hoped we could come to visit her soon.  Of course, I arranged to get there as soon as I could, worrying that things must really be dire if this independent woman needed help taking care of herself.  When my husband, my daughters, and I got there, though, we found out what she actually wanted help with, and it wasn't technically self-care: she wanted assistance with pulling her refrigerator out from the wall in her kitchen so she could do her scheduled quarterly cleaning behind it and with cleaning up debris that had fallen into her yard.  Other than that, she had it covered, she told us, and so we did those chores and then decided to head to the Safari Park the next day.  (Side note: Grandmom had told us to put any limbs, sticks, or leaves from her yard on the curb across the street from her house instead of in her trash can, but I had dumped a bucket of semi-wet leaves in there anyway, thinking it didn't really matter.  As we walked out to the car to leave for the park the following morning, she cooly lifted the lid of her garbage can and peered inside, and then she said, "Somebody put debris in here!"  I had to admit that I had done it, and she said, "Well, next time remember to put all of that stuff on the curb where it's supposed to go; that's what I do!"  Ouch!)

We had a lot of fun on our return trip to the park, but not nearly as much as we'd had the first time when we had gone as a big group.  I have treasured those salad tongs since that day, though, remembering fondly both of our trips there with Grandmom and remembering how she so generously spent her vacation money to buy them for us.

Several years after our second trip to the park, Grandmom had a stroke, and her physical and mental decline began.  Many, many times when we visited her after she was in the nursing home, we talked about how much fun we'd had at the Safari Park; in fact, when her condition had progressed to the point where she couldn't carry on a conversation, we often described things from the day when all 11 of us went in great detail, in an effort to help her to remember that wonderful day and to help her to focus on a much happier time.  

On the night before Grandmom died, as my mom was sitting with her holding her hand, my sister Jennifer called Mom's cell phone and asked Mom to hold the phone up to Grandmom's ear.  Although Grandmom had been unresponsive for several hours before, as Jennifer again tried to use her words to paint a picture for Grandmom of that great visit, Grandmom smiled and her breathing pattern became more relaxed, and I have no doubt that that happy memory was one of the last things on her mind as she transitioned out of this life.

"Not too many people can say they've been kissed by a bison!" Grandmom said. 

Bittersweet

Following is a guest post written by my sister Nancy:

Bittersweet...

I've often heard that word but have never felt that I had an appropriate time in my life to use it, until 6 weeks ago. 

Giving birth on March 24, 2013, to my firstborn was hands down both the most amazing and the scariest thing I have ever experienced.  I had envisioned the moment of his birth in my head many times over the previous 9 months and it always played out perfectly, except for one crucial part ... my dad wasn't present.

The day I found out I was pregnant, even with as much excitement as I felt, I remember thinking to myself, "This sucks - it's so unfair that my dad won't be here or ever know his 7th grandchild."  I tried not to let myself dwell too much on that fact over the months ahead, but always in the back of my thoughts I felt very bitter.

On the day of my son's birth, I tried to keep it together so as not to make the special day sad, even though Dad wasn't there, but to make sure it was memorable.  I grasped tightly to one of my dad's handkerchiefs (or "hankies," as he called them) during my entire labor process.  I kept hearing my oldest sister saying to me "Remember this, remember this!" and I wanted to focus on especially that.  My whole life I strived to make my dad proud of me and he always told me that he was, and I know without a doubt that he was with all of us in that delivery room that day at the exact moment of my child's birth and that he was so proud of me, my mom, and my sisters knowing that life really does go on - just not always the way we envisioned that it would.  There was complete joy and happiness, and there were big smiles again in our lives and yet another legacy to carry on the family name. 

The nurses allowed Nancy to wear her Brain Cancer Awareness bracelet during the entire labor and delivery process.

I look forward to having Crosby's aunts, uncles, cousins, and Gran-Gran telling detailed stories in honor of his Gramps so that my son will know my dad.  I've decided that I'm not going to waste precious time being mad or even bitter that Dad wasn't physically there for that big moment in my life; instead I will embrace the fact of all the people I love most on this earth were by my side. 

Bittersweet...

Thoughts on The Boston Marathon

I grew up watching, reading, and listening to news about the Boston Marathon; as a runner and a fan of the competitive part of the sport for nearly 35 years, I've always loved following the stories from races for both the top contenders and the back-of-the-packers.  As a current back-of-the-packer myself, I know that every runner has a story, and, especially for big events like marathons, every finish impacts each participant in many different ways.  

The marathon is the apex of the sport for lots of runners, the quintessential goal, the quest of the most dedicated amongst us.  And the Boston Marathon, or "The Boston" or just "Boston," as it is typically called in the athletic world, is the pinnacle of all marathons.  It's the world's oldest ongoing marathon, with this being its 117th year, and it's probably the world's most well-known road-racing event.  Boston is always run on Patriots' Day, the third Monday in April, which, unlike the majority of other marathons in the U.S., means that it's always held on a Monday.  Because of the many hills along the course and the tendency for the temperatures to soar into the 80-degree range during the event, the race is considered to be one of the more challenging marathons in our country.  The Boston Marathon is the only marathon in the U.S. that has a qualifying time requirement for entry, based on the gender and age of each runner, with the general rules stating that a runner must have completed a "qualifying marathon" within an 18 month period prior to Boston.  As a result of the strict qualifying requirements and the difficulty factor, Boston Marathon runners are generally revered by all other runners, or at least by those of us who have been involved in the sport for awhile. 

A masterpiece about Dad's first Boston by my sister, Jennifer

Growing up, I remember hearing my dad talking about Boston as if it were the Holy Grail of running.  Even before he had run it the first time in 1979 at the age of 35, I remember him telling my sisters and me about the course, which runs through eight different towns and finishes on Copley Square in Boston.  In the months leading up to his Boston debut, I remember him worrying aloud about Heartbreak Hill, the most well-known challenge in the race, even after he'd run up and down the levee alongside the Mississippi River literally hundreds of times as part of the 100+ miles per week he ran for months before the race.  I remember my grandfather, my dad's dad, coming to stay with my sisters and me for a few days while my parents went to Boston that April, and I remember my mom calling us after the race to tell us how Dad had done (his finish time was 2:46:04).  I remember standing in the kitchen of our house with my sisters, cheering through the phone line for my dad and then chanting his finish place over and over, so many times that the number was forever lodged in my brain.  In fact, one day, during the time when my dad was sick, we were talking about the many races he had run over the years, and he was surprised when I told him that I still remembered what place he finished in at his first Boston:  1,196th, which put him in the top 15% of finishers that year.

There are around half a million spectators and usually between 20,000 and 25,000 runners at every Boston Marathon.  The Centennial Boston Marathon, held in 1996, which was my dad's second time to run it, set a record for the most entrants, at around 38,000 runners.  

I remember Dad talking excitedly after he'd gotten back from the race the first time about going to the Bill Rogers Running Store and meeting Bill Rodgers, who had won the marathon for the third time that year, setting a course record in the process.  Dad commented that he especially admired the guy, "Boston Billy" as he was called, because of his modesty and his friendliness, which, ironically, were also two of Dad's strongest qualities.  The women's division was won that year by Joan Benoit, then 21 years old, who, with a time of 2:35, bettered the previously set record for women's finish time by 8 minutes. 

Joan, or "Joanie" as she was called, won Boston again in 1983, this time finishing in 2:22, breaking the women's world record by two minutes, and then she followed up by taking the gold medal in the Olympic marathon in L.A. in 1984, the year the women's marathon was established as an Olympic event.  She, incidentally, still holds the record for the American woman with the fastest finish in both the Olympic marathon and in the Chicago Marathon.  Yesterday, Joan ran Boston again to celebrate the 30th anniversary of her most recent Boston win, as did the men's winner from '83, Greg Meyer, who was in fact the last American to have won the race.  Joan, now age 55, was quoted as saying before the race that she planned to "go out fast," aiming to finish within 30 minutes of her winning time from 30 years ago, a goal that my dad would have absolutely loved hearing about - and one that she achieved with a finish time of 2:50.

To Joanie, from my dad and me: you're still a total badass!

Countless people - even those who have never even cared at all about the Boston Marathon before yesterday - watched the replays and read the recounts of the tragedy that unfolded after the bombings, the vast majority of people whom, I would venture to guess, realized that they could not even imagine the chaos and the terror than ensued on the race course and around the city, nor could they really comprehend the emotions  about the losses suffered by the runners and spectators of so many things: life, safety, trust, faith, and even reward for such dedication and effort on the part of the thousands of runners who trained extensively for the race over the course of the last six months or more.  

"To be a consistent winner means preparing not just one day, one month, or even one year - but for a lifetime." ~Bill Rodgers, 1979

"To be a consistent winner means preparing not just one day, one month,

or even one year - but for a lifetime." ~Bill Rodgers, 1979

My brother Lee has qualified for Boston twice and has run it once; he shares in the family's fascination with the marathon's history and with each year's competitive field.  No one in my family was at the Boston Marathon this year; however, on some level, we can imagine the turmoil experienced by those who were there yesterday because of tragic events that have affected us at other races in years past, which is a different story in its own right.  Like everyone else, my family feels so sad for everyone affected by the bombing; there is no understanding the evil that drives such madness.  The term Heartbreak Hill has a whole new meaning for all of the runners there yesterday and for those of us whose hearts go out to those injured and otherwise affected by the malevolence of those responsible.

In memory of Martin Richard 

Birth Story

There aren't many days in a person's life that one knows will always be one of the best, one of the most memorable, one of the coolest days ever, but I am lucky enough to have had one of those days recently, thanks for my sister Nancy and her husband David, who not only brought the newest member into our family but were gracious enough to include many of us in one of the most awe-inspiring things I've ever been a part of. 

Around 8:00 in the morning on Sunday, March 24, my cell phone rang, and I saw on Caller ID that it was my brother-in-law calling.  Given that Nancy's due date was two days before, I got butterflies in my stomach before I even answered the phone.  "David?" I said, instead of even saying hello; I wanted to hear him say everything was ok before I would let myself be overtaken by joy and excitement.

"She's having contractions, about 9 minutes apart," he said. "It's been going on for a few hours, and they're getting closer together." 

"Are y'all ok?" I asked anxiously, still needing that reassurance.

"Yes, we're good, just wanted you to know what's going on," he said.  I could hardly contain myself as I finished talking to him and then dialed my sister Jennifer's phone number to give her the good news.  I talked to her for a couple of minutes and then we hung up so she could call the airline to book the first flight from L.A. to Nashville.  I called our mom, and then I hustled upstairs at my house to get ready to go.  I had gone to Nashville two days earlier to pick up my oldest daughter, who had taken a flight in from college to start her spring break.  We'd spent the night and had driven home the next morning, less than 24 hours before David had called me.  Thinking that Nancy might go into labor while I'd been there then, I'd packed my suitcase as if I were planning to stay for several days instead of just one night; my suitcase, in fact, was still packed, and so I quickly woke up my husband and my daughters to tell them what was going on and then I grabbed my bag and hit the road.

David called again when I was about 30 minutes away from my house to let me know that they were at the hospital and that Nancy was already at 4 cm.  "I'm on my way!" I told him.  I called Jennifer again and got her flight information; her flight was scheduled to arrive in Nashville at 5:45 p.m. that afternoon.  She said she was going to get WiFi on the plane so she could stay up-to-date about what was going on during the four-hour long flight.  "I hope I make it in time to be there when the baby is born!" she said, and I hoped I was right when I told her I thought she would.  As I drove, several group text messages were exchanged by others in the family, all excited and wanting an update as soon as possible.  The weather was stormy, but I made it in decent time to the hospital, parked, and went in through the front door.  I stopped at the Information Desk and got directions to the maternity ward.  I texted David and he met me at the nurses' station, where I was given a Visitor's bracelet so that I would be admitted to the delivery room area.

Nancy looked relaxed and happy when I got there; our mom was there with them and everything seemed to be going smoothly.  About 1:45 p.m., the nurse and the midwife came in and examined Nancy; she was already at 9 cm, but the midwife said it would probably at least a couple more hours before the baby had dropped enough to be delivered.  The midwife told us she would come back in 2-3 hours to see how Nancy was doing.

Lots of text messages amongst the group of Bullard family members were sent back and forth; everyone was so excited and anxious for the baby to be born.  We were all really hoping that Jennifer would make it to the hospital before the baby was born, but with the latest news it seemed possible that she might not be able to.  My mom asked my aunt Ellen to pick up Jennifer from the airport and bring her straight to the hospital; we knew that even if the baby was born before her flight had landed, Jennifer would want to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.  My aunt said she would get Jennifer to us as soon as she could, and I emailed exact directions to her so she would know which entrance to use and how to get to the room once she was inside the hospital.  

As we waited, Mom French-braided Nancy's hair and we chatted excitedly; what was going on almost felt more like a dream than reality.  About 2:15, Nancy was having some problems with itching, a common side effect of an epidural, and so the nurse gave her medicine for that.  Nancy told the nurse that she really hoped our other sister could get there in time, and the nurse said she thought there was still a good chance that would be able to happen.  Nancy said she wanted all of us to stay in the delivery room while the baby was born, and we were thrilled.  As I was finding out, even though I had had two children of my own, it's very different to witness a birth than it is to give birth.

Meanwhile, Jennifer emailed from the plane that her flight was supposed to be landing 20 minutes early.  We passed the new arrival time on to my aunt and crossed our fingers that the extra time would up the odds for Jennifer to be there for the birth.  Nancy's nurse, who was pregnant herself and who like Nancy had opted not to find out her baby's gender ahead of time, seemed to be deliberately taking her time with some things, and when she stepped out of the room we agreed that we thought she was doing everything she could to make Nancy's wish for Jennifer to be there come true.

About 4:15, the midwife did an exam and told us that Nancy was at 10 cm but that the baby still needed to drop a little more, and she added that she thought they should also wait a little longer for the epidural to wear off a little so Nancy would have better control during the delivery.  "Let's think about having you start to push about 5:00," she said.  "Fine with me!" Nancy told her, and we all made yet another silent wish that the baby would be able to wait until Jennifer was there, too.

David's mom Linda got there about that time.  We updated Jennifer, who said she was ready to run to meet our aunt as soon as the plane landed.

At a few minutes after 5:00, the midwife, her assistant, and Nancy's nurse came back in, and the midwife said, "Let's have a baby!"  It took a few minutes for them to get things set up, and then the nurse told Nancy it was time to start pushing.  I had been pacing around a bit prior to that time, full of lots of nervous energy, and at one point the nurse asked me if I wanted something to do.  "Yes!" I said, and she told me to stand at one of Nancy's legs and to count to ten each time she gave me the heads-up that Nancy was having a contractions and should start pushing.  I happily accepted my position, and my mom and David stood on either side of Nancy at the head of the bed while Linda stood to the side.  Every couple of minutes, the nurse instructed Nancy to push, and I counted to ten at what I thought was a medium-speed pace, during which time Nancy pushed.  (As I told Nancy later, I reasoned that if I counted at too fast a pace little to no progress woud be made in the delivery during each contraction - but that too slow of a pace would be unreasonable for Nancy to keep up with.)  We repeated that three times per cycle, and then Nancy got to take a very short break between contractions.  The midwife said she thought the pushing phase would take around an hour, and so I quickly reported that news to Jennifer via email in between contractions.  Jennifer responded that her plane was about the descend; she said she still hoped to make it in time but that of course she just wanted Nancy and the baby to be ok.  Again, I hoped I was right as I told her I thought she would make it in time. 

Nancy continued to push during contractions; I will never forget how awe-inspiring it was when the very top of the baby's head became visible.  "You've got this," I told Nancy at the start of the next contraction, and she looked me in the eye and then we started the cycle again, counting and pushing.  At 5:32, Jennifer texted that she was in Ellen's car and they were 10 minutes away from the hospital.  The two minutes between contractions during which Nancy could take a break from pushing seemed to go by faster and faster; the excitement and the awe in the room was almost palpable.  "Oh my god, this is so awesome," I must have said a dozen times during the next half hour or so; I felt like even that wasn't adequate in describing my emotions.

Jennifer texted to let us know she was one minute from the hospital.  A few minutes later, Linda volunteered to run to the nurses' station to give Jennifer the Visitor's bracelet, but, before she had had a chance to do so, Jennifer burst into the room.  She later told us that, as she rounded the corner to the nurses' station running (literally running - just so you have an accurate picture in your head here.), a nurse yelled, "ARE YOU THE SISTER?" and when she said "YES!!" the entire staff there, all of who had undoubtedly heard that Nancy wanted her to make it in time to deliver the baby, cheered and waved her into the restricted delivery room area, towards the room where we were. 

She was so happy; we all were so happy.  She all but floated over to Nancy to kiss and hug her; there wasn't a dry eye in the room.  A second later the nurse gave us the signal, and the counting and pushing started again.  The nurse told us it wouldn't be long, and the midwife asked if anyone in the room wanted to call out the gender of the baby after the birth.  "I'll do it!" David said excitedly.  By this time, Mom was at one of Nancy's legs and I was at the other, and so Jennifer squeezed in at Nancy's shoulder, opposite David, and we all in complete awe as, at 6:04 p.m., only nine minutes after Jennifer had gotten there, the newest member of our family was born.  

The midwife placed the baby onto Nancy's chest, as we all looked on in wonder, and then David announced, "It's a boy!"  Happy, grateful tears flowed, and Nancy looked down at her son and said, "Well, hello, baby!"  After a few more minutes, she said to him, "Now you need a name!"  After a brief huddle with David, the new daddy announced, "Meet Crosby Bullard Owens."  

As another round of smiles and tears went around the room, it occurred to me that, although it often takes a village to raise a child, sometimes a child can lift the spirits of an entire village.  

Welcome, Crosby; we're so glad you're here.

If the video doesn't automatically load in the box above, CLICK HERE TO WATCH A VIDEO ABOUT HOW CROSBY JOINED OUR FAMILY.

Happy National Siblings Day

Happy National Siblings Day, especially to my sisters, without whom I would not be the person I am today.  

Cheers!

I don't think there's anyone else in the world who can ever know a person like his or her siblings do; there is a shared history from events woven through the fabric of our lives, full of memories, tears, adventures, laughter, trust, support, and love, a tapestry of snapshots from the past and the present that results into a truly unique bond.

During the time that our dad was sick and since his death, I have felt like my sisters were the only ones on the planet who felt even close to the same way I do. We had different types of relationships with him and we are different people, but we love each other as fiercely as we loved him. 

We've taken turns falling apart and worrying about the others, but we have always operated as a unit.  I know that when nobody else can understand what I am feeling or why I am doing whatever it is  I am doing - crying, ranting, hurting - they will.  

I also know without a doubt that without both of them, I would not have made it through any of what happened as we have struggled to make it through the most difficult time in our lives, at least not in the same way that I did. 

They regularly support me, entertain me, give me things to look forward to, and keep me grounded, and I am thankful every single day to have them in my life.

Big News and a Mission

Something monumentally exciting is about to happen in my family: my youngest sister is about to give birth to her first child, the first baby to be born in our family for many years and an event that is heavily anticipated by all of us.  

Since the end of last summer when my sister told me that she was pregnant, we've all thought a lot about how unfair and sad it is that my dad isn't here on this earth with us to experience the joy that this baby has already started to bring to our family.  Since the moment the big announcement was made, though, I have known that one of the biggest goals I will have as an aunt to this child, whom we have all been calling "our baby" since we learned of his/her existence, is to bring my dad into the life of this child, to teach him/her not only about his/her grandfather but also to impart the lessons and the perspective that my dad shared with all of us.  It's not just a goal of mine, actually, it's a mission: I will pass those things on to our new baby, and I will help him/her to know my dad at every opportunity I get, as will the rest of our family.  

I've heard about people setting up an empty chair or leaving some extra space on a church pew as a tribute to a missing family member during a wedding or other event, to mark a spot for that person who can't be present. In the Labor & Delivery room, though, we won't need a chair for Dad -  not because I don't believe that he will be there, but because I know he will - and I know that he won't be sitting down for any of it.  He will be pacing the floor as he tended to do when he was nervous or excited - and he will be standing right by my sister's shoulder and with an enormous smile on his face as he says to her, "You've got this! You can do it!" as his youngest grandchild enters the world and as his youngest child embarks on her journey as a parent herself. 

Dad, holding newborn Nancy, many years ago

This baby will know his/her Gramps, that's a promise I am making to my dad, to my sister Nancy, and to our new baby.

Remember when you were a kid and you'd run up to Dad with some creation of yours in your hands and say, "Look what I made, Dad!"?  That's what you can say to him about this baby, Nancy, although I think he'll already know.//

Off-Label Uses

Sometimes people use a medication or a health care product to help with things besides the ailment or condition that the product was intended to address.  This off-label use is often done out of necessity, when things recommended by health care professionals or others have not solved the problem.  It's more of a last resort, a whatever-it-takes type of effort, or sometimes just a belief in a wives' tale or a carrying on of tradition than a science project.

Vicks VapoRub ointment is one product that has been said to work for treating things other than what its label says it treats; a couple of its off-label uses are treating toenail fungus and repelling mosquitoes. 

Proctor & Gamble, the company that makes Vicks, has a disclaimer on their website that says their product "can be used for the treatment of cough associated with the common cold" but that they "haven't tested, nor has the FDA approved, Vicks VapoRub as a toenail fungus treatment" and, therefore, they say, it is not recommend for the treatment of toenail fungus.  I think there are lots of people, though, who swear that Vicks alleviates them of that condition.  Not having fungus-y toenails (yay for me!), I haven't ever tried using it for that, but I have tried it a couple of times for keeping mosquitoes away when I've run out of Off! and it seemed to work just fine for that.

One of my sisters has yet another off-label use for Vicks Vaporub: she puts a little bit of it under each of her eyes whenever she has trouble sleeping.  She's done that since she was a teenager; she says the fumes it gives off sting her eyes, which forces her to keep her eyes closed, which eventually causes her to get bored enough to go to sleep.  I don't see any kind of warning about that on the Vicks website, so I guess it's an ok thing to do, and, as anyone who has ever suffered (and I do mean suffered) from insomnia can attest, at a certain point in a sleepless night, it's anything goes/whatever works to provide a little shut-eye before the sun comes up.

When I was running competitively a lot in high school, I sometimes tried to emulate some of the rituals that my dad had surrounding his running routine. One thing he did that I started imitating then was taking a couple of swigs out of the bottle of Mylanta that we kept on the door of the fridge as soon as I came in from a strenuous run.  I didn't know why he did it; I just did it because he did.  Many years later, I happened to think about how we used to do that, and I asked him why he did it back then.  "When you run hard, most of your blood goes to your arms and legs instead of to organs like your stomach, and so a hard run can make you feel sick to your stomach, and Mylanta helps with that," he told me.  I kind of half-laughed and asked him he'd ever tried any other remedies for the same problem, and he said, "Well, I guess I've tried beer, but I'm not sure if that helped my stomach or if it just tasted so good after a hard run that I didn't care if my stomach hurt."

I don't think the company that makes Mylanta has looked into billing it as a special after-workout remedy for runners, but maybe they should.  I know of another off-label use for it that they could advertise, too: when my oldest child was a baby, I worked in a nursing home, and one of the residents there told me that I should try using a liquid antacid like Mylanta to treat diaper rash.  "Just put some on a cotton ball and dab it on the rash," she told me.  Later, when I tried it, I found out that it worked better than any diaper-rash ointment I'd tried.  I ended up telling a friend of mine who was also a new parent about it; luckily, she asked me for clarification of how it should be used before she tried it because she later told me that she first thought I'd meant that an oral dose of it should be given to the baby. 

One thing that has surprised me about the process of grief has been the way the emotional pain often flows over into physical pain, and one way that that has occurred for me has been in the form of back pain.  Before I'd really realized what was causing the pain that plagued me night and day, I had been attributing the pain to poor posture or just to having slept  wrong, and I tried the usual treatments - ice, heat, stretching, pills, chiropractic.  Nothing worked, at least not for very long.  Finally, after reading about the grief process, I came to the conclusion that my sorrow and the other emotions tied up with the whole process had sort of settled into the joints and the muscles affecting my back, and I told myself that, like a lot of the intense emotional pain I was feeling at the time, I just had to ride it out until it got better on its own in time. In the meantime, though, especially at night, I ended up calling on my old running training buddy, Icy Hot.  The weird first cold-then hot numbing action it has helped me to relax; some nights it was the only thing that allowed me to go to sleep, essentially making it yet another product with an off-label use, this time to curb the often almost-debilitating pain of raw grief.

Not Knowing: Grandmom's Story, Part 3

Continued from Not Knowing, Grandmom's Story Part 2

In reading the book "Final Gifts: Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communications of the Dying," by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelly, I came across many things that spoke to me in regards to what my family and I had experienced during the end of Dad's illness.  I read the book with a goal of gaining some insight and perhaps even some perspective about my dad's death, and, in the process, I began to see that there might be another reason for the recent changes in my grandmother's emotional state besides the cognitive decline associated with her medical condition.

One section of the book is about things that may be needed in order for a person to die peacefully:

"Some people realize a need for reconciliation.  Some request the removal of a barrier standing in the way of a peaceful death. Still others need particular circumstances to die peacefully - perhaps choosing the time of their death or the people who will be there.

Realizing what they need, dying people often become concerned; some communicate a tremendous urgency.  Coherent requests usually bring action.  But requests that are vague or indirect may be missed or ignored, leading to frustration, anxiety, and sometimes agitation.  If the awareness of an important need comes late - when death seems to be imminent - the person may delay or prolong the process of dying in an attempt to settle an issue or effect a final reconciliatory meeting.

A person's anxiety, agitation, or prolonged dying can be upsetting for everyone ... Often, the response to agitation is to sedate the patient ... Sedatives may help relieve agitation, but medicines alone are not the answer."

Reading these passages caused me to see some things in a new light, not just about my dad's passing but about Grandmom in her terminal condition, including the fact that our decision not to tell her about Dad's illness or his death might not be the best choice.  According to the authors, "Sometimes a family decides to withhold info about the death of someone the dying person knows.  While this is typically done out of kindness and concern, the truth often brings peace instead of discomfort or upset to the dying person."

I shared that insight with my mom and my sisters, and we decided that Grandmom needed to be told about Dad.  None of us wanted to do it, but we believed it was in her best interest and we hoped the information would help to ease her mind.  As my sister Jennifer recounts, "We were so worried that she would get the idea that he abandoned her, that he didn't want to visit her again, or maybe even that he didn't love her anymore, and of course we wanted to do anything we could to prevent her from those thoughts, which of course were absolutely untrue."  We resolved to tell her the next time one of us could go with Mom to visit her. 

Shortly after that, on the Tuesday before Dad's burial was scheduled on Saturday, Jennifer arrived at our parents' house, and she and Mom went together to see Grandmom.  Here is Jennifer's recollection of what happened when they got to the nursing home:

We rounded the corner and saw that Grandmom was sitting up in her wheelchair, which was parked just outside her bedroom door.  We greeted her, and then I kneeled down right in front of her and held both of her fragile hands in mine.  I said something like this:

"Grandmom, I want to tell you something that might make you sad, but I feel like you need to know, and  I don't want you to worry.  Bill was sick and had cancer.  He went to the best doctors and the best hospitals, but, even as strong as he was, he was not able to fight off the cancer.  He passed away and is in heaven now with God and with Roy [our grandfather, Grandmom's late husband].  He is not in any pain.  You should not worry.  Vicki and Stephanie and Nancy and I were all with him while he was sick, and we took good care of him.  He always asked about you and tried so hard to come back to see you again, but he was too sick.  You were so important to him, and he loved you so much.  We promised him that we will take care of you no matter what. Then, when God decides it is your time, you will get to go to heaven and be with Bill and Roy again."

Somehow I did it without crying -- I just felt really focused on giving Grandmom some relief and definitely did not want to cause her any additional sadness or worry about why I was sad, and so I just talked clearly and slowly and looked right into her eyes and told her.  She wasn't really able to talk much, but she definitely seemed to be listening to me, and I truly think had a look of relief and understanding on her face after she heard the news.  She did not cry.  A little while later, when we left, I hugged her again and told her I loved her and that Dad loved her and that we did not want her to worry. 

In the days that followed and over the course of the next two months, the nurses reported that she was sleeping better and was much less anxious.  She required fewer medications and wasn't crying anymore.  We like to think it was because she understood that her son loved her until he took his last breath and that, given the information about what had happened to Dad, she was able to hold onto the belief that he had gone on ahead but was waiting for her in heaven. 

To Be Continued - Part 4 of Grandmom's Story, Coming Soon