PlazaJen’s Blog

1. My blog has been jacked up. For quite a while. I apologize, but the efforts I made with my host to restore it ended up failing. I thought I had at least one database that could back up everything at least through October, but that also proved fruitless. Data data everywhere, but not a point restore.

2. THANK GOD for Google Reader. Kids, this saves the universe. Yes, I’ve had to rebuild everything – but all my lost posts were still cached & sitting there on Google Reader.

3. So all the posts just got back. I still don’t have a home page (WTF) but all the posts are back – sans comments, unfortunately, and it breaks my heart, because there were a couple posts with some heartfelt, treasured comments.

4. Always do regular backups!

I am brimming over at this point. My emotional bucket has reached capacity. A friend of mine posted this on Facebook last night, and I surprised myself at how hard I laughed. To the point I was trying to hold my eyes open because I was physically scrunching up my face so much, I couldn’t see. I hope it at least gives you a chuckle. (The “ok” hand gesture set me over the edge, I think.)

I sat here as the sun slid down across the horizon and whispered to myself, “I feel….” and waited. Waited for the right word to come forward. Eventually it did, and the word was “grateful.”

I’m grateful for the comments, messages and kind words that were sent my way in the hours since I hit “publish” on my post about suicide & depression.

I have written that post a thousand times in my head and my heart. I felt that I’d finally reached a point, where you just drop it all, the fears, the baggage, the pain, the vulnerability, and just speak from the heart, hoping to hell it doesn’t backlash on you in some unforeseen way, but also out of exhaustion from carrying it all these years. Even in the brevity of the moment, my teflon-coated heart braced for the worst. Especially as I saw the number of visitors climb, higher by the hour, in fact, the highest amount of traffic I’ve ever seen on my blog.

It never came. There’s been silence, sure. Some people just don’t know what to say. I get that. This isn’t funny or comfortable or easy.

So, thank you. Thanks for your comments, the love, for your own stories – from so many perspectives. It really comes down to the ability to give voice to that pain, to try and take away the shame, to recognize that so many people’s lives are intersected by depression, suicide, mental illness, whether their own or a loved one. While it’s sad to see there are so many people in that shared space, it’s also oddly comforting, because I know only too well that it’s 100x worse when you feel like you’re alone. My soul aches for everyone’s struggles and sadness, but my spirit soars to see and hear the conversations, the new openness that  freed them to speak and acknowledge their own journey or a family member’s. I know there are a lot of hearts out there that hurt, that are aching right here in our city. My heart still rails against reality, thinking somehow we could turn back the clocks, stop time, save these men from their demons.  I hear Auden in my head, a drumming poem of grief.

Two nights ago, I made a promise to my husband, one we shared equally, that if it ever feels that bad in the future, to speak up. Just say something. No judgment, no arguments, no criticism, just wave the flag. I hesitated for a moment – because I know how hard it is to really do it, especially in that hard, painful space. I also knew that if I made that promise, I’d have to keep it. Could I keep it? I promised I would.

I’m heartened by the conversations I’ve seen in the media, speaking so openly and frankly about depression. Included in that discussion has been the encouragement to seek help, keep seeking help, keep searching, find a way to stay alive and get through it all. Make that promise, if you’ve seen even a small bit of yourself in all of this. To yourself, to your partner, to a friend or family member, just make it. Promise to wave the flag. Keep your promise. Please.

“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.”

Emily Dickinson

Today started with me rolling out of bed, and shortly thereafter, walking into the living room. My husband was folding laundry and had an inscrutable look on his face.

“You’re never going to guess who’s dead,” he stated.

I responded, “Patrice O’Neal? That happened yesterday.”

“Nope. Don Harman.”

And it felt like the floor fell out from under me. The first thought I had was for his little girl, so young. In some ways, she is spared the heartache her mother will carry for the rest of her life. Of course, like everyone else, we searched online for answers, and waited for more news to unfold, wondering if there would or could be any sort of an explanation for why a man in his prime, at the pinnacle of his career, could possibly be dead and by his own hand.

(For those who aren’t in Kansas City, or those who eschew morning news, Don Harman was the meteorologist for WDAF, Fox 4. We switched to Fox mornings after KCTV fired their morning crew, and laughed along with the team who consistently pulled in the #1 ratings in the market for their daypart.)

This is the second high-profile suicide here in two months, the first being John McClure, chef at Starker’s Reserve, about to open a second restaurant and arguable, at the top of his game as well.

And for the second time, I read comments from people online and winced. Sure, there are always assholes trolling around. But I have to say, for anyone out there who calls someone’s suicide “selfish”, let me gently try to convince you it’s the wrong word. I started to write this last month, and pushed it aside, telling myself it was too personal, it wouldn’t make a difference. But I’m not going to care about that part, because frankly, it’s too damned important, and it’s too damned frustrating to see another good person get sucked under by the undertow of pain.

There have been times in my life when I’ve known that pain, where the depression, self-hatred, bleakness all swirl together and try to drown you. I can tell you that in those raw moments, it is truly moment-to-moment. The pain is excruciating. The mind plays tricks, tells lies, and you are in a free fall into the abyss. There’s a reason the Greeks invented The Furies – mythical demons that chase you and hound you until you can no longer live. I come by it honestly. My father told me of times in his life, when he had the barrel of a shotgun in his mouth, tears streaming down his face, as he looked at death and saw it as a viable alternative to how he was feeling. Depression is not something that can always be overcome by force of will or temperament. There are many types of depression, there are just as many treatments. What I’m sick of is the accusations – or worse, silence – that surround the depths of depression in this country and the judgment and misunderstanding that cause it.

And this time of year is the worst. Expectations don’t match reality. Memories of people we’ve lost loom larger in the doorway, the hole they left behind seemingly infinite. Everyone expects happy, magnetic people to always be happy and magnetic. It’s hard to live that prescription every day – and unrealistic. People can tell you that you have everything to live for, even make you lists, but when the pain is so great, you can’t hear them. You can’t give credence to anything, because those people don’t fully comprehend how worthless you actually know yourself to be.

This is the best one-line summary of what suicidal feelings are like that I’ve found:

Suicide is not chosen; it happens when pain exceeds resources for coping with pain.

This summation, along with some really sensible advice for anyone who has suicidal feelings, can be found HERE. Want to talk to someone? Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Want even more resources? Here’s a good place to start.

Does this mean Don’s wife, co-workers should have done something, could have done anything to change what happened? No. But until we remove the stigma of what it means to be depressed, until we are all better educated on what to do or what to say, it’s worth taking thirty minutes out of your week to do a little reading, possibly challenge some ideas or beliefs that keep you biting your tongue, or telling yourself it’s none of your business.

You wouldn’t tell a man with a broken leg to “walk it off”, would you? You can’t tell someone who’s depressed to “just get over it.”

Goddammit.

Dear Don, You were part of my mornings, your cranky rants and willingness to laugh at yourself resonated in me, and so many others. I wish to hell we could have reached you in time. I’ll never forget meeting you (forgive the bad cameraphone picture below), and I’ll hope that somehow, some way, in some strange twist of fate, that losing your light can somehow save someone else from following you into that terrible, terrible darkness. You are missed. More than you ever believed possible.

Two blurry people. They look happy, right? Sometimes you just can’t tell.

Dear Kansas City,
Thank you for being the most welcoming city I’ve ever known. I moved here fourteen years ago, and granted, I’ve never lived outside the Midwest, but I have to say, you had me at “Hello.”
Because that’s what people do here. They say “Hello!” or, like I was just greeted at Price Chopper by a fellow shopper on Thanksgiving Morning, “Happy Thanksgiving, you have a great day!” and even if you’re in line at the bank and you can’t remember the name of the movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sharon Stone and it was sci-fi, what was it? The couple in the car next to you will listen to your question without a strange look on their faces, and answer, “Total Recall?” and smile and wave and laugh as you exclaim happily, “OH YEAHHHH!”
I’ve lived in a tiny town, where my father knew before I even got home that I’d left the gym during the basketball game and went to a classmate’s house. I’ve lived in the frozen tundra of the Twin Cities, still dear to my heart, but the Norwegian spirit is strong there, and everyone is a lot happier if you stay at arm’s length and just talk about the weather..if you have to talk at all. I even did a short stint in Des Moines, which is probably a great place to be white, straight, married and work in insurance, and a couple years in St. Louis, where it’s more important to know what high school you went to than what you accomplished since you left that chapter in your life. St. Louis was probably the loneliest city for me – at least the arm’s length of Minnesota was less present in my social circles there, and many of my college alumni were there, providing something of an instant connection.
So then I came to Kansas City, where people were friendlier than I’d seen before, and a co-worker (Greg!) invited me to a party with his friends, and another co-worker invited me to her party, and you had the sense that this was a city that was comfortable in its own skin. Nobody needed to see your pedigree, know what your parents did, determine if your job was successful enough to be part of their circle. Spotted someone on the outskirts, looking like they want to come in? Pull up a chair, friend. There’s plenty on the table. We’re not fancy, or elitist, or consumed with fame or movie stars. We like a matching track suit, maybe a nice watch. Comfortable shoes, thanks. We’ve worked hard to get what we have, and we enjoy -and take pride in- the fact we’ve got a nice assortment of international and national companies who call this area their home. (Sprint, Hallmark, H&R Block, Cerner, Interstate Bakeries, DST Systems, AMC Movies, Crayola, Bushnell, HNTB, just to name a few.)
Despite the fact I hated small-town life and the nosiness and sameness of a small circle of people, I love the fact that Kansas City “gets smaller” every year. I know the name of my favorite bagger at my grocery store. I can walk into a restaurant, and run into someone I know. Faces grow familiar. The sense of community is strong. Yet I can look out our big picture window, see only a giant hackberry framed in the stark November light, and feel comfortably isolated from the rest of the world. We’re tried and true, salt of the earth, perhaps kept in check by our Midwestern roots, open to new …everything. People, tastes, foods, stores, adventures, all of it. I met my husband here, we’ve raised our dogs here, built a community of like-minded friends who love tomatoes and (or) knitting, loads of memories and experiences intertwined with this location.

So when I heard this piece on NPR the other morning, talking about the profitable & successful Sprint Center as a contrast to the stadium woes currently being felt around the country due to the NBA lockout, I felt a lot of pride in this town where I’ve put down roots. People I know through the internet sometimes dismiss our midwestern style, they eye our jeans and college sports sweatshirts and think to themselves how quaint we must be, as they pat us on the head and mutter, “Fly-over country.” What’s funny (and keeps us from punching them) is that they don’t realize we know they think this. And because we were raised to be self-sufficient, hospitable and arguably, stoic, we just bite our tongues, and tell them to pull up a chair, join us at the table, while they wait to get somewhere seemingly more important.

I had been chatting with a a sales rep friend a while back, muttering about our equally long careers in this business. We’ve been through the ups & downs – employed, unemployed, good employers, less-than-good… In that conversation, I said, “Glen? You know what we are? We’re resilient. No matter how many times we get knocked down, challenged by what life throws our way, we just get back up and keep on walkin’.” And that’s really what it’s all about in the end, isn’t it? How we choose to act in the face of adversity, and the graciousness with which we accept the bounty that is earned and given to us.

I started my new job last week. You always have your first set of challenges – how do I dial the phone? Will I remember anyone’s name tomorrow? And then the real work begins, and yes, I’m in the early glow of New Job! New Challenges!, life is good, I love the work I’ve been given to do, and am going to be working with a great group of people – at my job, my clients, and my vendor partners. On that first day, I also got a curve ball: my uncle -I haven’t seen or spoken with in ten years- called to ask if my mother was with me, because she was missing. Had been missing since the previous Wednesday.

Long story short, her drinking had escalated. Now, mind you, the parents I grew up with? Rarely over-indulged in alcohol. Everything in moderation. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen my mom even tipsy. I knew that her drinking had increased as their marriage declined, and there had been a rather dire incident after the divorce, where her consumption of 750ml of vodka left her hospitalized with a 0.48 Blood Alcohol level, and at that time – 10 years ago – I got her enrolled in Hazelden, working with her hospital social worker, but in the end, she wriggled out of it. I threw my hands in the air. We’re stubborn, both of us, but I’m smart enough to know when the effort is wasted. If there’s one thing I learned from my own childhood, it’s that you cannot change another person, no matter how hard you try.

This – this was something new. My uncle was worried, and I quickly became worried as well. She was reported as a missing person. Endangered to herself. Somewhere out there with her car, and a cell phone that had been turned off. No bank account activity. No word from a single friend back home.

The days went by. Conversations with a Chief Deputy, confirming the national APB that was now out. Paperwork was filed to begin accessing her credit cards, hoping for some sort of indication – anything – that would tell us she was at least alive. I’ve never been through something like that before. I hope I never have to go through it again. Staring at pages online of other faces, people who vanished and gone for years, wondering if this was the future for me. Fearing a terrible accident, so devastating her car had left the road and was hidden in a thicket somewhere, somehow invisible, was she hurt, was she dead. Was she dead. Would we ever know.

Thankfully, last Sunday, a sharp-eyed cop in a nearby city spotted the make and model of my mother’s car, in the parking lot of a motel. Ran the plates, got a hit. Found.

Eleven days, ten nights. Sounds like my dream of a vacation, preferably in Tahiti. She spent it in a blackout, ordering food and pouring alcohol into her body. I feel strangely detached, just writing and sharing that. It’s in sharp contrast to the high anxiety from last week, that’s for sure. I don’t know who that person is, the one with a car full of beer cans and wine bottles, driving drunk and risking her life as well as others’. It’s not really detachment, I suppose. It’s the fortress I built long ago, appearing out of the mist. Reminding me that I put up these walls to protect myself from a different dynamic. And even from that distance, I do love her. I wish things could be different, of course, but right now, her journey needs to focus on herself. She was hospitalized, agreed to enter rehab, and yesterday, she entered a facility where I hope she can start her life anew in different direction. I feel old. Older than her. Older than everyone involved in this. Perhaps because I see my utter powerlessness. There are only so many times you can try to do the work for someone else before you see you’re carrying water in a sieve. I quit clocking in next to Sisyphus a long time ago.

That said. If anyone can do it, it’s her. After all, she was the one with the indomitable spirit my whole childhood, digging in her heels, getting back on the horse that threw her, no job nor mountain too big to be tackled. I hope she can find that resiliency and optimism she so carefully cultivated in me.

Me? It’s been a rough couple of weeks.

But I’m good. It’s good.

Many thanks to be given.

Much terrain to survey.

Miles to go before I sleep.

Tomorrow, I start my new job! I had started a conversation with a former colleague a year ago, and he had said then he wanted to add media to their agency, but they just weren’t ready. In the meantime, I took a job that let me work from home, and my new co-workers and clients were awesome. So it wasn’t the easiest decision to make when the opportunity from a year ago came to fruition, but in the end, I knew I had to take it because if I didn’t, I’d always wonder and possibly regret not taking the chance. I’m excited, it’s starting from scratch, but I believe it’s going to be a great job. The commute is crazy – all three minutes of it! We joked about me requiring a fuel stipend. And, they picked up a huge account this past Thursday, so I’m going to be a little crazed this first week – heck, the way my home phone and email blew up from certain reps that afternoon, I know I’ll be spending quite a bit of time on the phone!

In other adventures, we’re hosting Thanksgiving this year, so I’m pondering the menu, as well as getting the house clean by then. I keep debating on whether or not to have turkey, or something different. (Any ideas? Don’t say turducken!)

I took this past week off and spent a fair amount of time in my head, pondering current things, pondering the future, not getting as much done as I’d hoped to, but finally making headway with my laundry, at least. (That was the biggest “con” of leaving a work-from-home job: more laundry! Even I knew that wasn’t significant enough to sway my decision!) I think I want to challenge myself to share more, especially through my blog, but trying to be careful not to be passive/aggressive about it. There are a lot of things that still piss me off, or still hurt, whether from people’s actions/inactions or certain former employers/colleagues. I think what has emerged is a clearer understanding that all I can be sure of is where I stand, and what lies ahead. I think the downside of feeling like you’re on the outside looking in is that you feel excluded, or like you’re missing something you thought you wanted or something you once had. Or still want, but only if given. Certain pains are familiar, the reverb goes straight to the core, you wonder why you’re going through this all over again, yet things you don’t want to be cyclical are just that.

Today, I’m turning around, because the rest of the world is actually right there behind me, on “the outside.” New doors will open, undoubtedly. Maybe some old ones, too. I just know that I’m walking through a new one tomorrow, and it gives me hope.

The Wo and I went to Red Snapper for dinner the other night, before heading over to Starlight to see the Night Ranger, Foreigner & Journey concert. It was more of a “listen”, since most of the original band members are long gone, but they’ve gotten good replacements and all the songs sounded just like they did on the radio, 20+ years ago. Journey, of course, was the most fun – lots of tunes that take you back to being young and clueless, though I think “Don’t Stop Believin’” is now associated more with the Sopranos than anything else. It was bittersweet, because I listened to Journey’s Greatest Hits album a ton after my dad died, so even though I had the association of songs with being in high school, I also had the correlation to driving around and crying. Anyhoo, it was nice to have my husband’s arm around me as the crowd swayed, real lighters were held up to the sky, and we all sang along to those familiar songs.

But back to dinner. I opened my fortune cookie first, and it said “Happy news is on its way to you.” I read it aloud, said something to the effect of “That’s good,” and waited to hear what the Wo’s was. He opened his, read it, and then said, “You will be the bearer of happy news.” I was like, ZOMG! That is SO AWESOME! And he studied his for a little while longer, and then tossed it down.

I eagerly snatched it up, because if that was not a picture opportunity waiting to happen, I don’t know what is, and immediately my brow furrowed, because I could see his fortune had a LOT more words than what he’d spoken. “Dude. What the hell. That’s not what your fortune says.”

He didn’t even realize I’d fallen for it! But I had. While he laughed, I explained, earnestly, why I thought it was SO EPIC, and yes, I was disappointed because, DUDE, the universe was saying HAPPY NEWS IS COMING, and while I don’t put much stock in fortunes or horoscopes, I was entertained that we would manage to get such symbiotic messages.

Alas, it was not to be. But, I’m ultimately an optimist, and I’m also pretty confident – so I actually know some good news will be coming my way really soon, and if a slip of paper wants to echo that sentiment, excellent.

I realize I’m a slacker with my blog. I think part of me was surprised to discover people read it? I mean, I know my friends sometimes read it, my husband keeps up, family does here & there, but after several people told me randomly they follow my blog, I realized I started writing (and not writing) with the audience in mind, deciding how much I did (and usually didn’t) want to share. I guess that’s the thing about blogging, huh? You go out on the front porch & play your banjo, and you just don’t know who-all is listening. Most of me doesn’t really give a shit, but the part of me that’s been stepped on, blindsided and where the memories of the personal hurts reside? That part has held me back. It’s not about work, really, it’s not about politics – it’s just…. finding the balance of giving, taking the time to find the words, deciding if something’s REALLY that funny, or did you just have to be there?

But then I look over my shoulder, at even just the past few weeks, and I think, ok, haven’t blogged about the Caffeine Crawl. Haven’t told you about how I went to prison this summer (just visiting!), haven’t chortled at the misfortune of those who deserve it (well, ok, maybe that’s one of those things I shouldn’t share…too often.) Sometimes I want to use my blog to twist the knife, because if you’re really still reading it, I want you to know I think [your baby is ugly] [your husband thinks you're nuts] [you're the reason you're unhappy] [man I can be a bitch]…. ha! So I edit myself. It’s the long pauses in my head, the ones that took me so long to recognize and hear, that say “Don’t say that out loud.” or “Maybe just let that go.” But typing those things out sure did make me laugh.

Maybe that’s all part of it, too. The Wo and I have been together over 11 years. We have thousands of inside jokes accumulated, and it’s one of the elements of our marriage that I treasure – we know how to make each other laugh, we know how to prank each other, and it’s never done with malice.

And it’s why, as we were standing side-by-side under the stars, singing “Faithfully” in a sea of 8,000 people, that when we got to the part in the song where he sings, “I get the joy of re-discovering you…” I started to shake. Wo was alarmed a bit, at first, thinking perhaps I was having an Emotional Outburst. But instead, I was shaking with laughter, thinking of our dog Tripper, who, whenever we pull out the couches and chairs and unearth the bones of days gone by, seizes on one with great gusto, and as only this dog can do, rockets it all the way to the back of his jaw and rolls it while biting at it, resulting in the stupidest dogface ever, combined with a crazy rattling sound of bone-hitting-teeth repeatedly. The first time it happened, James said something about them rediscovering the bones, and I immediately started singing, “I get the joy of rediscovering bone,” to that very Journey song. Because that’s what we do, song-association, all the time.

The girl can’t help it.

We had the good fortune to see the Foo Fighters last night at the Sprint Center.

Oh. Mah. God.

They blew the roof off the joint! Dave Grohl stopped after the first four songs and told the audience that they were gonna play a fuckin’ long show. They weren’t going to play some piddly-ass hour & a half show, they had 16 years of music and they were gonna play as long as they fucking wanted to. (He dropped F-bombs in almost every sentence, which instantly endeared him to me.)  They did not short-change us on that promise. Two & a half hours later, they concluded a massive setlist that contained a six+ song encore, including three amazing acoustic versions with just Dave Grohl, doing what he does best – playing rock & roll, pouring his heart into those raw vocal chords, and being a kick-ass rock star who loves what he does and doesn’t seem to have been turned into an asshole by his fortune.

One of those acoustic songs was a song I’d forgotten had been my anthem when I worked at WGITWL (white guys in ties who lie) – and it brought tears to my eyes, all the emotion he can pour into his music, that you can still feel your soul vibrate without explosive guitars and Taylor Hanson’s spectacular drumming.

After the show, we were famished, having skipped dinner and bypassed the concessions; we contemplated a street cart hot dog before driving home, but when I heard “$6 for one”, I was having none of it. That would have to be one special motherfucking hotdog.

Instead, we went to Chubby’s on Broadway, where breakfast fare was had, the people-watching was spectacular, and the only blemish on the evening was the douchebag who parked so close to my car, I had to clamber into the driver’s seat from the passenger side. (Hope I dented your door, asshole!) Finally crawled into bed around 2 am, a little surprised at our late-night adventures. Not too shabby for a couple of middle-aged folks who are usually in bed by 9?

Before performing “These Days”, Grohl said it was his favorite song he’s written, and it’s a great song – powerful words about heartbreak, death, all the things you start to think about when you’re in your 40′s (as he is, as well) and you’re facing your own mortality and that of those you love, and still don’t want to go gently into that good night.

One of the great things about a band like the Foo Fighters is that they’ve had so many hits, so many great songs, that hearing them live and remembering the words and where you were when you were singing along in your car, at the top of your lungs, it does get a little nostalgic. Songs that aren’t in your “rotation” today come back and remind you of how much you enjoyed them, what your life was like, the person you were before you knew the things you know today. So – indulge my snippet from “Best of You”, the anthem I mentioned earlier. I fuckin’ love that song. Thanks, Foo. Thanks for an awesome night.

I’ve got another confession my friend
I’m no fool
I’m getting tired of starting again
Somewhere new

Were you born to resist or be abused?
I swear I’ll never give in
I refuse

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

~~~~~UPDATE: 8:51 am~~~~~~~~~~

Forgive me, I’m running on about 5 hours of sleep. But there was a lovely confrontation the Foo had with the idiots from WBC. He talked about it during the  show, and how they were calling him a “faggot” but smiling the whole time. Obviously, like 99% of the universe, he finds them as stupid and baffling and nonsensical. They heard they were going to be “protested” and so they dressed up like their current alter-egos, truckers, and sang ‘em a nice song about man-fucking. Here’s the video:

And since we’re talkin’ Foo Truckers…. here’s my REAL favorite… heh.

We spent last week, and much of the weekend, watching many of the programs dedicated to the memory of 9/11.

I spent a lot of time in tears, and despite that sadness, the explanation I have for that choice is simple. I feel, as a citizen of this country, that it is my duty to know as much as possible about what happened that day, and to never forget it.

Because here, in flyover country, that day was as blue as the skies in Manhattan.

And as I drove to work, listening to the DJs in confusion and not having anything visual to go on, I just kept  yelling, “WHAT IS GOING ON?” which probably sums up how most of America felt that day.

When the first tower fell, I was sitting in our conference room. My mind went blank and all I could think was, “All those people.” I started to cry. Nobody else was crying. I still don’t understand that, everyone around me was silent and stoney-faced.  Maybe it was the horror, the shock, just being in the workplace – but none of it was a barrier for me. I went to my office, shut the door, tried to call my friend still living in Manhattan. All the lines were down. (He was fine, I found out later.)

So I called my father. The man who always had an idea, a solution, greater knowledge of the world and what to do. This would be the only time in my life with him that he didn’t have an answer. “Why is this happening? What is going on?” I could see  him shaking his head as he told me he just didn’t know, that it was terrible and awful. Things we both knew, small words that couldn’t capture the enormity of it all.

I left work, listening now to reports that our president was flying all over the country, and I was angry. One of the shows we watched last week was on NatGeo, and it was an hour, interviewing George W. about that day, and despite my feelings about his politics in general, it was an excellent show. It really explained the chronology of events, how information was being gathered, how that day unfolded, how even our government was in shock, reacting, doing everything possible to keep our president out of harm’s way, while trying to prevent more of the same from happening.

Later that afternoon, I called James. We had been dating for two years. He still lived in Clinton. He described walking out onto the playground and looking up at the sky, seeing all the hairpin vapour trails from the planes that had left MCI, and then turned back around, grounded. Hearing the fighter jets take their place, departing out of Whiteman AFB.

For the rest of the night, I watched the news, horrified but unable to turn away. Also, unable to knit, I could only wind yarn. I still haven’t worked on that project, but for the first time, I think I can again.

Ten years later, all I’ve got is this: Love, Solidarity & Wisdom. They all came with a painful price tag.