On July 22nd of this year, my Mom celebrated five years having quit smoking. I refer to that day as the day she almost died. (If you’ve never read that entry, please do. It’s one of the ones I’m proudest of.) That day and the months that followed have been on my mind a lot since Senator Johnson made his first public appearance after his aneurysm in December. Although his aneurysm was not the same as my Mom’s - the comments from him and his family indicate the recovery process has been similar. One of his son’s said something about how in the beginning, they weren’t thinking about whether or not he’d recover, they just wanted him to make it through the night. And, my god, do I remember that.

When I first saw my Mom in ICU after her aneurysm, she called me by her sister’s name. I remember immediately fearing the worse. Thinking that small mistake meant all was lost. Little did I realize - that mistake would be the high point over the next few weeks. My brother was living in Seattle and didn’t make it to see her until several hours after I did. By the time he got to her, she was no longer aware or awake enough to speak. She was on a ventilator and was unconscious. I remember feeling awful he didn’t get to hear her talk to him one last time. I began to cherish the memory of her calling me, “Sarah” - because at least it was something.

Four weeks after my Mom’s aneurysm, she was still in ICU at Vanderbilt, and her case worker was helping me find an assisted living facility here in Huntsville to place her in. She was going to need constant medical attention for the rest of her life. The were still talking partial paralysis and possible brain damange. I put a deposit down on a lovely place near my home. It was all very surreal.

Then, within a few days she was awake and talking. Even trying to walk, although her muscles weren’t cooperating after 5 weeks of being in bed. She was recovering. The deposit check was torn up and we, instead, put her in a rehab hospital where they could help speed her physical and mental recovery. It was then - five weeks after her aneurysm - that I actually started thinking about the things the Senator’s son spoke of: Would she recover?

My Mom and I have a unique relationship. She and my Dad split when I was young and I lived with my Dad, seeing my Mom every other weekend. We probably have become closer in the last 10 years than when I was a child. We have more of a friendship than a mother/daughter relationship. So, when she came to live with me for 4 weeks after getting out of the rehab hospital, that was the most consecutive time we had spent together since I was six. My brother was living there too - helping take care of things during the day while MrZ and I were at work. It was a very full apartment and we were bursting at the seems. But I cried the day they went back to Knoxville.

I cried because I loved being so close to her - something I didn’t really experience growing up. I cried because I was amazed by the miracle that was her recovery. I cried because we had survived. We all had. We had lived together: She, my brother and I, for four weeks and no one killed themselves or anyone else. My Mom was “better” - she had danced with death and then simply moved onto dance with life again. Simple as that.

As the years pass, I still feel like I’m taking it all in. My Mom is at her office, doing her job today. The same job she was doing the day before the aneurysm. With most of the same people. People who essentially saved her life because the sent someone to her apartment when she still wasn’t at work by 9am. She’s living in the same apartment, with the same dog. Other than two shunts from her skull that no one can see now with her full head of hair - she is essentially the same person she was before that day in July, five years ago.

Except she’s no longer smoking. So she smells a lot nicer.

If I could tell Senator Johnson’s family anything - it would be to simply hang in there. The language is the slowest to return. My Mom depended on the word “Sears” for weeks. If the word she needed wouldn’t come to her, she’d substitute it with the word “Sears” for no reason anyone can understand. We joke with her that she must have and a deeper shopping addiction than anyone realized. But - If the Johnson’s as blessed as we were - the language will return.

And I’d tell them not to forget this time. The recovery process. I sent daily emails out to friends and family throughout the ordeal with my Mom. Updating everyone on her status. I would kill to have copies of those emails today. None of us took any pictures during those weeks at Vanderbilt either. At the time, I guess, it seemed too morbid. But I wish I had some now. To remind us how far she has come. You’ll just have to trust me since I don’t have the pictures to show you. It was rough. There were two cranial surgeries - one to block the bleed and one to put in the shunts to drain the excess CS fluid. And four solid weeks on a ventilator. It was not pretty. But knowing she’s sitting in her office, at her desk, less than 300 miles away, working like nothing had ever happened? That is a beautiful thing.

I want to say “Happy Fathers Day!” to the two Dads in my life. First? To the man pictured above: My Dad. The older I get, the more of him I see in me. This is both good (see: love of maps, enjoyment of the outdoors, and dedicated parenting) and bad (see: the need to pick up every “pretty” rock I find, my aversion to dusting, and a slightly corny sense of humor) but I’ll take it all. I do feel the constant need to apologize to him for been a jackass in my tweens, however. And although he’ll deny I ever was - I do recall not sitting near him when we went to a movie together. And if that’s not jack-assy, I’m not sure what is.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Feel free to be too embarrassed to sit next to me the next time we see a movie together.

Next, of course, is to my glorious husband - who is both a father and a step-father - and has risen to both challenges equally. My favorite quality about him is that he quickly drops all hopes of dignity when asked to do something by his kids. He has done everything from pretend to be various Sailor Moon characters to wearing a 1980s-era women’s skort outfit for the sake of stepfatherdom. And to make his step-son smile. (It’s just really hard to say, “No” sometimes, isn’t it?) (And no - no pictures of either.) (Well - there are, but if I showed you he’d divorce me by Tuesday.) And as a father? He’s changed poopy diapers and taken puke-patrol. He’s picked out cute (although possibly mismatched) outfits and blown-dry hair. He plays in the kiddie pool and rocks baby dolls. He has proven since the day I met him that he understands there is a certain amount of masculinity sacrificed when being a Dad - but what he doesn’t know - is it makes him look so much stronger when he does.

Happy Father’s Day, Babe. No one rocks the skort suit like you do.

My brother and I are very close. We always have been. Even when we were trying to kill each other. I spent many years of my life beating him senseless. It’s a good thing he outgrew me early on, or he may have never made it to adulthood.

As adults, we are very good friends. My brother is a huge motivation for this crazy idea I had to run this damn marathon next week. We talk as regularly as our lives allow and we visit when we can. I consider him one of my best friends, and definitely tops the list of my phone calls when I need counseling. The last time we were together was when I went to Tucson to run the half marathon. If you’ll recall, my brother decided to run it with me and talked his girlfriend into it the night before. This girl - ran the half marathon on a whim because he thought it would be fun. Did she train? No. But she jumped into it without hardly any hesitation. And y’all - she did amazing. She finished right behind me but I’m certain she could have beaten me if she wanted too. It amazed me. And you know the best part about her? My favorite thing about this woman? She was encouraging me to scream the f-word as I crossed the finish-line. That’s my favorite kind of cheerleader.

If you’ll remember, she also gave me my first wine lesson and helped me find a wine I actually like: Riesling. She didn’t balk at my ignorance like someone else in the car did when I said that the only wine I knew was White Zin. She patiently listened to what I liked and even picked out a few for me to try before I decided on the Riesling.

I’m telling you how awesome she is - because she is now my future sister-in-law.

She and my brother went to Rome last week - and he was planning on proposing there. Unfortunately - the romantic situations he had imagined were all foiled due to crowds, weather, crowds, and exhaustion. This is how he explains that it went after several days of failing to find the perfect moment:

This was the end of our days in Rome, I had yet to ask T to marry me and we only had hours left.

T wanted to have dinner in this small restaurant we had seen the first night. A brilliant idea because although the restaurant was next to the ever-popular Trevi fountain, it was in this small alley with small tables, an elegant menu, wonderful bathrooms, and solitude. Then the rain came and emptied the streets and all the tables outside except ours. This was our first time in Rome where the only sound was each other. We began to talk about our relationship, our love, our future and I asked T to marry me. Along with all the amazing things we had seen in those three days it was perfect. Perfect not in the years it took to build or the genius it took to design, but in the way that we finally had the time alone to share our thoughts about love, marriage, and our future. Where everything but love falls away and you can see nothing but the happiness you share and will always share. Amazingly, this was actually that time in my life where my fairytale happened, and my heart committed to its long awaited match. We spent the next several hours enjoying the environment, the feelings, the emotions, and the moment that we never thought would find us.

DUDE. How amazing is that? THAT’S MY LITTLE BROTHER. I have pictures of him in purple MC Hammer pants! And there he is all grown up and proposing to the love of his life in Rome. Being all romantic and shit!

But seriously? I am so happy. T is everything I would have pictured my brother’s wife would be. She’s gorgeous, classy, smart, and most importantly: DAMN HILARIOUS. She kept me cracking up the whole time we were visiting in Tucson. This is awesome because my brother is one of the funniest guys I know - so the two of them together? Double the fun. I’ve only spent a few days with her but I already feel like she is part of our family. That’s how naturally she fits in with us.

I’m hoping she’ll be able to make it to the marathon next week - but it is still up in the air since she travels so much for her job. MrZ and the kids haven’t met her yet - but I know they’ll love her too.

Welcome to the family, T. I’m very happy none of us scared you out of saying yes to my brother when he asked you to marry him. I know you will be happy together. You make him smile in a way I have never seen before. Thank you for that. Thank you for giving him the happiness he deserves. And let me know if he acts up at all, he may be bigger, but he’s still a wuss and I can totally kick his ass for you.

My brother went to Chicago last weekend to run the Chicago Marathon. I woke up Friday night hearing my phone vibrating because I had a text message from him: Hey - Are you up?

I wasn’t sure if he was having pre-race jitters and needed encouragement from the a fine athletic specimen like myself (Why are you laughing?) so I texted back: Yeah - what do you need?

Him: What was the name of the gum with the juicy middle?
Me: Funny. That’s exactly what I thought you were going to say. I cant remember. But now it’s bothering me too.
Him: Was it tidal wave?
Me: Eh. I don’t know…

It turns out it was called Freshen Up. I have no idea what prompted him to wonder this a midnight two nights before he was supposed to run 26 miles. I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter because we quickly switched to texting about how he didn’t get invited to his 10-year reunion and I blamed it on his class being a bunch of douchebags. I actually used the word “douchebags” which took me 20 minutes to text because I’m SLOW and LAME. The funny thing is, I was texting someone else yesterday (What is with me and the texting? I’m so hip!) and I was saying something about an EMT but my cell-phone popped up “douchebag” as an option.

And you know? I find comfort in knowing that my cell now has “douchebag” stored in the dictionary for any future needs. It makes my world feel a little safer.

My Dad is the youngest of nine kids. Since he was the youngest, my brother and I were in the trailing end of the grand-kids. By the time we were old enough to form memories of annual family gatherings, the older grand-kids had stopped attending those reunions due to jobs and school obligations. There were only a few events where almost everyone attended, but most of my memories of visiting his family revolve around the few people who lived in the area we gathered.

As an adult, when I would attend reunions in Tennessee, I often stayed with one of my Dad’s brothers who lived in the area where we gathered - Uncle Tommy. I have no idea what he was like as a brother, a son, a father, or a husband. But - he was the perfect example of that Cool Uncle who drinks beer, smokes cigarettes, and laughs in a way that - even though you weren’t old enough to get the joke - you still laughed at it because the laughter itself was so contagious. My dad laughs the same way.

My uncle complimented my ankle butterfly tattoo the first time he saw it.

Like my father, he was a jack-of-all trades. All three of the brothers were. It comes with growing up on a farm with nine kids, I guess. You learned to do what needed to be done to keep everything running smoothly. My Dad tells stories of milking cows before school. I can’t even get LilZ to shower in the mornings, much less do an outdoor chore. Hell - I wouldn’t even be able to get myself to do any outdoor work in the mornings.

I remember always being amazed that my uncle pretty much built his house himself. It was a big house for their four kids. It was two stories (or was it three?) and he did it himself. For a city girl like me, I found this almost miraculous.

He was also a craftsman. There were always baskets of yarn around my uncle’s easy chair. I think that is why receiving this blanket from him meant so much to me. He liked to build birdhouses as well, though I never did get to see those. I did get to see one of his handmade porch swings and wondered how many people were in line for those things as it seemed everyone in the family was asking when theirs would be done. We’re a demanding bunch.

He had the same sense of humor that my Dad and the rest of the family have. When we all get together, I just enjoy sitting back and listening to them all bounce stories and humorous commentary off of each other. My uncle referred to their Dad as “the Old Man” - but he managed to load the phrase with a tone of respect that kept you from even flinching at the term. There were stories floating around at the last gathering of how, when he would go to help certain female senior citizens in the community, they would always send him away with more food than he knew what to do with. He had that jovial charm that probably caused the women around the county to hand over any baked good or preserves they could whip up while he was helping them. I think most of it ended up at our gatherings.

His kids were amazing kids and have all become interesting and fun adults. I haven’t seen his son in awhile, but his three daughters were at the last gathering and they rib each other in the same way my Dad and all of his siblings do. It’s fun to see them give their Dad a hard time and have him dish it right back. They had a great dynamic about them that was always fun to be a part of. I’ve always been grateful that we live so close to where they all meet up every spring, especially now.

It turns out my uncle passed away this weekend. I wish I had found a way to let him know how cool of an uncle he was. Our family is not one to be too mushy when it comes to affection, but it doesn’t make me wish I had shared my thoughts any less. It’s funny how it is so easy to just not tell people what you love about them because they are so distant to you 350+ days of the year. But, if those few days a year we see someone are enough to build that admiration and affection, we should share it with them. Maybe that will be a good New Year’s resolution - take a moment to tell those in my extended family what I love about them. Let them know how they play a part in my memories or my idea of family. I guess life is short enough that no amount of “We’re just not that kind of family…” is really justifiable when it comes to delaying sharing affection.

You made me laugh, Uncle Tommy. Fare the well.