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BACKSTORY TO TODAY’S STORY: When Noah was 10 weeks old, he had to have surgery. Specifically, he had to have a Craniotomy and Cranial Vault Reshaping of his sagittal suture and skull. This is when it all began.

I had suspected something was wrong from the beginning. He was 6 pounds, 1 ounce at birth, born with the cord around his neck, and with Apgar scores of 7. They improved after the first minutes, but that’s not exactly the beginning anyone pictures. He got jaundice immediately, in hindsight it was most likely because his brain wouldn’t tell him to wake up and cry when he was hungry. Then he got a fever, pretty high for an infant. And I started to notice his oddly shaped head wouldn’t stay up on his tiny little neck. (sorry, world, even though I adored him from the second he was conceived, he absolutely wasn’t a good looking baby at first. Reference the title)

And so our doctor and I went on a journey of discovery that led me to University of Michigan’s CS Mott Hospitals and the Pediatric Neurosurgery/Neurology department. (This Buckeye did not, in fact, get hives whenever we were there) Where, at 8 weeks old, he was diagnosed with a severe case of Sagittal Craniosynostosis and scheduled for surgery 10 days later, on August 10, 1997.

They did CAT scans of his skull and brain to map the surgery, and I received a call at 8:50PM on August 8, 1997 about those scans. Thankfully, I was already at my parents’ house; they were 30 min from Mott as opposed to the 2 hour, 45 minute drive I would have had coming from home (fun fact, I found out later that I could get there in 2 hours and 10 minutes if I needed to. Sorry/Not Sorry, Michigan State Police). The call I received was from a neurologist on Noah’s surgical team. I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember phrases: “never walk”, “never talk” , “severe seizures”, “severe Cerebral Palsy” and (vomit emoji), “institution”. I also remembered the diagnosis–Schizencephaly. Which, according to him, would lead to all the things listed above and more. However, post-surgery, Noah became a chubby-cheeked, orange-haired, cutie-pants little biscuit (ohhhh, that’s where that came from) who did All. The. Things. that the neurologist said he wouldn’t do, until he couldn’t do them anymore.

HERE’S TODAY’S STORY: This story is about my Grandma Mary S. and my godfather Bink (that’s his nickname). See, Uncle Bink had a diagnosis that led to severe disabilities toward the end of his life, and my Grandma had a lifetime of experience fighting the Others during 1940-1970’s (until 1975 to be exact). She had a lifetime of seeing beyond the diagnosis and into the boy and his potential.

One day, when I was tired, she sat me down at my parents’ kitchen table. Noah wasn’t even 2 yet, and I was battle weary. Fighting the Others is a full time job, on top of the full time jobs of parenting, caring for a sick child, and actually working a full time job. We talked, I cried, and she gave me some advice. Her advice was, basically “fuck the Others and laugh every day”. OK. So she didn’t say it exactly like that. Because I’m not sure Grandma ever swore in her life. Dad? Uncles?

She actually said something more like this: “The medical stuff is what it is. Accept it. Grieve it, in private where he can never see you, but accept it. If you don’t, he won’t, and then he will never be happy. He will always think there is something wrong with him. And there isn’t. You must accept it in order to focus on the battle for your boy. The Others set expectations from their stereotypical understanding of the disabled. They don’t do it out of malice, and they will never change their minds. And you will never change their minds, so your battle will never end. But never stop. Let them think you are “in denial” or that you are “that mom who doesn’t get it”. Because if Noah thinks, even for a second, that you have lowered the expectation, he will never know his true potential. He needs to understand that, despite what the Others think, you know and believe he can do it. Use his milestones met, no matter how little, to fuel your energy and to know you are right, not them. And, this is most important, you must find something, anything, to laugh about every single day. If you do not find the joy and laughter in each day, you will quickly drown and then where will that leave Noah?” My Little Biscuit chose to confirm her wisdom by walking, for the FIRST TIME, to HER, just a few months later.

I took that discussion and stored it in my heart. Noah and I followed it every day. Maybe our humor was inappropriate, but to borrow a phrase from my niece CGM, it was an us thing. You wouldn’t understand. And, whenever I would stray, or forget, or think I was just too tired to continue, Noah picked up a new skill. Or he would wander casually over to me and say something so very sarcastic I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Or he would ask me if he could read to me. Or he would give me a look, just a little sideways look (not the famous OHT side-eye of doom), when an Other was droning on, and on, and onnnnnnnn, that made me realize he got it. He knew that person was an Other, and he was going to give them his signature ninja-like dismissal. The one where the Other never knew he or she was being dismissed. And then my heart would settle, my soul would be energized, and we would move on. Hindsight shout out to my Grandma, who probably had something to do with all that from wherever good souls go after they leave our Earth.

So, I said all that to say this. Accept the things you cannot control. Grieve them if you must, but accept them. Dismiss the people who don’t believe in you because they are wrong. And, dear sweet Baby Jesus in the manger, find something, anything, to laugh about every damn day

Noah’s last four years were hard. No, that’s not the right word. What’s a word for hard times a billion? He started having seizures on March 23, 2012. His first one was atonic (formerly known as a drop attack) and lasted at least 6 minutes, maybe a little bit more. Scared the shit out of me, even though I knew they were a very real possibility for him. (He, of course, took it in stride). They started coming weekly in October 2012, and we added a second anti-seizure med. Tonic-Clonic seizures (formerly known as grand-mal seizures) came in January 2013, and we added a third. Then came absence seizures (formerly known as petit mal) and a couple other kinds, and they started coming daily, so we added a fourth. They started clustering, or occurring in nasty groups lasting for hours, and we added a Vagus Nerve Stimulator. Then they all started coming, multiple times daily, and we added the fifth and sixth meds. None worked with any major success, but they all worked together to keep the numbers down to less than a hundred a day. 

He stopped walking in 2013. He stopped talking in 2014. He stopped being able to control his bladder or bowel in 2014. He started getting hospital admission-level sick on a nearly monthly basis in 2014. Our Palliative Care Team came on board in November 2014.  He stopped being able to eat or drink in 2015. He stopped being able to participate in his care in 2015. His Palliative Care Team secured him a Wish Trip from Rainbow Connection in December 2015. Hospice was introduced in January 2016. And he died on February 19, 2016.

He was tired. All of that made him tired, and sick, and scared. Even though he NEVER said a word or voiced a complaint or acted out in any sort of cranky, tired, sick, scared, angry or bitter manner, I could tell. I could see it in his eyes, read it in his body, feel it in my heart and soul that he was. And in early February 2016, after a very scary hospitalization where seizures threw another curve ball at him–losing oxygen while seizing–I realized that I needed to explain to him what was happening. But how? I was barely able to process it myself, using my old friends Compartmentalization and Shove It In A Box to get through each day. So, in a rare moment for me, I asked his lifelong Physical Therapist, Ms. Colleen, for help. She had travelled the grief path herself, and I was hoping she had answers to the question I couldn’t even verbalize. And she did.

Find a book, she said. If you can, find Waterbugs and Dragonflies, by Doris Stickney. It explains the death and dying process in a simple and concrete way. Find it, buy it, and read it to him.

So I did. On February 12, a friend helped me find the book and buy it. I took him home, we cuddled up in his bed (a hospital bed by then) and I read it to him. 

His eyes lit up. He became energized, yet calm and unafraid in a way that I hadn’t seen in a year, except during his Wish Trip. He demanded that I read it over and over, pointing to the cover as soon as I closed it, taking my hand and trying to open it, and giving me his patented Side-Eye. We read it over and over, and over yet again. I finally asked him, “Noah, do you want to go be a dragonfly?” and with a sweetness and a surety that broke my heart, he signed yes.

7 days later, that’s exactly what he did. He left this earth to go be a dragonfly at 11:00 PM on February 19, 2016 at C.S. Mott Hospital, on our beloved and familiar 12 West. He went on his own terms, surrounded by people who he loved and who loved him. In typical Noah fashion, he gave one last powerful sign to me that the Others were not to be given any value whatsoever, and he slipped away while I held him close and told him I’d be OK. 

Now, I see dragonflies everywhere. I see them in places where and during times when they shouldn’t be, and it lifts me up. These Dragonfly Moments come with perfect timing, either real ones hovering about or gifts sent in the mail, laid on my desk, or hung on my horse’s stall. They come when I’m missing him most, when I’m facing a big change, when I’m questioning my pledge to live with authenticity, when I need a shot of joy and laughter, love and light, or when I need a kick in the ass to get brave, get up, and get on with it.  They serve as a reminder to me that life is to be lived, not to be observed and recorded. They remind me of an orange-haired teen who, even though he was sick, and he was given a brain that didn’t communicate with his body the way it is supposed to, lived life every day with joy and laughter, love and light. And more than a wee touch of smart-assed sarcasm. And, even though I know it’s whimsical and not data-driven and spreadsheet-recordable, I like to think that every time someone reports that they’ve seen a dragonfly (especially an orange or blue one), it is him, checking on that person, making sure they are behaving–but not too much. Because where’s the fun in that?

So, when you see a dragonfly, especially a blue or orange one, say hey to my boy and remember to live your life on your terms, with authenticity, with joy and laughter, love and light, and maybe a wee touch of smart-ass sarcasm.

When I was in college, I took a Psychology 101 class. I was young, I was excited about becoming a special education teacher, and I was so, so, naive. During this class, I learned the 5 stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance through the lens of a teenager with not a lot of life experience. I thought it was a straight line, right? First comes denial, then anger, then, then, then. And when a person arrived at the Promised Land, acceptance, all would be good and they would be OK again. Like finishing a book. Close the cover, and put the book on the shelf.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. So, so wrong. Grief isn’t a straight line for me. It isn’t a book to read, with a beginning, a middle and an end where all the ends are tied up and I emerge on the other side with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at a good story. It’s a giant fucking hairball of emotions, feelings, soul-sucking thoughts and pain that takes my very breath away. It’s also incredibly confusing for me. I like data, I like things I can see, and hear, and touch. Solid, tangible things that I can make sense of. I spent a lot of time in the beginning after Noah died trying to put this hairball into a format that I could understand. DABDA, right? A nice straight line in a format that I could understand. And where I could trust that there was an end. I can handle anything, no matter how painful, if I know it will end at some point.

Grief. Has. No. Format. I feel bad for my therapists, because they had to spend a lot of time in the beginning trying to gently (sometimes not so gently, and that’s OK) steer me toward that conclusion. Denial? Hell no. It’s not a “this didn’t happen” cloud of fuzziness. It’s a roaring scream of “how could this have happened? Why did Noah have to die? Who the hell approved the plan for him to live a truncated life that ended in pain, sickness, suffering, loss of independence?” Wrapped up in “Anger”. Far too mild of a word. It’s outrage. Black clouds rolling over my very being, wanting to rage at something or someone, to scream, to hurt, to lash out at anything and anyone, including myself, in order to release the pain of what happened. To release the valve. Bargaining? Sure, I want to strike that bargain–I’d give anything to have my son back where he belongs because he was supposed to outlive me, not the other way around. But bargain with who? God? The Universe? The rage usually lands on both God and the Universe, so no. Depression. Wrong word entirely for me. It’s an all-encompassing sadness, that is so great, deep, wide that doctors want to tell me it’s depression. It isn’t, and saying so is an insult to those who suffer from the very real medical condition. And finally, according to Kubler-Ross, the Endgame-acceptance.

Where in this model is Guilt? Guilt that I am here and he is not. That I am healthy, and strong, and he is and was not. The questions that come in the middle of the night or in the middle of a moment where the grief overwhelms me. Did I do enough? Did I not do enough? Did I give him the life he deserved, did we go enough places, see enough things? Did I fight the Others hard enough to make people see his true worth and true self? Should I have fought harder to keep him alive? Should I have fought less hard and let him go earlier? Is it OK for me to be happy? Millions more questions that have no answer. Read that again. They have no answer. I understand that now. They are not borne from my data-driven, observable and measurable soul, they come from the place of grief. Hearing an answer, knowing the answer doesn’t make them go away. They are a part of my grief.

My grief isn’t a straight line arrowing toward the acceptance of closure. It fits no model, or spreadsheet or article. It can’t. Grief journeys are as individualized as a fingerprint. For every person who has to carry it, it is different. We write about it, we post “how-to” articles, we try our hardest to put grief into a box or a book or a blog post (hah!) because I think we want to understand. I think we want to find that acceptance of closure. We for sure want to help our people know how to help us. But for me, there will never be the acceptance of closure like the end of a book or a relationship. My acceptance of this fact, that I will carry this grief with me for the rest of my life, has become my resting place. Until the next hairball of emotion hits, I rest there. My son Noah died. And it sucks, so much I sometimes have no words, that I curl in a ball of dark thoughts, stupid questions and overwhelming feelings, struggling with the pain that is bigger than the confines of my skin, and I wait for it to roll over me and away. When it does, then I can put the grief back into the container inside me where I carry it, and I can uncurl my body, get brave, get up and get on with it. The proof that these moments are coming less frequently, and the intensity of the wave is lessening helps the data-driven part of me. It is something I can measure, something I can observe, and something that makes the carrying just a little bit lighter.

Whew. That was hard to write, and while I’m glad I did, I don’t want to end on a dark and twisty note. So, let me take you to the song Noah and I used to call our Theme Song. It played this morning when I was on the Dreadmill, and it triggered me to come clean a little bit about my personal grief journey and write this post. This is the song he played when we needed a reminder to find the joy and laughter, love and light. OK, I needed the reminder, he never did. And it’s the song I cue up in the middle of the suck moments. Read it, enjoy the poetry, and go find it on the You Tube to listen to it. You won’t be sorry.

Life Ain’t Always Beautiful, sung by Gary Allan
Life ain’t always beautiful
Sometimes it’s just plain hard
Life can knock you down
It can break your heart.
Life ain’t always beautiful
You think you’re on your way
And it’s just a dead end road
At the end of the day.
But the struggles make you stronger
And the changes make you wise
And happiness has it’s own way
Of taking it’s own sweet time.
No, life ain’t always beautiful
Tears will fall sometimes
Life ain’t always beautiful
But it’s a beautiful ride.
Life ain’t always beautiful
Some days I miss your smile
I get tired of walking
All these lonely miles.
And wish for just one minute
That I could see your pretty face
Guess, I can dream
But life don’t work that way.
But the struggles make me stronger
And the changes make me wise
And happiness has it’s own way
Of taking it’s sweet time.
No, life ain’t always beautiful
But I know I’ll be fine
Life ain’t always beautiful
But it’s a beautiful ride.
What a beautiful ride
Source: LyricFindSongwriters: Tommy Lee James / Cynthia Evelyn ThomsonLife Ain’t Always Beautiful lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management

If you hung out with Noah for more than five minutes before he lost his voice, and he trusted you, he would inevitably say, “Let’s Play Music Quiz!” and hand you his most prized possession after Bear, his iPod. The headphones would be tangled into a giant knot because he only ever listened with one earbud in so he didn’t miss anything. But we all knew to not give in to the temptation to take the earbuds and try and untangle them, he had no time for that nonsense and you would get the gentle hand-over-hand combined with a side-eye directive to remove yours from them immediately. It wasn’t about the tangles, it was about him guessing the song you dialed up. (see pic, because it truly was a dial up situation). If my boy asked you to play Music Quiz, you were in. He didn’t hand that thing over to just anyone…..

This was his favorite, favorite, favorite game of all time. He would sidle up to me, and then he’d lean on me, hanging out for a second or a minute. Then, Boom, the iPod was in my face. I’d look over, and there he’d be, staring at me with his sparkly blue eyes. “Let’s Play Music Quiz, MOM!” would come out of his freckled face. How could anyone resist? I’d put down what I was doing, and we’d play until he got tired of showing off his expertise, take his iPod back and run off. He took great pride, I think, in being right all the time. 500+ songs. He knew each one well enough to sing them, every word, and he enjoyed them so much he knew who they belonged to and what they were called. We played it all the time, and if you were “in”, he’d play it with you.

So the game was played like this. You hid the tiny screen from him, dialed up a random song from his 500+ song library, and hit play. He had to guess the song. Simple, right? Here’s where it starts to get a little Universally Throat Punchy. He never. got. it. wrong. Never. It didn’t matter what song you picked, he got it right. And, he got it right within the first 7 seconds. How do I know that? Because, being the data whore I am, I kept track. Also, he never gave just the song title. He gave the song, the artist, and about 95% of the time, the album. The other 5%? Standalone songs.

Why is this Universally Throat Punchy? First, remember, this is the boy who would never walk, talk, read, write, sing, dance, or any of the other things THAT HE DID DO, thankyouverymuch. He was slapped with labels, preconceived notions, and lowered expectations practically from birth. Not only did he know those songs, he could sing them, he could manipulate the device needed to find them, he could read the information on a squinchy little screen, and he could do all of this independently. Take that, Others. Take that. Second, I have his songs in my iTunes now. Whenever I’m feeling some kind of way, I will say “Noah, give me a playlist”, and I will hit shuffle on his songs. Every single time, the playlist (of 500+ songs to shuffle) will spit out exactly what I need for that moment. If I’m feeling down and shame-spiraly, I get songs like “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, and “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction. If I’m missing him especially, I get all of “our” songs like “Home” by Phillip Phillips, Kenny Chesney’s “Anything But Mine”, “Sweet Child Of Mine” by Guns N Roses. If I’m needing to laugh, I’ll get any Christmas song in the playlist because ew. Christmas songs. Grinch GIF. If I’m needing to kick some ass and get motivated, I get songs like “the Greatest Show” from the movie soundtrack and “Man! I Feel Like A Woman” by Shania Twain. And, ever if I’m doubting that there are things the Universe knows and does for me, and that he might be here watching and laughing, I’ll get “Been Here All Along” by Hannah Montana. Every time. I never say my mood out loud, by the way. Somehow, the Universe knows and gets it right. Even if I don’t know what it is.

“Let’s Play Music Quiz” has had to evolve into “Noah, give me a playlist”. It’s gone from being a symbol of all the things he checked off of the “Noah Won’t Do” or “Noah Can’t Do Because” lists the Others created, to a symbol, for me, that the Universe, guided by the sweet hand of my Orange-Haired Teen spinning the wheel, will Throat Punch me if I need a reminder to stay true to my authentic self.

We all do it. We name our child, our pet, our plant (no judgement here), and immediately think of ways to shorten it or revise it to fit our mood at any given time. Or their mood. Do plants have moods? *shrug*

Everyone had nicknames for my boy: Mellow Yellow (see earlier post about jaundice), Moo Shoo, Sweet Pea, Scooter, Little Biscuit, Rollin’ Coconut and so many more. But my favorite, my all time favorite, of the nicknames bestowed upon the OHT was the one my Mom gave him. She dubbed him Noah Balboa during his first summer on the planet. I’m sure the first impulse was the rhyming thing, but man, it quickly became obvious that it fit him perfectly.

Noah had to fight from the beginning. He had jaundice and a high fever days after he was born. He was diagnosed with schizencephaly and given the prognosis of: might never walk, talk, read, write, sing, dance, might have life-ending seizures. He was born with a brain that struggled to communicate to his body what he wanted it to do. He was born with an immune system that would fail him, over and over again. However, thankfully, he was also born with a will so strong that he blew through all the stereotypes, the prognoses, the diagnoses and he lived and did exactly what he wanted. Until he couldn’t.

He, with the help of an equally strong-willed preschool teacher, taught himself to read. And read voraciously. He, with the help of physical and occupational therapists equally as strong-willed, walked, ran, danced, climbed, slid, rode a bike AND a horse, wrote, fed and clothed himself, and made his body do what he wanted it to do. He, with the help of speech therapists equally as strong-willed, spoke, sang, and was able to let his sarcastic soul fly free with his words. When I would hover, worried, watching, waiting to catch him should he fall, he would simply turn to me, lay a gentle hand on mine and say, “Mom. I do it MYSELF”. What could I do? I backed up, blocked and fought the Others who tried to make it easier for him, who disappointed us daily with their efforts to set the bar lower for him because it was harder, and let him do it HIMSELF.

And he did. He fought hard, every day, to do the things he wanted to do. Everything was harder for him, much harder, but he did it. Everything took longer, but he didn’t care. He figured it out. When he got sick, and when he got sick he got really sick, he fought, and he came back. His fevers ran in the 104-105 range. His colds nearly always led to an infection of some sort. He never got a “mild” stomach bug. He never got the 12 or 24 hour bug, his lasted longer. And when epilepsy hit, it wasn’t a seizure here and there. It was hundreds, of all kinds, all day, every day. And yet, he fought. He rallied, he did what the doctors told him to do, and he fought to do the things he wanted to do. The list of things got shorter as epilepsy wreaked havoc on his physical systems, but he adjusted, and he continued to fight. Until he couldn’t. And, only after he understood that I would be OK, did he sweetly, gently, simply, stop fighting and let go.

Noah Balboa. Best, most accurate nickname I have ever seen or felt in my soul. Thanks, Mom. ZZ

I used to use that cutesy little title “Noah In a Nutshell” to create the how-to sheet for caregivers, his camp counselors, his school team, and even the Others. It was a summary that got longer and longer every year, and every month and even week as his medical decline started to speed up and rage out of control. Its purpose was to outline the basics of his medical and overall care. I tried to keep it positive, and I tried to insert his likes, dislikes, abilities and deficits so that people would actually see the true spirit under all the observable and physical damage that his body carried. I tried to keep it full of gratitude for those taking care of him. But no one knew, until just now, how hard it was for me to do that, how frustrated and cranky I got that I needed to add certain things for some readers so they wouldn’t get over looked (like, he loves to read, please help him hold the book) due to the predetermined stereotyped thinking that comes with a person who had such limitations.

Sorry, that’s a post for another day. Today I promised to introduce you to the star of this show. Self-dubbed at age four as “Orange-Haired”, because his thinking, sort of like his mother’s, was very linear and concrete. The hair on his head was NOT red, it was ORANGE, MOTHER. ORANGE. And who could fault that logic? He wasn’t wrong. So I went with it. My Orange-Haired baby was born with “difficulties” right out of the gate. It started with severe jaundice. That meant he was tethered to a machine with a light pad strapped to his back for days on end, making him glow like that toy the Glow-Worm. My family immediately dubbed him Mellow Yellow–thankfully, we use humor, research, science and data to make an overwhelming situation manageable. And it went from there.

Craniosynostosis was next, the skull suture on top of his head–the sagittal one, if you are sciency like us– was fused completely shut. Which led to surgery at age 10 weeks. The surgery was simply the gateway diagnosis for the next few heavy hitters–schizencephaly, hypotinic cerebral palsy, cyclic neutropenia and finally, the one that led to the end, Lennox-Gastaut Syndrome. Severe epilepsy that eventually stole his walk, his talk, his read, his write, his eat, his sleep, his independence, his health, and finally, his life.

There were other diagnoses that were tried and discarded along the medical pathway–cystic fibrosis, asthma, aplastic anemia, William’s Syndrome, all scary and involving a lot of “test–wait–result”. The anxiety of that process still haunts me. Because those are heavy hitters. Not that his little cocktail of diagnoses wasn’t heavy and scary, but until the last year, my private nickname for him was “LittleBitOf”. Because of all the diagnoses he had, he just had mild forms, a little bit of them. Until LGS.

I don’t want to end on a scary, dark note. Because his life, and my life as a result, was absolutely not dark. Not ever, not even a little bit. Because that Orange-Haired Boy was an ancient soul, filled with joy and laughter, love and light that burst out of him and showered over all of his people. Whether you met him once or were a part of our lives, you were his people. He was sarcastic, so sarcastic that it warms my heart even remembering it, knocking you flat over with a side-eye and a smirk that continues to live on in pictures. He was so authentic, and he saw you. He really saw you, to the point that some couldn’t handle it and tried to shove him into a stereotypical box that just didn’t fit. And he knew when they were doing it, and yet, he held no malice. He never fought the inaccuracy. As a matter of fact, he would give grace to those people, he would not treat them any differently, and he would dismiss them so gently and sweetly that they never even knew it. But I did. And it lightened my load ever so much. It lightened the significance of “Noah In a Nuthshell” which made it easier to write and revise. I sometimes wonder if that’s one of the reasons the Universe gave that boy to me, to lighten my load and teach me that there’s no need to fight against falseness. Simply give grace, be gentle, and dismiss it gently and sweetly. Just like he did. And someday, I hope it will be as easy for me to do as it was for him.

If you’ve read the “About Me”, you know that I have reluctantly entered the Wonderful World Of Blogging. You’ll also note that sarcasm is my first language.

This blog will most likely be about how my son Noah, the Orange-Haired Teen referenced in the title, taught me lessons on how to live my best life. I’ll introduce him in the next post, but as the forty billion articles on “How To Start Your Blogging Journey” state, the first post should be about you and what exactly in the hell made you decide to share your life with strangers.

I decided to share my, or rather our, life with strangers because I can’t seem to get the Universe to stop punching me in the throat. What is a Universal Throat Punch? It’s when you start heading down a path that maybe you shouldn’t head down, or maybe your brain starts leading you toward a shame spiral or into a bad place, and the Universe decides to get involved. For me, today it was this picture. See, I was sitting in my condo, heading down a path toward a shame spiral (you know, where you start feeling fat, or ugly, or useless, or otherwise not important), and I had this page open, and I was thinking, no one is going to want to read your shit, and I got up to make a cup of tea. And Blammo, there it was. Two bag tags basically screaming at me to shut up and get going.

It’s only recently that I started paying attention to the Universe and where my place rests in it. And I sometimes don’t see the subtlety of its messages and guidance. OK, I mostly don’t see it. I never see them when they are subtle. I’m a data girl, if I can’t put it in a spreadsheet it doesn’t exist. So, very often the Universe has to get physical and punch me in the throat with a sign that is literal, visible to everyone, and so direct that I can’t ignore it. And there it is. The definition of a Universal Throat Punch.

This will be about how my sweet OHT, who left this Earth four years ago at age 18, has teamed up with the Universe to make me begin to live my life out loud.