A Mother First....Please

A week or so ago I created a post on Face Book. And in that post I was mullygrubbing about my children no longer needing me, calling me when they got good and darn ready, and reminiscing about how much I used to love to read to my children and mistakenly thought, they would still, always need me the same way.

My post received many comments. All alike comments. Mothers all, needing and wanting the same thing. To be wanted. Still.

One of the comments was from my friend Penny Riley. She was joining the conversation, relaying memories of how her oldest son Gabe had treated her for a time in his life, and how she, had treated her mother as a teenager.

Gabe was taken Home July before last. A hero lost as a casualty of war. Immediately upon reading Penny's post, my entire body came to attention, and the ridiculousness of my whining was front and center in my mind.

My next post was dedicated to Penny and her Gabe, and my reality check. What would happen next, as a result of that second post, would bring me to my knees again. This time in shame, stupidity, and great respect. Penny would post again, this time to my private in box. This is the post, not the message in it's entirety, but the most important part of her words follow next:

"Hey Sister, I saw your reply to my post and I just want to say please don't think I was trying to do anything other than still be Gabe's Mom and talk about him like always. I was not trying to teach a lesson. Please, please, please don't think that! We all know you adore your boys the way I do and the other Moms here do theirs. I was just trying to be part of the Mom conversation, to make me feel normal again. Luke hasn't gotten to the stage where he doesn't need me, but Gabe did several years ago, so that's the experience I was drawing on. I'm still his Mom. But I keep putting my foot in my mouth when I try to relate my mothering experiences. Does this make sense? I hope I didn't offend you. I was just trying to say we have all been through this (if the kid is old enough), and that we all support you and understand how sad that "not needed" feeling is when you are the one feeling it. It burns!! Anyway, I love you and I wanted to give back some support you have given me."

How do you come back from the death of a child and ever feel normal again? How do you sit with all of your friends at Ruby Tuesday's for lunch, talking about your children, your life, laughing and talking, when one of your children is no longer living? How do you ever feel 'normal' again. And how in the world can you ever forget the pain and loss, when people like me, keep reminding you that you're different now, and you will never be the same? When the conversation becomes hushed because someone realizes we're laughing about our children and good times, we think you can't, and we change the subject and leave you out.

How does Penny make people understand, she NEEDS to be normal again. She needs to be able to get mad at the child who is still living when he misbehaves without feeling guilty. She needs to be able to have a bad day and lash out at Luke without worrying will those be her last words. She needs to be able to punish Luke when he makes a bad grade or cuts class, without wondering if she's being too hard, just because she can't discipline Gabe anymore. And for goodness sakes, she desperately needs to be able to laugh and talk with all of her friends, re-live the memories she has of Gabe, and the ones she is making with Luke, just like every other Mom at the table in Ruby Tuesday's.  And she needs to be able to give advice, without people begging her pardon for being a burden when asking.

Penny, you have been a gift to us all. And I know you don't want to be that gift all the time. But God picks no one lightly. Whether he's taking them Home or leaving them here. I guess it's not for us to know why he chose Gabe that day. But in turn, he gave you to all of us. All of us mothers with children of whom some days we just can't see the light. All of us mothers, some of whom have also lost children. And all of us mothers, who have reached out to you, for comfort, when their own hero's have been taken home. Mothers who are trying to re-build their lives and need your help.

Forgive me for reminding you that day, of something, some days, you would rather not have to remember. Forgive me for not allowing you to be the wonderful mother you are, and instead making you feel as if you must grieve forever. You are Gabe's mom and you are Luke's mom, always. Please feel free to sit with us any time at Ruby Tuesday's and tell us a funny story, a mad story, or a loving memory story. We would love to have another Mom at our table full of Moms just wanting to be ....a Mom.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Eat, Talk, and Talk Some More

As we sat around the breakfast bar this morning, and I listened to the Sunday morning ramblings, my mind drifted back to the Sunday mornings of long ago.

When I was growing up, both of my parents worked for a living. During the week, no matter how tired my mom was, we almost always had a sit down supper. The stopping for take out food was so rare, I barely even remember it.

Breakfast before school was cereal of some kind, and a nasty chewable vitamin. I ate the cereal and tossed the vitamin to the base of the old pecan tree in our back yard. That tree should live to be a million years old. Saturday mornings were pretty causal for breakfast too, as that was yard and house cleaning day.

Sunday morning breakfast. Now that was a big deal. Whether we all sat down together any other time or not, we sat down together on Sunday mornings. Both my Mama and my Daddy were great cooks, so it alternated who would be the chef each week.  We would have all kinds of different variations of breakfast. My Daddy liked to cook fried eggs, bacon and real cut up french fried potatoes. I believe my Mama's favorite was oatmeal , the real kind, not that one minute box mess, with condensed milk and sugar added in and pattied sausage.

My Daddy was never one for table chitter chatter, but on Sunday mornings, we were allowed to talk a little bit. And when I use the word 'allowed' that's what I mean. Food tables when I was growing up were for eating, not talking.  Weekday supper times, he was tired from his day and there was usually NO talking. And of course absolutely no laughing allowed. Which was always invariably when, I would get a fit of the giggles for one reason or another. Which rarely turned out good for me.

Times change. Or maybe just people change and/or are different. But my eating tables have always been the place to unite. The place for us to talk about what we're going to do today, what we did today, and any major subjects that happen to be the topic of that time. There are no limits set for laughter. As a matter fact, after my hard days at work, I welcome the jokes and laughter. I welcome the diversion from the daily grind.

Sunday morning breakfast in our house, is the best meal of all. We're all rested from the week behind us, our Saturday's of yard work and house work are done, and we've had a good night's rest with a little sleep in time to boot. I cook a big meal and we all sit down together. This morning I cooked oatmeal and pattied sausage for me and Zach, and fried eggs, pattied sausage and toast for Mims. As I watched Zach eat his oatmeal, the thoughts of years ago started rolling though my mind.

As he took his spoon and ran it around the edge of the oatmeal on his plate, I remembered teaching him how to do that when he was a little boy, and the oatmeal was too hot to eat from the middle. Because as my Mama had taught me, the edges were cooler, so take your spoon like a train and go around the edges as you ate.

Our conversation rolled and rolled. Zach has been sick for a few days and he slept a great deal yesterday evening after his work day was done. Got up for a little while last night, and went right back to bed around 10:30 and slept until 10am this morning. His daddy was asking him how in the heck he slept so much. I said he needed it, and Zach barely looking up from his plate, as he was winding his spoon around the outer edges of the oatmeal said, "by shutting my mouth and closing my eyes".  We all busted out laughing, as Mims words came right back to him, just ....that....quick.  We talked about the flooding rains that were surely coming today and whether he had any business riding the roads, because he was asking to go to Matt's today to hang out. 

The breakfast dishes are done, his bed has been made, and he's on his way to Matt's now, with the promise of a call once he gets there. Because it is indeed, flooding rain.  I believe in family meals. I believe in talk and laughter at the table. And for the nights I am just too tired or my mouth has run out of words, I still love listening to Zach's chatter about his rougher than usual football practices, the crazy chemistry experiments, the new boy named Tom he tagged with the nickname Penutt (spelled wrong on purpose he says), something funny Andy "Tater" Taylor said,  and what he thinks is making his truck make that weird sound.

Cherish those time folks. Cherish the good food we can afford to eat and the good times we must afford to spend with our loved ones. Whoever they are, your kids if they are still at home, or your spouse, if everyone else is gone and scattered. Don't lose yourselves in silence and call it comfortable. Taking the time to make conversation is taking the time to show your interest and love. And we all want to know, that what we have to say and how we feel, is something someone is waiting to hear.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Never Accept No When Nothing But Yes Will Do

The story you are about to read is a true story. Well, all my stories are true stories. But this story is about never giving up. Never backing down. Fighting for what you believe in. And if it means enough, not taking no for an answer.

When I was in high school, my Daddy set out to teach me about sports. The ins and outs, the rules, and the sports 'speak'.   His mantra was, no matter what type of job you maybe have as an adult, if you knew and understood sports, you could stand in any group and hold your own in a conversation. And there it was, how I was to spend every weekend, the year I turned fifteen years old.

I fought it tooth and nail. But he was relentless. So as any smart person would, to make myself feel good about it, at the beginning of the season, I picked a team to follow. The first sport was baseball, and I picked the New York Yankees. Catfish Hunter was the pitcher and he was awesome. Reggie Jackson was Mr. October, and we went to the World Series that year. The same year their catcher, Thurman Munson, was killed in a helicopter accident during the playoffs. Everyone wore black arm bands in memory during the series. They played Steve Garvey, Ron Cey and the Los Angeles Dodgers, and the Yankees won the World Series that year. Ok Baseball, I was hooked.

Football season came along, and I picked Roger Staubach and the Dallas Cowboys. They played the Pittsburgh Steelers and Mean Joe Greene in the Super Bowl and lost. I cried. But again, I was hooked, this time on Football.

My dad was not a big basketball fan, so I was not force fed that sport. To this day, it's not particularly one of my favorites. I understand it, and I played it in Jr High, but that is as far as my interest goes.

Now to really understand my love for sports, you would have had to have lived with my Daddy, David Mount. We are not fit for public fans. We scream, we holler, and we stand in front of the television flailing our arms, do a lot of name calling, a little trash talking, grabbing the sides of our heads, banging on armchairs, and stomping our feet. Ranting plays to the coaches on the screen and threatening referees as if they can hear us. We are a mighty loud and rowdy bunch and more times than not, wore slap out once the game is over. Not to mention the restraint that is necessary when we are in public and cheering for our favorite teams.  That's still a work in progress.

The cooler weather weekends were filled with crock pots of homemade chili, homemade soups and stews, plenty of hot dogs, grilled cheese sandwiches, fried hamburgers and all the other foods that go with weekends filled with sports.

As the years would pass, I never missed a Super Bowl or a World Series. Even if my team was not present, I would pick a team through the playoffs and follow them to the end. Cheering them on as if they were my pick from the beginning of the season. You have to do that don't you? You can't not watch the World Series or the Super Bowl just because you're team isn't playing..right?

When I moved to Quincy Florida, I moved into a beautiful old country house outside of the city limits. Which meant, no cable for me. Satellite would be necessary. I had my service with Dish Network hooked up the second week I was here so my kids could get the Disney Channel. First crisis over.

Sometime into about my fourth year living here, Dish sent out a letter stating some of the users would be losing service to certain stations due to regulated laws. I didn't pay much attention to my letter, because in my mind, I had no choice. Cable lines were not coming to my area anytime soon.  Well, evidently, somebody at Dish Network thought I had a choice and they removed some of my major access channels.

I came home one week before the playoffs for the World Series was to start, with no Fox Channel. And my Yankees were in the playoffs. On the Fox Channel. This was not going to work. I started with the normal calls you would make, to Dish Network and such. Talked to about 42 people with no positive results. I told them they could not include people like me in their "sweep" as they called it, because I did not choose to NOT have cable, I could not GET cable. And to penalize me was unfair. By the time I got to person number 42, I was ranting about the World Series, how I had never missed one and I was not starting now.

Somewhere during mid rant, the Dish Representative stopped me. Now,  I am into the next week by this time. The playoffs have started and I am watching them from my then boyfriend, now husbands house every night. The representative, tired of hearing me, said, if I could get the cable representative from the local television station in Tallahassee to write a letter stating cable was not available for me in my area they would reinstate those channels. Finally, someone is listening to me!

After another deluge of calls and speaking to person after person, I was finally was hooked up with the VP of the local station in Tallahassee. He listened to my story and half way though, HE stopped me. He asked me what team I was pulling for in the Playoffs and World Series. Well now, I wondered if this was a trick question, and if I answered it wrong, would I be out of help for good.  I buckled down and answered the very Southern sounding man (as was I ) and told him the New York Yankees. He said, well, that's good and bad news. Too bad, that's your team, because they aren't going to win, and good , that you're a loyal enough fan to admit they're your team anyway.


He agreed to write the letter and send it to Dish. The next night, Dish was calling me to walk me through my hook-up and reboot of the Fox network, and I was able to watch Game Three of the playoffs in my own home forty minutes into the game.  I was whooping and hollering...and of course my kids thought I had lost my mind.

My daddy always taught me, you can do anything and get anything if you want it bad enough. But you have to believe in your cause enough to see it to the end.

I live in the city now, so cable is not a problem. My favorite seasons are beginning, baseball is headed towards the playoffs and football is just beginning. The only fight on my hands now, is who gets to hold the remote, and who watches what on the big TV, and who goes to the bedroom to watch the smaller one. I'm pretty easy, I could care less, just as long as I get to see the World Series and the Super Bowl from one television or another in my own home, and not the neighbors house down the street.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Big Girls Do Cry....Mascara

Today was just one of those days. One of those days, that as soon as it started to turn in the wrong direction, I should have heeded the signs. I should have paid attention. I should have known it could only get worse. Hell, I should have turned my truck around on a dime and came back home. At 7:43am. Because that is when it started.

I'm driving to work, and this morning seemed no different than any other. The roads are starting to pick up with traffic. People bustling around, trying to get to work. I remember a call I need to make. To try once more to reach someone who had been unreachable up to that point.

I pull my cell phone out of my purse. Dial the number. It begins to ring, and she answers. I'm talking, she's talking, and suddenly it feels like someone has set my left eye on fire. I put my finger to my eye. I have no idea why. It's what comes natural when your eye feels as it's ablaze. Surprise. THAT makes it worse. Now both eyes are burning, why in the heck that is I don't know, and I'm blinking as hard and fast as my eyes will open and shut. My eyes are now POURING water, I'm still trying to talk, and alternately scrambling for a tissue. Guess what? No tissue. No nothing. My eyes are now burning, I am still on the phone, no longer really listening, operating on remote speak. Yes, no, uh huh.

Finally I pull into work. I think. I can barely see. I finish the call. I stumble out of my truck, fumbling for the door knob to get inside the building. I stumble two doors down to my office, sling all my stuff in the floor, (cell phone, purse, and soda) and flail around on top of my desk like a blind man, looking for my box of tissue. I find it, run back out the door, to the bathroom two doors back down the hall, go in and slam the door shut. I fumble for the light, turn it on and begin to try and wipe my eyes. At this point, I am now standing in front of the mirror. And my whole face is bleeding black liquid. My eyes have melted mascara ALL OVER MY FACE. By the looks of my face there is none left on my lashes. I stand there and look at the horrible sight I have become. Knowing, whoever passed me on Hwy 90 and sat by me at the red light, has already seen the same.

I wash my now, barren of makeup face, and go back to my office. I sit down in my chair and try to catch my breath.

I have often heard, and thought myself, that a woman who is in her very private PMS mode, should never be exposed to the public. I think there should be enough vacation/sick days in the year allowed for these said days. We should not even be allowed outside of our homes. I have had several experiences in my life that have proven that theory to be true. Today was another one of those days. Because though all of the above sounds like quite enough, it was not over. Oh no. This day of hell, of PMS hell, had just begun.

At 8:50 Mims calls me. I'm getting up from my desk when the phone rings. I have had several phone calls in a row. Enough calls that have prevented me from yet, having my first cup of coffee, when he catches me trying to go get a cup. I sit back down. He begins to tell me the plan for getting my two new truck tires put on my truck today.

Now, even though I have had no coffee yet, my alarms are going off as he begins his "this is going to be the deal" conversation. My alarms are going off, because I can't quite figure out why I need to know about this deal. The last time this DEAL was discussed, he was taking care of everything. So why do I need to now know about this deal.

I'll tell you why, because NOW, I AM GOING TO TAKE CARE OF THIS DEAL. He's telling me. I am silent. Listening. To the new deal. I'm going to take the truck to the place to get the tires put on, and I am going to "catch a ride back" with a complete stranger. Well no, no I am not. I tell him, you have known me for 13 years now. I do not like to go to those places, because I do not like trying to explain to "car people" what needs to be done. And I do NOT ride back from anywhere with car people (men) strangers. Trying to make small talk for four miles. NO.

Now before all you ladies of hard working blue collar men, get all up tight or defensive, let me say this.....my husband has the same type of job. He works harder than anyone I know. He builds/inspects roof joist for a living. But I'm not gonna ride back to any destination with just any ole' roof joist building man stranger either. So, I arrange for a co-worker to follow me so that I have a ride.

I take the truck to the Chevrolet place, I get out, I talk to the girl at the counter and explain what I want. What Mims has already supposed to have explained. I am simply refreshing. She acts as if she has no idea what I'm talking about, but is willing to get it done. I  call Mims, leave him a message, that he might want to call and reiterate and why. Just in case.

We are at Pizza Hut. My cell phone rings. It's Mims. He is laughing. I still, am not. He says, why did you take your truck to the Chevrolet place?  I laid my fork down, and slowly said, why would I not? And he said, the girl at the counter didn't know what you were talking about, because you were supposed to take the truck to W & L Tire.

I am not going to tell you everything else that was said. It was not nice, it was not clean, and I should probably be ashamed. I'm not.

At 3pm this afternoon, Mims called to check on me. I guess he thought I had already had enough time to cool off. Or run out of steam. He asked was I OK, I said yes. And this is what I told him :

"I want you to listen to me and understand me. From now until the end of time, or unless you are physically incapacitated,  you will take care of ALL vehicle duties. I wash all the clothes, cook all the meals, do most of the cleaning, make sure you have your prescriptions filled, and make all your doctor appointments and remind you when to be where. You can take care of the vehicle duties. I will know nothing about it. And when I get home, my truck will be miraculously fixed and it will feel just as if Santa Claus came and Christmas was early. Are we clear?"  He wisely said, " Yes, baby".

This day is almost over. I am praying tomorrow goes better. And if I get even the tiniest inkling in the morning, that it may not, I AM coming back home, locking my doors, and waiting until I can feel the crazy pass over me. 

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Never Let The Words Stop

I have probably made one of the biggest decisions of my life. I have thought and thought of different ways to try and battle progression, but am finding defeat at every turn. I swore I would never give in, yet I am afraid, if I do not compromise, I will be forever lost in what was, and what no longer matters. I wanted to hold out. I wanted to be the last one standing. But in order to accomplish what I feel I must, in my lifetime, I have to admit that this move on my part is necessary.

I will always love the smell and the feel. The sheer power of what is inside. The places you can see and experience and never leave your home. The emotional gamut one can feel from head to toe. The exhilaration of happiness and extreme downfall of sadness.  With no help from anyone. You can experience these feelings all on your own. If you know how. If you know the secret. If you are brave enough to discover the combination to the most private of places to go.

But time is slowly but surely altering the way we live. And if I want to participate in the future, I must succumb to the present. And I most certainly want to be part of things to come. I have to be a part of the wonderful things that are surely coming one day. Knowing that I can be a part of it, if I just admit what I need to do, makes it so much easier. The end result. The major objective. The most important reasons I can possibly think of, are what drive me to make it happen. Just bite the bullet and do it.

Grandchildren. I don't know when I'm going to have some, but I am dang sure banking on it. Dang sure hoping for it. And I dang sure have my mind set to get prepared for it. For when it happens, not if. And I know this is nothing anyone wants to discuss or think about, but I have to think about it. I have to know I can still be a part of all that goodness, should I not be here when it happens. As we all get older, and health issues arise, it has become crystal clear to me, that being prepared is so much smarter than being left behind or left out. Denial will get you both. Left behind AND left out.

So I am going to purchase an I-Pad. I know I said I never would. I know I have criticized and chastised everyone who is buying these Nooks and Kindles. I know I have blamed the demise of my favorite book stores, books, and the smell of pages and binders on everyone who has already given in.  I am still buying hardbacks myself. I still have not given in for me. I still refuse, until the last book is printed, to change my mindset about all of that.

But this is for my future grandchildren. This is both an unselfish and selfish act on my part. I am going to purchase and download all the Dr. Suess books I read to my children when they were little. And I am going to record those wonderful stories in my voice for each and every one. I am going to record the excitement, the sadness, the happiness and the funny the best way I know how. I am going to be somebody's funny, sweet, and silly grandma to remember, whether I am here or not. This is the only way I know to ease my mind. To make me sleep well at night. Knowing, that I can be a part of their lives, no matter what happens between now and then. I have to know that an important piece of me, will be left behind for them.

And more important than any of that, I have to know those dang stories are told the right way! I have to know the pitch of the voice will be raised and quickened, excited and scared when it's supposed to be. After all, I've been called Miss Walt Disney more than a few times in my life. I certainly have a legacy that must be upheld.  Me and Dr. Suess that is......

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

STAY OFF THE GRASS !!!!!

Lip Sync Rockers

Life is strange. The how's and why's, the construction of what happens when. How it decides who you'll know forever. And who you're only meant to know for a short period of time. One has to believe that every person that comes into our lives, is brought there for a reason. Even the short timers. The people who briefly flit in and out. Sometimes, those are the people who leave the most lasting impressions.

Short timers. They burst into your life in such a way, leaving such an indention in time, that no matter how many years may pass, you will never completely forget them.  The memory of them may wash and fade into a blur, but at any given time, they will appear as a bright flash of light. A reminder of a minute, a day, or a year, long ago, that meant the world to you.

Pee Wee Football

Life time friends, now that, is that most strange occurrence of them all. Have you ever stopped to think, just what kind of magical potion it takes to make a forever friendship work?  All the things that can happen that will threaten to break the ties? Growing up and changing is probably the biggest culprit. Changing and morphing into totally different people. Besides all the every day factors that will come into play. Girls, boys, interests, sports, school, arguments, fights, hurt feelings, angry words, and well life, just life in general.

I'm not sure if Zachary has any of those short timer friends. Those are generally people that no one talks about out loud. They're private friends for all sorts of reasons. Special reasons more times than not. Reasons that you keep close to your heart and don't feel the need to discuss with anyone else.  Because other people aren't going to really understand that place in time for you. They'll nod their heads and listen, but they won't get the magnitude. It's hard to put into words why, but they just won't.

Oh Brother..Lip Sync

He has plenty of friends he has gone to school with all of his life. Played sports with, football basketball and baseball. Some of these boys, like Jared Whiddon and others, that even though they are a grade or so apart, they have still experienced the good times of winning and somber times of losing.

Zachary does however, have one particular life long friend. This young man has been Zachary's best bud since they were three years old. Dustin Watson. They learned to write numbers together, learned their colors, how to write their names, discovered little girls, Pee Wee football, bikes and custom made skateboards.  Years of  Lip Sync contests..always performing together. There is probably nothing these two young men don't know about one another. They know each others most intimate secrets, thoughts and desires. Now they are discovering dating, football, basketball, summer jobs, summer nights at the river, being Juniors in school, driving freedom, being home by curfew and teenage heartache.

Every time these two boys are together I alternately smile and worry. Because as boys who have known each other forever will do, they think up things to try out. They're bored, so they invent their own fun. Digging up poles at the river, doing spin outs in the sand, throwing fireworks into gutters, and making man-made ropes to climb in and out of windows while parents are sleeping. Ignoring signs....

Firework Conniving

And now they are dating. Fumbling their way through the dark, trying to figure out girls and all that it means. Which is everything. Girls are such a mystery. I'm a female, and even I know and recognize that. They're hot then they're cold. They like you and they don't. They're laughing then crying. They're sassy and sweet. These boys are going to bowling alleys' and meeting girls outside of their own immediate circle. Which is a small one...their own circle is very small.  They are bravely talking to girls who have not known them all of their lives and who could very well, not care anything about knowing them for even another minute. But they are doing it. Together. These two best friends. Finding their way through life. This stage, and then will come another. And hopefully, another.

I hope I am able to see these boys together through college, marriages, and first born children.  I want to be able to picture these two boys summer time grilling, talking about their jobs, and chasing babies around the back yard. And some day, watching their own children playing Tiny Mites Football, with pads underneath their uniforms bigger than their little bodies.

This is a good time in their lives. I wonder if they ever stop and look back and understand what a remarkable following they have built with one another. Or I wonder, if you have to get my age, to appreciate what you used to have? Either way, life has been so good to these boys. I hope three years old til sixteen years old turns into three to sixty. Just think of the stories they'll have to tell then!

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Life After Life

A couple of weeks ago I had a flashback of sorts. When I was a teenager I went through a stage where when anyone talked about death or being buried, I would state that I wanted to be cremated. My mother would physically grimace and tell me every single time, "not if you go before I do."

My mother is from the deep South. I mean the deep, deep South of Alabama. The place where death is discussed quietly, almost in secret and must be carried out with the utmost dignity and respect. And cremation is not respectful.  In my mother's words, "There is no closure in cremation. Funerals are for the living, not the dead. The ones left behind need something to see, to identify with, and say goodbye to." Cremation does not allow such. It's ash's in a box or an urn. Not a person. Not the loved one who has left this world far too early.

In my mind, the person in the typical funeral, was the person in a closed up box, where it's hot and uncomfortable. That same said box will be lowered into the ground with dirt and worms and who knows what all. Quite frankly, in my opinion, there is nothing dignified about being laid down amongst dirt and worms. But to my mother, oh the horrors of being set on fire and disintegrated. Never gonna happen. Not on her watch anyway.

Twenty some odd years later, one of my boys is talking about his driver's license. One thing leads to another, and we're suddenly on the subject of  the organ donor category. Joshua and Zachary are talking back and forth and state that have both chosen to be organ donors. I pipe up and say that I am too. Josh makes the statement that "I just figured, why should I care, I'm not gonna need any of that stuff anyway and someone else could use it"...and that's when it happens. The flash explodes in my face, and I am suddenly my mother.

This is what I know happens. Even though you can be buried in a normal service after donating your organs, more times than not, the services are carried out closed casket. Because someone has gone into every part of your body and removed what can be taken. The shell that is left is not always presentable.

Now, while this is alright for me, all of a sudden, I'm not so sure if it's alright for one of my children. I mean, heck, I'm old, who cares what I look like when they're done. If they can take anything that will be helpful to someone else, I could care less. But if God forbid, one of my children should go before me, I just don't think I'm going to like that idea. The idea of having nothing to say goodbye to. Oh my, now I am my South Alabama mother.

I didn't say anything out loud to either one of my children. Number one, I was now regretting whoever started this subject. Number two, I could not being myself to tell them how selfish I felt about their unselfish act of donation.

So, I forced myself, quietly, to think about it for what it is...a beautiful act of giving and compassion for someone who is still here after you are gone. It would make it possible for someone's loved one to see out of a beautiful pair of eyes that have never seen boundaries, to beat with a heart that has always been full of love and compassion and fight for the underdog, to live with a clean and untainted liver because of the boy who believes only good things should enter his body, or kidneys that have been flushed clean with gallons and gallons of water since the beginning of time.

That's what organ donation is about. Not about me. Not about anyone, but the beautiful people who selflessly contribute to the beautiful people who need what they have to give in order to live.  And I know know, nobody likes to talk about death. But this story isn't about death. It's about life. And I like to talk about anything that warms my heart. And my boys and the way they look at life, truly warms my heart.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims