My Dear Dad

Gently pulling Quentin out of the car, I envisioned my cute, white-haired Dad resting on the clouds above my parents' home. Overcome with a desire to pull the clouds closer, I longed for the memories of my father to comfort me. I pictured his charismatic smile and thought of one of the famous jokes he always shared. I grinned when I spark of sunshine showered me.

There never was a dull moment with Dad, I thought.

I sniffed, trying to revive the familiar scent that had always calmed me in the past, but realized there was no one or nothing could smell like my dad.

My eyes watered as it was only a month that I watched my father rolled out of the house. Sorrow resurfaced and my hands shook, as I realized a few feet from where I parked is where I witnessed them placing my father in the back of a van. My heart had been ripped just the same as the night strangers close the van doors. To erase those gloomy memories, I imagined instead my dad wearing his fluorescent orange hat that had all the grandkids’ names written on it and him struggling to push the old, deteriorated lawnmower across the front yard. First, warmth filled my chest and then I felt a smile stretch across my face with thoughts of Dad, until I remembered he’d never come back, and the warmth gave way. Vacant inside, unable to focus. The emptiness filled my heart and made my stomach feel heavy. Lifting my chin to help fight back the tears, I staggered, held tight to my son’s hand and focused on sidewalk towards my parents’ apartment.

Happy Birthday Dad!!!

My father and I

My father... loved me and... I loved him.
My father... helped me and... I tried to help him.
My father...wrote songs and... I sang them.
My father... smiled and... my heart smiled back.
My father... gave and... I took.
My father's first love was his mother...and my father was mine.
My father loved Mario Lanza and I loved the Beach Boys
My father loved Music and... so did I.
My father taught me right from wrong and... I learned.
My father glided across the ice rink and...I followed.
My father held my hand and... I held his love.
My father loved to play the piano and I loved to listen.
My father loved my mother and so did I.
My father's journey on this mortal life is done, but his spirit lives.
A tree drops it's leaves, a rose blooms, a baby giggles, a hug gives warmth, and the words I love you bring peace.
My dad dropped his dreams to help mine. He made my world bloom with joy. He lit up my life.
His hugs were warmer than the bright sun.
His deep voice spoke volumes with the words, "I love you"
His laughter pierced my soul with delight and comfort.
My father's sky blue eyes...sparkled and still sparkle when, I see stars dress the sky.
Happy Birthday dearest, lovable, priceless Dad...You are missed each time I take a breath, look at my children and grandchildren. YOU will forever be imbedded in my life.  
I love you to the moon and back. I love you always and forever.
I appreciate you being my father and letting me be your daughter.

Life Cycle Is Like A Rose

It starts out as a seed
Craving water and sun.
The roots seek to find rich soil
And the rosebud wants to exhibit it beauty.
With each new bloom
Followed by a thorn or two.
As the wind blows and the rain descends
The petals begin to fall.
The rose reaches and stretches for energy,
Hopeful that the day ahead will bring
More potency.
New buds appear
Filled with splendor.
The mature rose
Greets each bud,
Gives them a wave,
And then,
Becomes exhausted.
Anxious to shed its petals,
And return to the soil it once came from.

Written By: Pamela Shelton Reynolds

Thousand years...of Pain.

Life, as a teenager...these were my thoughts...of how I saw life.
Below is a section of an experience I had as a youth. I thought I would share a small part from one of my chapters that I have often reflected on.

Here is a song that ties in to how I felt
 and still stirs emotions from decades ago.

I was admitted to a mental hospital at the age of 18 1/2
with a broken heart from a teenage love.

This song peels away the scar that has never disappeared from my soul.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9ayN39xmsI&feature=youtu.be

Chapter 37 Mom's Wonderful Trick

Paul and Chad entered my thoughts while I sat on a firm bed. I knew, this time, they would not be able to comfort me like they had when I had Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I wondered what classes Paul was taking, whom he walked with as he moved from one class to the next. Who did he sit with when he ate dinner, lunch and breakfast. Curious if he thought of me as he went out on Friday and Saturday night. My lowest moment as I felt my head droop was, has he already met someone new. Here at this hospital there would be no Paul, no Chad, no phone, no pictures, and no possessions of mine on the nightstand. I had circled back to the familiar displacement I had experienced over and over with my past foster home visits. But, in this unusual abandonment by Paul, Chad, and now my parents, sorrow pierced my soul. Rejection was just one of the negative words that seemed to linger in my head. I was not just physically alone, I was mentally alone.

The sound of footsteps became more potent with each second. A different nurse in bright orange scrubs and long brown hair stood at the doorway.

“Elizabeth, it’s time for dinner. Could you come with me?”

I felt eerie as I followed her. I didn’t pay attention to the directions to the cafeteria. When I entered, it seemed lifeless, even though it was full of strange people. Tears formed in my eyes, and I felt frightened. I did not have a desire to step farther into the room, but I knew I had to go through the line to receive food. A young man about twenty stood behind the counter and served. I stared at his white and blue football jersey with BYU across the upper back. I froze with no desire to move, unsure of how to cope with the fact he attended the same university Paul had escaped to when he abandoned me. I shook my leg and forced myself to walk over to one of the round tables. I sat by myself and began to sob. I tried to hold back the tears, but they continued to pour out, making a pool of water on my tray. I pulled the upper part of my shirt collar to wipe the tears. I turned my head and told myself I wouldn’t look over at that young man again. I took several deep breaths, rubbed my eyes. My face felt hot and my heart turned cold from the anguish of wanting Paul, needing Paul. I closed my eyes and pictured Paul with me, his warmth breath on my neck and his lips against mine.

A lady at the next table had marks on her face. She constantly picked at her facial sores that dripped blood on her hands. I ate quickly and made a break for the exit.

I ran out into the hallway and rested against the wall, trying to remember the way back to my room. It was a blur and finally a nurse helped me. When I entered my room I rested my head on a stiff white pillow that I covered with tears. I laid on top of the covers with no desire to use them. Emptiness stirred the room, filled my heart. I talked to the moon that showed its face in the window, a moon I hoped would relay a message to Paul that I loved him, a moon I hoped he was talking to also. I was mesmerized by the stars that dressed the sky, stars that danced freely. I wished at that moment I had the freedom to love Paul. Before I drifted off to sleep, I made a wish on the star that seemed brighter than any other. And hoped Paul was wishing on that same star for us to be together. I wished that Paul still loved me.

I awoke to a bleak speck of sun early that morning. I felt gross and rolled out of bed to use the restroom. With each stroke of the toothbrush against my teeth, I begged for someone to rescue me. I brushed my hair with the bargain-basement style brushes they had provided. I splashed water on my face to remove the tears that I had the night before. I closed the bathroom door and leisurely walk back and sat on the bed. I waited for what seemed hours for the nurse to appear. I stared at the doorway that led out to an empty hallway. I shook my leg and wondered what new dreadful surprises awaited me. I felt an urge to pray. I closed my eyes, bowed my head and folded my arms. Words welled through my lips.

Heavenly Father, please help me cope. Please, Heavenly Father, give me strength to pull through this. I’m trapped in a well and unable to pull myself out. Lower a rope to pull me up. Please let the doctors see I’m not suicidal. Know Heavenly Father that my mother is the one that thought I was suicidal, not me. Never would I destroy something you had created.

 Peace entered my heart when I ended my prayer. It was at peace of knowing I would leave this place soon. I tried to pull the bitterness towards my mother out of me, but the anger that stirred with each moment that passed made it hard to do.

I heard footsteps coming and took one look around the room. When I looked back at the door the nurse was standing at the door and smiling.

“You are moving to another room and will have a roommate. Follow me.”

I knew, once I walked out the door, I would never enter that room again, because they would realize I wasn’t suicidal. I followed the nurse down a narrow hallway that went to the cafeteria. I smelled the food as we passed by the entrance to the dining hall. My stomach felt empty and my heart did too.

  I believed, I would have loved Paul and Chad for a thousand years, and I believed they would have loved me for a thousand more.

Special Olympics Singing National Anthem at Diamondback Game

My son Max singing the National Anthem.

Life, Love, and Beauty

Life has been wild these last three months with priceless moments I will hold forever. My second son left for his mission to Serbia, Russia. It’s been quiet in our home with him gone. His hobbie of rebuilding speakers and then playing his music that often made our windows dance to the rhythm of several different composers has been greatly missed. From the melody of Tchaikovsky's Symphony 4, IV FINALE, Phantom of the Opera, Pirates of the Caribbean, Maroon 5, David Guetta, Jason Mraz, Ed Sheeran and many more..Those last few I wrote I don’t think were his favorite, but he loved some of the songs. I miss him more each day, but at the same time feel greater peace that he is where he needs to be. His dimple, smile and the warmth of his embrace are held close to my heart each second, minute and hour of the day.

I have been observing others and watching how they interact…what makes a smile appear and what draws sadness painted on their faces. Some people cover their sadness with unspoken words, or they fill their days with meaningless time. I wonder how many people stay hidden in the walls of their homes to shelter them from feeling rejection. How many people use material things to fill the emptiness of loneliness?  

For me…I keep the memories that can never be bought or given to anyone and they are what help me to cope when trials come and rejection plays games with my feelings. Not often do I ever feel sad, but there are times I have had a day of havoc of not knowing which way is up.

The awesome thing is we are beautiful souls who all have a purpose in life. We can share a smile, or wave that sends a warmth of kindness. I love it when I can smile at a stranger and make their smile appear seconds after mine.

The world is full of love that goes unspoken. It doesn’t mean that it’s felt less deeply or that its separation leaves to clean the sore.

Its beauty and its pain are in its silence

Love cannot be spoken only shown and everything that makes the heart beat must be hushed. Do we all feel this way? Does anyone feel like they can never let their heart beat as they wished? Their heart locked deep in the silence of a sore unable to be nursed by the one you deeply love.

My Kids, My Life, My past

Seconds after I glazed into my granddaughter’s eyes, warmth filled my soul. To hold her, love her and kiss her cheek is only one of the million reasons I love being a mother and grandmother.

My fun loving grandson has a giggle that brings back fantastic memories of his father (my son) standing at my parents front door giving that same identical giggle.

I have had the wonderful experience of living in 12 different foster homes before the age of 14. I remember coping with a mother who dealt with rejection and mental illness. A sickness filled with poison not just to her, but to all those around. Mental illness brought a dark cold cloud over my family.

My past haunts me. Memories I have capture deep in my heart that sometimes bleed out and drain me from the life I lived as a child and teenager. I think of the blessings I have been given. The blessing of being able to see out of one eye, to give birth to five amazing children and now to raise a special needs son who has brought full circle what matters in life. I have many blessings that encompass my heart from the pain.

I want to share part of a chapter from my novel. A manuscript that took years to nourish and now it is starting to breathe on its own.

 

Mom’s illnesses came in cycles, like the orbits of the moon around the earth, and it gave different appearances. My favorite type of moon is either a full moon or a half moon. I had heard a new moon, also called the dark moon when shadowed from the sun, can either be invisible or have a slender crescent. On this visit, I realized my mom was invisible and in the dark moon cycle, which made it impossible for her to be a part of our family or my life.

We stepped off the elevator and I found her across the room with her uncombed, matted hair. She sat on the edge of her bed, with her light-blue hospital gown displaying the outline of her large breasts. With each step I took, I observed Mom’s right leg bouncing with a constant rhythm. I was familiar with this habit of hers. Taking a seat by her and rubbing her arm, I hoped she would awake and escape from the world that held her captive.

She rocked back and forth, making a continual hum under her breath. She didn’t move her arm or respond to my touch, but her leg continually bounced. My heart ached to have any kind of love and attention from my mother. I glanced at her expression. There was no smile, no twinkle in her eyes, and I sensed bottomless pain, deeper than any ocean and taller than any mountain, unending in either direction.

Dad sat on the other side of Mom and tenderly touched her back.

I took a leisurely look around the room and noticed other patients in the same state as my mother. Some yelled out, some banged their hands against the wall and a small, old lady pulled her hair for gratification.

I repeated several times to myself the word, “Courage.” I felt I needed to show courage to be strong for Mom; bravery to not be afraid of the people who surrounded me. My hands trembled. I clasped them and hoped no one noticed. I watched as a worker stopped at the bed of each patient. He pushed a cart with small, clear cups on a tray and a water pitcher with individual medication containers.

Mom usually wasn’t on the third floor, but, for some odd reason, she had taken a step back emotionally. I liked our visits on the second floor better, because she was verbal. 

When my hands stopped shaking, I touched my mother’s hand and wondered if she remembered using those hands as she held Gigi’s head under the bath water or when she placed them around my neck.

I hoped she would abandon the ugly memories from her past locked inside her. My dad told me that the twenty-one electroshock therapies, she has had these last two years, had helped some of the past vanish. I personally hated the electroshock, because it made her vacant inside with no emotion. It made her become a robot.

I grabbed my ponytail and stroked it slowly, trying to think of the words I could say that would persuade her to come home. Now that I was twelve, I needed her. I needed her to teach me how to style my hair. I heard my friends talk at school about shaving their legs, wearing a bra. I needed guidance. I wanted my mom to teach me about what my friends had learned already.

“Mom, when are you coming home?”

I waited five minutes and, while I waited, I watched a woman across the room who yelled nonstop. When Mom spoke, I ignored the other woman and listened to my mom.

“I am not sure, Lizzie.”

I took a deep breath and smelled an unfamiliar odor. I began to get sick to my stomach. I exhaled and bent forward so I could see my dad on the other side of my mother. Amidst all the people, I felt Dad and I were the only ordinary ones in the room. This time my brothers didn’t come; I wished they had.

A clock on the far north wall made a distinct sound. I looked at the clock and wondered If Mom realized the date and time. I wondered if my mom heard the sound of the clock.

Moments before we left, I wrapped my arms around her and whispered into her ear,” “I love you, Mom.”

I then walked over to the elevator and waited while Dad talked privately with Mom. She glanced away as he spoke words of comfort. She hadn’t responded to either of us. I took a picture in my mind of my parents and captured it in my heart with a prayer; someday we’d be a normal family under the same roof again.

Dad drove me back to the Nottingham’s and parked in front of their house. I wished he would have driven me home instead.

Dad squeezed my shoulder, “Elizabeth we are here.”

I moved my body nearer to him and hugged him.

“I love you, dad. Can you please take me home with you?”

Dad rubbed his hand over his mouth.

“Oh, honey, I wish you could come home. Let’s have faith that it will be soon. Look, they are waiting for you at the door.”

I didn’t want to let go, but I knew I had to. I walked up the driveway of the foster family’s home and kept the warmth of my father’s love with each step I took. Under my breath, I said, “I want to go home.”

That night I laid back on the bed they had provided me and clasped my hands behind my head. I stared out the window with a desire to reminisce about an experience I had with my dad, when he drove me around town in his semi-truck, delivering orange juice, lemon juice, pickled onions, plus other foods to bars, stores and restaurants. I thought of the happiness I felt when I was with my dad. Even though I had to ride in the trailer, which was basically a large refrigerator on wheels with crates stacked and tied from floor to ceiling, I realized if I didn’t go with Dad on his delivery route, I had to be put back in a foster home. Mom wasn’t able to be a mother to me, so Dad took over and kept me safe. When I first climbed into the trailer, the arctic breeze circled around me--an added bonus after being out in hundred-plus degree Phoenix weather. My dad turned a crate upside down so I could sit on it.

Dad smiled at me.

“Are you okay there? I wish you could ride in the cab with me, but if my boss found out, he’d fire me.” 

I smiled and sat down.

“Yup,” I said.

He grinned as he closed the doors of the trailer and, within minutes, darkness surrounded me, blacker than the midnight sky. I heard the door latch shut and then counted how long it took for my dad to climb up into the cab to start it up. I always visualized his short, stocky legs as they reached up to the steps. Even though the trailer was cold and I often got scared, I trusted that my dad would unlock the doors and let me out. When my dad turned a corner, the crate I sat on slid quickly across the trailer. I attached my fingers tightly in the crate holes and prayed it wouldn’t fall over.

A knock on the bedroom door broke that safe place I felt I was at. At least I believed I was there in thought in the back of Dad’s truck and on my way home.

 

I lived this…I know all trials are filled with pain and joy. To me this trial was one of faith, hope and love for not just myself, but for all those around me. I feel blessed that the Nottingham’s took me in and let me live under their roof.