Nanu Nanu

Nanu nanu, Mork.

If you don't know me, you may not know the... well, the circus of things that contribute to who I am as a person and a professional. I'm a mom, a wife, a dog person (well, a MY dogs person), I identify as a member of a few fandoms (I totally ship Destiel and upset my 14 year old daughter with my vast Harry Styles knowledge), I live with debilitating chronic pain associated with autoimmune diseases, I'm tattooed, a varsity swim parent, a reader, a knitter, a depressive socially anxious introvert, and a social media professional. I know, I don't make sense to me, either.

I work for and volunteer my time, energy, words, and presence to a couple of important causes here in South Carolina. One of those, an organization very close to my heart, is NAMI Mid-Carolina. I was asked to address the Mid-Carolina facebook audience about the suicide of Robin Williams just as I had begun to peek out from behind my own feelings of oppressive grief, depression, and sadness related to the second anniversary of a close friend's suicide. So here's what I wrote. See the original on Facebook, and please give a "like" to NAMI Mid-Carolina while you're there.

By now you have heard, watched, or read reports regarding the death of beloved actor Robin Williams. On behalf of NAMI Mid-Carolina, we would like to express our horror; our grief, condolences, and deep sadness... So we open with National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number: 1-800-273-TALK (8255). 

But you're not about to read another "hey, don't do it, you aren't alone, you have so much to live for" post. No, instead we are going to tell you about how one of the planet's most beloved actors and comedians often spent his days consumed with feelings of worthlessness and fear. Maybe just like you. Maybe just like me. He fought hard to win those battles most of the days, but... today is the day that he lost that fight. I'm certain his wife and children lost. I know the world lost. Maybe this loss could have been you. Maybe it could have been me. Today it is Robin Williams. 

Chances are, Mr. Williams FELT alone, just like you or I have felt alone. Chances are he FELT as if he had nothing to live for. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder in addition to substance addictions, he often talked about using his own "one bit of crazy" in turning bouts of mania into comedy routines to make the world laugh. He drank heavily to quiet his ever-present fear. "It's just literally being afraid," he said. "And you think, oh, this will ease the fear. And it doesn't." When asked what he was afraid of, Williams said "Everything. It's just a general all-around arggghhh. It's fearfulness and anxiety." 

Today, our loss is a person we all recognize, a person for whom we all have a bit in our memories where he mattered, a person who loved nothing so much as he loved to bring JOY. This man who struggled *always* with fear and depression dedicated most of his terrified, depressive, anxious, life to OUR LAUGHTER. Does the suicide of a man who lived for joy and laughter MAKE SENSE? We submit to you that the answer is no. No, it does not make sense. It sounds like a depressive EPISODE. A TREATABLE ILLNESS.
Williams’ publicist gave a short statement with the news of his death, saying that Williams had recently been “battling severe depression”. Robin Williams made no secret of his decades-long fight for mental health, most recently seeking inpatient help last month (July 2014). 

Forbes writes: “Many people who suffer from depression report feeling as though they’ve lost the ability to imagine a happy future, or remember a happy past. Often they don’t realize they’re suffering from a treatable illness, and seeking help may not even enter their mind. Emotions and even physical pain can become unbearable. They don’t want to die, but it’s the only way they feel their pain will end.” 

It's time to talk. Talk about addiction, talk about depression, talk about mania, and TALK ABOUT SUICIDE. It's time to stop buying into the stigma that suicide is shameful and embarrassing. It's time to stop sweeping it under the rug. Tell your stories. Talk about the pain of surviving the self-inflicted death of someone you love. Talk about treating your own suicidal ideations tenderly. Talk about surviving yourself! Talk about how support and understanding mattered, matters, and is there, waiting... for all of us. 

We miss you already, Robin.

About That #LiveLikeRick Tribute Video

James and George created this tribute to Rick Stilwell. James will say that he AND George made it; George will say that he just contributed a few bits but that James did all the work. He said/he said aside, this is a bittersweet video for those of us who knew Rick... It's nice to hear from him again, it's funny, he was funny, and he's just so missed.

The thing for me, though, is that this tribute video is especially important for me: It includes a bit of footage where Rick talked about me (!), suggesting that people should be following me on Twitter. Me! Of all people! I'm just some dweeb, and he was talking about ME! I seriously couldn't believe it. Rick was the coolest of the cool kids, and I was a total nobody... at least, an in-person nobody, and he was talking about me? That's why I'm here talking about him, to tell you not just about this video, but also about that day.

If memory serves, the day Rick recorded the bit about me was a blazing hot day in late August, 2011; it was the day when I finally got to meet Rick in person, on the steps of Cromer's Pnuts during Food Truck Food Court. I heard he would be there, and told The City Girl I wanted to meet THE Columbia social media guru. She made sure to find him; rolled me right up to him in the middle of his lunch, and made a proper IRL introduction (we'd known each other online for ages). That August day in 2011 was a big deal day for me in a lot of ways: It was the first time I beat back the social anxiety enough to attend any of the tweetups; the first time I met most of the "Real Twitterati". I was just standing up the social media department at work for real, and I needed to turn my virtual connections into real ones. Everybody who was anybody knew: RickCaffeinated was the guy you talked to about that in Columbia, SC.

So there I was: Sweaty, self-conscious, scared, nervous, and by the end of the day I had a raging sunburn, too. As it turned out, though, every single person I met was not only super fun and kind, but 100% welcoming and friendly, just as if we'd known each other forever... which, well, we had. Rick was so nice to me that day, answering tons of questions, inviting me to Social Media Club Columbia, and telling me he would happily tell me about how to do what he did, for his going price of a cup of coffee. :)

Anyway. I have been wondering what happened to that clip, and to find that not only did The Misters K and N locate it, but that they chose to include it in this tribute... well, that just means the world to me. In mid January 2013, the day after Rick died, I would go back to Cromer's - which now houses Jamestown Coffee Company - along with lots of the same people who were there that day in 2011. In 2013, we raised our mugs in toast to Rick, shared memories, and said our goodbyes to him.

Please take a minute to watch. Thank you.

Why, Hobby Lobby, Why?

Source: Tell Them!

As you might have noticed by now, sometimes I write things, and these things are occasionally for contribution to other websites or organizations.

Here's one I wrote recently for a South Carolina based non-profit, my former office neighbors and buddies over at Tell Them! Presently the post shows over 450 combined visible shares, which I believe makes it their second most popular blog post (to date). I guess we hit a nerve?

Without further rambles: please enjoy my ranting and raving over at the Tell Them! blog in a guest post entitled Why, Hobby Lobby Why?!: Experiencing the Five Stages of Hobby Lobby Grief.

Hi! My name is...

This may come as a shock to you, but I am something of a dork. A nerd. A geek. If you need an example to underscore my point, well, I am composing this post on an Android platform phone while sitting in a public place. Oh, and I just recognized a near-stranger after 5 years, not because he is remarkable in appearance (although a man with flaming red hair extending to his waist is remarkable), but because the sight of him made me remember his dice bag which made me remember who he is.

That's a true story.


So, geek. And recently I have been working to overcome my natural fear of people by participating in more local events with the local Twitterati, as well as doing social media work for a well-known and beloved client. So, more visible, more interactive, and more... well, just more. I am not an extrovert, contrary to what my friends might say. I'm so very much an introvert; it's a lot of work for me to be highly social, and kind of exhausting. Further, I'm kind of afraid of you. Maybe not you, specifically, but you, in general. Especially if I like you and/or respect you. One of my BFFs jokes that along with one of the other BFFs, between us we might have the self-esteem of one normal person. Anyway, so: going places and doing things, that's me. Go, me!

I had an idea: Most of the people in the places where I am doing things, they are kind of geeky in the ways that I am geeky, so doing something geeknerdy would probably be accepted! Not weird! Woo!

Heading into a social event where I wouldn't know EVERYone, I printed a QR code on a label and I affixed it as a name tag. Customary name tag position. At least, I think it was? If you were asked to use an adhesive name tag, where would you put it? Upper left chest, for me.

Nobody scanned me.

So I tried again, next event. Still, nobody scanned me. I witnessed a horrified face or two when I suggested it. NO CAN POINT CAMERA AT YOUR BOOBISH REGION. Then I wore it one more time, at this point just because I'm ornery, and I got the same (lack of) result.

The resulting data from my accidental social experiment indicates that it's socially acceptable to look at the chesticle area to read a name tag, but it's not okay use your phone cam to scan one. Even if that's the obviously intended invitation. Why do you think that is?

Curiouser.

For Renée

If you'll pardon the intrusion, I will take a moment of your time here, Internets, and I will tell you a thing:

The thing is, I am breaking up with American Idol.

I explained this to Renée in great and pointed detail yesterday, by way of an email which may or may not have included some but not all of the lyrics to Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You As Performed By Whitney Houston Crack Is For Poor People Kiss My Ass (you can't prove anything). This post is more on the topic of that, and it's mostly for her, because she will put up with my rambling - you may have heard I tend to go on awhile - and we all need someone who understands us, right? Right? Right.

So I am breaking up with American Idol, after a decade-long courtship. Part of my present-tense use of "breaking up with American Idol", as you may have noticed, is the clearly attached connotation that I have not done so - not yet. Which: If you're a practitioner of the Context Clue, you know means that me and AI, we're still seeing each other. Up 'til now. But not for long.

Eventually I will address Steven Tyler's blatant disregard of Aerosmith and the human populous in general, but before we get to that place, there was this performance by the surviving members of TLC. The ones who are both alive and also not Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes (because she's dead; CONTEXT CLUES). As regards both the T and the C, I can't help but think they must be in some dire need of the moneydollars, and I hope they have been well-paid for showing up and taking their medley of '90s hits out for a walk. Because I remember how they were the picture of barely-composed bravery, all brave with their brave selves and their hand-holding on that stage at that awards show. I remember that standing ovation and the shaky composure and our security in the knowledge that not a single either one of them would (probably) ever set fire to a sports guy's house again. And then they packed themselves up and put themselves away to go about living lives or whatever, out of sight and also mind, like you do. Quietly respectful of the world's knowledge that without Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes there is not, no, there is not a TLC - no indeed. And they - like us - felt good about that, because it was good, but alas also over, which we all agreed about and we moved on. Older, wiser, and with both straps of our overalls fasted securely where they belong.

They left us as they should have: with the fond memories of their gawky, condom-adorned adolescence (I cannot WAIT for the stats on site referrals to this post! I dare you to count and list all of the moneyshot words contained herein!), and then about how they grew up to be fine young ladies and the eventual Sickle Cell trouble and all the bankruptcy and arson - and even these beauties felt unpretty - even them! And because we remember all that we just wanted to sort of wish the various stages of TLC well and feel good about what we meant to each other at the time. You know? But now here we are, all these years later, it's the cultural relevance equivalent to T(*)C drunk-dialing us and hollering into the phone about how we never did give back their Depeche Mode CDs. It's not like we're unhappy to hear from you, T(*)C, but not like this, because this is sad in that Sarah McLachlan-behooving-us-to-save-animals way.

Perhaps you, like me, kept expecting the medley to give way to some new song, but alas: 'twas not to be. No new material whatsoever (the inclusion of tiny rapping personification of the Predator alien man we won't ever mention again notwithstanding). I'm sure you know - as I do - that performing new music is understood and included in any live television broadcast's TCO for retaining an artist to perform. Because otherwise nobody would ever show up. Tom Petty is like 'I would rather die than sing Refugee one more time, DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THIS'. So we're essentially watching the rapping Misses Havisham all up in our business with their ancient wedding dresses going on about stopped clocks or chasing waterfalls (rather than sticking to the rivers and the lakes that they, themselves, are used to) or whatever, meaning to save us from misery like their own.

Backfire! Which reminds me: Steven Tyler.

Part of my "it's complicated" with AI means that thus far I have not only been exposed to Steven Tyler exposing himself as a solo artist (I know! That is not the way we expect nor are accustomed to!) in a new video, some black and white jobbie with circus animals (which: fitting, granted) and women younger than his daughters and possibly mine about how (It) Feels So Good (the 'It' is his penis). This video, I will embed it in the post script of this post. The post's post script, if you will, which I know: you totally will, don't even front.

So anyway, the point - I have one - is that I would like to go ahead and be on the record about how I find all of this Steven Tylering-around-in-our-faces-and-making-with-the-Aerosmithing-solo-while-that-sir-is-an-Aerosmith-song-and-that-right-there-is-the-standard-scarving-and-crotch-issues-of-the-Aerosmith... I find this deeply disquieting.

It's like how even as I myself am a consumer of the Americanized reissue of the BBC's Being Human show on SyFy, the show Being Being Human - I do not understand it. The casting choice of Sam Huntington, this I understand. I enjoyed him in Detroit Rock City and I have been pleased to note that he done growed up and caught himself a case of the adorbs. But this American re-issue: it perplexes me, it is a thing which is totally beyond me.

As I am a person who speaks English in What, I am also a person fully capable of both understanding individuals who tawk funny like them Brits as well as obtaining the avenues by which to do so. So too am I a person capable of watching Being Human without requiring it to be set in Boston and delivered to us in Americanish by cute Sam Huntington and his flatmates - roommates, sorry - that vampire with the too much face topography all up in his facial face and that woman who is No Annie, no ma'am. I just can't seem to grasp why we need separate and distinct forms of the same thing.

Which is sort of like how I can't really understand Steven Tyler having a Steven Tylering solo career and then not Steven Tyler Solo Album Single performancing on the AI, but Aerosmithing without Aerosmith on the AI. You dig? It's complicated. What I'm saying is Steven Tyler performed Dream On. Which: Aerosmith song, maybe you've heard of it?

Except there is nary a Joe Perry nor any of those other people including the one with the unfortunate hair and the other one with the terrifying babyman head from that one video, and possibly others but they can be and remain beside the point - of whom, and I am admittedly bad at math but this math is the kind of math that allows me to say "this math is in my math WHEELHOUSE", okay: the sum total of all of these absent parts plus the crotch guy equals Aerosmith.

So this thing, it was happening, and I just sort of cock my head and Simple Dog shapes appear and I look at this thing that I should know except it is not the thing I know, and there is no Sam Huntington anywhere. But there is Steven Tyler's horrible caricature of a face and also crotch everywhere and the whole world apparently co-signing on how this is an acceptable thing.

I will miss Ryan. The end.

P.S. Do you know what happens now, Gentle Reader, when I write blog posts? I worry about every word that barfs forth, because Think Of The Children. My children, not so much yours, but mine, because mine are denizens of the Internets, now. They are that old, and I know they are going to read this - and other things I have written - sooner rather than later. And I just said "crotch everywhere", you see what I did there. I think I'm probably okay, what with how my teenager spent 5 minutes cracking testicle jokes over peanuts last night. So there's that.

P.P.S. I warned you I was going to do it:

Portland

Things I miss about Portland:

• My people
• Mount Hood visible from anywhere
• 90 minutes to the ocean
• Tillamook cheese
• All that rain
• All that coffee
• All those trees
• My Father's Place
• Liberals
• Powell's
• Getting to the rest of my people in a day of road-tripping
• Seattle is right there
• Banning's (I know, technically this is Tigard) coffee at midnight with D & I
• Infinity Tattoo
• Full-service gas stations
• Basketball

Things I don't miss about Portland:

• That smell in the morning
• All that rain
• The way it doesn't seem like I belong there anymore, and I don't know when that happened
• Waiting for the Hawthorne Bridge
• Randomly running into old teachers and other scary people
• Beaverton (I never liked Beaverton)
• "Pop"
• Front licence plates

I think maybe I'm homesick.

When To Put Me In A Home

Tim and I have this ongoing discussion about how doing certain things may mean that I have lost the ability to govern my mental faculties and, thus, it will be time to Put Me In A Home. A lot of times these things relate to fashion choices* or, you know, becoming a republican**.

The ever-expanding list of these things includes but is not limited to:

• Floral pantsuits
• Bolo ties
• Changing lanes in an intersection
• Embroidered cartoon characters on my clothing
  - Especially Tweety Bird and/or Taz
  - Super-especially Disney characters, specifically Pooh and/or Piglet
  - On denim? Openly mock me while putting me in the home
• Stirrup pants
• Swooping in at a gas pump someone else was very clearly waiting for patiently
• Allowing my children wear wrestling or NASCAR-themed anything
• Portrait tattoos
  - This one came up last night. I told Tim that if I ever want to or do get a portrait tattoo, he is to put me in a home immediately. Thinking about it for a moment, I qualified - put me in a home if I ever get a portrait tattoo except if it is a Patrick Swayze Centaur tribute tattoo, in which case: Awesome!! Tim says he won't have to put me in a home if I do that, however, because he will move out of ours. Knowing is half the battle!

* Do take note that these things are not representative of judgement upon your tastes should you do any of them on any sort of regular or irregular basis. These things, for me, however, would be giant flashing billboards pointing directly to the feared "changes in personality", so severely that any clinician would be most disturbed. Also the whole thing is a joke.

** See *.

Ten

My baby girl is ten years old today. Where has the time gone?

A Merry first five years:

Click to embiggen

Her second five years:

Click to embiggen

Happy tenth birthday to my Merry baby. She's a complete joy, and I love her so much. I'm so lucky to be her mom.

Differences in the Time of Social Media

Lately I've been thinking about differences. With a big D, that is: Differences. The kinds of Differences which can ruin friendships. Specifically, I've been thinking about Differences in the time of social media.

Thinking about this makes me wear my "I'm keeping my mouth shut, behold my utter seriousity!" face, which I've helpfully demonstrated for you over there on the right.

You see, for me, for the kind of person I am and the kinds of friends that I have, it's usually been the case that once differences of opinion get addressed, that's that. To co-opt a gross cliché here, some of my best friends are Republicans! Our differences? They're okay, because we are entitled to our opinions. What I mean to say is, overall, we just don't need to constantly hash it out. We keep our mouths shut. Seriously.

Politics, religion, global warming.... heck, in the times of the Mommy Wars, it was, is, and will probably always be about how breast is best, or circumcision is genital mutilation, or my kid's carseat is safer than yours... whatever. You know how I feel, I know how you feel, and we move on.

So here's where Facebook, in specific, is causing me some discomfort, and some introspection.

Facebook groups and pages are the new Fish/Bicycle t-shirt, or "Don't blame me!" bumpersticker. Sure. I get it. What scares me about this, though, is how you can make a statement without actually making a statement, just by way of being a "joiner". You don't own that shit. You're not saying "I, Self Me, believe that the Holocaust is a lie! Wanna make something of it?"

No. You're not taking that heat.

You're saying "I passively agree with this thing someone else said, and did you happen to notice the moist and chewy pre-packaged safety in numbers deliciousness? No? Oh, well, then it's just a JOKE Holocaust denial anyway, quit being so reactionary".

It feels like receiving a "Dear Jen, learn how to park, you asshole!" note under my windshield wipers - not that I've ever received one of those, Aaron - every time I see a friend joining a group or liking a topic that I, personally, find reprehensible. No, I know it isn't about me. Yes, I am just as guilty as the next guy. Only my Passive Joiner Statements of Difference were things that I agree with. Acceptance. Equality. Understanding. Choice.

You know what They say about opinions.

So I think about the kind of person I am, and the kind of person I want to be. Do I want to be the kind of person who only surrounds herself with people of like mind? Because that sounds pretty boring. Do I want to embrace or ignore my (admittedly) knee-jerk reaction of "You know what? Friendship over." when I encounter these really grotesque statements that my friends seem to be supporting? Because if I got friend-dumped over being pro-choice, for example, I'd be pretty pissed. I'd be making noise about my right to my opinions. If I got friend-dumped for being Caucasian, well, aiiie discrimination!

It's always about rights and discrimination when it's not originating from your own self, innit?

I don't know what's right or what's wrong, here. I don't know where it starts or where it stops. What does it say about acceptance and equality if I'm going to refuse to be friends with you because you feel differently than I do?

As I said, lately I've been thinking about Differences. I don't have a clear answer, but at least I'm thinking. I hope my friends are, too.

Water: Meh

"Woo hoo!", I thought to myself this morning, "I can get a head start!"

That was during my morning commute, when I realized Tim had packed a bottle of water in my lunch. I finished it before arriving at work, all pleased with myself for getting that one out of the way early on. And now, I find myself mid-afternoon, struggling to get through the second bottle.

My daily goal is to consume four of these aforementioned bottles, because that's what They recommend. That's what They say is good for me. Yep, this is what passes as a new year's resolution in me-land: "Maybe I should drink something other than coffee, cream soda, and red wine, once in awhile? I don't even remember the last time I drank plain water... Let's see how that goes..."

So here I am.

Every day, I struggle to choke down four 16.9 ounce bottles of water, and every day I find myself wondering: Why the hell is this so hard?

Aren't we human animals something like 60% water? Isn't this what we're meant to drink? Supposed to drink? And then I force myself to chug down some more. Frankly, it's annoying. I'm constantly filling and refilling bottles, I'm running to the bathroom all the time, I don't feel any different than I did before, and I'm annoyed with having yet another item on my To Do list. Oh yes, I am that petty:

Don't even talk to me about lemon wedges, or flavor packets, or Special K Protein Water mix. Those are all great ideas, in theory, (and "everything works in theory", which always makes me think of John Cash's old .plan, or maybe it was his .sig? Anyway....). In reality, to make use of such items I have to remember that I need to purchase said items, and then execute the purchasing of said items, and remember to pack them along with me, and then... the hardest of all... remember to use said items. I just don't have the spare brain power to do it. So, plain water, I thought, I can handle. I have empty bottles, and there's a water fountain pretty much right outside my office door.

And yet, here I am.

Still on bottle two.

As Regards Mom

I figured I'd say some things that are more than 140 characters long about what's going on with my mother. As you have already brilliantly deduced based upon my crafty reference to "140 characters" right then, I've been making updates regarding her status via my Twitter accounts (here (approval needed) or here (public access)), which auto-updates my status on Facebook. It's easier for me than having to actually talk about it. I know that seems weird, or maybe crass or something, but it is really helpful for me to not have to repeat what's going on with my mom over and over and over again every time I talk to someone. It is especially hard for me when I get asked what's wrong with her, or what happened.

It's hard to try to explain. Fact is, we're not really sure.

To sum up, my mom is still in the hospital - it's been about six weeks, now. There has been no Dr. Houseish million-mile stare moment, where a diagnosis clicked and we were then informed about what's wrong with her. She just... got sick. First with some not-the-flu virus thing, and then she got pneumonia, and then she just got sicker and sicker, and they don't really know what or why or how, just that she's sick. Diagnoses have come out of that, like ARDS, but those aren't the root cause. She was intubated and on a ventilator for nearly three weeks, she's had collapsed lungs, two tracheotomies, multiple chest tubes, a lot of other tests and tubes and scans, she almost died a lot, and she is all the way across the country from me, in Oregon.

I feel like I'm failing at daughter-hood, somehow. I feel like I'm failing me-hood somehow, because my "job" in this family is pretty much to show up and be the hard-ass caretaker voice of reason, and I'm not doing it. I know that there's nothing to do, here, but... still. My stepdad, Jeff, sends me updates every day, sometimes multiple times a day, via txt. I don't always respond, because there's only so many ways I can say "wow" or "omg" or "but do they think it's getting worse?" or "thanks for letting me know". Also, it's just hard. What do you even say to your parent when he tells you your other parent is pulling out her feeding tube repeatedly? And then when I don't respond: Fail, again.

It's important to point out that these aren't anyone's standards but mine that I'm failing. Nobody is telling me I suck for not doing more, nobody is complaining that I'm not doing what I should. Nobody, except my outta-whack internal monologue.

The fact of the matter, though, is that my two youngest siblings aren't able to do a whole lot to help, and they're local. My next youngest sibling is in Canada. Mostly, Jeff is on his own with this. He's taking care of their household and dogs, he's taking care of some teenage girl with cancer who moved into their house and their lives, he's taking care of my mom's mother in at least some capacity (thankfully, she's in an assisted living community), he's spending pretty much every possible moment at the hospital with my mother, and somehow, some way, he's having to take care of himself, too.

It's all I can do not to explode with worry, or mortar up some good old-fashioned emotional walls, or... something. I don't know. But I'm fighting this nasty internal battle about what I should do that I'm not doing, and then why I can't do those things, and hey, when was the last time the floor got vacuumed, anyway? Because I can't drop everything and run to Oregon, and it wouldn't do any good if I did. I can't make this go faster, I can't make her better, I can't fix any of this, and fixing is what I do.

Sometimes I worry that she's going to get better and be her old self again, and she's going to check Facebook one day and be "apocalyptically cross" that we've been talking about what's going on with her. And then I worry that I won't have to worry about that at all. Fancy tricks these brains play, no?

The good news is, it looks like she's finally turning the corner and on her way to getting better. She's having periods of consciousness, and the doctors have installed some valve-majiggy to her trach tube which allows her to speak. So far she's asked how long she's been in the hospital (she thought two months), and this morning she insisted that my stepdad... call the police. Baby steps? I guess.

So, thanks, you guys. Thanks for taking my 140 character piecemeal bits of information and telling me that you're keeping my mom in your thoughts. Thanks for checking in, thanks for showing me that you care, and thanks for still being there as this goes on and on, and on.