An Rud A Lionas An Tsuil Lionann Se An Croi

A month or so ago I completed a medical survey that asked several questions about my background, specifically my childhood. There were the typical questions about diet and exercise, but also ones that asked about any trauma that may have occurred before I reached adulthood.  Now, I was fortunate to have grown up in a stable two-parent household in upper-middle-class suburbia. My childhood was happy, my needs met. The most traumatic thing I can remember happening before I reached the age of reason was when I got some ants in my pants that then crawled all the way into my underwear (not fun). My life was fairly peaceful and free from worry. So when I came to the question of whether I had ever witnessed someone die in a violent way, I was prepared to click the 'no' circle and move on. Sure, I had seen the aftermath of some bad accidents on the highway, seen the cluster of ambulances and police cars on the scene, but I had never seen someone loaded onto a gurney, bruised and bloodi...

102.5 pounds. That's how much I weighed when I was a senior in high school. I remember that number because I was proud of it, and because I never hit it again after I went off to college. At that time I was playing field hockey, eating a bowl of ice cream almost every night, and in a terrible, toxic relationship. Looking back at pictures of me from that time period, I looked slender and toned, by skin tan from practices and games spent outside. My teeth were straight and picture-perfect thanks to braces. My hair had a cute, natural flounce to it that I've mysteriously never been able to replicate.  But, boy, was I miserable in that body.  Fake it 'til you make it, baby. This time of year, when beaches and social media feeds are filled with images of half-naked bodies, it's hard to not feel less-than. Even knowing that people edit their pictures with filters and Photoshop, that they contort their bodies and hold their breath long enough to snap that perfect shot, it can ...

My husband's grandmother recently died. He had the honor of eulogizing her at the funeral Mass, a task he did not take lightly. In the days leading up to the funeral, he agonized over what to say; how does one begin to encapsulate the remarkable life of a woman who lived nearly 98 years? Ultimately he gave a brief summary of her life, the highs and lows, and ended with one of the stories she frequently told that he had transcribed before she started losing some of her memory. I'm glad to say that he made it through without crying - much to his own relief! Since her passing I have thought a lot about what I would like to say about her. I only had the pleasure and privilege of knowing her for 11 or so years; a small fraction of her life, but a good chunk of mine. There is so much that I could say about her, and so much that could be said by others, but I'd like to focus on the two traits I found most admirable about her - her tenderness and her generous spirit - which so ofte...

I had been thinking of rainbows a lot. It was June and companies and merchandisers were taking full advantage of Pride Month by slapping rainbows on everything. On candy, on t-shirts, on make-up, on mail trucks. These Roy G. Biv images were fresh in mind as I took a shower. I thought of the rainbows that frequently appear in our backyard after storms, of the term rainbow baby , of Noah's Ark, of the movie Thumbelina .  " After the rain goes /  There are rainbows /  I'll find my rainbow soon" Was it true that there were always rainbows after horrible storms? The realist-side of me balked at this idea. As I toweled my swollen belly off I mused that while there is always hope, there's not always a happy ending in the Hollywood-sense. Ladybugs and cardinals and orbs of light aren't going to suddenly start appearing everywhere to soothe your broken heart. Tragedies befall people all the time. It's sad, it sucks, but that's the fallen world we live in. Givin...

Years ago I was required to read a book for a psychology class I was taking. I couldn't tell you the title of the book or the name of the author, but it was the story of her struggle with undiagnosed mental illness. The book chronicled her life, the highs and the many lows, as she fought through what she later found out to be bipolar disorder. Prior to diagnosis she had several failed romantic relationships. One, she recalled, was especially passionate in the way many fantasize love to be like, or ought to be like. Romantic gestures, amazing intimate encounters, grandiose proclamations & poetic compliments. Like something from the movies. But in between those moments were periods of violence, anger, jealousy, bitterness. Neither party was mentally healthy & it was abundantly clear by how they treated one another, how they viewed & valued one another & themselves. By the time I was sixteen & reading this book I had learned a few things about love, mostly abou...

My husband & a couple others dug the hole. Not the standard six feet. Only three or so. Wide & long enough for the small coffin, with plenty of room to spare.  Before our priest came I stood & looked down at the grave, at the stone we had placed at its head. It sits under a tree that was sent to us from Oklahoma by the father of a dear friend of ours. He passed away only a few months after we received the tree. We weren't sure how it would fare in our climate, but it's so far survived two New England winters. It seemed like an appropriate spot for our little one, the child that will never grow under the tree that grows against the odds. As I stared into the hole I felt suddenly self-conscious. Silly, even. All of this for a child who was only the size of a raspberry. But it didn't matter, not to me, how big or little she had been. Or if she had even been a she. I had carried her for more than 12 weeks; the first eight weeks alive, the next several for as ...

I have this newspaper from college that I've held on to for the last 12 years. Though I haven't looked at it in a long time I know it's there, in a box of mementos from my four years of college. The paper was printed shortly after the Virginia Tech shootings. It wasn't that particular event that made me keep the paper, but the article that it contained, about all of the tragedies my generation had grown up with. At the time the article was written the emphasis was on the most recent tragedy, the shooting at Virginia Tech that resulted in 33 deaths; September 11th; & Columbine. I was ten, almost eleven, when Columbine happened. Before that there were a few events I remember seeing on the news or hearing about while catching snippets of adult conversation. The LA riots, the OJ Simpson case, the invasion of Kuwait. I was so young when these things happened that of course, at the time, I didn't understand them, but I do remember the images - the car chase, the bro...