My Nightmare

Bam Bam Bam.

Oh My God – He’s trying to coming in”! Those were the words that rang in the air on the cold winter night as my oldest son screamed in terror.
My husband had been working the night shift and the other kids had long gone to bed. N was busy on the computer and I had just said goodnight and was heading off to bed. I don’t think I ever moved so fast in my life. The whole thing is really still a blur. I shouted to N to grab the baby and get upstairs with the other kids.
He was about 6 feet tall, bald and pretty hefty. What was particularly odd was his attire. It was freezing and the snow was at least a foot high and he was barefoot, shirtless and wearing pants that were shredded from the knee down. Keep in mind this was the season of the bath salt zombie killings. So there’s that.
Fast forward thru the 911 call, frantic pacing and a few mashed up attempts at the Hail of Mary prayers; the cops came and took him away. Apparently he was unarmed and had been high on something. He saw our light and was looking for somewhere to get warm. We have not heard from him again nor have we since experienced anything like it.

That was 2 years ago. That was 2 months ago. That was 2 weeks ago. That was last night.

Welcome to the world of PTSD and the nightmare that plays over and over and over again. It is my poison and it is my gift. I will explain why.

It is my poison as it effects my every day. My PTSD triggers result in anxiety attacks. I become paralyzed. My legs don’t move and my heart beats so hard it feels as though it is going to rip thru my chest. My eyes tend to burn and my face gets tight. I think that I am dying. It can strike without warning and I never know what is going to set me off. Last night it was a thumping sound coming from my dishwasher. I knew what the sound was but I couldn’t even get out of bed to go verify. I was frozen. It affects my sleep, my eating habits and my mood.

It is my gift. I have come to realize that I am a very empathetic person by nature. Now having PTSD combined with secondary trauma that is often experienced by caregivers (a whole other conversation), I find that I can relate to my trauma survivors on a whole other level.  I can see unexplained fear in their eyes combined with panic and slowly walk them out of it. I have learned the grounding technique and I can guide my own kids through it. It doesn’t stop all anxiety attacks but it makes and good dent. Lucky for me, wine can usually pick up the slack.

The Grounding Technique


Foster children have a greater chance of facing PTSD than veterans. Let that sink in for a minute. That is a lot of kids walking around in schools, parks, churches and ball fields that are caught in a nightmare that is looping over and over again in their heads. They are waiting for the next trigger to set them off.
There was a study done regarding children in foster care. 60% of those sexually abused were later diagnosed with PTSD and 42% of those physically abused were later diagnosed with PTSD (Dubner and Motta 1999). The same study soon found that 18% of foster children who experienced neither physical nor sexual abuse had PTSD. This may be from exposure to domestic violence, community violence, or other events (Marsenich, 2002). This would be similar to Secondary Trauma.

What does any of this have to do with anything? Well, let me explain. Once you understand PTSD and realize how many kids are affected, you begin to see things differently. Crazy behaviors that annoy you now seem to have their place. With awareness and acceptance comes calmness and ability. The ability to help another heal is amazing.

PTSD Poison: The week before Halloween, our neighborhood has a fun tradition. The kids “Boo” each other. They sneak around the block, placing treats and goody bags on porches and ringing the bell or knocking and running. It is simple good natured fun.                 Normal Julie Reaction: Hahahaha! How cool! Our turn!                                                                       Crazy PTSD Julie Reaction: Oh My God! Everyone upstairs! Hide! ~~~then me calling neighbors to check the house and getting upset and lashing out at my friends. This then resulting in a “what is her problem” reaction. (Warranted, I must admit).

PTSD Gift: Teacher speaks harshly (warranted) towards one of my kids. She ducks her head like a brink was flying thru the air (or like maybe she was going to get the shit beat out of her, just saying). Refuses to participate  from that minute on and results in a phone call home.
Normal Julie reaction: What the heck is wrong with you? You shouldn’t have been fooling around in class and you need to buckle down and do as expected of you.
Crazy  PTSD Julie Reaction: That sucks. Let me talk to teacher to figure out what happened (just because I get them, doesn’t mean I am stupid – they are still kids with playing angles) and we will get to the bottom of this. What can I do to help you survive this class? Now, I know that we will get thru this. Together.
My final word on this is that there is no use telling anyone that faces PTSD not to worry or it’s all in our head or our imaginations are out of control. You see worrying is for things that haven’t happened. Our terror already happened. It’s not all in our head. It’s in our nervous system. It’s in our hear rate. It’s in our soul. It’s not our imagination. It was our reality. It still remains our reality. Instead, pull out the grounding technique. Guide us thru it. Hold our hand and be there on the other side.
wine therapy


That all being said, life isn’t Tumblr and I believe we all have a choice. We can wallow in our nightmare or we can turn on the light and pull up the big girl panties and have a glass of wine. Obviously, you all know what I pick.


Another “Get Through”

Good Bye.

What is really good about Bye? Some cultures don’t even have that phrase in their language. Some cultures only say see you later and leave out all finality as they look to the afterlife. Maybe “see you later” is easier to chew on, but I really don’t think it makes a difference. Anytime a chapter closes there is going to be pain and questions left unanswered.

Miss A and her little bundle, would only remain with our family for a short time. Over the last year, I have assessed and reassessed this chapter in my life until my brain can’t take anymore. I have asked why and why not too many times. I don’t think there are real answers but these are the questions:
Culture differences? She was black. I was white. Acceptance and tolerance doesn’t always mean understanding and ability. I have taken transracial parenting classes and I felt comfortable parenting R and E. However, their prior experiences were with a transracial family and we were able to make easy subtle adjustments to accommodate their needs and cultural norms. It was much more of a challenge for us with A. It was difficult to sort out the cultural needs from the trauma trap. I was ill prepared.

Sibling rivary? My oldest daughter was so excited and so supportive of our family decision to bring Miss A home. However, the reality was much different than the expectations. She had fantasied an older sister that was sharing her position in the family and wished for a bond like that of F and B (my middle and youngest daughter) and never imagined that a power struggle for top dog may occur. It caused isolation and strained relationships and we found trust within the family unit was breaking down.

Two moms? Even in a biological family where mother and daughter have been living together for years, this can become an issue. Two females, raising children and fighting for power can be a disaster waiting to happen. I was responsible for Miss A as her foster mom. This automatically put me the position to be responsible for her baby too. The problem was I didn’t have any legal authority over being responsible for the baby. I didn’t want that, but the problem became that as an adult I have resources and knowledge about what is safe and what is not. When I would try and guide, it was interpreted as taking over and this led to a power and unsafe struggle between the two of us.

After some turban unsafe events, it was obvious that things were not the fairytale in which we had hoped. Miss A yearned for independence and our family yearned for calmness. Heads clashed, things got thrown around and tempers flared. In the end Bye was all we had left. Sadly, it wasn’t Good.

I think about Miss A and the grandchild that I will never know often. My kids have moved on but have not forgotten. How could they? She was their sibling and her baby was their nephew, if only for a little while. We talk openly about the situation and I spend tons of energy on helping them understand and heal.

Would I do this again? I still can’t answer this. I have learned so much from it. I truly loved being part of the birth. I felt I played a role and an important one at that. If it were my pain alone, I would do over again in a heartbeat. I would gladly accept the dance and regret nothing. Only I look at my children and see the pain in their eyes and hesitate. You see; foster children don’t come in a vacuum. I think of the pain of the all others that I witnessed; Miss A and her baby, the other foster parents hoping to follow my lead and all my friends and family who supported me. I guess the answer is maybe.

What I do know to be true, is that each battle, each experience, each “get through” tends to lead me to another. When I think this is it, nothing bigger or better or worse or whatever can happen…poof! It does. So, I learned how to make hard decisions. Sad. Hard. Decisions. I learned how to stick to them and not be talked out of them. I learned how to stand my ground and be clear. I learned how to stand up against the guilt card that can get played by agencies or even the guilt card that I often play on myself. I learned to fight during the day (once again) and cry at night (once again). I learned how to do this when society is not cheering me on. I learned that sometimes my actions are necessary for my family while they can and will damage another. I have learned that sometimes you have to choose who you are going to save and who needs to be let go. This would turn out to be everything that I would need to learn to survive the next chapter in my life.

If one person learns from my story and improves their story than my story counts.



***I will not post about the next chapter until the time is right. In the meantime, my posts will be about topics and information that will help others maybe understand the next chapter of my life. Just like everything else though, until you put on the shoes and walk the walk, the talk will only be the talk.

Witnessing Hope

Adrenaline. I can’t describe it any better. Pure adrenaline.

Sometimes, when I think about helping birth Miss A’s baby, it is like I am watching from the outside. Who is that woman who is stroking this young girl’s back and positioning herself securely behind her on an overly inflated ball while stroking her matted curls and whispering words of encouragement? Who is that woman who has been invited into this intimate world of this young lady?  Who is that woman who was allowed to share in her fear and vulnerability as she and grips the offered hand with tears and sweat in her eyes?

I know that I was there because I experience it through all of my senses when I remember. I can smell the strong scent of body odor, appalling under other circumstances, seems almost sweet and welcoming. I see the lights that are dimmed and hear the beep, beep, beeping of the machines. There are background murmurs of nurses and staff as they come in and out of the room and occasionally offering ice chips and additional pillows. Yet, I still feel like I was watching a movie and I was not the one coaching and calming her. I was not the one that was stepping in where her parents and the father to be should have been. Yet I know it was me.


“Birth is not only about making babies.  Birth is about making mothers – strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and know their inner strength.”

Barbara Katz Rothman

Miss A’s water broke in the middle of the night. She came downstairs to wake me up. It had not been a good night as we had been struggling over the past couple weeks with our relationship. I knew that fostering an older teen would be hard. I just wasn’t prepared for the whole scope of things and neither was she. Entering an established family while being very pregnant is hard. Very hard.  It was the second full moon that month, so I should have just known she would go into labor. She and what turned out to be half the city.  I have never seen a delivery room so busy. She was only in the beginning stages of labor and it looked like it would be a while, which was a good thing because we were stuck in the emergency room along with a half dozen other woman waiting for a bed in labor and delivery. Because I have found out that nothing in my life will ever just be easy. Never.
I was thankful that Miss A and I were able to squeeze a few labor classes in and we were prepared with some exercises and tricks to help ease some of the pain. I think I was more thankful to have something to offer. I do much better as person with an agenda  and having plans help me keep my own anxiety at bay. Miss A needed me to be strong for her. She was only 17. She was alone. She was scared. I had a job to do. I had every intention of doing it and doing it right.

Fast forward past the massaging, the screaming, the praying, the dancing, and all that goes along with labor, we were finally coming around the curve and the baby would be arriving soon. Miss A had me contact family members that she wanted with her. It was decided that her older cousins, were much like sisters to her, would be in the room during delivery and her younger sister would remain in the waiting room until after the birth. She had informed the baby’s father and he came out too. Miss A asked me to stay. I accepted with joy in my heart.

The time right before the delivery was actually a lot of fun. Her cousins played music and it was something of a dance party. When Miss A and the nurse agreed the time had arrived, one of the girls begin playing “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa. It was a celebration, which was exactly what Miss A needed. After some laughs that were mostly nervous, the midwife arrived.

I was at a loss of what my role would be at this point. Miss A had her cousins with her and the nurses. The baby’s father was in hospital although it was not certain where he was during that time. I figured that I would be taking a backseat to the action. I was wrong. Miss A reached out for me and one of the nurses pulled right into the spotlight. It would me that would be helping the nurses hold Miss A into position and assist in the actual delivery.

I am not sure of all the details after that. I do know that my eyes stung with tears and I wasn’t sure if my heart was still in my chest. There were moments of panic when the heart beat slowed and when Miss A needed to push harder. Could she do this? She was young and scared. There were a few minutes of discussion on plan and prepping for surgery, when the next thing we knew, she made a choice. She decided that she wanted more than anything to do this. I watched that scared little girl, gather all her hurt and emotion and move it out of the way and do her first motherly act. I watched her push pass her fear and exhaustion and I watched the most beautiful act. I saw Miss A. I saw a mother.

I have birthed two of my children. It has been amazing and nothing will ever compare but I know now the actual miracle of what it is as I experience it from the other side of the bed. When I chose to foster Miss A, I had no idea the responsibility. I had no idea how great the magnitude of the experience would be. I will have many more powerful emotional experiences in my life; however, I am very sure that this one will remain near the top. The experience has no ceiling of worth. It would, however, have a price.

baby feet

There’s A Baby On The Way!

There’s a baby on the way! There’s a baby on the way!

When anyone moves, there is chaos.  There are boxes and bags, shifting of dining seats, expectations to be discussed and painting to occur. This is the concreteness of it all. It is what I turn to when the abstract emotions are just too much. It is easy to concentrate on what color the walls should be and where one should attend school. It is not easy to concentrate on the how the dynamics of it will work. How will there be time to meet everyone’s needs be? What if there are some real personality conflicts and what will happen if I run out of steam? Nope. I wasn’t going to think that way. The professionals had my back. They knew I could do it. I have done it in the past. I must be able to do it now.

Hope. Anticipation.  Excitement.  Joy.

The carnival had come to town. It was filled with noise, laughter, thrills, and dizziness and yes a side of nausea. My kids were excited but as with any addition or transition, there are hard emotions that can’t be denied. It meant more sharing, more stretching and more compromise. My oldest daughter E would have to temporarily move in with her younger sisters. While she loved her space, she was excited for an older sister and the idea of being a niece and graciously accepted it. Next was the fear. Fear of losing mom and dad. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the memories that it stirred inside the hearts of my children who had come to me after being in the system. There would regression and symptomatic behavior on their part. It would be inevitable.

There was so much to do and so little time. I think the planning and busywork took over. We had to get Miss A registered in school. She had been attending on campus school at her residential facility. Not all the credits transferred to traditional school and it was making things complicated. After much consideration and discussion, the decision that she would attend online school seemed to make the most sense. Our school district here suggested that she attend the alternative school. That bothered me because I felt they were “pushing her out” because of her pregnancy. I get it. Pregnancy is contagious. Had she wanted me to fight, this, you know I would have. She didn’t and it wasn’t my battle. I shut up. I still believe that I deserve a metal for that as we all know my mouth. The alternative school was from 1pm to 8pm. Ummh- not exactly conducive to family time with a newborn. Looking back this would have been the best decision. It would have meant letting her remain with her peers. This may have been a factor in events to follow. Or maybe not.

School was not the only to do on the list. She was having a baby. We needed to get ready for that. She needed medical care and a plan. We began touring hospitals. I wanted Miss A (my daughter) to have some power and control over her situation and life. It was something that she lacked up to this point. We called around to find out which hospitals in the area accepted Medicaid (she was still a foster child and not on our private insurance). After visiting a few, she made her decision and we set up care and appointments thru them.  I was so proud of her. She was determined to have a healthy baby and took very good care of herself. She was very mature in this respect.

There’s a baby on the way! There’s a baby on the way!

What does a family do when a baby is coming? They party! I very much wanted Miss A to be my own. My daughter was going to be a mom. It didn’t matter that she had just now become my daughter and it didn’t matter the scope of the relationship. It doesn’t matter that she is not mine now and that we don’t have a relationship. The party was important. The party is still important. The pictures make me smile and cry and the memories are gold. We were able to gather friends and family together to welcome a baby into the world. It was a celebration of Miss A. It was a celebration of life. Miss A was a queen that day. It was wonderful.  I am so blessed to be able to have given her that. Every mother needs to feel important. Every life needs to be celebrated. Would I do it again knowing the outcome? Yes.

Breaking Free

We transitioned Miss A into our home relatively quickly. While, slow transitions are typically recommended with older youth, this was a special circumstance. She was pregnant and really needed to be in a home surrounded by family and not in the cold isolation found in the residential facility that she was residing. We were motivated by the conditions themselves. To say that I was unimpressed with this particular place would be an understatement. I know that there are wonderful residential halls, but this was not one.  Hell. She was living in Hell.

Every night they locked the girls in their rooms. I understand that this was to protect them from themselves and others. Many of the trauma survivors that stay there face mental illness. This can be in many forms and the symptoms that they suffer include things like self-harming, running away and aggression or violence towards others. Knowing this didn’t make it any less harsh to see a uniformed staff member escort her back to her room and lock the door. Cold.  Alone.  Imprisoned.

After one visit, while waiting in the office for some paperwork, I had the chance to observe the camera system and listen to the audio receivers. The video did not expose the privacy of the girls but the audio was linked directly to their rooms. I do agree with this as I see it as a safety measure for the girls locked in. What remained particularly disturbing was the moans and crying and terror of one particular girl. She was begging for someone to come and not leave her alone. She was young. After sitting there for what seemed like hours but was a most likely a few minutes, I finally grew a pair and asked the guard/staff/ gorilla lady if she were going to check on this child. I was given a hardy eye roll and sigh as she called another guard/staff/slackey to do it. You could feel the love. I would later find out that this girl was all of 8 years old and had been there a whole week and “should have been able to deal with it already”.

Setting up visits with Miss A during our transition period proved to be a pain in my already throbbing ass. You couldn’t just call a caseworker or her and say “hey, let’s do lunch”. As a foster parent and somewhat veteran, I knew there would be some tape but the hoops I would jump made my head spin. I had to first set it up with the caseworker and then get it set up and approved with the therapist who would have to order a day pass which had to be filled out and accepted by someone Grand Puba somewhere and if all the stars aligned and no one forgot to sign something and the Angles sing, then plans could be executed. However, should someone forget to call someone and a full moon occurred than the pass may not be available and the visit would not take place thus  leaving one upset child and one steaming mom. This was more common that you would think.

Then there was the medication thing. Yeah, sometimes kids need medications. Sometimes they need inhalers and epipens because they have allergies and asthma. These things are kind of important but apparently the fear of them being lost or stolen is more important than the child leaving for a visit without them and I don’t know? Dying maybe? Hmmm.  It took a lot of BS to get them to finally release these medications during our weekend visits. I had to plop my butt down in their office and demand to wait until a supervisor was on the phone.  Needless to say, people don’t want to be bothered on a Friday afternoon and we left with the goods.

So it is fair to say this place was insane. How insane, I soon found out. I was able to get my hands on a copy of their policies and procedures. What I read made me want to throw up a little bit in my mouth. Their reward system to encourage good behavior and deter less than desirable behaviors was so Ass Backwards that I can plainly see how residential living does not transition well nor is conductive to family living. I’m not talking about a damn sticker chart. It’s really very bizarre.

Should a child get in trouble for acting out, they would lose their privileges. I am not talking about video games or TV time. I am talking about relationship privileges. If she was stressed in class and got lippy or stormed off, she would lose her phone call to me that night. Does that make sense? We know that defiance and anxiety which often wears horns is a symptom of trauma. We know that trauma should be worked thru with people, relationships and not isolation. So why would we take a child full of anxiety and isolate her? Okay, let’s take it up another notch.  If she acts out again, then she loses her day pass and visiting rights. Again, let’s use punishment in the form of withholding relationship and personal contact. Crazy.

Oh and how do we reward these girls who often share similar crutches involving food? (You may remember my post regarding foster care and behaviors). Yeah, let’s complicate the food issue and reward good behavior with a fast food meal. Kid you not. If you are good, you get McDonalds. No it’s not a treat, it’s an earned reward. Just nuts.
The final breaking point that would beg me to bring Miss A home right away would be from a chilling phone conversation. One night after dinner, she called to chat and check in. She told me how horrible the day had been. I learned that she was caught in the middle of a “Clear”. Apparently, when a girl is out of control and the staff perceives danger, a whistle gets blown and the word “Clear” is bellowed thru the air. Girls are to move quickly to their rooms for a lock down until the situation gets controlled. Sounds good in theory. Well in reality it usually chaos and people are trampled and chairs fly and emotions rage and nothing  is good. Well as you suspect, she was trampled and pushed over a table. She was being taken to medical in the morning and while she claimed to be fine, all I could think of is, OH MY GOD, she’s pregnant!

Yep, she was in our house by the end of the next week. I am so grateful that she got out of that place. She did not belong there. She wanted out. She needed out.  I was a way out. For that I will always be at peace.

Good Intentions

I network. During my days as a bartender, my seats were filled. When in sales, my quotas were hit and my regulars called me for new memberships. So it just seemed natural that I would do the same as a child advocate. I made myself know. I am found on websites and have even filmed an advertisement with my family for our local foster agency. It’s what I do. It’s not unusual for workers to reach out searching for homes for the children on their caseload and it was very common for me to reach out in assisting these workers. It was a networking situation that would lead me to Miss A and would change my perspective of foster care and myself forever.

A young woman was in trouble. She was 17 and currently living in a residential facility and in one year, she would age out of foster care. Alone. Without a family. And pregnant.

We live in a pretty large house. My oldest son was mostly living away at school and my baby was still sleeping in our room. We basically had an extra room and we had tons of room left in the basement. All we had to do was raise money to build another window and add a second bedroom downstairs. In the meantime, she could sleep upstairs in the extra room, while my daughter E temporarily bunked with my younger two daughters. Again, our house is large enough and the rooms are big enough and well how could we not do this?
I was a young single mom with my oldest son. I was over the moon with the idea of giving back and helping her get on her feet. She wanted to be adopted and I found myself romanticizing about being a grandmother. My sister was a Grammy. I could do this. I could really do this.

Once, my husband and I talked and agreed to throw caution to the wind, we started to make arrangements. We prepared our coming home book for Miss A and we excitedly told our children. A baby. A new baby. How exciting. A daughter , a new daughter. Me a Grandma? Wow.
So the process began. My husband and I met with social workers. Together we read case files. There were red flags all around us. We pushed passed them. Blinding our eyes to the diagnosis and letting therapists and workers smooth us over with explanations and encouragement.

I should have known better. I should have been realistic and I should have been humble. Instead I chose to be an asshole. I chose to be so self-indulgent and full of myself that I didn’t see my real self. The one who was not prepared. The one that had enough on my plate. The one that was in over her head.  Hindsight.
So, the day came when we would meet Miss A, our newest family member. We were so excited. The plan was to meet at the museum and get acquainted. We were as nervous as we have been with all of our “first dates” that we shared with our children. I had only been given her name, ethnicity and age. I had no idea what she looked like and yet I was in love. In love with the idea of her. In love with the idea of us. In love with the happy ever after that I thought I had power over.
I was a bucket of sweat and nerves when she walked in the door. Her eyes were the first thing that I noticed. You could look into Miss A’s eyes and see her soul. They were big and round and beautiful Somalian eyes. Those were incredibly sad eyes. She gave us a nervous smile as she approached. She quickly embraced us. Almost too quickly. Introductions were made and we made some awkward small talk. She was about 6 months along at this point and carried her baby like a basketball tucked neatly under her shirt. She was graceful and held herself in a fashion much more mature than most 17 year olds that I know. She had obviously grown up fast. Almost a little too fast.

The day went well. We talked and got familiar with each other. Miss A had brought a picture of her ultrasound and was excited to tell us that she would be having a boy. She had shared her artwork with us. Miss A has an amazing artistic ability. I cherished the piece that she provided me; a sketch of her contemplating the future. We shared our coming home book filled with pictures and information regarding our family and our community.

Finally the day would have to end. This is always hard. We were in love with her already and hated to think of her going back to the residential facility as we drove back to our warm home. We looked forward to our next visit and hugged as we parted.  We drove home giggling and planning like two giddy school children. This is the high that fostering and adopt parents feel. Runners have their euphoria and so do we. Unfortunately, there is only one first date and only one first high. That I have come to accept.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Foster care and adoption are awesome right? Everyone deserves a loving family right? It is what I was meant to do.

So, maybe just one more…..

It is incredibly easy to get caught up in the fairy-tales and to buy into the pretense that every story ends happily ever after. It is second nature for us as caregivers to pretend this to be true. To do otherwise would mean failure. It would mean that love really isn’t enough and that I, as a parent, am really not enough.  Well that just sucks. It means going against scripture in the Bible and teachings of unconditional love. It means going against everything that I thought I believed or wanted to believe or maybe I just didn’t want to not believe. It means taking a stand against all the sugar coated crap that is shoved down our throats in the foster and adopt community. And that is scary. That is really really really scary.

The Abyss
When one enters the foster and adopt community, that person gives up so many friends and family members in the traditional world. You know the ones that say they will support you but can’t be found when your kids are out of control as they deal with trauma. Oh yeah – those ones. To speak up, or as it is often referred to either in words or insinuations “to give up”, could mean being ostracized from the only remaining community that you are part of. Think of it as a cult or a commune. You are living a life style out of the norm and all of a sudden you peer thru the looking glass and see reality. You can’t go home but you can’t live there anymore. Yep. That is exactly the experience I had as I watched my next and final “placement” (still hating that word all these years later) fall apart. This would not be our family’s last loss but it would definitely change us forever.

The story that I will tell next is one of hope and guilt. It is one of experience and joy. It is one of loss and devastation. It does not end well and yet I would not change one ounce of it. It is the story of why I truly believe the road to hell is in fact paved with good intentions. It is how I became a Grandmother and I how I did not. Also, it is the reason that I want to thank Facebook’s “Memories” feed and “Time Hop” application that haunts me with living ghosts. Nothing like a slap in the face to start one’s day.
So hold on tight, as I share with you; the roller coaster of Miss A.