Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.


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Lunch with Mom

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I want to go to lunch with my mom. Just a casual lunch, no earth shattering things to talk about. Maybe in a little coffee shop after a day of shopping.

But we weren’t like that. We rarely shopped together, neither of us were really into it. We didn’t meet for lunch at little coffee shops, though she made all of us lunch thousands of times at home. No, we weren’t the stereotypical mother/daughter. Plus she lived in Alabama. I lived in Michigan. Each visit I made was a big deal, a family reunion. Something she’d plan for weeks.

An event.

The hellos were wonderful, full of anticipation of time spent on the lake or around the table, all of us together. The goodbyes were heart wrenching, never knowing how long until the next reunion.

I want to go to lunch with my mom. Just a casual lunch, nothing special. I want to talk about her ducks and my dog. Her garden and mine.

Sometimes at night I look at the sky, stare at the stars and ask her to please come home. Please. But I know she is home now, and there aren’t any flights that leave there.

I’m here and she’s there.

Someday I’ll have lunch with my mom. It probably won’t be a casual meal because it will be a pretty special reunion. An event. For now I guess I’ll go make a sandwich and talk to her in my head. About her ducks and my dog. What’s in her garden today, and the tomatoes in mine.

You know – just casual stuff.

Her lake.

Her lake.


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Paying our respects at the Freedom Tower

Pools and names.

Pools and names.


There are no words adequate to describe the sheer size while looking up at the tower gleaming against the bright blue sky. No words to describe the deep emotion running through a crowd that stands mostly silent around the perimeter of the two pools ringed with names of the nearly three thousand that died.

Reflecting somber thoughts.

Reflecting somber thoughts.

No words.

Each day memorial staff place white roses in the names of those victims who would have been celebrating birthdays. Their lives are remembered by their families still and now complete strangers linger to gently touch the letters of the names cut into the smooth stone. Showing respect. Honoring.

Imported Photos 00562

Inside the museum our tour guide provides detailed history. She is careful of our feelings, telling us it’s a difficult story to hear, to have experienced, to remember.

Fire truck.  Cab is destroyed.  All died.

Fire truck. Cab is destroyed. All died.

She reminds us that there are those among us that were not yet alive on that day and that it is important to tell the story. To not forget. To pass the lessons on.

Part of the antenna from atop one of the towers.

Part of the antenna from atop one of the towers.

In the great hall there stands the last piece of formative steel to be removed from the site. Taped to it are pictures of some of those that died, put there by the construction crews and city employees working on the cleanup. A makeshift memorial captured and preserved forever.

Back wall is the original footings of the tower.  Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.

Back wall is the original footings of the tower. Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.

A long wall is covered in tiles, each of the 2,996 a different shade of blue, no two alike, because each of the 2,996 victims was unique. Blue, because the sky on September 11, 2001 was the wonderful clear blue of a perfect autumn day.

"No day shall erase you from the memory

“No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” -Virgil

There are things inside the museum that are hard to see but important to remember. There is a room with photos of each of the victims. Photos lined up, from floor to ceiling, row after row of faces smiling, eyes looking back, stories to be told, memories captured.

Hard.

But our guide reminds us that this memorial wasn’t built with hate. It was built with love. And that coming to visit is an act of love and respect and honor.

Old and new  can exist together in harmony.

Old and new can exist together in harmony.

So we swallow our tears and we promise to pass the story on to the next generation in hope and peace.

Wings of hope.

Wings of hope.

And then we move out of the museum and back onto the streets of New York City under a brilliant blue sky.

Never forget.

Never forget.


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What has happened to us?

Confusion. Guilt. Grief. Embarrassment. Hopelessness. Sad.

All these feelings swirled around inside my head last night as I watched the news. And they are somewhat subdued but still hovering in my mind this morning as I watch the analysis unfolding.

Many people, much more eloquent than I, will write about the incidents in Louisiana and Minnesota that apparently led to last night’s multiple killings in Texas. Me, I’m wondering if these latest incidents will wake us all up. Because maybe our country never made the progress with race relations that we middle class, middle aged, white people liked to believe . Maybe social media and a continuous news loop have made that painfully obvious. It’s more difficult to ignore, erasing our excuses that we didn’t know.

Last night I watched black male adults relate conversations they’d had with their own parents about being safe out in public. Conversations they’ve had to have with their own children. Conversations I never had growing up, never considered. In my white bread life we were taught to be respectful to police officers, but the men killed in Louisiana and Minnesota didn’t seem disrespectful. Just black.

Of course there may be more to these stories. But neither event is an excuse for what occurred in Dallas. Ever.

So as we all wake up this morning it’s hard not to contemplate that seven men are not waking up. That their families must be feeling as though they are living a nightmare that will never end.

And so I am feeling confused about my version of history that is now challenged. I’m feeling guilty about my sheltered life. I am feeling grief for the loss of good people. All seven of them. I’m feeling embarrassed that I didn’t understand, even after seeing this sort of thing on the news over and over, the reality of life outside my own existence. I’m feeling hopeless faced with the enormity of the problem.

And I’m feeling sad.

Race. It’s like the gun issue and the truck issue. Only bigger. It’s an overarching social issue that changes the trajectory of our country. We can choose to go down the spiral of hate and revenge. Or we can use this time to sit together at the table and talk. And then follow up with the hard work that is required.

Let’s not fool ourselves any longer. Change is hard.


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Nothing left to add this Father’s Day

Imported Photos 00068For days I’ve felt Father’s Day coming. And I’ve tried to conjure up a Father’s Day post, something sweet and reminiscent like I wrote last year. But for some reason I just don’t have anything profound to say. Nor anything less stirring. This year my mind can’t get around the fact that he’s not here.

He should be.

I should be able to give him a call, send him a card, even go for a visit. A couple weeks ago I did an interview and at the end the reporter asked me to send her pictures of me and dad. I realized I didn’t really have any of him and me together, just the two of us. I thought to myself that I should get a few taken next time I was home.

And then I remembered. Again. I have to keep remembering over and over and it’s just as painful each time.

Imported Photos 00095

I can’t make any more pictures. Can’t make any more memories. What I have is all there will be. All there will ever be.

I know I’m lucky that I have the vast number of memories and life experiences that our family created over the decades. Some people don’t have any memories at all. But I’m feeling greedy and wish there could be more.

1987 Dad skiing 4

He was a good man, a good provider, a good dad. He was doing the best he could to adjust to the loss of his life partner, my mom, when he was taken from us.

He should still be here.

This Father’s Day seems harder for me than most of the last twelve that our family has managed to get through. I don’t know why. But I know that tomorrow will be better. And I know we were lucky to have had him at all.

Still, I wish he was here today.

1985 Dad laughing at the lake


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Healing doesn’t mean you aren’t grieving anymore

In the beginning you believe the worst possible thing that has just happened to you and your family is the absolute worst possible thing ever. That no family, no person can possibly be grieving as deeply as you are. And time passes and your focus shifts slightly beyond your own searing pain and you see that someone else is hurting too. That others have experienced similar events.

That it’s not all about you.

And that’s the first baby step to healing. That realization that you are not alone, that others have similar stories, similar, though not exact, pain.

I’ve started reading Cheryl Strayed’s “Brave Enough.” I’m not very far into it — barely started in fact — and already this quote of hers makes me stop and reread. And nod in agreement. And read it again. And want to share it with all of you.

“”When you recognize that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? The word for that is healing.”

And now, not an hour later, I’m reading a blog written by a woman who has been through trials most of us couldn’t imagine, including the sudden death of her husband a year ago. A line down near the bottom of the post stops me again. And makes me want to share it (and her) with you.

“Emotions don’t get better. We get better at holding them. They don’t get less heavy, we get stronger.”

Both women are right. Out of trials and loss and grief and pain we get stronger. And often we grow in directions we might never have moved without the experiences that left indelible scars on our souls.

I never wanted nor dreamed of the losses that changed our family. But given that’s the way it is, I’m pleased to continue the growth, spawned but not defined, by life events.

Wherever you are in the cycle of life, I hope you can see the light and hope and growth shining ahead of you. If you need a hand up, there are plenty of people willing to take hold. And if you’ve moved into a good place yourself, glance around once in awhile. Someone might be there, just in the shadow, ready to move, but needing a little nudge.

I’ll get off the soapbox now.

1954 Dad and Mom

1954 Dad and Mom


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Crash dummy survives!

Crash dummies waiting to go to work.

Crash dummies waiting to go to work.


I’d never been a witness to a test crash before. I suppose not many people have. It’s kind of a surreal experience, especially for a person that’s had a loved one die in a violent crash.

My husband and I, along with several other of our truck safety volunteers attended an all day conference at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety in Charlottesville Virginia on Thursday.

And it wasn’t just us in attendance.

In an unprecedented move truck companies, trailer manufacturers, safety advocates, bicycle and pedestrian representatives, policy makers, and researchers were all together in one room to talk about the problem of truck underride.

Most of you don’t know what truck underride is, and I wish I didn’t have to explain it to you. But because our country is a generation behind Europe you probably haven’t seen a truck sporting a side guard to keep a car from traveling under the trailer in a crash.

Perhaps, if you’ve been in New York City or Boston recently, you’ve seen city trucks with side guards; those two cities have now mandated this safety precaution after several bicyclists and pedestrians were killed by falling beneath the trailers and being crushed by the wheels.

Side and rear underride is a huge problem outside cities too. As you pass a semi out on the freeway, and if it’s safe, glance over and see where the underside of that trailer would hit you if you slid under. Just about the height of your head. And if you slide under your airbags won’t deploy as there would be no impact of the engine and front of your car. The first impact would be the windshield, and that won’t save you.

And don’t think you’re safe if you hit a semi from behind. Many of the rear guards were built to 1953 standards and will collapse if you hit them with any speed. Once again, the only thing between your head and the back of that trailer will be the windshield.

In the lobby of IIHS.  No airbags in the old days.

In the lobby of IIHS. No airbags in the old days.

So for years safety advocates, including the Truck Safety Coalition, have been asking the Department of Transportation to require better rear guards, and to start the process to mandate side guards. It’s another one of those no-brainer things that we just can’t seem to get done through normal channels.

Thursday’s conference wasn’t a normal channel. Never before has the industry met with the safety people to discuss making changes that would move ahead of any regulations that might some day come out of the D.O.T. Never before has such candid conversations been held, without animosity, without rancor, with only safety in mind.

It was amazing.

At noon we went into the lab and watched a test crash of a Malibu slamming at 35 mpr into the back of a semi trailer that had been equipped with a new, stronger rear guard. Some of us weren’t sure we wanted to witness such a thing, but we’re all glad we did.

The dummy survived this crash because the rear guard was strong.

The dummy survived this crash because the rear guard was strong.

Because in this case the new rear guard held up and the passenger compartment, crash dummy inside, was not penetrated. (You can watch the crash test here.) Everyone inside this particular car would have survived. For many people the test crash was the highlight of the day. But I thought the highlight was later in the program.

During the day we had speakers from New York City and Boston tell us about the processes they went through requiring side guards on trucks within their city limits. We had speakers from government talking about where in the regulatory process we are, speakers from trailer manufacturers talking about stronger rear guards that are ready for market now, from a truck company that has ordered 4,000 of the new, safer rear guards, and from Virginia Tech students who showed us their own new design for a stronger, safer rear guard.

Explaining one of their designs they didn't end up choosing to build.

Explaining one of their designs they didn’t end up choosing to build.

Those students almost made me cry. They were undergraduates, the project assigned to them was to build a better rear guard for a semi truck. They, like most people, had never heard of underride crashes before. They learned about the problem, dreamed up a number of potential solutions, weeded their options down to four, and then figured out which one was the most plausible, most acceptable to both the trucking industry and safety advocates.

And then they built a it.

Virginia Tech student and a Truck Safety Volunteer who has been fighting for side guards since her dad was killed 33 years ago.

Virginia Tech student and a Truck Safety Volunteer who has been fighting for side guards since her dad was killed 33 years ago.

Incredibly 18 and 19 year old young people spent a year on this project, realized the importance of their work, and were brave enough to come and speak about it to a group of adults working in the industry. They were excited about their design and proud to show it off. And a room full of jaded adults sat respectfully listening, leaning forward, following along, congratulation the students at the end for a good design, inviting them to join the industry after they graduate. To think that this whole room of people, including the kids, was there to make the roads safer for everyone. Well. That just about made me tear up.

It should make you tear up too.

Because change is happening. It’s happening because we’ve moved past regulations and asked the industry to listen and to do what’s right. And they are responding. Not everyone. And not every request. But some. And some change will lead to more change. And every step we make toward safety saves another life.

Change is hard. But it’s not impossible.

Retired test cars.

Retired test cars.


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Grief strikes

Imoene painted Morgan, taken from her Facebook page.

Imoene painted Morgan. Photo taken from her Facebook page.


Oh Imogene.

That’s what’s running through my brain, has been ever since last night when I read the news. Oh Imogene.

I never met her, not in person. But she was my friend. Sure, there are many that knew her better, and she has family that love her even more. But people around the world considered her a friend.

I ‘met’ her many years ago when I ran across a whole bunch of people on the internet who wrote blogs from their dogs’ perspective, a group called Dogs With Blogs. Imogene wrote for her sheltie named Morgan. I loved both of them instantly.

Imogene was the kind of woman who put bright colored streaks in her hair long before it was mainstream fashionable. She took her dogs to canine Halloween parties. She described the protocol of reserving street parking with kitchen chairs during blizzards.

And last weekend she asked her Facebook friends whether she should order pizza or work on her taxes, after all her appointment with her tax guy was in two days. We all voted for pizza and later it turned out she ordered it and then stayed up all night sorting through receipts. She dropped her documents off at the tax guy’s office on Monday, but that doesn’t matter now.

She died yesterday.

Imogene died and legions of people are in shock. We aren’t ready to say goodbye to this spunky, sarcastic, witty, funny, truly lovable woman.

Oh Imogene.

Her sister says she didn’t like funerals. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t like all the attention now. The stories. The pictures. Especially the sad comments. Our tears. I’m pretty sure she’s probably all ticked off, not at us, but at the fact she had to go too soon. I hope it’s fodder for her new blog in heaven; that first post of hers is bound to be a zinger.

So…till we meet again Imogene…and I’m sure we will…I was glad to be included in your huge circle of friends. I am so going to miss you. And if you are getting a tax refund this year I hope it gets put to good use at one of your many charitable organizations. I know you’d like that.

But oh Imogene…

Taken from Imogene's Facebook page.  With her girls.

Taken from Imogene’s Facebook page. With her girls.


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Two more dead

Wednesday near Charlotte NC a Swift semi ran off the road and hit a bridge. Watch this two minute news video that cites statistics about Swift, a large national carrier. These two deaths are numbers 56 and 57 for the truck company in the past two years. Other articles I’ve found say that Swift has been cited over 4000 times during the past two years for driving violations.

I don’t know how much more has to happen before the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration (FMCSA) stops rating them as acceptable.

As many of you know I work with the Truck Safety Coalition, and we’ve been fighting to lower the maximum number of hours a driver can drive before having to take an extended rest break. It’s an uphill battle, with small victories later repealed by legislation backed by the deep pockets of the American Trucking Association which is out to maximize truck company profits. A news report yesterday said fatigue of the driver was a likely cause of this particular crash. He fell asleep behind the wheel at 4:30 in the morning.

So. Two more people are dead. This time they weren’t in a passenger car, they were in the cab of the truck that crashed.

In stories like this the news focuses on the traffic delays or the cost of repairing the infrastructure. I can tell you from personal experience the families of the two deceased don’t care about traffic delays or bridge repair today. As they move forward and figure out what caused their loss they’ll learn what so many other families have learned. That driving up to 11 hours a day is unsafe. That it doesn’t make any sense. That people die because they are pushed to work longer hours than in any other industry. It’s a complicated issue.

Five hundred truck drivers die in crashes each year. Yesterday two gave their lives just trying to make a living.

Sometimes I think that fighting the ATA on hours of service rules is useless. That we’re just playing defense, sticking our fingers in an deteriorating dike. That our time is better spent on issues we have a chance of winning. And then two more people die and I realize we have to keep fighting on all the issues.

Even hours of service.


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Before and after

I think most people have a date in their past that bisects their own history. The date when everything shifted, the world tilted, life changed. A date that is used as a measuring unit against all events past and future.

For me it’s the year 2004, the year we lost both parents and moved into adulthood with stunning finality. Forever more when I hear a date related to anything, an event, a birthday, a bit of historical trivia I think…”that was before Mom died.” or “Dad had been gone a year by then.” 2004 feels something like a watershed, with all the life experiences prior cataloged as ‘before’ and everything that has happened since labeled ‘after.’

Yesterday my husband and I sat with a family member in waiting areas of two hospitals as her mother struggled to stay alive. We listened to her story, how her mother came to be this ill, what the prognosis was. While we waited we told family stories about relatives long gone, family members today, heard about her kids far away in another state. We laughed a bit, got teary a bit, hugged some. Worried a lot.

I wondered if the day would become her dividing point, the day she would remember as her world tilting, changing, forever different. Thankfully yesterday didn’t turn into that day. And this morning the sun is shining and there are new questions to ask, new decisions to be made.

I sat in waiting rooms yesterday and contemplated how life changes. How change is different for everyone. How I’ll never have to sit in a waiting room making life and death decisions for either of my parents. How I felt slightly guilty to be glad of that. But how I would have been grateful for time with either of them no matter how difficult saying goodbye would have been.

In the past month I’ve had three good friends lose a parent, witnessed three families defining before and after. I guess it’s natural.

But darn, change is hard.