Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Tag Archives: grief


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We can’t stop now

Long time readers know that my dad was killed by a tired trucker almost twenty years ago and I and members of my family volunteer with the Truck Safety Coalition, working to make our roads safer.

My dad and me many years ago.

TSC is based in Washington DC, but has families of volunteers all across the country. Of course it does, because truck crashes aren’t restricted to ‘somewhere else’ like we all want to believe.

Truck crashes happen anywhere and to anyone.

Flags at half mast for Senator Feinstein.

It takes money to keep our organization going, to pay our small staff, to help families come to DC for conferences or important meetings, to pay for grief counseling for those that want that help, to run the website that provides information to new families, and where we post our stories about the loved ones we lost and about the lives changed forever for those injured in crashes with trucks.

It takes money.

And it’s not so easy to raise money for our cause. Organizations that might have sympathy for our families, like truck part manufacturers, can’t be seen associating with us, because many of the truck companies they sell parts to are so often on the other side of our arguments. Trailer manufacturers sell to truck companies too and steer clear of us, as do some road safety equipment manufacturers and many others.

It’s hard to explain that we aren’t anti truck, we support safe trucking. It’s important to remember that truck drivers die in crashes too, and that driving a truck is one of the most dangerous jobs in our country.

The halls of Congress where we look for support for safety.

A lot of our funding comes from individuals who have had family or friends injured or killed as well as survivors of truck crashes. The people that have already paid the price for unsafe policies and regulations continue to pay in an effort to make things better.

Every single family will tell you they continue to tell their stories, continue to come to meetings, continue to donate because they don’t want another family to experience a truck crash. Every single family comes to TSC with the same wish in their hearts.

To make it stop.

The Washington Monument during a walk after our event.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration says that over 5,700 people died in truck related crashes in 2021, the latest year from which we have data. That’s a 71% increase since 2009. Truck crashes are trending the wrong way. More people are being killed every year. And injuries are going up too, over 155,000 are injured every year.

Think about that. Every single year 155,000 people are injured in truck crashes. Ford Field, home of the Detroit Lions, has 65,000 seats. Every year 2.3 football stadiums of people are injured in truck crashes. And the numbers keep climbing.

So this past weekend my husband and I traveled, on our own dime, to DC where we attended an evening of celebration of those that have contributed to TSC. Donors, safety advocates, board members, friends and supporters gathered together to recognize some very special people who, during this past year, have gone above and beyond to move our mission to make our roads safer going forward.

All waiting for something. Just like us.

It was a good evening and we raised some money. We felt warm and happy with our effort, but don’t think I won’t be asking you for support this November during Giving Tuesday. Because 5,700+ people died in 2021, and it will likely be a larger number for 2022 and 2023. Whole football stadiums of people are being injured. We can’t stop now.

Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton graciously speaks to our group.

Thank you in advance for supporting me, for the dollars you donate whenever I ask, for your emotional support when I’m having a meltdown, or when I’m just missing my dad. Thank you for letting me get on my soapbox once in awhile, and for not turning away when I tell you about really sad things that make me (and many of you) really angry.

The Capitol at the end of another busy day.

Last weekend was a time of celebration, but now it’s time to get back to work. We’re trying to get the speed limiter past the finish line at the DOT, and we’re working on getting Automatic Emergency Brakes in all trucks sooner rather than later. And don’t get me started on the minimum liability insurance issue. Or those companies that want longer trailers, and the ability to haul heavier loads. There are already triple trailers on some of our nation’s roads and we’re keeping watch so they don’t get permission to move onto more.

Passing a triple trailer truck on the Pennsylvania turnpike.

We need to keep holding our fingers in the truck safety dike. And we need money to do that.

Flowers from our event, simple yet beautiful.


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Pops

I met Pops over a simple dinner at a chain restaurant in Arlington Virginia many years ago. It was the evening before our semi-annual Sorrow to Strength Conference, and Pops’ daughter, Pina, was attending for the first time. Her husband had been killed on his way to work when he was hit by a semitruck. My husband and I met her, her Pops and her mom, Veronica, for dinner to provide support and comfort, so she wouldn’t feel alone attending the conference the next day.

Of course she really wasn’t alone at all. She had her mom and her Pops, a retired Air Force Veteran, who pushed her around hilly Washington DC for the four days of the conference in a wheelchair because she was recovering from knee surgery.

But, getting back to Pops.

After dinner that night the waitress asked if we wanted desert. “Do you have any ice cream?” Pops asked. They did, but a limited variety. He hesitated. “I’ll have some if you do,” I said. They didn’t have his favorite flavor, but he decided we’d indulge because, he said grinning wide, “there’s no such thing as bad ice cream.”

I’ve never forgotten those words, or Pops, though we spent only a few days together.

Pops died last week at the age of 86, and yesterday his family and friends said their last goodbye. I remembered him in my own way, by picking up a container of his favorite flavor and indulging for a few moments, while thinking of him and his family.

There’s no such thing as bad ice cream.

I share this memory with you to honor Pops, in a way. He was a good, upstanding person with a sweet soul who made this world a better place. Thank you for your service, sir. And for joining me in a scoop of ice cream all those years ago.

Godspeed.


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Under an umbrella of stars

A few days ago 3 other intrepid women photographers and I ventured forth to a new destination, Big Sable Lighthouse, at Ludington State Park.

The four of us plus puppy Wally walked out to the beach as the sun set.

We were, of course, looking for a dark place to shoot the Milky Way. We are all members of an online Milky Way photography class, though most of us had never met in person.

It was a beautiful pink and gold and navy evening.

We put this particular adventure together quickly, with a barrage of text messages flying between us, when we realized there was a clear night coming up. Then, the day before, someone did some research and messaged the group — “Do you know there’s a 2 mile walk out to the lighthouse?”

We’re headed up there.

Uhhhh, no, no we did not know that. This caused a bigger flurry of messaging and then someone finally just booked a campsite for us all at the park and we decided to go for it.

We had a beautiful night for our adventure, and the walk was shorter from the campground than from the lighthouse parking lot, only 1.5 miles through the woods and dunes. And of course 1.5 miles back in the dark, but underneath a star packed sky.

It’s a grand building, big enough to house 3 keeper’s families, back in the day.

Our biggest obstacle turned out not to be the getting there but the lights that surround the lighthouse. There is a big streetlight shining in front, and an obnoxiously orange light in back making the whole back of the lighthouse and most of the grounds glow neon.

Our first glimpse of the challenges that would be presented.

According to our apps the Milky Way, now pretty vertical, would be right alongside the tower about 10 p.m. We were convinced it would be a stunning shot.

Taken with my cell as we waited for dark skies.

If it weren’t for the orange light…and that big tree.

It became obvious to us as we waited that we weren’t going to get that dream image.

So we did the best we could with the lighthouse itself and then we spread out across the beach looking for other interesting things.

The Milky Way was up there, but faded out by all the light.

There was a gentle breeze sweeping away the bugs and the stars were hanging above us and no one was in any kind of hurry to leave.

Even down closer to the lakeshore the light was overpowering.

When we finally did begin to pack up around midnight I noticed my backpack was pretty wet from condensation. I began to realize the trouble I had had focusing on the stars, or anything for that matter, might have been because I had condensation on my lens.

I walked way out into the dunes and shot out over Lake Michigan. That’s a fishing boat down near the bottom left.

Condensation which would have been eliminated if I had put my lens heater on the camera at the start. The lens heater I bought the week before and lugged 1.5 miles out to the beach, but left in my backpack.

Sometimes you just have to go right up to your target.

Yep. One more lesson in a whole list of lessons I’ve learned on this Milky Way journey.

Another lesson – when you’re focused in one direction don’t forget to turn and look the other way once in awhile.

As a side note, there’s been quite a bit of death tangent to my life this past week. Not people directly tied to me, exactly, but people important to people important to me. I guess the heavens gained a few more stars.

A few more stars twinkle this week.

Late that night while listening to the lake murmur and wandering the dunes, watching the Milky Way slide across the sky I noted the newcomers.

And then we all walked back to camp under the umbrella of the starry night, content in our imperfect images, happy that we went, ready to do it again the next clear, moonless night.

Imperfect perfection.


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Never forget

If you can’t visit New York City, stop by my post from our visit there in 2016. It’s a fitting way to spend a few moments on this, the 22nd anniversary of the day that changed us all.

I’m sure the families of those lost are spending today in reflection. It wouldn’t hurt if we did a little of that ourselves.

Twenty-two years is a long time, but only a blink in the eyes of history. Let’s not ever forget.


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Better

Company is coming and I’m trying to do the last minute dusting and picking up and organizing food and checking the bathrooms and Penny is weaving between my feet, grabbing at the dust cloth, barking hysterically at the plastic wrap drawer.

Everything is harder with her.

I am frustrated and decided to take her out for a walk, maybe she needs to go to the bathroom, and she’s jumping and playing with sticks and tugging on her leash and nipping at my feet. She doesn’t go to the bathroom.

Everything is harder with her.

Walking back into the house I am hit out of the blue with the memory of the last time I walked Katie back into the house.

I begin to cry.

Penny stops tugging on her leash and stands on her hind legs, front paws on my waist and cocks her head. I pick her up and she licks the tears from my face then snuggles in for a hug.

Everything is better with her.


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The difference

I search for her outline through the foggy glass during this morning’s shower. She’s a youngster still, and she could be doing anything, most likely chewing on something. I remember how Katie used to sleep against the far wall every morning for years as I got ready for work. Penny doesn’t sleep while I shower. She investigates.

But this morning she is lying on the rug, her shape and size familiar yet different. At 7 months she’s about the same size as Katie was as an adult but Penny has a few more months of growing to go.

As I step out of the shower she licks the water from my ankles. I close my eyes and remember the delicate butterfly wing kisses Katie used to give while doing the same thing. Penny is not nearly so delicate but tickles my feet in her own unique way. I smile, in rememberance of what was before and in appreciation of what is now.

Later in the morning Penny comes to find me in the office and pokes me in the hip. She wants attention. Or a treat. I remember Katie doing the same thing when she felt ignored. I smile and take Penny outside, though clearly what she really wants to do is play.

So we come back inside and I sit on her big pillow in the middle of the living room and reach for her brush. She lays down beside me and lets me manipulate her into position for brushing. And when her tummy is done she stretches deeply and curls up against my legs, letting me brush her ears and then her long sable back, over and over, as I remember how Katie hated being brushed, how it was a chore that we both avoided.

I smile down at this little/big dog who is loving the long smooth strokes down her back, neither of us in any hurry to move. She props her nose up on the pillow, glances sideways at me and closes her eyes in happiness. I kiss her nose and silently thank her for beginning to heal my broken heart.

And then a squirrel leaps onto the deck with a thud and Penny is instantly on alert and streaks off to inspect the perimeter of her home.

Katie’s shift has ended, and Penny is more than ready to assume the responsibilities. Different girls, different silhouettes, different personalities, but the same love.


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Benediction

Last October my aunt died at age 87. She was the woman that shared her beloved Ann Arbor Symphony with me for more than 30 years, who took me to see musicals and concerts, even the opera. This past week I learned another woman who mentored me in art and work had died at age 86. I watched her memorial service online and wished I’d had more time with her.

It seems the women older than me, those I looked up to and learned from, are moving on and now, when I look around, I realize I am the older woman.

I was struck by this concept last night before our Community Band spring concert while talking to our first chair clarinet who would be conducting a piece for the very first time in his young life. He was nervous and excited and kind of jumpy. I told him not to worry, that we as a band wouldn’t let him down. He smiled and nodded and skittered back to his seat.

He’s just completed 10th grade. I don’t even remember 10th grade.

Maybe they were somewhere in the audience, listening and smiling.

Last night as we played Benediction by John Stevens I thought of my aunt and my friend and hoped they were somehow listening. I said a silent thank you to them both.

Later, on the drive home, and after a pounding rainstorm had slicked the roads with a shimmer of water, the brilliant orange sun emerged from the clouds and lit the wet pavement in front of me. For a few minutes the road led directly into the setting sun, a ribbon of rose gold, seeming to lead right off into forever.

It was a perfect ending to a good day, and this older woman from a previous generation knew enough to notice and appreciate it, thanks to all the good mentoring I’ve received.

I guess it’s time to pass it on.


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A guided walk

Saturday morning I walked in one of Katie’s parks along with 10 other people and an expert guide, to see the wildflowers blooming and tour some of the projects the township is working on to make more of the area open to the public.

One of several steep hills we climbed.

It was two plus miles of hills and wetlands, lots of little things blooming, and a cold, sunny day. I was very glad I’d worn waterproof shoes, and three layers of shirts!

Our guide told us what this was, but I can’t remember the name of it now.

I had just driven back home Friday afternoon, after five days of camping near the Sleeping Bear Dunes in cold, sometimes rainy, weather. I was kind of tired and thought about skipping this guided walk. It would be so easy to sleep in.

Tiny little white lady’s slippers just beginning to bloom.

But we were going to explore parts of the park I’ve never been to and I didn’t want to miss that, so I went. And I’m glad I did.

A lone trillium.

There will soon be so much more of the park available to explore, and I think it will be nice to have areas of the park that are new, without memories of Katie, that can be Penny’s alone.

Wild germanium

I can’t wait to show it all to her. They say the bridge from the parking lot to the new sections should be ready this fall. I don’t know, it seems like there is still a lot of work to do. But our guide, who is in charge of all the township parklands, says he’s confident they’ll get it all done.

Lupine

Meanwhile I’ll probably take Penny over to walk the trails Katie and I used to wander. The last time Katie and I were there she had a really good walk. Where before she had often refused to walk down the big hills, on this last walk, in the fall of 2021, she was eager to go.

I don’t know what this is, but it was pretty!

She walked much further than I expected her to, and even jumped over a tree branch that had fallen over the trail.

How fun! We got to go down trails that were normally off limits!

So I have those good memories to ease me into sharing her park with her new little sister, Penny.

Remnant.


The guided walk helped me, too, to see the park without Katie, but to realize she’ll always be there with me, just like she is in so many places.

Hi mama!

And that’s good.


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A dreamy conversation

Katie visited me in my dreams last night. I can’t remember the entire conversation, but I remember some, and the comfort her visit provided:

“Hey mama, I love you.”

“I know you do, baby-girl.”

Yea, but it seemed like maybe you needed to hear it.”

“Yes, I’ve been missing you something terrible.”

“I’ve noticed, mama. You’ve got to stop thinking about the day I crossed the bridge.”

“I know. But everywhere I look I remember you.”

“I’d think you’d be too busy with the new kid to spend much time missing me.”

“You’d think, right?”

“She seems like an OK kid, mama, but you can’t let her break all the rules, you know?”

“Like I did with you, huh?”

“Well, yea. Like you did with me. You’ve noticed she’s really smart, right?”

“Oh yes, we’ve noticed.”

“Well, she’s going to want to do lots of stuff, and some of it will be stuff you did with me and you can’t be crying all the time, OK? It’s not fair to the kid.”

“You’re right. I can’t be doing that. She deserves more from her mom.”

“She doesn’t call you mama?”

Nope, you’re the only one that calls me that. She calls me mom. But I’ll always be your mama.”

“I know mama. Always.”

“Always and forever, baby girl.”

“OK mama, now get going on the training…I watched that yellow flower photo shoot and frankly she’s got a lot to learn.”

“Awww give her a break, sweetie. She’s only 5 months old. She’ll figure it out once she stops putting everything into her mouth..”

“I know, mama. Well, I just wanted to stop by and tell you I love you. And to remind you to do right by the kid. I’m watching.”

Thanks, Katie-girl, it sure was nice of you to stop by.”

“Oh, I’m always here, mama. Always.”

“I know baby-girl. I know.”