La la la la-la la, la la la la-la.

I listen to Mix 93.3 in the morning and they always seem to be talking about things I could easily contribute to. The other day they were talking about bad vacation stories. Hello...have you heard about my father being deported from Canada?

Today they were talking about the Smurfs movie coming out soon. I so badly wanted to call in, but that's never something I would do. (See label of post.) So, let me confess right here, right now, that I was, at one point in my life, OBSESSED with the Smurfs. I'd watch them on Saturday mornings and then--and THEN--I'd call my grandma to make sure she watched. Me, in a voice even higher than the one I have now, would ask any question I could to try and stump her.

Seriously.
How wonderful of my grandma to watch Saturday morning cartoons on a weekly basis, just so she wouldn't get bitched out by her six-year-old granddaughter.

That's some love.

I'll have to ask my grandma if she remembers the Poppa Smurf quizzes (if only I was as punny then). She darn well might.



Widdle Baby

I'm a second cousin for the 13th time! Today my cousin and his wife welcomed their son Brody Nicholas to the world. 

I vividly remember the day his brother was born. It was February of 2008 and that night TFitch, my bro and I hosted a surprise 50th birthday/30th anniversary party for the 'rents. During the party my aunt was telling me all about her newest grandson, going on and on and on about how cute he was. (She also said he was partially such a beautiful baby because he was delivered via a c-section. I had never heard of that before.) For some reason I remember that interaction and conversation very clear. I like the memory.

So today, congrats to Luke, Emily, Abbie and Brennan and welcome to the world Brody Nicholas!  You have a happy Nana angel looking down on you!

Reason 2,392 why I love my dad.

On Mon, Mar 28, 2011 at 4:21 PM, Wendy Fitch wrote:
Holy crap. They grow up so fast, don't they? One day they're in doggie diapers, the next they have worms and are destroying your house.


Mom and dad: is it totally ridiculous to ask you to ship us her "I'm the birthday pup" shirt that's hanging in my closet? I totally forgot about it and I feel like she needs it. She's worn it on April 1 since 2008.


Kalin and Lindsay: interested in coming to St. Joe for dinner Friday night? Maybe a litle OK Joes takeout for us and a Land of Paws birthday treat for the guest of honor?


Woof love,
A proud doggie mom






On Mon, Mar 28, 2011 at 5:48 PM, Mary Hicks wrote:
LOL Wendy E-mail Dad where the shirt is at because he will have to do it, I'll be vacationing!!!!!!




From: Wendy Fitch
Sent: Monday, March 28, 2011 9:57 PM
To: Ron Hicks
Cc: Ron Hicks; Kalin Hicks; Lindsay Fetter; Trevor.Fitch
Subject: Re: Macy is turning 4!
Dad: it's hanging in my closet. Would you really do this for widdle Mace?




On Tue, Mar 29, 2011 at 10:10 AM, Ron Hicks wrote:
Wendy,


What address do you want this shipped to?



From: Wendy Fitch
Sent: Tuesday, March 29, 2011 10:23 AM
To: Ron Hicks
Cc: Mary Hicks
Subject: Re: Macy is turning 4!
XXXX North S%&@ Drive
St. Joseph, MO !)@*&


So, if you go in the master closet, you'll see a rack of Macy's clothes on the top right. It's the little pink shirt that says, I'm the birthday pup!


On Tue, Mar 29, 2011 at 10:47 AM, Ron Hicks wrote:

Found it

Thinking of you

I've been thinking about my aunt a lot lately. It's happened the last few times I traveled to Kansas City (where I am now) since this is where I was when I received the news, and the memory of packing up and heading to Omaha in a fury is still fresh. Plus, last weekend we attended the birthday party for three of my cousin's four kids and there was an obvious void from the gathering--their nana.

In the same vein, I think about my cousins and my uncle nearly every day. I wonder how they are doing; how they are coping. We've been getting together a lot--more in the last three months than the last three years combined. Though, even when they are top of mind and I'm right next to them, I don't ask them how they are doing. To me, it's a stupid question. How the hell do you think they're doing? Their mom/wife died. So instead, I avoid it all together. I ask what's going on. I keep it light hearted. I avoid the elephant in the room.

I hate that I do that, but I do. I just don't know what to say; I never have. I know that's not an excuse and that everyone probably feels the same way. I'm going to work on it and try to find the right things to say; the right things to do. In the meantime, I hope my hugs and presence convey to them that they are always in my thoughts. The same goes to my friends who have lost parents--too many friends that have lost parents. I hope you know that you are always on my mind.

If any of my readers have been comforted or comforted others in particular ways, I'd love to know what was said/done as a sign of support.

No Words

I've been composing a post in my head all day. I'm in the Twin Cities for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure--one of my clients. The post was going to be titled "love what you do" and focus on how much I enjoy and value the opportunity to work with this event. I wanted to talk about how, although it's hard, long work--although we work weekends away from friends and family and it's long hours--been up since 3:25 am in fact (and that's sleeping in)--I wouldn't change my job for another job in the world. How I feel like every minute I spend working on this account is making a difference. How I want everyone to be so fulfilled in their profession. I planned to share the moving story about Steven and Gilbert--two male participants I met at the Opening Ceremony this morning. I'll still share Steven and Gilbert's story, but the post overall has taken a turn.

As part of the event's media relations' team, I have the privilege of hearing all sorts of compelling stories. Today I stumbled upon two men with bright pink beards. After simply asking one of the men, "may I ask why you are walking?" my life has been changed forever.

I posed the question to Steven, the taller one. Steven lost his wife Ruth to breast cancer three years ago. Ruth was an oncology nurse.

The irony.

Steven has been walking in the 3-Day ever since. I asked if the two gentlemen were friends. They actually met while walking in Dallas a few years ago. Steven was walking in honor of his late wife. Gilbert was walking because his wife didn't have breast cancer--and he hopes she never does.

Fast forward to this weekend, when these two grown men decide to fly from their hometowns in Dallas to the Twin Cities for a different 3-Day for the Cure experience. When these men spray paint their beards pink and walk 60 miles in the fight against breast cancer. Every time I saw Steven and Gilbert today, I smiled. Their tale warms the heart. It is sad--there was an unnecessary loss to breast cancer--but the action these two gentlemen take is incredible.

My heart is still warmed by Steven and Gilbert.
And I still love my job.
But now I am pissed, now I am upset and this is why the blog post I've been thinking about all day has been derailed.

I may be jumping to conclusions--I am waiting for verification--but I am very troubled by something I saw on Facebook. A dear friend of mine, Lizzie, was tagged in a Facebook album. The album was titled "a tribute to Kelln Zimmer." My heart sank.

I admit I don't know Kelln well. She and Lizzie were Kappa traveling consultants together and that's really the extent of our relationship. But I heard SO much about Kelln from Lizzie's traveling tales and I know we met once or twice over the years.

I also know Kelln had breast cancer.

I don't know what happened to Kelln--but I have a bad feeling that breast cancer took her life. And even if it didn't--her life was still cut too, too short and breast cancer should have NEVER been a part of it. It shouldn't be a part of anyone's life. And it still is.

It's frustrating on so many levels. It's frustrating that given all the time, energy and money put into the disease, people are still getting diagnosed. Survival rates are increasing--and that's good--but that's not enough. No one should EVER have to hear the words, "you have breast cancer."

It's frustrating personally. It's frustrating I lost my aunt to (basically) arthritis one month ago, that my grandpa had a heart attack one week ago and that my grandma has Alzheimer's. THESE are the causes I feel compelled to support since they are my reality now, yet I feel like I must support breast cancer out of the fear I or a friend or family member will be diagnosed with breast cancer. And statistics show one of us will.

In fact, I found out just yesterday that my friend's grandma has breast cancer. It's a fresh diagnosis. She sees her oncologist for the first time Monday.

It's sad.
It's maddening.
It's distracting.
It just plain sucks.

We shouldn't lose people in their 20s to breast cancer.
We shouldn't lose anyone to breast cancer.

I'll do everything I can to support this fight. I'll do everything I can to support the diseases impacting my family currently. And I hope you'll do the same.

July 22

It was business as usual July 22; in fact, it even felt like a busier than normal day at the office in Kansas City. I drafted letters to send to media contacts in Chicago in preparation for the upcoming 3-Day for the Cure. I had productive planning meetings with my team. I completed expense reports. And as afternoon neared, I was getting excited for a night out at Zona Rosa with my cousin and aunt and uncle to hear Ron Cooley (their relative on the other side) play guitar. Little did I know an email I received around 4 pm that day from my dad, with the subject line "call me ASAP," would derail the day's--and following days'--productivity.

When I called him, he was frazzled. He was looking for my mom; asked which salon she typically visited for pedicures. My grandma had called my dad and said the family had been told to go to the hospital--that my aunt had gone downhill and downhill quickly.

I was shocked. She had been diagnosed with histoplasmosis just four days before. A diagnosis was good--so I thought. We knew it was serious, but at least they knew what she had and how she could be treated. Sure, she had undergone a minor procedure that morning to explore a bile duct leak but as my mom told me via gchat, she wasn't in "imminent danger." I remember laughing at that statement. It sounded so dramatic.

After I talked with my dad and tracked down my mom at Kala Nail Salon (thank goodness for routines), the texts came in. "She's real bad. She coded," was the first. And then another, "They revived her. But they have to breathe for her." As I began to shake, I immediately packed up at the office and headed to my brother's house. I packed up my belongings to hit the road back to Omaha. He and I debated a lot. Does he go or not? Do I go or not? There had been many ups and downs in the three weeks she was in the hospital and was this simply another down. "I could use the time in the office," I remember selfishly saying; still shocked I actually debated that. Once my bro decided to go, would he ride with me and rent a car to come back to KC? After all of these trivial questions, we hit the road in two separate cars; a 180-mile brother/sister caravan.

I, on I29, kept in touch with my dad, in Methodist Hospital, for the beginning of the drive. But when TFitch called around 8 pm, asking where we were and saying that we should go straight to the hospital--that he was heading up there--I knew it was bad. I just knew and even asked TFitch that if he got bad news while we were on the road, to just not call; to wait until we arrived.

It was all I could do for the rest of the drive to not think about the situation at hand. I had gotten a new cell phone the day before which wiped out all of my friends' phone numbers. Luckily, I knew a few off the top of my head and called. I called any number I could remember just to chat and focus on something else.

When we pulled into Omaha, my brother and I talked, trying to figure out the quickest way to get to Methodist. After a three hour car ride, we were worried about minutes.

The caravan from Kansas City pulled into the almost empty parking garage and TFitch got out of the Audi and walked toward me.

"Did she die?" I asked.
"Yeah," my husband somberly told me.

After that, I remember being locked out of the hospital and having to go through the Emergency Room entrance--one of my biggest fears in life normally, the ER, but I was numb to it. I remember Dr. Tarantolo waiting by the door for my brother, husband and I to take us to join the rest of our family and telling us in his most compassionate and sympathetic voice he was sorry for our loss.

Our loss. Our loss. To the three of us, she might have only been our aunt, but she was our aunt. An integral piece to a close-knit family. And my heart continued to break for those whom had lost something even greater. A wife. A mother. A nana.

I remember the hospital resembling a maze and finally getting to the family waiting room on the intensive care floor. I remember someone tapping my mom on the shoulder to point out that we had arrived and I remember my mom sobbing and hugging me so hard that her little midget frame (hey--I need some humor too) was pulling me down. I think we stood like that for 10 minutes. I remember my aunt--whom had also traveled in from Kansas City--telling me "we didn't make it in time, either."

And then I remember the request to go join the rest of the family in my aunt's ICU room. I remember the walk down the hall, I remember the events in that room so vividly. I remember seeing my aunt's body and not even recognizing it as hers. I remember where my uncle and cousins were positioned in the room. I remember looking onto Omaha through the window on the top floor of Methodist hospital, thinking the world was carrying on as normal out there while a group of 15 were inside breaking apart.

Twelve days later, I remember July 22. I remember it as I pull out those expense reports dated 7/22 with my messy signature. I remember as I email off those letters with July 22 in the dateline. I remember as I complete my missing timesheets (a perk of advertising agency life) and I peruse my calendar to see what I did that day. I remember as planning deadlines near and the work that came to a standstill has to be picked back up.

And we'll continue to remember. Today. Tomorrow. For weeks, months and years. We'll remember the day that changed our lives forever. And we'll always remember Aunt Deanna.

To my husband

Plans would change at a moment's notice. You rolled with it.
Five adults and two tornadoes--I mean children--overtook our home.
There have been late nights and early mornings.
You picked up this person, ran that errand, dropped off that person and did it all over again, and again and again.
Most importantly, you were a shoulder to cry on and quick with a hug.

This week hasn't been easy for any of us, but you've done everything in your power to offer your support. You've embraced the hours and hours of family time, the tears and the stories--even the ones told over and over again. At many of the gatherings, I was too busy washing dishes or chasing around kids to even get to spend time with you. In fact; I don't remember the last time we went to sleep at the same time. But you have been by my side--by my family's side--throughout all of this. Thank you for being such a caring, supportive and patient person during this trying time. (The fact you want to strangle a certain person in my family--who shall remain unidentified--will be our little secret.) I love you.

Sadness

My aunt died Thursday.

She went to the hospital July 4 with a fever and vomiting that had been lingering for a few days. Her gallbladder was removed a few days later—a simple solution, so we all thought. Instead, things spiraled out of control. Her temperature would rise and fall and rise and fall. Her lungs filled with fluid—28 pounds of fluid to be exact—and her oxygen levels got dangerously low. It was one thing after the other and one day would be filled with good news, the next—bad. But we never thought it would come to this. (Ultimately her arthritis medication, Humira, shut down her immune system and wrecked havoc on her liver.)

There has been a lot of mourning since Thursday. In the hospital room that night as we held hands as a family and prayed around my deceased aunt. A few hours later as we walked into my uncle’s silent home—one typically filled with laughs and conversation. At random times throughout the weekend—when the next family member would arrive from out of town or something would trigger a memory. Monday at the mortuary upon seeing my aunt resting peacefully in her casket and witnessing her nine grandchildren seeing the same. Yesterday at her funeral when we said our final farewells. But today might be one of the hardest days yet. My cousins have returned to Kansas City and Austin; my home is now silent. There are no errands to run or plans to make; things to distract us from reality. Instead, we have to return to our lives. Return to work. Pick up where we left off. And it’s hard. Today is hard. For the first time in a week, I’m alone. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to catch up on my emails. I don’t want to make travel arrangements. I don’t want to think about selling ice cream. I don't want to clean my house. I just don’t want to. But I will. I know each day will get easier, but that’s no consolation for how heavy my heart is today.

And...happy day.

My 82-year-old grandma is on Facebook.