I am disappointed

Over the weekend, I reached out to an out-of-state friend from over 25 years ago who had given me some helpful advice for my medical issues that led to my hysterectomy. This friend is a gynecological specialist in endometriosis who helped me during a particularly awful day this past Christmas where I was hemorrhaging and did not know what to do.

Because I was unable to reach my doctor quickly and recalling his specialization, I called him in desperation that day and he gave me insight into my issues until my doctor was able to stabilize me medically.

After writing some thank you notes to others who had given me gifts as support for the hysterectomy, my husband, Aaron, suggested that I write this friend a thank you card as well. This friend had only given helpful advice but I thought that it would be kind to send him some appreciation for his insight.

I sent him a text asking for his address because I was going to send him a thank you card — I wanted him to understand why I was asking for his address.

He sent me his address and I thanked him again. After writing the card, I put it in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and put it in our mailbox before Aaron and I headed out on our evening walk.

After returning from our walk and before heading up for my shower, I checked my phone. In my texts, there was a five paragraph-long text from that friend with the beginning lines reading,

“I’ve been disappointed in your posts…..”

Honestly, I didn’t read the whole text before my shower because I wanted to enjoy my shower. As I showered, I realized that I needed to have Aaron read the whole text before I did because I could sense my anger rising.

I skimmed the text quickly as I took my phone to Aaron because I could not honestly read the whole thing — why? Because I’m healing from this hysterectomy and my mental, physical and emotional bodies were not able to really process this rebuke.

This former friend and gynecological professional chastised me for the tenor of my recent posts about politics.

His message to me?

That I am in the wrong because I let my emotions lead instead of trusting God with our nation. He assured me that he was no Trump fan but that he has to interact with many Trump supporters and that he needs to be able to be equanimous and to trust God with the uncertainties.

Basically — the message was,

“God’s got this, and you have sinned by not trusting God and instead posting in anger and bitterness.”

Okay.

I did not have energy in my recovery state to confront a “friend” that had not interacted with me in over 25 years. So, I wrote,

“Thank you for your ideas”

and removed him as a friend on Facebook so he would not be subject to my vitriol for the actions of the current administration and this country.

Aaron and I finished our lovely evening and I tried to to sleep — but I realized that this was hard.

The phrase,

“I am disappointed”

kept ringing through my head as I lay in bed.

Disappointed.

Why was he disappointed? When had he reached out in friendship — all throughout the years? When had he connected with our family after we lost our son? Where was he when our family nearly dissolved after that? Where was his support when I continued to praise God even after the implosion in my heart?

Where was he as we raised all of our sons through moves, adolescent challenges, marriage woes, financial scares, professional growths and spiritual transformations? Where was he when we led several Bible studies, parenting support groups, and served in multiple churches? Where was he when I leaned into God after my heart was ripped from my spiritual body?

Where was he as I plodded through the last several years in my path toward becoming a licensed professional counselor in my early 50s? After bearing and raising six children?

Where has he been as I have wondered daily for the past two years if my husband would continue to have a job in these frightening times for federal workers?

When he and his wife, who was my mom friend at the time we were close friends over 25 years ago, divorced, I did not ask questions or sit in judgment on either of them. I had questions but I did not know him or her well enough anymore because we had not lived in the same city for over 25 years.

Why did he feel the freedom — or the responsibility — to tell me that he was disappointed in my actions?

Not only had we not been close at all, but also, he should have known, as a gynecological specialist who had performed many surgeries that I was in a vulnerable state at this time — yet he chose this time to spiritually chastise me.

How could someone think that was spiritually wise or professionally supportive?

He was disappointed in my actions.

I looked him up to see if he was involved in a church that may have influenced his choices because at the time we had known him, he was not very spiritually conservative. He was kind of a questioner.

That was then.

Now, he is the chairman of the board of elders of a very conservative church in a very conservative Evangelical community in the Midwest where we had once lived. The church has no women in pastoral leadership, is not affirming — not even close — and employs pastors who serve as “counselors” because they have taken counseling courses at their Bible college — oh, and they all attended the same Bible college.

One of the blog posts of one of the pastors sanctified his criticisms and judgments of others saying that because his criticism originated in Godly and Biblical wisdom, it was not criticism but instead Godly instruction.

Now, I understood.

My friend’s condemnation of me and my actions came from that same spirit: a spirit of self-righteousness that was borne of being a “successful” man placed in authority in his church. He had several proof-texted Bible verses to support his condemnations of my actions, just in case I wanted to debate him — which I didn’t.

He wanted me to know that he was trusting God by his public silence and that I needed to be rebuked for my loud and angry public stances.

He wanted me to know that because he could highlight the origin of the word zealous in Greek, he could further accuse me of wrongdoing, saying that I was not aligning with true fervor for the work of God.

He needed me to know all of this.

And he needed me to know all of this during my recovery from my total abdominal hysterectomy and my emotional plunge into surgical menopause.

He needed me to know that I was wrong.

And he was right.

And all this after I simply asked for his address to send him a thank you card for his advice as a women’s health professional.

No, friend,

I am disappointed in you.

Redemption Song

Grief resides in multiple parts of my heart, mind and body. It doesn’t take much for something to come along and touch a part of it — and when it does, I may go on a little trip of crying and longing or I may nearly be buried by the waves of emotion that are churned up.

I did not think that sending Nathanael James to NYC to spend spring break with his brothers would set anything off. Then, last night as I prepared for bed, I could hear a distant cry far off in my spirit, like a little girl sobbing somewhere in a corner of my mind, softly mourning,

“I always will lose something — they always will leave. I will always be alone in the end.”

I pushed off the voice because I couldn’t go there right before bed. I needed rest during this hysterectomy recovery.

I’ve become fairly skilled at pushing away the grief until I can fully express it — it comes from years of needing to take care of my other sons, care for my home, teach the yoga class, study the material for school, or be present for the client in front of me. Even from caring for the person in front of me who I know cannot handle the grief.

Placing the grief behind me or a little far off for now is actually something I can do well. So, if you see me cry, you know that I want to cry and feel that it is necessary for that moment. Some people think I don’t have that skill and worry that they “make” me cry. Oh no. No one has that power.

I choose to cry. As I tell my clients, I want to make a t-shirt or sticker for them that says, “Crying is BadAss.”

It is.

So, today, I cried. I cried because I worry that when NJ is really gone away from home, I will not find joy because, like the song “Landslide” says, I built my life around them. All of them.

My mom lived for us kids too. The only thing is, when we all left, she lived for the past and always seemed unsettled and even angry that the past was getting further away every day and there was nothing she could do to reach it and bring it back. She loved us and her grandchildren — but she did not connect within, maybe because she was afraid of what she would find.

And because of that, she grew more and more distant from herself and from us — so that now that she is older, she has forgotten. But she cries because she grieves for my dad.

So, today, I cried, somewhat out of loss and somewhat out of fear of losing more — and out of frustration for not being able to live in the way I’d like to right now, moving and dancing and connecting to others and to grass and water and trees.

This recovery is hard.

It is.

Mainly because it causes me to be reflective about what really matters in life while being mostly unable to engage with what really matters to me, not only because of the recovery but also because I’m not near family, friends and places I miss.

It’s tough, truly.

It is.

During this time of grieving today, I decided to open up a link to a video for one of my clients who lost a loved one. The video lovingly depicted my client’s deep love for the person they missed. It was so beautiful.

I mourned for my client, their family and the life of this loved one of theirs who was gone way too soon.

So, I know that this grief I can connect with is useful for holding up others in this life — others who also are nearly drowned by the waves of grief.

It is.

That helps me to know that I have a reason to be here for now.

Hysterectomy recovery with Salsa (and Mariachi and Cumbia too)

Here I am, in bed, during the first week of recovery post-total hysterectomy with salpingectomy and oopherectomy — which means everything, ALL of it, ALL of what helped me through life and helped me have six beautiful souls. Outside in the warm El Paso evening, our neighbors have their semi-annual pool party with live salsa, mariachi, cumbia and other Latin-inspired music. I wish I had been invited to this party so that I could say that the only reason I’m not dancing and singing my heart out is because of this recovery — but alas, this is El Paso, and only on rare occasions have I found that neighbors are invited if they do not really know the family.

Why would you invite neighbors who are not from here if they may not be able to relate to anyone in the family, especially if you have 30-40 family members?

So, I need to lay in bed while “Vivir Mi Vida” plays loudly and all the revelers sing…

Vivir mi vida, la la la la
(Voy a reír) voy a gozar
Vivir mi vida, la la la la

I'm gonna laugh, I'm gonna dance
To live my life, la-la-la-la I'm gonna laugh, I'm gonna enjoy
To live my life, la-la-la-la

If you don’t know me very well, then you don’t understand that dancing and singing has been my lifeblood since a child — I do not do enough of it in recent days. Not nearly enough. I love that Mexicans/El Pasoans enjoy dancing and singing, but due to our nature of being outsiders, we have not been invited. There’s a whole history behind this that does not involve me — but it’s tough for me on a day like today.

I did not think I would ever need or have a hysterectomy.

I “successfully” birthed six sons naturally/vaginally, even though all were very large with big ol’ heads. I have taken care of myself holistically with purpose, informed by research and practice. I maintained a diet of natural foods and daily, functionally-oriented movement, not too intense but also challenging. I worked over the last several years to develop more awareness about my emotional health and to support my own mental health challenges especially with PTSD. My husband and I have aimed to repair past relational injuries through daily walks, intentional connection, and understanding our personal and family histories. We have worked DAILY to better our friendship and support of each other.

I have aimed to understand how to be a supportive mother to my mostly adult children — apologizing for my past mistakes, seeking to understand my sons as they understand themselves, providing kind and empathetic care on their terms, and expressing my growing longing to be near them rather than a $1000 plane ride away.

I have tirelessly worked over the last five years to not only graduate with a 4.0 from my clinical mental health counseling graduate program but also secure internships and jobs in two different states to further my growth toward becoming a fully licensed professional counselor. Having finished over 2000 hours of supervised counseling hours toward the full 3000, I am nearly there.

I have sought to grow through the intense obstacles of moving 19 times in 30 years of marriage — planting friendships, cultivating them and leaving them. Trying to find support in over 12 different cities around the world while enduring pain, separation, depression, multiple stresses of bearing, birthing, and raising six sons while also burying and grieving one, has been monumental.

Honestly — I read all of this, and I don’t deserve to be sitting here on a bed in El Paso, TX at 53 yo having undergone the traumatic and painful loss of the central body part that has done so much work over the last 30 plus years. Of all people, I deserve to have a Mariachi band follow ME around all day long, celebrating how I have overcome overwhelming grief, pain and adversity and have come out smiling and dancing.

But, I dance in my room alone, as much as I can (I’m being good) and pretend the music is for my past, my pains and my parts that made up all of me.

Run up that hill

Trigger warning: trauma and loss

 

 

I think I may be like other parents of teens and young adults -- we're watching Stranger Things to connect with them, enjoy good stories and maybe reminisce about the 80's a bit. I think I annoy my sons when I say for the 50th time "Oh my, I remember that -- that was my favorite" or "I couldn't stand that song" or "That's an homage to <insert whatever 80's movie or icon>".

Even before beginning to watch this current season, I felt a little underwhelmed because the series seemed to be losing the novelty aspect. So, just to have fun with my 15 year old, I sat down to watch season 4. What I did not expect was for the series to reach down into me and connect with my own experience with traumatic grief. Not at all.

I don't want to give spoilers so if you're intending to watch it, maybe read this later. But, if you've already watched, the scene with Max fighting Lord Vecna and the story surrounding it made tears pour down my face, even after the fourth time watching. The villain in this season, Lord Vecna, is a person who experienced trauma as a child due to his parent's collective trauma experiences. He was a sensitive and empathic child with psychic abilities that were exploited by psychiatric researchers. These experiences led him down a path toward destroying other lives around him.

Lord Vecna unfairly taps into the past trauma of vulnerable people to accomplish his own ends. He is exiled to the world of the Upside Down and from there aims to psychically use the hidden pain, guilt, fear, depression, self-doubt, shame, and anxiety of others to trap them and gain power from their destruction. Interestingly, he accuses them, preying on their hidden despair and offering relief from their suffering through their destruction.

In the character Max's case, he preys upon her feelings and thoughts related to her traumatic grief over the loss of her brother. Her brother Billy died a horrible death in the last season due to the horrors of the Upside Down. In the first few episodes of season 4, she is exhibiting signs of depression and self-isolation related to her brother's death, experiences common to the trauma of sudden loss. A person experiencing traumatic grief feels that no one understands, and because Max was a young teenager, that was most likely exacerbated.

Shortly before the pivotal scene, Max realizes she is being targeted by Lord Vecna while she is aiming to process her true feelings about Billy. She writes a letter to Billy and leaves it at his graveside. At that moment, Lord Vecna draws her into a waking nightmare, entrancing Max through manipulating the memory of Billy to accuse her of not doing enough to save Billy and alleging that she actually wanted him dead. She remains in a frozen state of immobilization by Billy’s grave as Lord Vecna preys on her mind.

This is a profound metaphor for how guilt in traumatic grief works. At our darkest moments, as we attempt to process the grief, guilt accuses and traps us, causing us to spiral into fear, self-doubt and finally into hopeless despair. In those moments, our loved ones may be trying to pull us out, like Max's friends began to try, but that immobilization caused by the darkness is powerful.

As Lord Vecna continues his accusations and lies, he frames it in a bit of truth: she has hidden her thoughts and feelings from her loved ones because she feels like they are unable to understand her pain. Lord Vecna pushes on that narrative and begins to trap Max into her destruction. This represents the overwhelming and isolating nature of guilt leading to self-harm. It feels unsurmountable at times. And it is statistically common in those who are traumatically bereaved, unfortunately.

However, at that moment, her friends attempt one last effort to pull her back by rallying around her and playing her favorite song, “Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)” by Kate Bush, through her headphones. The thick, blood-red clouds in her mind open a small bit and she can see them reaching out to her. Lord Vecna tries to lie again and remind her of why she hid from them, but her mind slowly becomes flooded with memories of the beauty in her past, the smiles and laughter, the connection, the love.

So, she decides to fight.

She swipes at Lord Vecna and begins to run and run toward the opening in her nightmare that opened but is slowly closing. Lord Vecna tries to stop her by dropping obstacles in her way and she falls as she tries to avoid the obstacles -- over and over again.

But she keeps getting up and runs harder.

Finally, she reaches the opening and jumps through.

Her friends surround her as she drops to the ground and repeats, "I'm still here -- I'm still here."

As I watched this, I wept (like I'm weeping again as I write this) because that artistically represented my regular experience over the last 20 years as I've walked through traumatic grief over the sudden death of my son, Benny. No one knows the nightmares I've seen and have been stuck in. Many times, I didn't know if I would make it out of waking nightmares and thought that the lies and the darkness which justified the guilt in my mind and soul about Benny's death were true. Many times, it felt like the darkness had trapped and nearly killed me. I felt like I was completely alone and that no one would ever understand.

However, many friends and family, (and especially my husband Aaron) have loved me enough to keep reaching out, reminding me of the beauty of life and to keep going: to keep getting up no matter what obstacles are thrown in my path; to keep running toward others and toward hope, as many times as I have to -- daily, if need be. And I have. I have fought and run like that so many times. And no one has really known the horror of it but I'm slowly beginning to change that through finding therapeutic help for the trauma and continuing to speak out.

While we want to rescue those caught in these dark places, they will need to be loved and supported to find the light within themselves to fight, which is much easier said than done. If you love someone who is there, keep reminding them of that and look for how to help through trauma therapy and/or spiritual/social resourcing.

Thank you to those who have helped to pull me out. I will always need that support. Now, in my work to become a trauma therapist focused on traumatic bereavement, I am trying to understand so I can help pull others out and encourage them to fight and run toward the light of love, as often as they have to.

Help is out there if you feel alone in it. There are those of us who KNOW the darkness and have been there many times and want to do what we can to help pull others out.

Reach out.

Run up that hill.

Hi friend, where have you been?

Hello, my friends.

You know, “friends” is a word I’ve been truly examining over the last nine months.

If you’re reading this, I hope that you know that every person that has entered my sphere of relationships is dear to me. And, that if you were connected with me closely in person, or in my classes, or through social media, I value that you have chosen to connect with me through reading this. People are dear to me and, though I may not always appear to be, I am humbled to be brought into any person’s life.

So, if you are choosing to read this, thank you dearly and know that I do not take your attention for granted.

Now, beginning this….

I truly don’t know how to begin other than to describe where I’ve been and why I’m doing this.

You see, I really am mostly an introvert. I know most of you who know me don’t believe me when I tell you this, but it’s very true. The person I’ve spent the most time with lives inside my head. And she is talkative and pensive! And always thinks that she has the world finally figured out, until she realizes she doesn’t.

When I created my yoga business, it was out of financial necessity (the kind you palpably feel in Northern Virginia). I believed I would teach a few nights a week at a local gym and make a bit of spending money and loosen the financial binds a bit for our family.

I had no idea that my teaching would influence so many. To this day, I am still convinced that God communicated his love through me to all who crossed my path and that is what people heard and felt. Before each class and as I crafted my classes, I asked for God’s wisdom and direction and that God would speak to the quiet pain and longing in the depth of each person who chose to practice with me. But through encountering the diversity of the bearers of God’s image, I was changed.

All of those who came into my life, who attended my classes, who reached out in kindness and friendship, revealed to me the treasure inherent in each person. The image of God.

Then, I entered my monastic phase (knowing smile).

When we moved to El Paso, I absolutely took a LOOOOONG exhale. Life in DC metro (as most of you, who are hopefully reading this, know) was delightfully treadmill-like. Mostly everyone who chooses to live there is incredibly capable and self-motivated. Even if you have just an ounce of type-A inside, it will come to the fore there because the energy of the place calls for it. Please know that I admire this energy in DC and truly credit that energy for motivating me to create a business and enroll in graduate school (also, I don’t believe I would have ever tried to handstand so much either :) ) But, even though moving and creating and sustaining our life there was possible for some time, it would not have been for a long time.

So, when we moved (due to Aaron’s job), I could finally step back and let my ignored introvert have some time.

I desired time with my sons who remain at home (not for long!) and time with Aaron, to reconnect in ways which we could not because we both were moving so fast in so many different directions. And finally, we had TIME.

I walk up and down our little side of Franklin mountain every day (with George :)). I make kimchi egg burritos and sometimes homemade tortillas. I can take Flamenco (when there is no pandemic) and yoga classes (again, when there is no pandemic ;) ) without anyone knowing who I am. I am delightfully unknown. (Don’t get me wrong: I never was under the impression that I was a yoga-lebrity like some I know, but I was a bit known in the DC yoga community and so it was tough to just be a yoga student and not a yoga teacher taking someone’s class.)

I connect with yoga schools worldwide, but as a service to the community, through Yoga Alliance.

Most happily, I am finally making headway in my graduate school program and learning how to someday be of great service to the bereaved parent community. I am so grateful for that opportunity.

During this time, however, I also chose to step away from social media. At first, I removed it all from my phone. This was not out of any great new personal philosophy about the ills of social media. Or from wanting others to feel conviction. Whoa, I really don’t have need for that! I still see the incredible good in it.

But, for me, at the time when we moved, I noticed that I was feeling bereft of friendships and connection as I scrolled, even a wee bit, down the feeds. I wanted to give in to the new loss, if you will, of moving to a new, more quiet life. I needed to live in the silence and the anonymity for a while.

And so when I removed it all from my phone, I felt free.

Then, after some weeks, the quiet and anonymity really set in. It became very quiet. Very.

My ego was not happy with my decisions.

The voices that highlighted my new insignificance became very loud indeed.

“Who were you really?”

“Who did you think you were?”

“All of that was for show.”

“What did you really do with your time there?”

“What effect did you truly have on anyone’s life?”

“What effect will you have on anyone’s life in the future?”

“You are but a breath.”

Please hear me: these are all necessary questions. This was necessary work. None of these questions or observations were “negative”. They were all finally coming to the surface because I was finally quiet.

When these sorts of questions come, it is tempting to confront them with proof of significance. And sometimes, that is what we need to do.

But, this time, I needed to just be and learn, in quietness and submission of my ego.

Then: COVID.

I didn’t want to reinstall social media on my phone yet. I knew I wasn’t ready yet.

But, with all of the uncertainty, I wanted to connect. So I did. And I’m glad I did. So many of my friends are doing and saying such worthy things at this time and I’ve been blessed to hear and watch.

However, just like we all are wondering how to safely reconnect and restart our lives in this uncertainty of the pandemic, I began wondering how I can continue in this time of introspection, but still have human interaction.

I’ve learned that I actually love human interaction. :) I believe we all have.

Social media is so easy to interface with. It is much easier to speak and open the door to my life on there.

At this time, however, I don’t want to list my life on a feed that can be scrolled through. I don’t want to speak my mind in a place that is filled with virtual noise. That’s not the place for me at this time.

At this time, I want to welcome my friends into my virtual coffeehouse of discussion and wondering and growth. I want to show my friends the unique, alien-like plants of the desert that I see on my walks every day. I want to explore the depths of the human psyche and the universe of concepts that I’m learning in my graduate studies. I want an authentic place to connect, yet not feel like I’m yelling all of these things in a crowded virtual conference hall.

So, I’m reviving my website and blog with the intention to connect with those who choose to listen. I will use the effective marketplace of social media to let others know that I’ve posted something. But, this blog will be the place where I will be displaying my unique desert plants, lizards, thoughts and the most valuable memories of my family.

A few things to say at the outset: if I know you, I do love you. Losing a child has taught me innumerable nuggets of wisdom, but one of the foremost is that ALL people are much more valuable than we realize. Period. Each soul is a universe within itself.

ALL voices and opinions and experiences need to be heard, from the point of view of the valuable person themselves, not filtered through our personal philosophies and values, first. After we listen to each person’s points of view, it is up to us to examine it in view of what we value and feel to be true. By expressing my own thoughts, feelings and experiences, I am by no means discounting anyone’s worldview or value system. I am simply going to express mine.

The best bit of it? I have not arrived yet! I have not attained all wisdom and perfection. Who knew? :)

Amazingly, with all that I’ve been through, I feel that God’s creation and my response to it becomes more vast and complicated with each passing day. I look forward to understanding more from others who are part of this universe of God’s creation.

If you choose to express your viewpoints to me, I will engage in love and interest to understand your viewpoints. We may disagree, and I will still love you. All I ask for is the same brotherly love in return. After all, anyone who reads any of my posts will have to purposefully take steps to read them. You will not be exposed to my thoughts by having to scroll by them in a social media feed.

Although, if you only want to see the pictures I post, you will have to scroll by my thoughts. So, there’s that :D

So, my friends, you who choose to engage with me, no matter what comes, thank you. And, we’ll see where this goes, together.

Welcome to El Paso!

IMG_8913.jpg

April 24, 2017

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow you’d be 16.

Tomorrow I’d be wondering if you were ready to pass your driving test and actually would be really scared to be driving in the car with you. But maybe not, because it never happened in the first place.

Tomorrow I’d be wondering what you were feeling about who you are and how you’re doing in life, in sports, with girls, with friends, with school. I’d be wondering all about that because you’d be quiet anyway because you’d be a 16 year old boy. But maybe not, because maybe you’d have been talkative because you were then.

Tomorrow I’d be noticing how tall you’re getting and how your voice was deepening but you’d still look a little like my big, bright blue-eyed baby boy. I wonder if your hair would still have been thick and highlighted or would it have been dark. I don’t know.

Tomorrow I’d be running around getting your favorite meal together and maybe thinking of putting together a party for your 16th with your friends because I’m never on top of these things anyway. But maybe you’d have been quiet and just wanted a home celebration and to be with your big brothers that you loved so much.

Tomorrow I’d be trying to hold back anxious thoughts of your future and whether we were preparing you enough for it. I’d be thinking of ways we needed to help you think about how to do well on your SATs and how to figure out how to pay for college. But maybe you’d have been such a good student I wouldn’t need to worry.

Tomorrow we’d all be telling stories around the table at your birthday meal of our earliest memories of you and laughing freely at the memories, with no tinges of pain.

Tomorrow your older brothers would argue politics with you and tell you that you don’t know anything yet because you’re only 16. And they’d be saying that you got so much more than they did at 16 and telling us not to trust you with the car.

Tomorrow your younger brothers would tease you about the girls you talk to (or don’t talk to) and say that you don’t know anything even though they secretly look up to you and would love to have you pat them on the back. I think you’d do that because you’d remember how it was to be the youngest for a little while.

Tomorrow your Dad would kid you and wrestle you and tell you how proud he is of you and that you’re growing into a kind, responsible, strong young man. We’d all be proud.

Tomorrow I’d make your favorite meal; I’d bake (or maybe, probably, buy) your favorite cake; give you a small gift; but mainly I’d hug you longer than you’d want me to and even give you a kiss on your beautiful cheek while you rolled your eyes. We’d all laugh and smile and get to bed just in time for the next day.

Tomorrow would be just another birthday for my beautiful Benjamin Adam.

I’ll miss you tomorrow.

Benjamin Adam Martinez

Benjamin Adam Martinez