Hallelujah. Good things have already started happening since I started sharing Eric’s story. People have reached out to tell me I’m doing the right thing, they can relate and other “hoo-rah” comments. But do you know what my favorite thing has been so far? A picture. Sent to me by Eric’s high school prom date. She said he was the “perfect prom date.” Of course he was. He was awesome. Especially when it came to living the 80’s dream. He had a mullet. He wore high tops. He drove a red hatch back. He played a red electric guitar. He had a Boston t-shirt pinned to his bedroom wall. He was kind of like Marty McFly, only taller. Much, much taller. At 6 foot 8, he was a giant. And I loved …
Eric and I at Stonehenge. I was 15. This trip was awesome. I wasn’t annoyed at all when this picture was taken.
I saw his car turn around at the end of our parent’s long driveway. I have to admit I was annoyed. I’m not proud of that. I loved my big brother. I still do. But at that time in my life, at 16, just trying to be a teenager, he annoyed me. No, his disease annoyed me. I didn’t know how to handle his depression, his odd behavior, his lingering. He would just sit and stare for hours. Hours. Do you know how awkward that is? How much tension silent stillness can create in a house?
He turned around. Came back. He was coming to say goodbye, in his own way. A few weeks later, he …
He was real. And he was awesome. He was my brother.
I came across a box today. A box of memories. The box was dusty, purposefully hidden away in the forgotten corners of my mind. Instead of shoving it back where I found it, I sliced it open. The contents spilled out at my feet, and I was amazed at how much could fit in such a small box. Words, smells, emotions, textures, all begging to be felt, to be remembered.
He was in this box. Eric. My brother. I miss him. I miss him. Afraid I’ll soon no longer be able to conjure his face, his laugh, his mannerisms in my mind, I must unpack these boxes. I can’t move into my own life until I do.
This process will be painful, both to write, and …
The fact that this photo even exists is a miracle. Dani with her sweet Katie.
“Before I had children I thought stories about ‘mama radar’ were exaggerated but nope. Whether it’s a fever, a white lie, a child getting ready to blow chunks in a movie theater while watching the end of Madagascar 2 (true story), or the tell-tale signs of a rare brain disorder, mama knows.”
These are the words of Dani Stone, a mother who knew. She knew something was terribly wrong with her infant daughter, even though the doctors told her otherwise. She kept telling herself, “They’re doctors. If they’re not worried, I shouldn’t be worried.” But she kept worrying. And her daughter is alive today because of that mother’s intuition.
Dani, freelance writer, editor (Book End Babes) and Community Manager (Book End Babes and
Don’t mess with a knight in plastic armor.
“Don’t move!,” my captor snarled at me in the dark, small dungeon. “Don’t even blink!”
How could I argue? Mice nipped at my heels, the walls closed in around me. And the aggressor, dressed in a knight’s helmet, wielded a sword. A sword! It stabbed at my arms, legs, and abdomen. “Your blood is dripping on the floor,” I was informed. Well, that sealed the deal. I was staying put.
“Somebody saved me!,” I screamed, but nobody came. “Be quiet!,” the masked knight ordered, finally revealing its face. A girl! A little girl! Are you serious? This half-pint was holding me hostage? “Come on, ” I argued, “Just let me go and I won’t cause any trouble.”
She stabbed me again, slicing open my arm. “Ahhh!!!” But my cries were …
May you always be this happy. May he always sweep you off your feet. Or at least sweep the kitchen floor. That’s pretty darn romantic, too.
To my dearest cousin Rachel,
How I wish I could be with you today. To see your glorious smile in person as you walk down the aisle and start the next chapter in your life. Fondly, I remember the many days and nights we spent together at Grandma and Grandpa’s, spying on our relatives, giggling until tears fell, and performing three-act plays in the living room for innocent bystanders.
I hope your future husband knows how lucky he is. You’re a catch, to say the least. You’re beautiful, intelligent, funny, and have a heart big enough to accommodate countless friends and our entire amazing family. I’ve always admired how you’ve lived life …