Bringing Back the Laughter

On the eve of what would have been my dad's 70th birthday, I wanted to share an essay that I wrote a decade ago in honor of my biggest hero.  I love and miss you, daddy!  Happy 70th Birthday in Heaven!

In my early days of childhood, I'd never seen my father cry.  He had a great sense of humor and could make a person smile even when they didn't want to.  My father had a way of becoming the spotlight at every family get-together and we would all gather around him like roadies to a rock star, hanging on his every word.  No matter how serious the situation, he was always there to comfort us with a story, to lighten the situation with a joke, and then to help us understand why things were the way they were.  Long before we were ready; however, the laughter was gone...

As a child, I recall spending hours sitting in the floor next to my father's easy chair as he shared stories of his life.  "Did I ever tell you about the time..." he would always begin.  I could picture myself next to him as he walked me through tales of his childhood, his teenage years, and then his career in law enforcement.  "Everyone has a calling," he would say, "and helping people is mine."

While I was in grade school, I would proudly announce to my classmates that my father drove a patrol car with lights, sirens, and a CB radio.  As soon as the bell rang, I would dash out of the school building and race my little brother to the car so I could sit up front.  "If we chase bad guys, daddy, can I turn on the lights?"  He would throw back his head, laugh, and tell me, "I've put in a pretty long day, so I don't think there's anymore bad guys out there, but if there are, you can certainly turn on the lights."  Having my father around was like having my very own Andy Griffith.  He was my hero, the strongest, toughest person I knew, and the person helping to make our "Mayberry" a better place to live.

Being a child, I didn't understand the worried look on my mother's face when my father got ready for work.  With wide eyes I would watch him fasten the thick, black gun belt that held extra bullets, handcuffs, a nightstick, and mace.  He would lower his duty weapon into the holster and snap the buckle closed to ensure it wouldn't leave his side if he had to run after someone.  He would slide his feet into freshly polished black boots and slide his uniform pants down over them.  His brass badge, that held the words "To protect and serve", and his name badge, that simply read V. Camp, were so shiny they reflected the light whenever he turned toward it.  He would put on his hat, kiss my mother good-bye, tell us kids to be good and head out into the unknown.  Then, without warning, this ritual stopped.

During the winter of my junior year in high school, my father was in and out of the hospital.  Normally a large, strong man, his body began to look frail and weak.  He had to take a leave of absence from the job that was so much a part of his life, but I had no doubt that he would soon be back at work, chasing bad guys, telling stories, and making people laugh.  Instead, he began to look sad, his sense of humor seemed to vanish, and a few times, to my surprise, I saw him cry.  I didn't know it at the time, but he had pancreatic cancer and the doctors knew he would not survive.

On March 10, 1987, my world was shattered and time stood still while my hero passed away.  At his funeral, I remember slowly approaching the casket that held my father.  There he lay in the same blue uniform I'd seen him in a thousand times.  I reached over to shift his glasses slightly to the left, the way he always wore them.

On his chest was the badge, "To protect and serve."  I wondered how he managed to dodge bullets, survive a car accident, and face death so many times, but always make it through each day.  Now, something no one had ever expected had taken him from us.  "Who will protect us now, daddy?"  I whispered.  "Who will make us laugh?"  Gone was his crooked smile, his deep laugh, and I waited for him to tell me that everything would be alright, but he didn't.  Instead, the silence replaced the laughter as I told my father good-bye a final time.
        
"Who's this, mommy?"  My son asked as we were flipping through an old photo album.  "That's your grandpa," I smiled.  "Who's he holding?"  He asked.  I looked down at the picture.  "Me, honey."  I smiled, "he's holding me."  I looked down into my young son's eyes and knew it was time to bring back the laughter and the stories my father shared with me many years ago.

And so I began, "Did I ever tell you about the time..."






  

 

Beyond the Bad Times - In Memory of Robin Williams

I sit here tonight with the noise of the 20/20 tribute to Robin Williams in the background of my thoughts, as my heart bears an uneasy pain of life interrupted before the world was ready, long before his family and close friends ever imagined.  And although as much as I am saddened by the loss of an incredible actor/comedian, it is the circumstances surrounding his last years, last days, last moments on earth that have my heart so heavy tonight.  A true example of a person laughing on the outside, yet crying on the inside, then in finality giving in to the sadness and darkness inside his soul, leaving the world way, way too soon.

It is his story that makes me realize that depression can happen to anyone, at anytime, no matter who you are, no matter the circumstances, celebrity or not, and no matter how hard a person fights it, sometimes, heartbreakingly, it wins in the end.  I know I've felt discouraged, I've felt hopeless, I've faced financial hardships, I've been a witness to heartache, I've lost loved ones, and I've experienced a major surgery that afterward made me question if I would ever be myself again, knowing I would never be the same "me" that I was before.  I've felt it...I've feared it...and I'll forever be grateful that I've survived it...but sadly some don't...

It truly breaks my heart for those who aren't able to overcome it.  I wonder how many of us would be surprised to know the pain lurking inside another.  How many times have we passed someone in the grocery store, at the gas pumps, sat next to them at a stoplight, or worse yet, kissed them goodnight, hugged them good-bye, told them we'd call them, left believing we'd see them again, yet never really looking at them, not fully understanding the ache inside their heart or the demons inside their mind.  Do we look into each other's eyes, I mean really look?  Do we see far enough into other's eyes to feel the pain in the stare, hear the words they're trying to convey, as they hold our eyes a few minutes longer than we thought they should?  Are we so wrapped up in our own lives that we don't have a few extra minutes to ask someone what's going on in theirs?  And then going so far as to actually listen to their response? Or are we the ones praying someone will notice the pain in our eyes, even if there's a smile on our face?

It really angers me that loss brings me clarity.  It breaks my heart that it takes the last breath of another to open my eyes to the things I should be aware of every day.  Beginning tonight, I'm challenging myself to take a more active role in the lives of those around me.  Some people need help, they just don't know how to ask for it or they just don't know how to accept it.  Either way, it's up to each of us to raise awareness of a disease that continues to take our loved ones from us each day. 

Depression is real...it can be final or it can be overcome.  In the words of the extremely talented Robin Williams, "You will have bad times, but they will always wake you up to the stuff you weren’t paying attention to."  Let's all open our eyes up to each other...

RIP - Robin Williams

Summary of Strength

There is no strength where there is no struggle. - Maya Angelou

I sat somberly next to my mother on a vinyl couch inside a family waiting room at St. Mary's Hospital on that March day in 1987 that forever changed my life, yet I didn't understand in that moment the impact this day would have on my mother for the rest of her life. The doctor had just left the room after bearing the tragic news that my father hadn't made it through surgery. The walls of that room would forever embrace the sound of our cries, as we struggled with the realization that he was gone. I remember turning to my mother, seeking answers she didn't have, seeing the pain on her face, yet her arms reached out to me, my sister, and my brother, knowing she needed to comfort us, to hold us, to give us the strength to pull ourselves off that couch and as hard as it would be, the strength to move forward in our lives without him in it...and incredibly, we did move forward, always together, bound by her strength.

It wasn't until the year of 2011 that her strength would be tested again with severity, as the year began with the sudden loss of my brother from a fatal heart attack, then ending with her diagnosis of breast cancer and undergoing a lumpectomy, radiation, and chemotherapy. It was in these times, when most of us would have withdrawn, given up, lost our faith, questioned it even...it was in these times that my mother grew stronger with the force of a woman determined to be a survivor, an example of resilience we all needed so badly, possibly not comprehending how much we needed it, but providing it without hesitation. We pulled together from her strength, pulled through the hard times and challenges, we became fighters and ultimately winners as her cancer went into remission. The days ahead were brighter and we all looked forward to many more years of her being cancer-free.

When she went in for her routine mammogram a few weeks ago, little did my mother imagine that it would lead to a double needle biopsy and a call from the radiologist saying a small amount of cancer cells had been detected in the same breast that she had the lumpectomy. The next steps would be to discuss the best procedure with the doctors, all agreeing that a double mastectomy would be the most effective course to eliminate the possibility of cancer in her future. The words were not easy to hear and even harder to understand, as she had almost reached 3 years since the initial surgery; however, in her honest, true fashion, she reacted the way she had with the agonies of  past defeats and heartache...with positive thoughts, prayers, and a plan of action that would ultimately be in God's hands.

Amazing, to say the least, that while we all wonder how we would carry her burdens, she not only carries them, she reminds her burdens daily that they are only temporary and will not bring her spirits down, nor permanently break her. Without doubt, the things that will be long-term are her faith in God, her support system of close family and friends, and her passion to survive.

So as we enter the eve of her surgery, I have so much pride in my heart for a mother that I can't imagine not having in my life. I can't imagine who I would be today without her guidance, encouragement, involvement, and strength. I want to lift her up, as she has lifted me up so many times throughout my own life and struggles. I want her strength, I yearn for it, and I want to share it with others, as she has done for me.

I love you so much, Mom! Tomorrow will bring you surrounded by love, lifted up by prayers, and driven by the strength you carry so well. We'll be there with you, all the way!

When Sophia Smiled

I woke up that Friday morning like so many other Friday's before...opened my eyes, turned off my alarm, grabbed my phone off the charger, and out of habit clicked on my Facebook app. With groggy eyes, I started reading the first post on my news feed as I walked toward the bathroom, but within those few seconds, my heart skipped a beat. The post I was reading stated that a young girl was missing, something that had become all too common in the recent years, yet this post wasn't a random news station feed, this post was that of a family friend and the young girl missing was one of my daughter's close friends.

I quickly turned around and began walking briskly to my daughter's bedroom, I had to let her know that her friend was missing, but more-so, I was hoping she would have information for me that would tell me her friend was safely back home. Just inside my daughter's bedroom door, the soft, somber words left my mouth "Bryana," I said, "Sophia Porter's missing..." Just as I had done only moments earlier, my daughter jolted out of bed, her eyes full of fear. She grabbed her phone, then looked up at me shaking her head, asking "What do we do?" I walked to her side, gave her a hug and said, "Pray she's already made it home safely."

The next half-hour was spent replying to that post, sending prayers to the family and trying to push back the worry and fear from my mind, just as I was sure her parents were doing only a few blocks away. Though my stomach was in knots, I finished getting ready for work, then woke my husband to let him know I was leaving. It was then, after checking Facebook for updates and not seeing anything new, that I shared the news with him. His reaction mirrored mine, as he quickly sat up and said, "What do you mean missing?" I read him the post with my voice cracking, Sophia was due home at 3 AM, yet by 6 AM she still hadn't arrived and her parent's calls to her phone were going directly to voice mail. "She's missing...", I said again and added, "She had a long drive from a cheer camp in Mississippi, so I just pray she pulled over for rest and she's still asleep, not realizing it's morning." My husband agreed, she had pulled over for rest and they would hear from her soon. In the meantime, though, he would reach out for updates and see if a plan was being put into place to trace her route, saying he would do what he could to help bring her home safely.

I took comfort in my husbands words, but when I went to tell my daughter good-bye the words from the post were still swimming in my mind.  I gave Bryana another tight hug and asked her to let me know as soon as she heard something more about Sophia, telling her I'd do the same. She looked at me with eyes full of pain and I lingered at the doorway, not wanting to leave. Finally, with a final "I love you!" I closed the door behind me and headed to my car, nausea growing inside, my gut telling me things were not right, yet still uncertain exactly what might have happened.

As I closed my car door, I said another prayer for Sophia and just then my phone lit up. It was a text from the high school cheer coach and it only took the first sentence to make my chest hurt, as I struggled to breathe. I knew I had to tell Bryana, not realizing she had received the text, too, so I tried getting back inside the house as quickly as possible. I bolted through the door and heard my daughter's screams and as I reached her inside, she fell into my arms. "NO!!!!!!!!" she was screaming, "NO!!!!!!!"

Sophia was gone, a tragic early morning accident that had taken place just a few miles up the road, every parent's worst nightmare and the shock of this news riveted every inch of my body.  Me and Bryana sunk together to the floor, sobbing and clinging, as my husband rushed into the room with the look on his face saying everything I was feeling. I thought of her parents and cried harder, prayed louder, and clung to my little girl, who was shaking in my arms. "What do we do?" she was asking me again. "What do we do?" I didn't know, the answers escaped me, no words of wisdom came to my mind, I just held her, rocked her, and loved her more in that moment than ever before.

Over the next several days, as I tried to understand the sudden loss of a beautiful young girl, tried to comfort my daughter over the loss of a close friend, paid condolences and said so many prayers for Sophia's family, I struggled for purpose in a tragedy that questioned my faith in a God that would allow such a bright shining light to fade from our lives, from our community, from her family. This was someone with an amazing future ahead of her, someone with her heart opened widely to those around her, and someone with talents not fully tapped. Sophia's smile was as contagious as her laugh and those blessed enough to know her would say she lit up a room just by walking into it, just from her presence, just from her smile.

On that following Monday, the family, friends and community gathered to celebrate the life of Sophia Ascensio-Porter, a beautiful young woman just 18 years old with excitement to cheer in the fall for the UofA Fort Smith where she had planned to attend college. The first thing that amazed me upon entering the church, was the proud smile on her parents faces as they thanked people for coming and reminded us that God is great, he had put all of these wonderful people in their daughter's life, but didn't they understand that we were the lucky ones for knowing Sophia and being blessed to be part of her life? I couldn't hold back the tears as I approached them, hugged them, and told them how sorry I was for their loss. Their strength was so uplifting, so miraculous, so inspiring, just as their precious Sophia had been.

I realized in the stories, tears & laughter shared that afternoon that I was witness to God's love, power and blessing on an entire congregation of people who had loved, honored and cherished this beautiful young woman, from birth to adult-hood, she had touched so many with her thoughtful words, encouragement, laughter and sparkling smile. The lessons learned within a tragedy are never forgotten; live life to the fullest, share your love of God each day, and lift up others upon every opportunity. Sophia lived her life in this manner, leaving behind the most wonderful memories. When Sophia smiled, we all smiled with her, and we will all smile each time we remember her; today, tomorrow and always.

May you forever rest in God's loving arms with your beautiful new set of wings, Sophia.