I didn’t give it a name for a long time. PTSD was something that soldiers brought back from war, not something that people living ordinary lives had. That was beyond naive, as I found in the years following my husband’s death.
Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome: A disorder in which a person has difficulty recovering after experiencing or witnessing a terrifying event. The condition may last months or years, with triggers that can bring back memories of the trauma accompanied by intense emotional and physical reactions
My husband had cancer, but we didn’t think it was close to the end as there were still things we were exploring. He didn’t feel well, so stayed home from work that morning, over 21 years ago, and I fixed him breakfast before I left to run an errand. When I returned after less than an hour, the house was eerily silent and I went upstairs to find him on the floor. Sparing you the details, which I could recount easily without pause, it was a shock, a shock to my system.
None of us understands what happens to make us react to some events in one way and to other events in another. I spent months, years dealing with that shock. I would relive it at odd times and at recognizable times until I learned to, literally, stop the film, not let it rerun in its entirety. If I wanted to, I could play it at any time now, but I don’t.
What I learned is to look around and realize that I am not the only one in this situation. I learned that, no matter how compassionate and sympathetic I had been to my friends who lost someone, I’d not really understood. At least, my understanding wasn’t as educated by experience as it was now was.
Fast forward and I’ve been through other life traumas, but none that rattled my brain like that one. No particular reason for that one other than it was so unexpected at the moment. My brain didn’t cope with it or process as I normally would have. Other things that happened were awful, but my brain didn’t react the same way. I processed better. Then this new incident shook me.
I’ve always had pets, dogs and cats along with the hamsters and lizards that came with having children. Twelve years ago, I went to get a kitten and ended up with two brothers because I couldn’t make a choice or separate them. They were billed as Siamese/Tabby mix and weighed one pound each. 
Mickey was named for Mickey Mantle because he batted at things with both feet, a switch hitter. He was more burly looking and was the sweetest boy, always doing something silly or cuddling up with the dogs or me. 
Guy was definitely Siamese, named Guy because I thought he was female and gave him a girl name until I found out. He did not like to be held or confined, but loved to be petted and purred so loudly you could hear him across the room. He was elegant and strong. 
So we lived our lives with the girl dogs and the boy cats existing in harmony. The boys were inside outside cats and spent time with their secret lives outside, but mostly hanging around the yard or curled up inside. They were street smart as to dogs, cars, hawks and owls and even an occasional fox.
I left on a trip this summer and didn’t see Mickey as I left. I kept checking but nobody had seen him and I was sick at heart. When I got back, Guy was missing, too. I was heart-broken and posted notices, went to the animal shelter, drove around calling so they might hear my car or voice. Nothing. Not a sign. The answer was a Facebook post showing a coyote nearby. 
I knew immediately what had happened. You need to understand that I live in the city, an urban area, although there are creeks and the Arkansas River within a couple of miles. We’re not in the country where I might have expected this. This is a predator who has invaded our city, taking pets from yards. We had severe flooding this spring, coupled with ever present development, so I can’t blame the animals for being animals.
But still. I’ve tried to go all Circle of Life on this, but it is haunting me. Maybe I’ve watched too many nature shows and watched how brutal it is. Maybe the online descriptions of pets being taken in front of their owners and descriptions of the torn carcasses got to me. I’ve had nightmares of my boys being grabbed and so on. One night my older dog barked for hours, which I’ve never heard her do. She heard or sensed something outside that was wrong. Her bark wasn’t even normal and it was creepy. It’s another PTSD because it is a shock to my brain even though I didn’t witness anything. I’m getting better, but it stings and it’s taking longer than I thought to turn off.
The lesson I’m taking from this is that there are predators in our world and they interrupt our everyday lives with their horror. I’m suddenly thinking what I would feel if I were a parent or spouse and my loved one was killed by a predator while doing normal things like going to school or a movie or a concert or shopping, or if I were in the middle of an attack, watching people being shot around me when we were supposed to be doing something ordinary. I can only imagine how their sleep is interrupted with terrifying images, how they try to move every day knowing their loved one was ripped from them or they saw the horrible aftermath of the attack. Even if you weren’t there in person, your imagination takes over and the happy memories roll around with the horror until you can learn to separate and deal with it all.
My lesson for us all is that we don’t know what predators are attacking people we see in our everyday lives. The predator could be disease or violence or anything they are trying to process with their heart and brain. We don’t process every event the same because we are human and we can’t always control our reactions.
My thought is that we need to be kind to each other. Always be kind.
Looking at this picture of my family on Easter, 1953, you must notice the unique Easter baskets we are holding. I’m not sure why we all look so serious, but those baskets bring a smile to my face today.
One of the things I think about when I remember the baskets is how my grandmother’s hands were crippled by arthritis. She also had a finger that she couldn’t bend, the result of blood poisoning when she cut it on a tin cup from what I remember. That makes me appreciate the delicate work on the baskets and makes them even more dear to me.
Even after all these years, you can see the work. They started with a Quaker oatmeal box and cut it down. I guess the handle was wire, wrapped in ribbon. The petals and the little flowers are heavy crepe paper, cut and shaped very delicately. All the pieces were assembled with precision by these women, working in their small Episcopal church in Oklahoma City. The church was later closed (maybe moved to a larger location, but I don’t know). I heard the building I remembered became a bar.
We posed for the obligatory pictures, asking strangers to help us get a shot of us all. This is so much easier now that everyone uses cell phones and knows how to work them. Everyone is helpful and friendly and everyone wants their picture there. There were visitors from all over the United States and we heard various languages spoken, as is the case wherever we travel, reminding us of the universal hope of our country.
I brought the boys back the next morning to see Mt Rushmore in all its glory with the morning sun shining on the faces. We had the perfect blue sky and got another photo with the guys, as we had begun to call them.
We had been through the museum and seen the film showing the construction of the memorial the night before and I know the boys will be studying this story more as we all marveled at the men who built this beautiful monument with all odds against the project, both financial and dangerous risks. It is a true marvel of sculptural achievement and a tribute to not only Gustav Borglum, but to his family, including his son, Lincoln, who finished the project, and to the scores of workers. Not a life was lost making this monument.
In the end, she was on oxygen and had painful neuropathy in her feet, but never lost her sense of humor or her ability to listen to us tell about everything in our lives. I would say a fault was that she never liked to admit she was wrong, but she even mellowed in that as she grew older.
I’ve tried to track down Hattie’s history, but it’s elusive as is the data on many who lived on farms across our country. From what I’ve found, she was born July 29, 1856 in Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Benjamin Mills and Dorcas Fox. The records get fuzzy because I find their names spelled different ways, etc. Some of those census people weren’t too careful back then.
John lived long enough to join the Woodmen of the World. I guess Ben helped E. Z. with the wagon yards until there was no need for them with the new automobile age. E. Z. died in 1920, the year before my mother was born. 
Piecing this story together, Ben lived with his mother, working in the wagon yard and then for the phone company as a lineman, as I recall. They had the wagon yard long enough for my mother to have a vague memory of it as she sketched me an picture not too long before she died. Ben met my grandmother, Artie Holt, when she was 18 and he was probably 38. They married and he brought her home.
Hattie now is a widow and her husband and sons are gone. She is 71 years old and a respected Ardmore lady. The wagon yard was leased as a lumber yard before being developed in later years. She had her home, which was across the street from what is now Central Park in Ardmore, and she had several other properties. My grandmother and her children lived in a large home and my grandmother left each of the grandchildren their own house.
One day, I brought a small tape recorder and turned it on while my mother talked as I asked her to repeat stories she had told me. She didn’t know she was being recorded, not that it would have mattered. She took a piece of paper and sketched as she talked, showing me the inside of my grandmother’s house and sketching her garments.
We went back in time as she described the rooms and the furniture. At one time, Hattie and E.Z. purchased a farm and moved there, although Hattie hated being out in the country. I honestly believe my mother was born out there, but she didn’t admit it. There were barrels around that they used to bring things in from the farm. My grandfather lived at the back of the house and my grandmother had a big armoire in the living room where she kept her opera hats. Yes, there was an opera in Ardmore as artists traveled from town to town. The hats were described as wire frames that Hattie stuffed with chiffon. I know she kept copies of Mary Baker Eddy’s books, although she wasn’t a Christian Scientist.
I wonder what I would have thought of this lady in white who influenced my Mommy so much. I can only take what I know and read between the lines to fill in the story.
and Fats Domino, Little Richard and Chuck Berry. I had to explain to the kids that DJs were brave to play music from black artists, which my 19 and 20 year olds didn’t get understand at all.
We were a dancing generation, so I’ve got some great anthems of my youth. “Do You Love Me?”, “What’d I Say?”, “Good Lovin'”, “Do You Want to Dance?”, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” and, of course, “Louie, Louie.” Hopefully other drivers don’t notice the old lady rocking out a little down the road.
For this list, I don’t have my Barbra Streisand favorites, but there are songs from Diana Ross & the Supremes, Credence Clearwater, and Simon & Garfunkel. It’s a hodgepodge for me to sing and think about.
And, to round it out, my country vibes are all out there with Willie Nelson, because, well because WILLIE! I’ve got some of his most fun songs to make me smile and sing, “I Didn’t Come Here,” “If You’ve Got the Money, I’ve Got the Time,” “Big Booty,” and “On the Road Again,” because you have to have that one when you’re driving.
She was 15 months old when he died, already showing us a personality that rivaled her daddy’s at that age. Here’s how she looked the last day he spent with her.
There is no doubt he didn’t want to leave this cutie behind. My mind did its tricks, whipping between memories and what ifs. Would she be as strong a personality if he had lived? Would she show the kindness that she has for all living things? Did his death make her stronger or bring out the best in her?
Here’s another music box. My husband bought this one for me in Switzerland. We wanted another one, but this was the one we could afford and its melody reminds me of that trip so many years ago.
Imagine a house full of memories like that and you are with me. I’m going to keep trying to shed things that are meaningless, if there is such a thing in my life. I’m going to keep trying because it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. In the meantime, my memories are refreshed all the time and that’s not such a bad thing for an old lady.
Confetti Thoughts 