Earlier this year, in efforts to help my gloomy teenager find joy in her day, we began spending our Monday evenings at a local cat shelter which houses about 60 cats onsite. We are a part of a team of volunteers who feed, snuggle, clean cages, do dishes- whatever needs getting done. A self proclaimed “dog person”, I wasn’t thrilled at cleaning shitters for 3 hours, but I was desperate to help her find her way. I kept telling her nobody loves middle school, but it wasn’t helping, so we needed to take some action.
Talk about a game changer! Each week we go, she’s become more and more engaged, more animated, more joyful. Recently, one of the vet techs has sought her out to help with administering medication and other medical tasks, and tonight she syringe-fed a sick kitten all on her own. I watched her confidence and self worth literally explode right in front of my eyes.
Who knows what will come of this, I’m not really looking that far ahead to be honest. What I do know, is that she has discovered what it feels like to give of herself to something she’s passionate about, and that is one of the biggest life lessons of all.
And I’m going to nurture the hell out of it, no matter how many shitters I have to clean. Nobody ever said this parenting thing was easy, but it sure is worth it.

I went mining this morning for a few hours at Herkimer KOA mines, all alone, while the kids went swimming instead. I’ve been waiting all year to get back to this place that calls me, that I crave. I enjoyed over an hour of being the only one in the mine, hearing the birds singing around me as the water dripped down the face of the dolomite wall. I explored the rubble, looking for the “vuggy” chunks that I could swing a hammer at and hopefully unearth the perfect little water clears. I examined the wall more closely, and found a chunk about the size of my head that looked like I could pry it out. I had a chisel with me, and went for it. My first time working on the wall, it’s usually too crowded for my taste. I didn’t swing too hard, trying to be mindful of my not-so-stable joints, and to my surprise I began to have success with getting the chisel in further. I felt like a pro, I could hear the sound of metal on metal changing as it went further into the stone. Just then my hammer broke. I went back to the rental office to swap it out, and convinced that I’d found a pocket, I proceeded to rent two more chisels and a wagon. As I marched quickly back to where I’d left off, dragging that loud thing behind me, I envisioned all the diamonds and druzy I’d find. With the additional chisels strategically placed around “my chunk”, I finally loosened the piece and was able to slip it out. Nothing but more of the sheer wall of dolomite. Not even a single hole. I actually wasn’t that disappointed as I gently lowered the chunk to the ground. The last few times I’d been here, I had watched as the miners worked in their claims, approaching a section of the wall just as I had, with hope and a strategy. I’m also well aware that it requires a lot of hard work and patience to score a beautiful gem, there’s so much more that goes on behind the scenes than what I get to see on social media. I was simply thankful for the experience. As more people began to trickle into the spaces around me, I checked the time and found that it was already time for lunch. The morning had flown by as I smashed rocks, dripped sweat, and smelled the dolomite dust. And I hadn’t found a single crystal. Not even one. But I was still so happy to be there, and I knew I’d be coming back later this afternoon to try again. As I packed up and started walking back to the entry, I found it slightly odd that I wasn’t bummed. Shouldn’t I be sad as my efforts showed no results? I guess that depends on your definition of “results”. I had spent my morning in peaceful solitude, connecting with nature in a way that suited me. I was surrounded by Queen Anne’s Lace (my mom’s favorite) at every turn, and I had time and space for personal reflection. I’d say that’s some pretty great “results”. I look forward to heading back this evening.

When I first began this piece in January, I was nearing the end of my third miscarriage since Claire was born, my fifth total in my life. I was sad for obvious reasons, but I was ok, I still felt grounded. Upon learning of the conception, I was certainly thankful, yet I told God that whatever came of it- I would be happy. If she was meant to have a sibling, then it would stick. If not, well I was ok with that, too. I just needed that last attempt for my own piece of mind, and upon the loss of that baby, oddly enough, I was at peace- we were one and done, and I could finally let it go.

Not. even. two. months. later. I stared at that pee test in complete disbelief. A million thoughts were going through my brain, but they were all overrode by “Don’t get your hopes up… Don’t get your hopes up… Don’t get your hopes up…” Here we go again- checking the tp every time I peed, afraid to poop because I might push it out, afraid to exercise because I might stress it out, afraid to talk about it because I might jinx it. All of these associations made over the course of years of unsuccessfully trying to make a baby- but a small, buried piece inside of me was still hopeful, and holy crap was I sick! My entire preschool class became accustomed to me running to the potty to vomit intermittently, how do I keep quiet about this?

But mostly, we did. We told a small circle of family and friends, and I literally held my breath as the weeks passed. My first appointment, my first ultrasound- everything was looking good, yet we still hesitated to step towards acceptance. I am of AMA (Advanced Maternal Age, i.e. old pregnant lady) so I qualified for this new blood test that is 99.9% accurate in their chromosomal profile determination and the sex as early as 14 weeks. Dan and I decided that upon gaining that information  it was safe to tell Claire, especially since she was already commenting on my “big belly you musta got from dinner, Mama”.

Almost a week after the blood draw, I woke up early on a Tuesday, and in the silence of the morning there was the email, waiting for me. Should I wait for Dan? Nope, sorry. Click- opened it. Click- accepted some terms. Click- your child tested negative for chromosomal abnormalities.

Do you want to know the sex? Click- what a weird way to find this out…

Sean Daniel Reidy is due December 9th, named after two of my most favorite men in my life, my brother and my husband. As of the 18 week ultrasound, he looks healthy and active, busy growing his little self in my outstretched belly, showing no signs of any of the cardiac anomalies that his sister dealt with. Between that history, and my AMA status, they’ll be keeping a sharp eye on us, so I’m confident that if anything needs attention we’ll know early on.

We have finally stepped into that acceptance space, and are embracing the joy that comes with preparing for a new family member. As I begin to purge Claire’s baby clothes, I hold on to the little snuggly things that are neutral enough to be worn by him as well. I cry when I think that I might be able to experience a maternity leave at home in my love bubble, without being in the NICU, without the daily doctor visits, without having to inject my newborn twice a day with medication. I’m eternally grateful that we were blessed with this little guy, I so look forward to meeting him. I know he will be worth the wait- and we thought we were one and done…

To Whom It May Concern,

It was my mom’s dying wish that I keep my scholarship, and finish school. She passed away the summer before my sophomore year at UConn, just a couple weeks after my 20^th birthday. My dad had died 5 years prior due to lung cancer, and my mom’s battle with cancer had begun even before he was diagnosed, so my siblings and I had been living the cancer battle for most of our existence. 

Since my brother and sister were under 18, they had each been appointed guardians. Extended family that we had met before, and had gracefully opened their doors to accept us in their homes. Our high school had granted permission for my brother to complete his senior year there, despite his guardian being located out of town. For most of that year, during the week, he lived alone in our empty childhood home, sleeping on a mattress in the attic since the house was on the market, and he didn’t want it to look messy.

My 12 year old sister was relocated to Ohio, 10 or so hours away by car. We called him Uncle, but he was more like my dad’s 3^rd cousin, or something like that. At any rate, we packed up my mom’s car that I inherited, and headed out there to drop her off. I spent a few days there getting her settled in, then it was time for me to head back to school. After all, I had promised I would. And I had nowhere else to go.

I had been awarded a full scholarship to play volleyball for UConn. Regretfully, I had blown out my shoulder early into my freshman year, and upon returning the following year, blew it out again. Two surgeries in two years, and my future as a middle blocker was looking bleak. I trained and rehabbed as much as I could, but never received clearance to play again. But, by law, I could only lose my scholarship if I failed out, or quit. I never did either one, but I sure did toe that line. 

Throughout this whole period, I can remember the feeling of plummeting quickly into a tailspin. I was attending one of the biggest party schools in the nation, so my self medicating didn’t sound any alarms. With each poor choice that I made, I occasionally would stop to consider where I was headed. But with no one to answer to, no one to hold me accountable, what difference did it make? It was quite literally a free fall.

As my senior year began to wind down, things went from bad to worse. I had absolutely no clue what my life was going to look like after graduation, and my recklessness was only increasing. Finally, the weekend before the finals that would complete my school career, I drank until I blacked out, and ate a whole bottle of aspirin. Upon finding me on our bathroom floor, my roommate literally saved my life when she called the ambulance. 

After pumping my stomach, the hospital assigned me a case worker. She asked me lots of questions about my past, and determined that I was still a threat to myself, so from there, I was involuntarily committed to the hospital for the rest of that week. I was released Christmas Eve, and I had missed all of my final exams.

At that point, I was pretty exhausted. I half-heartedly petitioned to my teachers to allow me to make up the exams, and all but one agreed. That teacher told me to retake the class over that summer, but I knew I wouldn’t. I managed to keep up the facade, though, and even wore the gown and walked in my graduation ceremony, never admitting to anyone that I hadn’t actually finished. Never admitting that I hadn’t kept my promise to my mom. 

So let’s fast forward 20 something years later. While I eventually did pull out of that tailspin, it didn’t happen immediately. I found people along the way that brought me love and support, and with that have begun the process of healing. For a long time, I referred to my experience in college as my “angry years”, and to be fair, who wouldn’t? Recently, however, some my former teammates and I have reunited, and we’ve attended a number of Alumni games. What I feared was going to be a painful ordeal, actually felt more like coming home. Having been displaced for so long, being back on campus, and being so welcomed by the community there, literally made me feel closer to my parents, like a big hug. 

So this is my personal statement regarding the gap in completing my education at The University of Connecticut. I was a child, I was suffering trauma, and I did the best I could. I don’t believe the progression of healing ever truly ends in a lifetime, but the lack of a diploma on my office wall is a gaping wound that I would like to mend. I look forward to being granted permission to do so. 

Thank you for your consideration.