"There is a reason. There is a reason. There is a reason ... to live." Unknown

1982 Coconut Creek, Florida

Memories of sitting in a tenth grade class full of tap-tap-tapping typewriters are fuzzy and vague. Only the slightest details recall themselves: that the desks were arranged around the room with students facing each other, and that a friend named Hans sat across the room. More clearly I can envision the pale-blue Corona we had at home, and how after school I would play around on it for fun, since it was electric. In earlier years my parents had owned a manual typewriter that had been clunky and slow--the kind where if you touched the tips of the moving parts with your finger you would get ink on you. This one made electronic, tapping noises that sounded a bit like rapid gunfire and then climaxed with a "bing" when you reached the end of each line. Learning to type involved keeping your fingers on certain keys and memorizing the location of the characters so that through repetition you could type even with your eyes closed. I was only a high-school kid at the time and didn't know what to make of it, but as I sat at the desk in my parents' room with my fingers in motion, they seemed to automatically spell out a phrase: "There is a reason ... there is a reason ... there is a reason ... to live." I would type this over and over again, without explanation. I can still picture in my mind which fingers move in which order to form the sentence: left index finger followed by right index finger, followed by "e," then "r," then "e," as fingers fire in proper sequence, completing the phrase. Sometimes it was just "There is a reason." and sometimes it completed the thought with "to live." This phrase seemed to type itself furiously, and fast.

I dare say I could have forgotten all about this.

Some would liken it to when you've had piano lessons as a child — as I did--and your fingers always go back to Swans on the Lake even when you're an adult; muscle memory just takes you there. But I was instructed to learn those songs from my red John Thompson's piano book. Still, what was this? Nobody, seemingly, was prompting me to type that phrase. Who or what was?

I did--it may be worth noting-- earn an A in typing class.

"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked." Kahlil Gibran

2008 Joelton, Tennessee

On a Wednesday morning in July, the sun was shining and it was one of the most promising starts to a day I could remember. I was set to go horseback riding later in the morning with Heather and Kelly, two friends who were both taking off work that day from the Farmer's Co-op. Heather's place was in a small town nearby, and the fates had aligned perfectly that my sons, ages 5 and 7, were set to go to a party at Chuck E. Cheese, near the same area. Since the birthday-boy lived close, his mom had even offered to drive my kids there. Excitedly, an ounce of freedom was pending in the air for me, as well as fun for all three of us. In the morning hours as the day warmed up, we eagerly prepared: the kids finished up a homemade card for Jacob, and made sure the gift was wrapped. They got dressed in the pre-planned 'camo' clothes they had picked out. Whenever they played with Jake, they always wore camouflage and played soldiers with toy guns and Army backpacks. I had promised the night before to wash those favorite outfits so they'd be clean — since they had been, of course, wearing them all week. I also made pancakes for breakfast especially for five-year-old Fidg who had asked for them for dinner the night before, when I had said no. When looking back, that was an unusual experience--that I had said no to the pancakes, because I wasn't a no-saying parent. Nine times out of ten, I would have certainly made him pancakes. But I had bought steak for dinner for that night, which wasn't often that that happened, and I found myself insisting that steak be what's for dinner. I guess it was regarded as special for my husband David, and for Erik who was 7. Although Fidg and I were vegetarians, we could appreciate that steak was seen as a treat for most; it's expensive, you don't buy it often, so end of story. In looking back, it feels like I was toying with the power of saying no and 'trying it out' — be it for right or for wrong--when I refused the pancake request. But that's what had happened. Now however, on this next bright morning, anticipation filled the air as the three of us had the belated pancakes covered in maple syrup, and then the kids put on their soldier attire. Continuing the necessary chores to get us ready to leave, one of the last things I needed to do was to load horse gear into the truck; I would be riding someone else's horse- yes, but I would be prepared and bring my own saddle, girth, brushes, and supplies. Not having gotten that far yet, I was dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and boots, and had just filled water bottles for everybody to take along. It was getting closer to time.

Meanwhile, the kids were playing in the backyard as I continued to complete the mental to-do list. That was when it happened. Erik ran into the house and breathlessly yelled "the swing set fell over! " From the kitchen, I immediately jumped into action and started out the back door, but to be honest, it didn't strike me that it would be anything too serious, other than having to find a way to muscle what must be a heavy swing set back into its upright position. It had never fallen over before. As I ran down the back porch steps, I saw Fidg lying under the wooden swing set, trapped by it, and blood pouring out of him. The top wooden 4" X 6" rail of the A-frame had landed on top of his chest. I had the strength to lift it off him, but as I couldn't simultaneously maneuver him out from under it at the same time, I yelled for Erik to pull him out. Erik grabbed Fidg's legs and pulled him a couple feet back and I laid the heavy frame back down on the ground, grabbed him, and ran to the house. He was unresponsive and bleeding. As I didn't own a cordless phone, I made my way toward the phone in the computer room. All we had was a home phone in the back bedroom--plugged in with a cord, which hooked up through the computer, being serviced through the internet. So my direct path was running up the back steps, into the house and carrying Fidg straight to the bed so I could reach for the phone. The phone cord, however, had been broken previously in that it didn't lock into place. It would pull out from the plug if you accidentally tugged on it, and you needed to sometimes force it back in. My hands were shaking as I was in a panic mode, and so after I couldn't make that happen after a few seconds of trying, I grabbed Fidg up again and ran to the neighbors', which was only a hundred feet or so away. Yelling on arrival, I banged on the front door for help; Linda opened it right away and I cried out "Call 911!" Her teenager came to the door in moments and she relayed the "Call 911!" to him, as she and I started to do CPR on Fidg together, as he lay on her front steps. We both continued with CPR until the ambulance arrived. The time it took to arrive seemed neither short, nor long ... somehow?

Later--hours later — a paramedic would tell me she had never seen a parent do such a good job of CPR on their child.

I guess if I'm anything, I've always been a perfectionist ...

"Because he was too young to die, he was too young to leave this life" Chorus from:...