Family inspirations – Betsy Devany

Loss and Living Life

Posted on September 15, 2016July 24, 2019 by Betsy

I have been absent from blogging for well over a year, and so after many long, contemplative hikes with my rescue dog Buddy, I decided I needed to share where I’ve been before I move to the next phase of my life as a published author.

In May 2015, my husband lost his job again. Within weeks, he had a slight foot drop, his left foot. Minor, but it gave us both pause. At times his balance seemed off. If Buddy tugged too hard on his leash, he would sometimes pull John to the ground. I took John to our PCP, who sent us to an orthopedic specialist. John’s MRI showed a ruptured disk in his spine, as well as a narrowing of his neck. We were facing extensive spinal and neck surgery, with long recoveries. We had no clue something else was at play.

I insisted on a second opinion, because the first doctor wanted to operate immediately. My gut told me to hold off, and to push for more tests, more opinions, because John presented with another troubling symptom. Fasciculations, brief, spontaneous contractions that affect a small number of muscle fibers, causing flickers of movement under his skin. It was like watching microscopic worms burrow up and down his arms.

We sought out more specialists, prepared for our youngest daughter’s upcoming wedding. But when I watched John trip on a sideway in Boston, unable to catch himself to break his fall, I knew. My family knew, too. They quietly told me they suspected a neurological disease was at play. Beyond the first specialist, no one would operate on John’s neck and/or spine. And yet, John clung to this notion that an operation would cure all, telling me how happy he was going to be once his body was repaired. He would stay up late at night, applying for jobs.

He only fell again, and again, and again.

But with the aide of a walking stick, in mid-September 2015, John managed to walk our daughter down the path to be married. I saw in the eyes of my family that day, their fears that we were dealing with something much larger than what could be fixed on an operating table. And so we all, myself included, decided to not share our concerns with John. We let John have hope, for as long as we could. We let him believe that the next specialist might approve his spine and neck surgery. We hoped that our suspicions were wrong.

On Dec. 8th, 2015, my younger sister and I took John to MGH in Boston, where within hours he was diagnosed with ALS. At the time, I thought it was the worst day of my life, but I didn’t know what lay ahead.

John deteriorated at a rate that no one could predict. Less than 3 months after his diagnosis, he lost the full use of his legs. Shortly after that, he was dependent on others for all self-care, no longer able to slowly lift a spoon to his mouth to feed himself.

Many people know our story, through what I’ve shared on Facebook, etc. The medical community all projected that John would live for 3-5 years. Very quickly, I knew this would not be the case. And so in December 2015, I started a new role as a fierce and loving advocate. It seemed like every few days I was dealing with a new crisis in terms of John’s health. My goal, my daily focus, was to keep him safe, feeling loved, and see that he had quality of life. I checked off what was doable on his wish list. I took him to San Diego to say goodbye to his mother, got him a ride in his favorite car (Austin Healey), and I organized a celebration of John’s life, just in the nick of time.

Less than six months after his ALS diagnosis, my husband was at peace. No longer suffering from his daily muscle spasms that left him screaming in the night.

While I was strong throughout this journey of caring for and watching my husband suffer up to the end, it was the grandchildren that would break me down. Those were the moments where I had to fight to not crumble to the floor. Moments such as when 4 y.o. Landon was begging his dying PopPop to wake up so he could play trains with him.

And so, when it was my turn to speak at John’s memorial this past July, I focused on the children in his life, and on how John inspired us all.

Below is how I closed my tribute to John.

Our 4 y. o. grandson lost his best buddy and fellow train lover. After John died, Landon told everyone PopPop was happy. “He’s a zombie train engineer now, driving dead people around,” Landon insisted. A fan of zombie shows, John would have loved this image.

But then Landon asked about the box. The box with John’s ashes. Which is when Landon noticed that Buddy, our rescue dog, was sad too. In his own 4 y. o. way, Landon tried to soothe the dog’s grief. Lifting one of Buddy’s ears, he whispered, “It’s okay, Buddy. PopPop’s not coming home, Buddy. He lives in a box now.”

The box.

The box always comes up with Landon’s other questions: “Is PopPop just dust now?” “So he can never be PopPop again?”

When Landon’s mother asked him how this made him feel, he said, “I just really miss PopPop is all.”

But here’s the thing, we can all rant about how horrible ALS is or we can look to the good that grew from this experience. We had the opportunity to say goodbye. In addition, John had the opportunity to see how many people love him, how many lives he unknowingly touched. How many lives he is going to touch with his invaluable contribution to ALS research.

John is gone. Yet we are given the chance to be thankful for what we have, that we may take for granted, day after day. We must be sure to use our voices to say what we want to before we lose the ability. And use our legs and arms and minds to accomplish good things and go places we might not otherwise go. We have the opportunity to live our lives to the fullest. What a gift that is.

Every day, I’d ask John what I could do for him. His answer was always the same. “I want to stand up and walk. I want to jump and skip and run.” In late May, he told me he was looking forward to the summer, to root beer floats, to seeing friends and family, to watching cool cars from the second floor balcony.

John wanted to live. He died six days later.

Despite his suffering, John was always grateful. It’s a lesson I don’t take lightly. He would always thank people for changing him, washing him, moving him, feeding him, even when he no longer recognized lifelong friends, his nurses and aides, and even his beloved dog, Buddy.

Grateful. Humble. That was my husband.

So here’s to you, my Brave MacLeod, may you rest in peace.

And in the words of a four year old, I just really miss you is all.

P. S. – A heartfelt thanks to everyone who supported our family throughout this difficult journey.

P. S. S. – I’m okay, John. I hope you are too. xo

The Importance of Being Present

Posted on June 20, 2014July 23, 2019 by Betsy

“Red moon,” he said,

his two-year-old hand reaching for mine

in the dark.

As urgently as my granddaughter

grabbed my arm, earlier that day.

For her, it was the return

of the hummingbirds.

She’d spotted a female

resting on a high branch,

a potential mate preening

his feathers nearby.

Our clothesline, his stage.

Then . . . a flash

of iridescent red,

high-pitched squeaks,

beating wings that

skirted our hair.

Breathlessness

as abandoned homework

danced

on a breeze.

We chased it, laughing.

If not for children

reminding us to be present,

how many miracles of life

would be overlooked?

The insect in a daylily.

Shadows in the woods.

The beauty of a half-dead

Japanese maple tree

clinging to life.

Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves

shimmering in the sun.

Do our heads always need to be down?

Our brains wired and ready

for instant response

to Facebook notifications,

e-mails, texts, twitter updates?

Look. Up.

Find beauty.

Give a child your full,

undivided attention.

And so we set aside homework

to wonder at hummingbirds.

Delayed bedtime

to gaze at a brilliant full moon,

shrouded in a milky

red-and-blue veil.

“Look, Grandma!” he said,

his small hand swallowed

in mine.

Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.

But not the moment.

The moment of just

being.

He ran down the driveway.

“Moon is gone! GONE!”

I raced after him,

swept him into my arms,

guided his tiny arm toward the sky.

“Watch and wait,” I whispered.

Together, we silently anticipated–

not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—

but the reappearance

of an unreachable golden ball

nestled in the night sky.

A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”

Yes, we need to be brave

in our writing,

but we must also seek the courage

to be present.

The Deer Watcher

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Betsy

Ever since my recent Unavoidable/Terrifying Deer Encounter, driving the grandkids in the car has taken on new meaning. Technically, I am using my husband’s Nissan truck since my accordion of a car is parked in an auto body repair lot. Strips of its frame lay in a pile on the gravel. We will not be reunited for weeks.

I was ten miles from home after a glorious writing weekend spent on Squam Lake when a relative of Bambi’s shot out of the woods and into the path of my Honda CRV. Its fawn had just safely crossed the busy highway, thanks to a number of cars and trucks swerving to avoid hitting it.

A split-second later, all you can do is cry. You can’t change what happened, though you wish you could. And then the memory of your sister, at the age of five, flashes before you. We’d been at a movie theatre watching Bambi when she got out of her seat and walked down the aisle, pointing her finger at the large screen. “Your mother is dead,” she said, as if Bambi didn’t realize.

I love animals, which is why I wanted to rescue the fawn, express my sorrow for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and then find some nice person to adopt it. And when I explained this to the state trooper, he nicely asked me to remain seated, and then reiterated how lucky I was. The scene was ripe for a multi-car accident, and if my hood had not folded, the mother deer would have flown through my windshield.

I am alive.

I am grateful.

But I still think about the mother deer. I think about the fawn. So I’ve convinced myself that the baby is safe in some field, chasing after butterflies, and does not require years of therapy. My seven-year-old granddaughter told me that the buck found the fawn, and is now taking care of it. “Grandma, the baby is fine. You just have to stop hitting deer with your car.”

“One deer, Ava.” I hold up a finger. “I hit one deer, which I couldn’t avoid.”

And this is why our car routine has changed.

Today, I buckle my twenty-month-old grandson in his car seat. Ava pulls her chest strap tight. “Okay, it’s really tight. I’ll be safe.”

Landon takes his train in and out of his cup holder. “Choo-choo-choo-choo.”

Five minutes later we are on the highway, and Landon is trying to get Ava’s attention. “Dah, dah, dah . . .”

“Ava, why aren’t you answering Landon?”

“Because I don’t understand what he’s saying, and I’m too busy to talk to him,” she says. “I have more important work.”

I glance toward the back. Ava is watching the scenery flash past her.

“What work?” I ask.

“I am The Deer Watcher.”

“Truuuck!” shouts Landon, pointing at a moving van. “Truuuck!”

Everything is a truck. Cars are trucks, buses are trucks, and bicycles are trucks. Except our cat. Our cat, according to Landon, is a “Doggie.”

“DEER!” Ava screams.

I lift my foot off the gas pedal, position above the brake. I scan the road; my heart is in my throat.

“Grandma, DEER!” she yells again.

“TRUCCKKK!” shouts Landon.

“WHERE?” I say.

“Way up there, on the hill.”

“Those deer are in no danger of being hit by me.”

“How do you know?” Ava asks. “There are babies up there.”

I put my foot on the gas. We get off the highway and drive to Panera Bread. (Before my eldest daughter calls me out, I will admit that, on occasion, I might suggest that the grandkids beg me to take them to Panera, while I am a Panera Smoothie Addict.)

I order macaroni and cheese for Landon, chicken noodle soup for Ava, and a mango smoothie for me.

Landon drives his train through the macaroni while Ava and I discuss how The Deer Watcher doesn’t want to be The Screamer Who Gives Grandma An Anxiety Attack.

Here is what we come up with:

AVA’S SAVE A DEER PLAN

Ava is in charge of watching for deer.
Ava points deer out to Grandma when they are standing by the edge of the highway, not up on a hill, so far away that Grandma needs glasses to see the deer.
Avoid highways when we can take a scenic route instead.
Don’t scream “DEER” in the car as a joke. Grandma says that is not funny.

But in a way it is. Humor is what gets us through the tough times.

What a wonderful, wonderful life.

Love and Letting Go

Posted on September 6, 2013 by Betsy

This past week I’ve had lessons in letting go.

I said goodbye to our beloved sheltie.

I said goodbye to one of our cats.

I let my YA novel leave my hands to allow it to become what the world needs it to be.

I let go.

I let go out of love.

Stories whisper to us when to step away, that we have done our job to the best of our ability.

Pets trust us to do what is humane when the time comes, to keep them from entering the place where suffering defines their existence.

It doesn’t make loss any easier.

And when you’ve spent hours revising and revising your work while being a pet caregiver, the related behaviors remain. Long after the heart accepts the loss.

I still automatically rise at 5 to check on the dog. I dismantle the alarm, then unlock the door to let him out.

Except he’s not here.

It’s all gone: His bowls, chew toys, squeaking squirrel. His dog beds, food, medicines. Shampoo, leashes. Pill organizers. His bark, the pitter-patter of his feet. The sound of him plopping beside me. His sigh.

His beautiful, beautiful face.

But not his collar, and his green alien boy, he loved so much.

Our one cat that remains hides beneath the kitchen table, curled in a chair pushed flush to the table. What must be going through her head?

Then I remember. We would not know loss if we never loved. And to love and be loved is a gift.

And so I feed the cat, and then settle on our porch to wait for the sun.

I notice my grandson’s blue hippo in our yard, which he sits on when there is nothing better to do than sit on one’s hippo and wonder at the world.

The cement step is cold against my thighs. A hummingbird whizzes over my head.

A hint of pink peers through our trees.

Another day begins.

I hear her spring to the floor, her red tag clink against her collar, and I know she is ready.

I am, too.

She meows through the screen, and I come inside. Walk down the hallway to my writing room.

I open the door.

I sit.

I open the YA document out of habit. I close it, and pat the place next to me.

Terrapin jumps up, nudges my hand.

I write.

I write out of love.

I write about a dog.

A Father’s Day Tale

Posted on June 16, 2013 by Betsy

I decided to repost this from two years ago since it is a beautiful example of the love between a father and his son. I met them both while working at the toy store, where I did my best to end Steven’s search for a whale. Happy Father’s Day!

Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. The neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

The marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation. I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

“Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

“This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

“You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

“We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”

“He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga. He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”

“No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.

“No, Steven, we’ve done this before. You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his son, “We’ve made these trips over and over again, from New York to Massachusetts, and to anywhere else that might hold the promise of a brown whale. Steven . . . Steven, look at me, son.”

Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation. “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

“How big of a whale do you want?” I ask.

“Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth. I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me over, and over, and over again.

His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me. Look at me, please.” Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

“I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

“Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

“My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

“Tell me about your whale,” I say.

“He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

“Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood. “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

“They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

“Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft. We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

“Let me show you the bear,” I say.

“It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

“I’ll be right back.” From the stuffed animal room, I carry the three-foot floppy bear to the front desk. Gus has lived in the store for quite some time now. Before I close up at night, he gets an extra pat.

“He’s very soft,” I tell Steven.

“It’s not a whale.”

Now, I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight. Just hold the bear, see what you think. He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.” I hand Steven the bear.

He pushes his nose against Gus. He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

“Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

Silence returns. I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor.

The father stares at the door. Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur.

I want to buy him the bear, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale. I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

Then, holding the bear tightly in one arm, Steven reaches into his pants pocket. He removes a black leather wallet, worn with holes visible at every corner. It is a wonder the wallet doesn’t explode all over our wooden floor. A penny pokes through one end, but does not fall out. His wallet is thick with papers, some yellowed, some coated in a worn plastic. There is almost five inches thick of paper memories.

His father settles into a stance; feet spread apart, firmly planted on the wooden floor—a familiar routine, I imagine. His hands out of his pockets, he turns his palms upward, as if waiting at a communion rail.

Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says.

“Let’s count,” says his father.

Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

“How much is that,” asks his father.

“Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

Steven pulls out a five and a ten—ninety-five. When he stretches the leather further, the penny falls to the floor, where it remains. Next, come the one-dollar bills, all carefully folded into triangles, the points as worn as the wallet.

“One. Two. Three,” he counts.

There is something magical about the wallet, which is not diminishing in size. Instead of pulling rabbits from a magician’s hat, he conjures up one-dollar bills out of faded leather. How does the wallet hold all of the tightly folded shapes? I expect him to run out of money, yet Steven continues to hand another and another dollar bill to his father, never looking up or breaking his rhythm. Not once.

His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

I wait and watch. “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?”

Holding one bill in his hand, Steven lifts it to the corner of his right eye. “When I’m sad . . . this makes me feel better.” He taps the edge of the triangular shape against his skin. Three times. He passes the bill to his father.

“May I ask what Steven has?”

The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

I cannot tell you what the father was wearing that day, but I can tell you his words—his story. I can describe the medicine bottle he has carried in his pocket from the seventies, day after day, year after year. The label so worn that it barely reveals the name of the pharmacy. Except for the lingering chalky stink of medicine, the bottle remains empty. The father rolls the medicine bottle between his palms as he tells me that the colored dye in the medicine, administered when Steven was a baby, caused a cerebral allergic reaction. Steven has two markers of autism, and some mental retardation. Years later, they learned that the damage was irreparable—long after Steven’s mother left, taking his brother and sister with him. Steven was six years old at the time. The mother changed her last name, never contacting Steven and his father.

The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

“You really love that wallet,” I say.

Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

“When did Steven lose his whale? Do you have a picture?” I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

His father quickly shakes his head. “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

“It makes me sad,” adds Steven. He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

“How long ago did he lose this whale,” I ask.

“Six, he was six years old,” his father says.

I lose count of the money on the counter; imagine Steven as a six-year-old boy snuggled against his mother, the whale by his side until the two of them banished at the same time. Is his search for a whale or a mother who abandoned him?

“You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

“You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers.

The magic is gone.

“I . . . I can—give you 10% off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

“Yes, I do.” I smile and ring up the sale, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

“I hope the bear makes him happy.” The father strokes Gus’s arms. “I never see any emotion from him anymore, he’s on so much medicine; it numbs his emotions, his personality. At least he doesn’t scream and cry like he used to. But he never laughs or smiles, either.”

“I’m hungry,” Steven says.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

“Steak!”

I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks.

“I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven.

The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

The ends of Steven’s mouth turn up even more. Now his father grins. “I haven’t seen him smile is such a long time. It is worth more than the cost of the bear, more than the time in the car and the price of gas.”

“I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

“Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

“Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

“That’s what I am here for. Have a nice night.”

If I could, I would have found them a large brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

The Wishing Flower

Posted on May 3, 2013July 23, 2019 by Betsy

Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.

My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.

I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.

Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:

The hummingbirds returned.

A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.

Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.

An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.

My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.

My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.

We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.

Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.

Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.

To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”

The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.

“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.

“It is?”

“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”

Sometimes, wishes do come true.

Dear Dad . . .

Posted on August 30, 2012 by Betsy

It seems like forever since I’ve last posted on my blog. So much has happened over the past four months, and I apologize for not including you in my recent journeys. I have, in fact, been writing each and every day, for up to five hours at a time. In addition to working the long summer hours at the toy store, my brain was focused on ripping apart a beloved novel because I had a “bit of worry.” (I am forever grateful to the editor who used this phrase in their rejection letter, as their worry led to my worry.) I’ve spent May and June being brave, and doing something I’d never tried before. I bid a heartfelt adieu to a character in Savannah’s Mountain, and then found the courage to sit back and wait for Savannah to return to me. Whisper to me. And she did, and I listened, and I discovered that another character belonged within the pages of her story. As I tossed aside chunks of the manuscript, my father’s words echoed in my head. And this gave me strength and hope that I could face the challenge.

Set aside your personal feelings and do what serves the story best.

I hope, dear readers, to share more about this process and about other journeys, I’ve traveled since May. But for now, I have something important to do. I need to tell my father my good news: news he’s been expecting for almost twenty years.

Dear Dad,

It has been nearly a year since I last held your hand, stroked your head, and told you that it was okay to leave this earth. I know you wanted so much to hang on, and those words “I need to live long enough to see you published” stay within my heart. It is okay that you let go. You deserved to be in peace, without pain. And perhaps that is what needed to happen in order to allow each of us to grow. Since your death, I’ve worked even harder, and my writing has gone to places I’d never imagined. Maybe a bit of your immense talent was left behind on this earth, and now tiny pieces are growing within the hearts and souls of your family.

Lately, your presence is strong, and it brings me much comfort. Perhaps a bit of your spirit was in the dragonfly that insisted on sitting on our jade plant, twisting and turning his head, giving me a quizzical look. It stayed with me for nearly an hour, as if to watch and make sure I was writing on the porch and doing my work as I promised you I would. You may have been the butterfly that posed for over twenty minutes among our flowers or the red-tailed hawk soaring in the sky above me when I learned some good news.

These are moments when I look up at that great blue sky or wonder at the beauty of a sunset or lose my breath over a glorious full moon or take great joy at seeing your great-granddaughter in awe of a beluga whale. This is when I become the little girl sitting next to you in our backyard long ago, watching your fingers fly across a yellow legal pad as you tried to keep up with the setting sun. I remember swinging my growing legs, not knowing how the deep desire to write was finding its way from where you sat in a sagging lawn chair into my heart. This is when the creative seed was planted, only to grow and grow over the years, until I could no longer ignore the passion.

Now, it is still dark outside, and I have been awake since 4 a.m., because before I can go on to the stage of becoming a published author, I need to hear your voice and tell you what you’d been waiting for all these years. You saw something in me that I didn’t yet understand. At times, I still don’t. So I settle on my porch in a lawn chair and listen to one of the recordings of that wonderful, musical voice of yours. Hearing you speak gives me much comfort, and I thank you for letting me record you over the last year of your life.

Are you listening, Dad? I got the call, and I now have a brilliant and loving agent (Emily van Beek with Folio Literary), who speaks of my writing with a tone so familiar, I poured over all your emails, I can never delete. And there it was. My Emily’s words reflect yours. So perhaps you had a hand in this. Perhaps you sent her to me so I can be pushed, and will then ultimately give my best work to the world. Know that I am listening, and that I will continue to listen to you, Dad.

Know that I’ve kept my promise.

Lastly, I want you to assure that we are all good here on this earth: your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. And Mom, we are watching out for Mom.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss you, when I don’t give thanks for having had you in my life. I am so, so lucky.

I love you oodles and boodles and Skittles galore.

Your daughter, Betsy

P.S.- Dad, I’m doing great. I hope you are too.

What Makes You Grateful?

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Betsy

As a writer for children, I am used to having a new character’s voice come to me at any time of the day or night. I may be dreaming or driving. Bathing or taking a walk. Sometimes, I am working at the toy store, where a conversation with a young child can easily spark an idea.

But never has a project spoken to me, at least in the way that the Look For the Good Project has. It started with a newspaper article I read in our local paper. I recognized the photo of Anne Kubitsky, who I met this past May when we were both honored with a 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature: Tassy Walden Award. She was the winner in the illustrated picture book category. What a treat to hear her voice read Graycie’s Catch. And what an honor to see her accompanying illustrations. Anne captivated the audience with her heartfelt illustrations, and her obvious love for kindness. (I have always had a soft spot for whales.)

I cut out the article and posted it near my desk. With Christmas approaching, I hurried to finish photo projects for my girls’ gifts. My time was limited; I was behind in everything. Yet, I could not stop thinking about Anne and the whale and her vision for a community art project that would become part of a traveling exhibit, featuring postcards from all over the world in which people of all ages state what makes them grateful.

My father would have loved this project and perhaps this is why the idea of it tugged at my heart. Even in pain, he would always stop to be thankful: thankful for the clouds, the comical behavior of a tiny chipmunk, the love of his family, the opportunity to speak to a grandchild or his great-granddaughter, and the ability to express himself through his writing. My father always appreciated the warmth of another’s hand, a stranger’s smile and compassion. A clean pair of sheets. Socks on his cold feet. His thinning hair being brushed. A small window so he could watch the birds outside.

The more I thought about Anne’s vision, the more grateful I was for my family, especially while I poured over photos at CVS, waiting behind a woman who had left her coupons in the car. I told her there was no need to apologize, even though it was nearly midnight and I had worked for ten hours at the toy store. She went to her car for her coupons and her bonus bucks, and when the total was finally tallied, she needed to spend 98 cents more to be able to use her CVS bucks.

“I am so sorry to hold you up,” she said.

“Relax, take your time,” I told her, studying a photo of my youngest dressed as Santa at the age of six months. (I had taped cotton balls to a bib to use as a beard.)

“Just buy some candy,” said the clerk.

“I don’t eat candy, though my dad does, but only one kind.” The woman perused the candy selection, not finding what she was after. She became flustered and then . . .

“Perfect! I found it.” She held a bag of Skittles in her hand.

My father’s favorite candy.

I believe his spirit is out there, watching over his family, nudging us when we need that extra push, and especially while our family struggled to get through our first Christmas without him.

This encounter was my father nudging me.

He would have been so grateful for that bag of Skittles, and so I contacted Anne to see how I could help with the project, because I believe in her message: the importance of reflecting on what is good.

My father taught me this, and I am forever grateful for his lessons. Every day I follow his example and find beauty in this world. Beauty that makes me stop whatever I am doing to wonder, and to be thankful for the smallest of miracles: the extraordinary within the ordinary. In this post, as with others, I share some of my photos, including the grateful postcards sent by my five-year-old granddaughter.

What about you, what makes you grateful? Ask yourself, ask your children, ask your friends. Ask a stranger. Spread the word and send a postcard. Send two. Write something. Draw something. Reflect on what is good. As Anne likes to say, “You are invited to write/ paint/ draw a glimmer of gladness on a postcard.”

The project’s link is www.lookforthegoodproject.org. There you will see a sample of many of the inspirational cards being received. Press links are included here: www.lookforthegoodproject.org/about

Postcards are needed by the 15^th of January, though any received after that will become part of the exhibit. (You can mail multiple cards in one envelope to save individual postage). The premier show will be held in New London, CT on January 28^th at the Custom House Maritime Museum. I hope to see you there!

I have a template for three postcards per sheet that you can print on cardstock and cut up. Let me know if you would like a copy emailed to you. I always keep a handful in my purse to share as needed.

Happy New Year to all, and may you find what makes you grateful in this world. Be thankful. Peace.

P. S. – Dad, I miss you. Love you always, Betsy

How Writing Can Heal

Posted on November 29, 2011 by Betsy

Do you know the feeling when something wonderful is brewing? Something that will lead you to the heart of a story that you thought had promise, but the potential was yet to be discovered?

These past two months, writing has helped me grieve the recent loss of my father. I refrained from blogging to focus on my work. I even forced myself to rise earlier than the sun each morning, so that I could write in peace. Not a small feat if you know me well. Having to get out of bed early and assure that my two daughters were awake for school was torture to me.

Now I write before the sun first appears, for up to four hours, undisturbed–except for our yellow tabby that slyly inches across my writing couch and thinks I don’t notice his paw reaching over to my laptop until he plops halfway across my body and the keyboard.

I scoot Joey away and write whatever comes to mind. Or welcome new voices that have popped up in the recent days, or revisit an unfinished manuscript. (In the past month, I have written two picture books without thinking about them ahead of time. In a way, they wrote themselves, one morning between my first cup of coffee and lunch.)

In this same vein, my younger middle-grade protagonist, E. B. Louise, returned to my world one morning at 5:45 am. Still curled beneath my covers, I was not ready for fall mornings, when it is too cold to get out of bed because the heat has not yet kicked in, and the thought of having to race across a wood floor in bare feet to use the bathroom made me shiver. I decided to test the strength of my bladder and stay beneath the comforter.

E. B. Louise started to yak, yak, yak at me, and then it felt like a heavy encyclopedia had been dropped on my head.

“You know,” she said, while I rubbed the not-real swelling knot on my forehead, my covers pulled to my chin. “You are not paying attention to me and I need to finish my story.”

Let me tell you, if my dad were still alive, I would have called him for advice–right that very moment, even though he was not a morning person. He preferred to write after midnight.

“I’m stuck,” I said and pulled the covers over my head.

“Get unstuck.”

“Can’t you see that I am sleeping?”

“Makes no difference to me,” said E. B. Louise.

As much as I love the darn kid, she does not give up. I think this makes me love her even more.

I slipped on a fuzzy bathrobe, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then planted my bum in my writing chair. While my computer warmed up, I watched a bird peck at the corner of my window. Peck. Peck. Peck. With the E. B. Louise document open, I stared at the words.

Nothing happened.

I glanced up at my dad’s Pinocchio collection that now sits on the top shelf of my bookcase, and this is when the kid started to yak again, though she sounded like me.

“You know,” began E. B. Louise, “when you start to shake, mostly in your belly, like you did right before you learned you got the part of Maria in West Side Story, it means something wonderful is about to happen. Do you remember that feeling, the same one you are having now?”

I nodded, feeling ever so crazy, and wondered if I needed to find a good therapist before lunch rolled around, possibly breakfast.

Instead, I sat there and listened to the kid, until a distraction was called for, because my head was spinning. Clearly, I was not fully awake. And I preferred—this early in my day—to not feel crazy. So I lay on the couch in my writing room and opened to the first page of Clementine and the Family Meeting, because I needed to worry about someone else, and exactly what was this family meeting about? (I admit to loving Clementine by Sara Pennypacker possibly a little too much.)

So I was worrying about Clementine, and her brother Bok Choy or Brussels Sprout or Cabbage (whatever his name is at any given time of day), as well as trying to ignore E. B. Louise and . . .

Then I heard my dad talking. “You need to rewrite the E. B. story in first person.”

Well, I thought, I already have a lot going on today, and who knows what Clementine will learn at this family meeting and I am not sure how I am going to react, and to be honest, I am exhausted from being awoken out of sleep by an encyclopedia (not literally) being dropped on my noggin.

I think, at this point, the Blue Fairy winked at me. But before I could dash for the phone book to look up Therapists For Those Who Are Mourning and Slightly Confused About The Lines of Reality, inspiration tugged at me. Hard enough, that I put a bookmark in the newest novel about Clementine and returned to the document at hand.

I began to rewrite in first person, and suddenly it all made sense. E. B. Louise bounced onto the page, and within the first paragraph, she had me.

Why hadn’t I seen this before?

Do you know the feeling of standing up to your ankles in the ocean and then a huge wave hits you and you are pulled under water, which scares you, because you can’t swim, but you find yourself laughing at the exhilaration of the unexpected moment?

This is how it felt when after weeks and weeks of missing my dad, I remembered what it was like to lose myself in writing for children.

The wave hit me hard, and the joy of dancing with words and images, knowing I was creating something wondrous, rushed back. Though it is hard to define, you feel it in your core; your belly quivers.

E. B. Louise struggles with her own loss: the loss of her beloved grandmother. Suddenly this child was showing me the world through her eyes, and how she was coping; her undying love for her too-small elephant slippers, and how truly funny and unique she is. (My dad saw the very beginning of this piece, when I only had a voice that had come to me while raking leaves outside.)

He said, “You know, the slippers are her story.” How right he was.

I have been trying to tell this story of hers, when all along, I should have handed E. B. Louise the reins, sat back, and let her speak, so I did exactly that.

E. B. Louise talked so fast, I could barely keep up. I typed and typed, remembering how much I love spending time with her, and more importantly, what it felt like to laugh.

I even heard my father’s laughter. Musical. Rich. Filled with playful delight and joy.

Two pages of revisions done, my fingers paused on the keyboard; I looked up at Pinocchio and Geppetto. The Blue Fairy and Jiminy Cricket.

I took Pinocchio off the top shelf and twisted the figure, as if to make him dance, remembering how much joy it gave my father. These beloved Pinocchio figures, including Mickey Mouse, once adorned his writing space, and now sit in mine. He gave them to me when I helped pack up his many manuscripts into boxes, that now remain undisturbed in my house. Until the time is right and I am strong enough to open them.

The figures remind me of my father’s spirit, his passion for writing.

They remind me of the promise I made before he died.

They remind me that characters need to feel real, as real as the boy Pinocchio becomes, because children, our readers, deserve no less than our very best.

In the early morning, I feel the most connected to my father’s wondrous spirit. Outside the world remains silent and dark, and the owls still call out to me. But inside my writing space, with Pinocchio cheering me on, I am creating, all the while surrounded by my father’s wisdom and guidance, his belief in my abilities as a writer.

Not only have I remembered what it feels like to laugh, I have remembered how writing makes me feel alive.

And I am grateful.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I can take it from here.

Life Does Not Stop

Posted on October 4, 2011 by Betsy

Life does not stop when your father dies. Even though you want it to, because it feels like it should. Just long enough so you can find your breath and assimilate the phone call from a stranger—acting as nicely as they can—who tells you your father passed and that they are very sorry. You thank the person you’ve never met, hang up the phone and cry. Cry until you make yourself stop so you can call your sisters, your brother, your mother, and your children.

No one answers their phone, not that it would make any difference because you might not hear them; inside your ears there is pounding and throbbing. Like a beating heart working overtime.

And really, how do you tell them? How do you tell them what you know? How do you tell them so they won’t hurt, like you are now?

You dial. Hit end. Hit redial. Hit end. Dial. Hit end. Redial. Pace. Dial again. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Pounding in the ears. Busy signals. Voice mail messages. Pounding.

Then everything around you speeds up, and finally your youngest daughter answers her cell and the crying starts all over again and your words are inaudible, but she gets it. She gets it; she gets how much you want to take your granddaughter to school (it is your day to do so), but you can’t, even though you want to. So life will feel the same. Like nothing has changed.

Yet, with one phone call from a stranger, everything has changed.

You go into survival mode, drop your uneaten toast into the garbage, sip your cold coffee, spit it out, dial another number. Dial. Hit end. Redial. Hit end. Busy signals. Voice mail messages. Pounding, pounding, pounding.

You decide to try your brother-in-law’s cell and it rings and rings, and when you are about to give up, he says “Hello.” After you tell him the news, there is silence and your ear throbs, throbs, throbs, and, “Yes,” he will find your sister, who is at school having an important conference with one of your nieces.

Life does not stop when a parent dies.

Now you try to reach your brother, your other sister, your daughter, who is expecting a baby—a great-grandchild who your father will not be around to see born, though he dreamed of the moment, as he dreamed of living long enough to hold a book in print, written by you.

Within the hour, your brother (in between flights) calls you. And you tell him, and it feels as if you have yanked away the ground beneath him and you are too far away to lift him to safety. That same unstable ground shakes beneath your feet, and you keep trying to reach the others, and soon, you do. All except your mother, because she made a promise the night before to visit your father early that morning, and when you call someone to look out the window to see if her car is still in the parking lot, the person notices her driving away.

She is on her way to visit your father not knowing he has died.

Quickly, so quickly, you and your siblings convene over the phone. Who can stop her? Who can we reach on a moment’s notice to intercept our mother? One sister calls the minister, who says, “Yes, I am on the way,” and gets off the phone, so she can hurry, hurry, hurry.

And then you wait. You wait for fifteen minutes, hoping and praying the minister will get to the assisted living in time. Twenty minutes pass, then thirty, and your body is shaking because you do not know what is happening in North Carolina.

Finally, your sister calls to tell you that the minister arrived just as your mom was parking the car, and that she will stay with her for however long she needs.

You can breathe, you can breathe, you can breathe . . . until your cell phone rings. The caller ID shows: Dad calling. You see your father’s picture, and for a second, maybe two, you wonder if this is some nightmare, so you answer the phone “Hello?” and all you hear is sobbing.

The sound of your mother sobbing breaks your heart and you want to take all the pain away, but you can’t, and that knowledge fills you with helplessness. Such helplessness.

Life does not stop for the death of a loved one.

Survival mode kicks in and you focus on making a list: How many people are coming? How many cars are needed? How many hotel rooms? Flights are booked. Calls begin again as you exchange itineraries for the first wave of arrivals: the four siblings. With luck, all four will arrive within thirty minutes of one another, coming from all parts of the country. Just after midnight.

Yet, it is not soon enough, because your mother is alone. She is alone with the news, and she is brave, so brave. When she calls again, you are pulling your closet apart to find a black dress and there is no black dress, so you lean back against the pile of clothes on your bed to listen to your mother, because she needs you to, and all you can think about is how far away you are. How far away all of the family is, and that nothing, nothing can get anyone there sooner. Not even a prayer.

The crack in your heart widens, and you wonder how and if it can ever be healed.

It becomes too difficult for your mother to talk, so you begin to pack, reminding yourself to bring a Mickey Mouse with you, because your father loved Mickey Mouse and Judy Collins and collecting miniature circus trains and his children and grandchildren and great-grandchild. And your mother.

The phone does not stop ringing, and after taking your grandchild to school, your youngest daughter comes to hold you, and then make you go to a restaurant so you can eat some food. Otherwise, she knows you won’t eat. For her, you nibble on a few bites of egg and bring the rest home to your husband.

You arrive at the airport to learn that your flight is delayed for over an hour and there is little chance of making your connection at Dulles Airport: a flight on which your sister is also booked.

“Tomorrow, we can get you on a flight tomorrow,” someone tells you.

“No,” you say. “I need to be with my family tonight. Please, my father died this morning.” You can see in a person’s eyes when they want to help you, but they can’t. You decide to take a chance with the original flight. Perhaps your sister will ask them to hold the plane.

Perhaps is not a promise.

Your plane pulls into gate A 6 at 10:12; your connection leaves at 10:20 at gate D 18. You stand in the back of the plane, luggage ready. The flight attendant has given you directions to the D terminal ahead of time, but you are unsure. Other passengers have offered different directions. At 10:17, you are on the jet way. You begin to run, pushing one suitcase in front, pulling one suitcase behind you. There is an escalator ahead, and as soon as you get on, the suitcase behind you twists and you try to grab it and you fall. There is no one around to help. The escalator levels out and you look for a sign for D terminal and see that the arrows point you to a down escalator. You think about the bags and falling again, and you run for the elevator. And you wait and wait and wait and then the doors open. A person slips beside you. They ask if you are okay, because you are clearly out of breath.

And then they tell you that you’ve gone the wrong way.

It is 10:21 pm. Has the plane taken off? Will you find D 18, only to learn you’ve been left behind? You don’t think about this, you follow the new directions, go up an escalator (more carefully this time), down an escalator. Find a United employee, ask them to please, please call gate D 18 to tell them you are coming.

“That plane has left,” they say.

No, you think, it has to be there, my father has died and I need to see my sister. I need to be with my sister. Determination sets in and you run in clogs towards an elevator after you find an employee pushing a wheelchair and she can barely speak English, but she tells you to follow her. She is heading for C 16 and from there you can reach the D terminal.

Your phone rings: an automated message from United that you have been rebooked to take a flight out the following day at 9:45 am.

You think no, no, no, and look at the clock on your cell: 10:28 pm. It is the last time you check the time because it just makes your stomach hurt. And really, if the plane has left, what is there for you to do and where can you go?

At terminal C, you thank the woman and sprint. You wish you weren’t wearing clogs, but it’s too late. Your calves cramp, your arms are sore, and you feel like you are running in slow motion. You pass gate after gate, until you see D 1. You see hope. Perhaps, you think.

Perhaps is not a promise, but can suggest possibility.

Your mouth gapes open and you breathe so loudly, sucking in air to keep moving, even when your body can no longer be pushed. You hear, over the loud-speaker, someone calling for assistance at D 18, and at the same time, you see a plane to your left, lifting up towards the sky. You know your sister is on the plane, now in the air, and you worry about how distressed she must be. Or did she stay behind, and is that why assistance is needed? You begin to worry about her and the fact that she just had surgery the week before.

Gate D 10. . . D 11 . . . D 12 . . . Why do you keep going? You keep going for your sister, and because maybe, just maybe, the plane you just witnessed wasn’t the United flight that should have left seventeen minutes ago.

Gate D 14 . . . Gate D 15 . . . Your chest is tight, your body slows down, and you are so close and you gasp in air to keep breathing and . . .

You see her. Your sister is running towards you, her arms open wide. She grabs a suitcase and tells you to hurry.

The kindness of strangers is a powerful thing.

That night, a single man, against the opinions of all others, would not let the United flight leave without me. Because of him, our four siblings were able to meet up after midnight at the RDU Airport where we wrapped our arms together to form a circle of grief, while around us life went on.

When your father dies, life does not stop; planes are not delayed for the benefit of one passenger.

Though, on this day, a plane was held, because the kindness of a stranger prevailed.

The pilot was able to make up most of the lost time–all but six minutes.

Not a single passenger complained as I made my way to the back of the aircraft. You remain strangers to me, but I thank you. I thank you for your understanding nods. Your patience.

On September 22, 2011, our family lost a precious gift: Edward H. Devany.

I love you, Dad, forever and always.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I’m okay.