4th Quarter Katie

It’s funny how life can sometimes present you with a pop quiz.  Just yesterday Dad and I were running and our topic of choice was covering a course he is teaching to Med. students.  Amongst others, and with the support of a clinical partner, he is teaching students the human side of medical practice.  This covers the physical dealing with and emotional support of patients, as well as other things like everyday patient/doctor mini-crises up to full scale ethical dilemmas.  The situations he described made me appreciate the fact that I am not a doctor.  Patient care is hard enough, but dealing with a substance abusing colleague or under insured patient who needs treatment, makes this particular career path seem like the odds are stacked against it.  I felt a bit relieved that my work did not require this particular brand of emotional turmoil.

Fast forward to approximately 12:45pm on Saturday afternoon.  I am sitting at home, enjoying the snow and the fact that I don’t have to leave the house if I don’t want to.  Bliss.  

I am not one who likes watching the email inbox ticker creep up as I attempt to luxuriate in the downtime of the weekend.  It is unsettling to know that I have 9… 17… 26 emails waiting on me on Monday morning.  Inevitably 15% of those are junk mail and it feels good to rid myself of them and the anxiety their contribution to the count brings.  So diligently, twice a day, I go through my email to make sure that no fires are raging, and also to punch the delete button on those pesky inbox fillers.

One work fire (henceforth known as WTF – the T is gratuitous to me so that the acronym can stand for how I really feel) that has been poking the back of my brain incessantly while also turning my gut into a sloshing pit of bile and dread, was fleetingly (and blessedly) packaged like unused Christmas decorations in an unopened box in the back of my mind.  As I did the first of my daily email checks, the possibility of this WTF rearing its ugly head was nonexistent.  Most of the key players were on holiday.  As far as I was concerned, I was golden until 2010.

As usual, I was wrong.

‘Two new emails.  Hmmm let me guess… Shutterfly and Barnes and Noble. What?  John Doe? (Not his real name) Oh boy. ‘ 

The first of the two emails from my former collaborator, was what I expected.  Mildly abusive, demanding, and containing no shortage of pea-cocking.  I gave it my simultaneous mark of acknowledgement and dismissal – a heavy eye-roll; ready to file it away and prepare myself for the next round of passive-aggressive issue/resolution correspondence.  

Then I read the next email, also from John Doe.  Synchronously, my eyes bulged, jaw dropped, and spit found itself stuck in limbo between my mouth and throat as I struggled not to choke.  I read the words three times before I believed they were actually there.  Even as they cemented in my mind I continued to concoct a scenario in my head that would have lead those words into my inbox from this particular person.  A son perhaps… a disgruntled IT person…  No.  These words were really written by John Doe.  

This email was the one that sealed the deal.  With this email I could longer claim to be an impartial party.  I had to choose an alliance even if my feelings were mixed.  I hit the reply button, then the delete.  I read the email again.  I picked up the phone and called my work ally and confidante.   No answer, so I left a message.  Then my conversation with Dad came flooding back.  I immediately asked myself, ‘What is the ethical way to handle this situation?’

Was it right to respond?  No.  My loyalties are to the one who I work for.  They have to be, regardless of how I would personally handle the conflict.

Was it right to inform my boss?  Harder question.  Could be, but not with the words that were used.  Better to keep tight lipped and think on the situation for a while.

If it were only about the email it would be a non-issue.  I could delete it and forget about it.  But this email was simply a justification for the initial email that was sent.  The two emails and their combination of words and recipients, promoted me to the front lines of the battle.  Instantly, I was placed in a position where protecting myself, my boss, and our project became the three most important tasks; and unfortunately, in my mind, there was no way to assign precedent.

My ally and friend called me back and we lamented the situation.  There isn’t a perfectly packaged resolution to this story.  I am currently taking the position of ‘watch and wait’.  It may not be the right course of action, but it is the one I am most confident in.  The one that will cause the least amount of immediate peripheral damage.  

Being in this situation certainly makes my brow furrow as I deliver much of my energy and concentration into the philosophy of ethics.  Ethics are one of those malleable and circumstantial elements of human life.  Faced with these dilemmas, it is clear that there are no absolutes in right or wrong; just levels of it.  In my judgement, it seems that the way we choose to proceed in dealing with the predicament has to come from with in us.  It has to be determined by our own moral base.  At the end of the day, we have to be able to stand behind the decisions that we make.  

That being said, I am curious about the ethical dilemmas you all have been involved in.  If you feel comfortable, please share the issue and the outcome in the comment area.

I spend more time than one would think, thinking about blogging.  Blogging for me has always been an interesting mix of respite, confession, entertaining, and historical reference.  There are times that the moment an event happens, I know I simply must blog about it.  This usually happens with the Reddenisms, that-ain’t-rights, and anecdotes of  daily living.  There are other times when I want to tell all or a certain subset of my readership, something in particular.  This could manifest in a feeling, declaration, or lesson learned.  And then there are times when I just feel compelled to blog.  I don’t have anything special I want to say; I just want to reach out.  And I guess I just want to know that I have put something out there – something that someone might latch onto and gain comfort from.

Tonight is one of those nights.  Tonight I am letting my fingers roll and hoping that God will guide them appropriately.

As I type, there is a large pot of beef stew sitting on my stove.  It is slowly becoming something great; however, currently it isn’t much to speak of – partially cooked beef, raw vegetables, and cornstarchy broth.  It would be pretty disgusting to eat right now.  But the fragrance in the air tells me that in an hour or two, the stuff simmering in the pot is going to be irresistible.  

This makes me think about one of the many ultimate truths of life – “let it simmer”.  

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration (of sorts) for the ages (or at least the year).  Beef stew, Baltimore Ravens vs. the Green Bay Packers – my team and Beth’s, battling it out for a wild card spot, and Brett.  Not just any Brett.  Brett, mostly recovered from an emotionally draining surgery.  This was going to be a night that we could relax, hold each other, laugh, and (my favorite) just be.  

God had different plans.  Tonight, just before he was heading to meet me, his mom fell and hurt herself badly.  She is an amazing woman who has dealt with more than her fair share of physical hardship.  She is the cornerstone of that family and I know that they all would agree with that statement.  The fear and pain that her injury causes touches all those who know her.  I feel blessed to have her in my life, so I can only imagine what it would be like to be her son, spouse, sister, mother, grandchild, or any one of the other people who call her theirs.  In an instant, God revealed a different plan.  One that reminds me that when it comes to Him and His plan, we can never let our guard down; we must remain vigilant.   

Suddenly, the joy and happiness I was experiencing in the anticipation of the night to come was swept away and replaced with feelings of sadness and worry.  Worry about Brett’s mom, worry about his family, and worry about Brett.  I can’t imagine what he must be feeling.  Sadness because I was hoping for something magical.  I wasn’t angry about the turn of events, just upset about the way they had turned.  It is in times like these that I wonder just how much God thinks we can handle.  

I thought that tonight, and then I did what the only thing I know that consistently makes me feel better.  I talked to Beth and started chopping vegetables.  There is something so calming about the consistent crunch that the veggies make as one slices into them.  Soon Beth and I got off the phone and I was chopping and wiping the blade and watching the pot.  That is when it hit me: “Let it simmer.”

I realized then for the umpteenth time, God has a plan.  Sometimes we just have to let it simmer.  I am sure that the injury of this amazing woman is not God’s ultimate goal, but perhaps it is all part of something bigger.  I am not trying to sound morbid and I won’t try to speculate.  Another ultimate truth, “God works in mysterious ways.”  Whatever His will be, I will say this, tonight I was reminded to give it over to Him.

As all of this came over me, Redden, who had been helping me, steadied his look of concern and put his little hands together.  He had immediately read my mind.  I said, “Let’s pray.” And here in the kitchen, over a pot of beef stew, we prayed that God would take care of Brett’s mom and do His will.

As I sit here, I can’t say that she is okay.  There is still so much that is unknown.  But I do know that God will do His will and that regardless of human will, everything is going to be alright.

I am not one to pay much attention to Friday the 13th.  Generally it is just another Friday; nothing particularly unusual or disturbing tends to happen.  And even as I was seranaded by the sweet sounds of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ from my alarm clock, I didn’t think anything too unusual.  I tapped the snooze button to gain a few more minutes of toasty warm bed time.  Seven glorious and too short minutes later, the alarm clock was singing to me again.  This time it was the most obnoxious Christmas song ever created – Feliz Navidad.  That was enough to prevent me from lingering any longer.  I clicked off the clock and jumped out of bed get ready for the day.

I had a little extra time on my hands so I decided to curl my hair.  Recently I have learned the utterly exciting trick of curling one’s hair with the straight iron.  I set in to curling first the left and then the right side of my head.  I was about 2/3 of the way through when I realized that the left side of my head looked like a frizzy, funky, birds nest, while the right side had perfectly sweet, perfectly perfect, curls.  I tried to go back and fix the left side, but it just wasn’t happening.  I finally gave up and pulled my hair back.  All the fuss over my hair had cost me 30 minutes and I was no longer working on extra time; Redden and I were moving quickly into the realm of late.  He and I tore through the house grabbing what we needed and packed into the car to head to school.

Determined not to be flustered, Redden and I chatted and listened to Bob and Sheri on the radio.  After a commercial break, another Christmas tune came on the radio.  As I thought, “What is the deal?” Redden started to cough.  He coughed the cough that I know all to well.  The I’m-About-To-Puke-In-The-Car-For-The-Umpteenth-Time Cough.  I looked first  into the review mirror to gauge how much time I might have, then scanned the scenery in horror and distress, looking for some place, any place, to pull over before the exorcism of Redden’s stomach occurred.  There was no where to stop and nothing I could do, as I watched him cough and gag the contents of his stomach onto himself and the car.  He looked at me with silent tears rolling down his face.  I immediately began calculating my next moves… call Celeste, stop at gas station, pick up power cord from work, call Redden’s school…

An hour later we made it home, Redden slightly cleaner, and me buzzing through the things that needed to happen for the remainder of the day.  It was only after we were settled, that I realized, ‘Oh my gosh, it is Friday the 13th.’ Everything that had taken place to that point, started to take on a an erie, twilight-zoney, glow.  Christmas music starting two weeks before Thanksgiving, typically flowing locks acting like weave-in extensions, and Redden going Linda Blair in the back seat of my car… I am starting to have a little more respect for this Friday the 13th thing.

So this morning as I sorted through the newspaper, scavenging for coupons and Jumble, I happened upon a couple of toy magazines.  I thought it would be incredibly useful to this momma (and Santa) to have Redden circle the things he wanted the most.  Color pictures, prices, and coupons are the best elves a parent can have during this season.

About 30 minutes after handing him the magazines, he called down the stairs to me, “Momma, I circled the things I want.  I didn’t circle much because Santa will remember what I wanted from last year and bring me that.”  I queried him with, “Like what?”  To which he replied, “Umm I don’t remember, but he will.” Oh boy.

As I flipped through the magazines I noted prices, associated coupons, and contemplated my and Santa’s budgets.  All of a sudden I was stopped in my tracks.  My jaw hit the floor, and after a few stunned seconds, I started laughing.  This is what I found.

I must say that Target clearly did not do a good job of advertising the wagon.

Change is a funny thing.  (I am not talking about money, but since I brought it up I will go ahead and declare that pennies are useless.)  Sometimes change is welcomed and even initiated, other times it is fought stubbornly.  And even more ironic, is that welcomed change for one is often stubbornly fought by another.  For those of you who know us well, the Kentucky Garrity-clan has recently experienced this kind of change; and uniquely so between the twinkies of the clan.  One week ago tomorrow, Beth and Stephen shut the door to their moving truck and also to their residency in Kentucky.  Northward to the land of Uff-da’s, don’tcha knows, and 7 month winters – Minnesota.  We’ve all known for sometime that this move was imminent – Beth welcoming this new adventure, Katie loathing the distance that was about to be put between her and her 2.  Each morning as we set out for our daily run, I would crawl inside myself dreading the descriptions of progress, and the excitement I would have to show, but wouldn’t feel; and each morning, Beth would bound down the sidewalk with new information, ideas, and anticipation building.  This carried on for months, slowly rubbing my emotional nerves raw as my ability to be her sounding board increasingly broke apart.  The bottom dropped out one week prior to her move.  Fighting this change emotionally while knowing that acceptance was mandatory, had turned me into a stubborn, childish, wreck.  And apparently Beth’s outward excitement and welcoming of this big change, held its own contingencies.  She was struggling to accept certain aspects of it as well.  Our raw emotions came spewing out in a fit of yelling, crying and immature behavior.  At that moment we both came to the sinking realization that our biggest ally in dealing with this situation, was also our circumstantial foe.

Time and the counsel of a few good people healed the wounds enough to allow our twinship to come in and do the rest of the work.  Beth and I spent our last night together, laughing, crying, reminiscing, and just being.  That night, we both allowed ourselves to accept both the positive and the negative aspects of the change.

I thought I would be a blubbering mess in the days that followed her move.  Turns out, I’m okay.  And she is too.  We miss each other and it does hurt, but the pain doesn’t last and life goes on.  It seems to me that change often gets a bad rep and is something that should be celebrated more often.  So with the remainder of today’s blog, I am going to celebrate the recent changes in my life…

- My toenail polish.  It was chipped and I was resistant (aka – lazy), but I did it!  And my toes have been dancing in my shoes for the past few days!

- The scent in my Scentsy warmer.  It smells like a French Kiss all over my house – halitosis not included.

- The clock back.  Hey that was celebration in and of itself.  But to adequately take advantage of the extra hour, I did absolutely nothing.  It was awesome!

- The CD in my car.  Some of you may know that I am highly inclined to listen to a CD over and over and over and ov… (okay, you get it), especially if it is a mixed CD.  (Who doesn’t love a good mixed CD?)  Yesterday evening, I made a new one and have throughly enjoyed it while driving around today.

- My every-other-Tuesday lunch routine.  From now on, every other Tuesday, instead of going for a run, which I can do in the morning or evening, I am going to have lunch with Reddenator-gator.  It is the most gratifying experience ever.  He is especially cuddly and attentive during this half hour and I learn all kinds of new stuff.  Like today, I learned a new game called, ‘Grill, Gut, or Groin’.  

Who wants to play?

I know it has been a while, but that’s probably a good thing.  It means I have a life.  hehehe  At least Mom will be happy knowing that a good portion of my life is currently happening behind closed doors.  And I say to her, “Or on Facebook…”

And I jest.  Anyway, I felt the urge to break my silence because tomorrow is the birthday of the one that I love more than I love anything or person.  (See, that is the problem with physically giving part of yourself to someone, you end up really, really liking them a lot.)  My Reddenator-gator is turning seven tomorrow.

The time has passed so quickly!  The “Don’t you tell me say no!”’s have turned into, “It must be hard being an adult.”’s  The velcro spiderman shoes have turned into the most fantastically ugly self tied bows.  F-ucks (fire trucks) are now the vehicles driven by the profession he wants to be.  And seven years from now, he will be 14.

I wake up everyday convinced that today is the last day that he will think that I am beautiful, funny, smart, and a snappy dresser (which he does).  Each night that I tuck him in, I swear that the next he will refuse to pay me in kisses.  But as he grows, he becomes more and more a gentleman.  Not a morning or afternoon goes by where he doesn’t dutifully hold the door for me.  He helps me cook and clean and runs to check on me if I cough or cry.  It strikes me as ironic that the little boy I don’t want to go away, is the becoming the man that I have dreamed of holding onto for a lifetime.

I am so proud of him.  And I am so thankful of the people he has in his life.  His Daddy who never went a day without believing in him.  His Oma who challenges life patterns by paying love forward on a daily basis.  His Opa who gives him hours of train and peddle time and humors all of his wild notions.  His aunt Beth who can’t look at him in any other way than her surrogate son and lovingly gives herself and time completely to that little boy, in ways his own momma can’t.  His Ma and Pa who can’t resist any chance to spoil him, cuddle him, and show him their love.  And all the others that I haven’t mentioned, namely – my friends who have made my little boy a part of their lives.

Redden Kyle Bugg, I wish you a very happy birthday.  I love you in ways I can’t express and my greatest hope is that you never live a day without knowing that.

(A brief departure from the Ireland blogs, for a comic interlude…)

Its official, I have figured out just what is wrong with kids these days.  We as adults have bought into the idea that are children are little prices and princesses and thus, should be treated as such.  You all probably already knew that.  But the real breakthrough that I have made is the discovery of the perpetuators of this idea.  First grade teachers.  In their unassuming denim, school spirit t-shirts, and bright-eyed smiles, they stroke the egos of our 6 and 7 year olds by assigning “Mommy (and Daddy) homework.  Every assignment that I have been asked to assist Redden with are in fact, assignments for me. 

For example, the first was the assignment which asked parents to help their kids find numbers around the house, cut them out, and paste them on a sheet of paper.  Can you really see sending your child around the house with a pair of scissors and the liberty to cut anything with a number?  There goes your American Eagle shirt with the number four on it.  Twenty dollar bill?  Not anymore!  Work presentation notes with crucial budget numbers? Better be looking for a new job my friend.  And at 6.75 years old, Redden is more likely to cut himself or an expensive leather surface than he is to actually cut the numbers out of something correctly.  And may I add, if my son doesn’t know what a number looks like, what does that say about his school?  Last year he was adding, subtracting, multiplying, and doing calculus – clearly they are regressing.

Anyway, that was my first taste of Mommy homework.  Naively, I assumed that this was an extraordinary circumstance and that we would settle into our predictable worksheets in no time.  Boy, was I wrong.  The next assignment came packaged deceptively like Kindergarten homework.  I pulled out the familiar worksheet/book combination, glanced at it, and dropped it on the table.  As I started to walk away, prepared to work on it another night, something clicked and I realized that this was not the old “friend” but a new beast of burden.  One I hadn’t seen before and one that I didn’t understand.  (Yes, we are still talking about 1st grade homework).  I backpedaled to the table and began the first of many heavy scans of the text.  At the top was a note that says, “Keep sheet in bag and return to school everyday.”  Yet at the bottom of the page it said, “Return worksheet on Friday.”  Huh?  In between these indecisive notes were some questions and a bunch of gibberish.  I finally deduced that Redden and I needed to read the story then he should answer the questions out loud.  I assumed it to work in the same manner as the kindergarten homework, use the same sheet to answer questions out loud about different books.  Not so.  The next afternoon, as Redden unpacked his backpack, out came the same book and the same worksheet.  This time, Beth and Jen were with me.  They can vouch for the obscure nature of this assignment.  As we realized that this was indeed homework for me and not so much for Redden, I stomped my feet and declared that I would not participate in Mommy homework.  But as a new day dawned, a lump rose in my throat just thinking about getting the same stupid worksheet sent home for a third time.  I quickly scribbled the answers and jammed it in Redden’s backpack.  

The kicker in this is that Redden spent minutes hee-hawing about how the teacher had said that this was Mommy and Daddy homework.  I don’t know if I believe him or not, but something twisted in my gut as he said it.  It felt real. And that got me thinking, ‘is his teacher one of those adults who think that childhood should be so well cushioned, that parents should bear the brunt of the life for the first 18 years of their lives?‘  In that case, I am doomed to re-live at least first grade (a grade in school that was very very bad for me – I was almost held back…), if not more depending on how many more of these Peter Pan teachers Redden encounters in his life.  No doubt that I am definitely seeing the case for home schooling or better yet, revoking the child labor law and letting him get some real hands on experience!

Upon leaving Belfast, I was a bit nervous that my entire Ireland experience would be a let down.  I was afraid that every town I visited would look a lot like any other city in America.  But as I temporarily forgot, not every town in America looks the same. 

Six to seven hours later, my bus pulled in to Galway.  I was so focused about trying to figure out where I was going that I forgot to just look around.  My breath caught in my throat as I opened my eyes upon this new place.  It was nothing like Belfast, and I could immediately sense the town’s charm.

The first thing I noticed right off the bat, was the lack of street signs.  Mild panic set in as I began to walk, trying to figure out how I was going to find my way to the hostel.  By the grace of God alone, I turned the correct way and happened upon my hostel within seconds.  I checked in and compared to the hostel in Belfast, this place seemed like the Ritz-Carlton – a bathroom and shower (large at that) in the room, lots of space to place luggage, and most blessedly – only women in my room!

After showering and settling in, I decided it was time to explore the town.  Only having an idea of where I was at and where I was going, I began wandering in the direction that I thought the tour guides were pointing me too.  As I rounded the final corner I had to laugh, it was glorious!  In front of me stood tall old buildings in the most brilliant colors of goldenrod, coral, soft green and baby blue.  Most were accented in fire engine red, electric orange, and grass green.  Fresh flowers hung near the doorways and deep awnings covered outdoor seating.  The street was jam packed with people.  Every language you could imagine was being spoken.  I floated on this could of euphoria into a pub to grab a bite to eat.  I flipped open my book and settled into the ambiance of this wonderful place called The Quays.  Later that evening as I was walking back to the hostel I was lured into a pub by the familiar sounds of traditional Irish music.  At that particular moment, my soul felt content.

The next morning I started my day with a run around town.  The pep in my step matched the thrill I was feeling from running around a new town, with no route in mind and no street signs to guide my way.  One of my favorite things to do is to run without direction or time constraints.  To rely on the senses and the pounding of one’s own feet.  To just run.  In the span of 30 or 40 minutes I had managed to get myself thoroughly lost and thought it only appropriate to retrace my steps; and that is what I did.

Once back at the hostel I cleaned up and headed back out to check out the town at a slower pace.  Before long, I was feeling out of my element and lonely.  I had some postcards I wanted to send so I wandered into a shop.  As I was trying to sort through my mishmash of Euro, Pounds, and American Dollars, a kind older gentleman asked if I would like to be shown to the nearest post box.  I jumped on his offer and followed his quick step down the street.  At the post box he asked if I would like to join him and his friend for coffee.  The ache of loneliness dimmed at this offer and I gladly took him up on it.

At coffee I discovered that my new friend, Pete, was indeed a Busker, someone who performs for tips, generally a musician.  His friend was a journalist for the Galway newspaper.  We had a fantastic time talking about a few of my favorite things, socialism, Obama, and the Gate’s Foundation.  Later, Pete offered to show me around Galway.  I learned all kinds of things about Galway, including the fact that Claddagh (the traditional Irish ring) is also a place in Galway, and that those who live in this community consider themselves separate from Glaswegians.  After my tour, I went back to the hostel to rest and catch up with my loved ones via the internet, however not before making plans to meet back up with Pete that evening to search out traditional Irish music. 

That night we met up for a pint and were talking and laughing when we connected with a pair of twins from the States.  I was stunned and delighted, and only more so when I realized that they not only were staying at my hostel, but they were also in the same room.  We all headed over to a pub called the Crane.  It was by far the most beautiful and authentic pub I visited while in Ireland.  The tables were low and the only seating offered were three-leg stools.  Quickly Bridget, Molly, and I made friends with another young woman from Australia, named Teagan.  She too was staying at our hostel, so it was clear to the 4 of us that we were meant to meet and spend the evening together.  Pete soon departed our company realizing that spending time with four young women was actually quite boring for a man in his 50’s.  The four of us talked and laughed and sang and clapped late into the night.  When we finally made it back to the hostel we fell into our beds with satiated souls.

Have you ever had an idea on how you think things are going to work out, and then had yourself plesantly (and sometimes, not so plesantly) surprised that they worked out completely different than you had imagined?  That was yesterday.  Fortunately for me, I had anticipated every possible disaster and had basically assumed that all said disasters would indeed happen to me.  I assumed that I would miss a flight, lose my luggage, get lost in Dublin, and end up robbed, taken advantage of, and dispondant by oh… 4pm.  I am happy to report that I am snug as a bug in my little hostel in my first destination city.

Oh crap.  There was one major disaster… me being me, I over packed.  I am going to come back looking like the incredible hulk from hauling around my backpack.  Note to self, just because your pack CAN hold everything, doesn’t mean you should BRING everything.  Doh.  The darn thing weighs as much as me, I am convinced.  I am in desperate need of a good massage, any volunteers for when I get back? (By the way, I know a couple who are excellent and both of their names begin with B… Come on, you know you want too…)

I was insanely happy and praising the good Lord as I arrived at my hostel with no mishaps or wrong turns.  I checked out my accomodations and jumped right in to checking out the local flavor.  It did not disappoint.

My first Irish encounter was with a 50+ woman who in hindsight, had been drinking all day.  She took it upon herself to show me the Belfast nightlife.  It became clear to me after visiting, Muriel’s, a fantastic little pub, that she was not in it for the long haul.  She was just plain drunk.  As soon as I could slip out unnoticed I made my way away from her and to a bar where I met a fabulous group of 30 – 40 somethings on a birthday outing.  We laughed and talked and they adopted me for the evening.

I spent the next morning and afternoon wandering around Belfast, then I headed back to the hostel for an evening in.  There I met some great people, including an adorable British woman and a pair of betrothed Canadians who had been living in Ireland.

The next day, the Canadians and I went on a tour of the coastal causeway and specifically, the Giant’s Causeway.  Along the way we had an unfortunate mishap.  The bus driver accidentally hit a small boulder in the road.  We spent 3 hours waiting for a tire change.  Finally underway, we head to Carrick-a-rede and the Giant’s Causeway.

The Giant’s Causeway was well worth the delay.  I cannot describe the profound beauty of the Giant’s Causeway at sunset.  The formations are unbelievable.  I also met an Italian woman named Marta.  She and I toured together and made plans to meet in Galway.  That evening I went to bed feeling content and spent.

Over the next week or so I plan to relay the details of my trip to Ireland.  The format I plan on using is a mix of realtime and recollections.  I tell you this so that you know that I am back, safe and sound and that some of what I will post was written while it was occurring. 

I will start with this disclaimer.  Some of what you will read will be deeply personal and is meant to be an account for myself and my son, as a reminder of who I was before the trip, during the trip, and who I am becoming because of the trip.  Accolades are welcomed, but unnecessary.  All I ask is that any judgements of my emotions/actions/ponderings be withheld.  I say all this not to my friends and family who know and love me, but because of the feedback I have received in the past.

All that being said, as I hope you will discover, it was an amazing and life changing adventure.  Get ready to have some fun reading my blog over the next week or two!