Little yellow bastard outside my front door.
There are days I have thoughts in my head I want to write about, but can’t flesh them out into anything more meaningful than a sentence or two. Sometimes it’s because of the PTSD. Sometimes I can’t find the right words to express myself. Sometimes someone else said it better. Sometimes there isn’t anything more to say.
The wind picked up at the end of the No Kings protest, but it was still a good day and a good protest.
I’ve been to protests before, but it was always as a reporter. Today was the first time I attended a protest for myself.
The military has put the U.S. Marines into a “prepared to deploy status” in case they are needed to “augment support” in Los Angeles. If they are activated and they go, you will be witnessing the beginnings of a police state in America. We are a hair’s breadth away from it. This is not okay.
Asparagus for sale at Walmart.
Note: This is an extended version of the 771-word column I wrote for the Star-Herald on February 17, 2016. My columns at the newspaper were limited to 800 words. I didn’t have the chance to write exactly what I wanted at the time and each time I tell the story, people want more details. This is the full version I wanted to write then and finally had the time to sit down and complete.
Union soldiers entrenched along the west bank of the Rappahannock River at Fredericksburg, Virginia (111-B-157)
I see the cracks in the foundations of my country and wonder if anything I do, if the words I write might help stop it from crumbling.
Katie and Irene show off Gering and Scottsbluff from atop the Scotts Bluff National Monument. Photo by Katie Bradshaw.
I haven’t wanted to sit down and write anything since my mom passed away on April 2. Each time I get behind the keyboard, I get sad. Then, the words no longer come. Added to all this, my country has fallen into fascism. I am at a loss of what to do, where to go, and what direction I should be taking.
Throughout all of this, however, there has been the kindness of others who have reached out to me and I want to highlight that instead of the devastation that seems to be surrounding me.
It has been a harrowing nine months since my mother was in a head-on collision. Our lives were forever changed on July 15, 2024. Today, her suffering is over.
In today’s world, we need some distractions from it in order to stay sane. Here are a few videos I think are well worth your time. They are fun, informative, and might make you smile.
Mom and Gram, sometime in the early 1980s.
She was asleep when I walked in. The nurse said they were purposely keeping her unconscious. Still, as I looked at the broken body that was my mother, I could see her wincing in pain. No one knew if she would ever wake up again.
My home is 1,725 miles from hers. I sent an email to family of my arrival, only realizing then, I had no contact information for my nephew. We hadn’t spoken since shortly after my grandmother’s funeral 13 years ago.
My mother raised David after my sister abandoned him at 16 months old. He was my little brother and nothing else mattered right now. The head-on collision had erased the chasm between us. We texted briefly after my cousin gave me his number. He offered to pick me up at Newark Airport.
I climbed into his monstrous pickup and wondered how much silence would dominate the 90-minute drive to my hometown. He was worried I hated him. I wondered if he was still racist and bigoted. We found our answers before we even exited Newark Airport. In between catching up, there were lots of “you stupid bastard, learn how to drive” and “come on, what the fuck are you doing?” because, of course, we are the only ones who truly know the proper way to drive.
We spoke until just before sunrise. He cried. “You used to take me everywhere and we’d do all sorts of fun shit and I didn’t appreciate it and I’m sorry.” I refrained from correcting his run-on sentence. Eventually, the words, “David. Stop. Stop apologizing. We’re good,” tumbled from my brain and out of my mouth.
We were no longer those struggling people of a decade ago. I was diagnosed with PTSD, a result of severe childhood trauma. He was, understandably, an angry young man. His parents abandoned him and refused to admit his existence. We shared our common experience of being abandoned by our fathers and how that shaped a part of who we are. Mom did her best to teach us to be honest and good.
The first time I saw her after the accident, silence controlled the room. Her eyes fluttered. She tried to focus. Was she awake? No, well, maybe. There was no way to tell if she comprehended anything we said. Aunt Elaine and Uncle Dick, her brother and sister, had been there every day since the accident. They sat in silence. They spoke to her. They worried.
Bruises – red, blue, black, and purple – littered themselves across her body. The broken bones are too numerous to list. A special surgeon repaired all the tiny bones in her right wrist. We all worried whether she would be able to crochet again. I thought of the blue and pink and white blanket she made me, which has been on my bed the better part of three decades.
As I stood there looking at my mother, who at once appeared peaceful and wincing in pain, David leaned in to me and softly said, “Just so you know, I’m ready to go when you are.”
His tone was understood. Neither of us were handling the situation well. This is our mother. She spent her career helping others and, now, lies still in a hospital bed, relying on a machine to mechanically inflate her lungs so she can breathe. I choke back tears, but, later, alone, the salty liquid flows like the stream we always drank from in the Shawangunk Mountains.
I leaned in to David and spoke quietly. “I’ve been ready to go for a while, but I’m waiting for everyone else to leave so I can talk to Mom alone.”
David nodded and unfurled his arms. With a booming voice he said, “All right, y’all need to get the fuck out so Irene can talk to Grandma alone.”
Everyone nodded. There were, “oh, okays” and “of courses,” uttered. They left me alone with the beeps and boops from the machines now surrounding her.
My life is 25 hours away from hers. It is impossible to stay, so I made my goodbyes. I am short and couldn’t reach to kiss her on the forehead in the single place without bruises. I gently caressed her left cheek and thought of the times David and I had been bruised and beaten down by the world. She never gave up and always had her hand outstretched to lift us back up. I leaned in as far as I could and, holding back all the tears that wanted to fall out, whispered in her left ear, “it’s okay, Mom. You worry about getting better. I’ll take care of everything else. David is helping. It’s our turn to take care of you.”
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