Tag Archives: family

A Runaway Dog, Holiday Depression and … Community

In years past, during what is supposed to be the season of light and wonder, I have written about Morgan, my daughter. About our traditions. About the ritual of choosing a Christmas tree, the inevitable frustration of getting it into the house, the way it would sometimes tip and fall, shattering irreplaceable ornaments, or dry out far too soon until it stood there, brittle and skeletal, a hollow reminder of that which was once was alive. Depression was inevitable.

And yet, every year, some type of life preserver manifested. A sign. A message. Always gentle. Always loving. Something that steadied me, strengthened me, urged me to keep going when I did not know how.

One year it was candles being lit across the world—not just for Morgan, but for all those lost to eating disorders and other invisible battles of the mind.

Sacred, silent evenings filled with remembrance and fragile hope. Tears shed in the dark. Songs whispered more than sung.

But not this year.

This year there was no message. No inspiration. No carefully chosen words meant to lift the spirit or point toward brighter tomorrows. I would not, could not, manufacture hope when I did not feel it myself.

Yes, traditions were still observed. The familiar Christmas movies played on cue, laughed at in some places, cried over in others. A beautiful tree stood glowing in the house.

Every room dressed for the season. We hosted extravagant gatherings, opening our humble home to many. The food was exquisite. The drinks flowed freely.

And yet something was missing.

Something intangible. Something incorporeal.

An emptiness. A darkness that wrapped itself around me and pulled slowly, relentlessly toward a deep well of despair. I felt myself drowning in heartache.

Perhaps it was the sharper reality settling in: that Morgan is truly, irrevocably gone from this plane of existence. She is forgotten. And forgotten by a community who should remember. Perhaps it was the growing, unavoidable realization that no matter how many facts are presented, no matter how often the truth is spoken, the eating disorder “community” is a lost cause.

Lost to corruption. To incompetence. To ego and tribalism. To misused funding, hatred, ignorance, and endless divisiveness.

My daughter Morgan and so many others seemed to have been taken in vain. And the community charged with caring simply did not care. We parents of children who have been taken are living reminders of the community’s greatest failure. And because of that, we are meant to be silenced. At any and all cost.

That so-called community now barely exists at all. Perhaps in name only. It has shattered itself against the rocks of politics and radicalism. And it makes one wonder whether any true community can survive when it attempts to include people of differing beliefs, faiths, and backgrounds.

And just when you begin to believe the answer is no something unexpected happens.

Something small. Something ordinary. Something that quietly, stubbornly brings the glimmer of hope for greater tomorrows.

I am the owner of a two-year-old Vizsla. If you know the breed, you know this is fifty-five pounds of muscle, speed, enthusiasm and intelligence … paired with an almost absurd need to be pressed against your side like living Velcro. This is Beauregarde:

Because Vizslas require exercise, constant, vigorous exercise, my significant other (who is nothing short of a saint) found a nearby dog park. And so, every morning at about 7:15 a.m., we take this wood-headed dog to the park.

There, he runs. He taunts other dogs into chasing him, fully aware he can outrun them all. He greets strangers with unfiltered joy, as if each one might be the most important person he has ever met. And the people at the dog park, each owned by their own dogs welcome all with open arms.

These dog park people come from every imaginable walk of life.

One served aboard a Navy destroyer during the Vietnam War. When his house burned this past March, people from the dog park wrapped their arms around him and his family offering help, presence, and compassion without hesitation.

Another is an aeronautical engineer who worked on some of the most advanced aircraft ever built, and who carries his Alabama roots with well-earned pride. The depth and range of his intellect are astonishing.

There are others who are owned by their dogs. A sound engineer. A lighting engineer who toured with internationally known rock stars. A person who did space planning and construction for high-end retail outlets, including Neiman Marcus and whose resemblance to Burl Ives is uncanny. A dear, dear woman whose larger-than-life husband was cruelly taken from her just twenty months ago. A salesperson for a major lumber retailer, a hardcore Dallas Stars fan, (envision Santa Claus about 200 pounds lighter) married to a wife classically trained as a singer and musician. Another who works security for school districts and private companies, and who has trained his dog for those very same protective tasks. There is a married couple—he a brilliant PhD in business, she with a rich history of national-level sports activity and a lifetime spent caring for animals of every kind.

And there is an incredible woman who has battled anorexia for more than thirty years—who carries that struggle every single day, and yet brings resolve, wisdom, and quiet reminders of perseverance simply by showing up.

All of these individuals, of different ages, races, political beliefs, upbringings, and life experiences have inexplicably found themselves drawn to one place.

A dog park.

Drawn there by love for their animals. And in that shared love, they learned to look past their differences … because what united them was so much greater than what could ever divide them.

And so, we took our dog park meetings to a higher level.

First, we met for drinks. Then for dinner. And this Holiday Season, we welcomed the dog park group into our home.

The laughter was constant. The conversations effortless. The warmth unmistakable.

And then came the moment that revealed, without question, just how real, how solid, how deeply bound this community truly is.

On a cold Monday evening in North Texas, unknown to us, strong winds blew open one of our fence gates. We let Beauregarde into the side yard, unaware that his path to freedom had quietly opened.

Ten minutes passed. Perhaps more. Then we realized he wasn’t in the house. A quick search outside revealed the open gate—and the awful certainty that he was gone.

We live in a dense residential area. Texas Department of Transportation records indicate over thirty thousand (30,000) cars pass through nearby streets every day! Coyotes and bobcats roam nearby creek beds.

In short, it was a recipe for disaster.

We jumped into the car, driving frantically through the neighborhood, calling his name, scanning every shadow and street corner. And then it struck me …  The dog park people have a group text.

A frantic message went out explaining that Beauregarde had escaped and was missing.

What happened next overwhelmed me.

Instantly, messages poured in. How can we help? Where are you? We’re on our way.

Three people who lived closest to us immediately left their homes, getting in their cars, driving the neighborhood, or heading straight to our house.

And then less than ten minutes after the message was sent, a miracle appeared on my phone:

“I found him. I have Beauregarde.”

The woman who has fought anorexia for decades. The woman who has worked with horses and animals her entire life. The woman raised in Siberia, South Africa, and beyond, had found our wood-headed dog walking down the middle of a busy street.

When she called to him, he came to her immediately. And nothing could have been more symbolic than that reclamation of a lost loved one.

As I raced home for the reunion, a wave of relief and gratitude washed over me so powerful it was almost physical.

Soon after, one person from the dog park arrived at our house. Then another. And Beauregarde greeted each person with unrestrained joy—jumping, wagging, recognizing his people.

These were people who left their warm homes on a cold night. Who stepped away from their own lives to search for a dog. Who came without being asked, knowing full well the search might be fruitless.

They came because of community. Representing the very best in life.

We have so many differences. And yet none of that mattered. And it never has.

Because we were bound by something far greater than our differences. Something deeper than ideology or background or belief. Something strong enough to cut through despair and fear.

Perhaps that is where the answers lie.

Not in our differences.

But in embracing that which we share. In honoring our common humanity. In choosing love … again and again.

That night, we shared something sacred.

We shared our love.

We shared our community.

The Quiet Blessings of Thanksgiving

In the past, the days leading up to and including Thanksgiving Day used to be both simple and yet complex. For my family, it was an annual event when siblings and family would fly to Dallas. The numerous trips to the airport. Every bedroom being filled.

On Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving as the turkey was being brined, we would frequent a local Mexican food restaurant. Sometimes as many as 16 or more. There were times when I simply looked around at this family with love, with wonder, with puzzlement … this wacky, dysfunctional, mostly loving family. And yet looking back now, I realize that I never had a true understanding of the magic and wonder of “family.”

Thanksgiving Day would see my much more athletic brother run in the local Turkey Trot. An event my son, daughter and I participated in once as well. And then returning home to start the cooking, and drinking, and football.

Thanksgiving is so much about our senses … tasting, feeling, listening and particularly smelling incredible aromas.  The turkey roasting, homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and all sorts of other food to fill the stomach and satisfy all senses. Fragrant candles lit in each room.

There would be full plates and loud rooms, mismatched chairs pulled from every corner of the house, the laughter of children rising above the noise like a bright ribbon in the air. At times, Morgan’s laugh being the loudest of all.

And then … as this message was channeling through me, I was distracted and then intrigued by the squealing laughter of children outside. I walked outside and saw 5 – 6 children playing in a small front yard about 3 houses away. This was surprising since the neighborhood I inhabit consists of many, many blue hairs, elderly people … geezers if you will. Nonetheless, the children’s sweet, innocent laughter rang loud and joyous. And it reminded me of that which once was.

Now, nine years have passed since anorexia took Morgan from us, and for me, the holiday will never be simple again.

Yet, with time, grief evolves and has its own way of teaching a person how to see … how to look beyond absence and despair and perhaps, if you’re lucky enough, to discover the blessings that remain, even when they come wrapped in sorrow.

Some people say time heals. I don’t believe that. Time doesn’t heal; what it does is carve space. In that space, memory begins to settle gently instead of cutting sharply. I no longer remember only the hospital rooms, the fear, the battles we lost all passing as if in slow motion. I am blessed to be able to still distinctly remember Morgan’s humor, her stubborn streak, her compassion for every stray creature that crossed her path. I remember her kindness … and that is a blessing.

Memory is what lets me keep being her daddy, long after the world perhaps stopped seeing me as one.

After Morgan’s death, I immersed myself in the eating disorder community. I needed to understand. I thought my assistance would be welcomed. I needed to make sure that no other parent stood where I now stood, at the quiet cliff edge of the unthinkable.

Throughout my journeys, I have met brave parents, resilient survivors, clinicians who cared with their whole hearts, and advocates who fought every day against the silence that kills. People who have inspired me. And humbled me with their intelligence and grace. These people became my extended family. Their courage is a blessing I name out loud.

But to be honest, and Thanksgiving is a time for honesty, there is another side. A side that overwhelms me still. The corruption, the unchecked egos, the nonprofit politics, the professional turf wars, the bizarre stupidity that leaves vulnerable people without the care they desperately need. After nearly a decade in this world, I have seen how dysfunction can metastasize around suffering, how institutions can forget the very people they were created to serve.

Sometimes it feels like trying to clean the ocean with a teaspoon.

And yet, these hard lessons too, teach gratitude. Because it reminds me why I stay. It reminds me that my daughter’s life deserves more than resignation. It reminds me that the brokenness of a system does not erase the goodness of individuals. It reminds me that meaningful change, even when slow, is still possible. And that hope, no matter how bruised, is still a blessing.

Grief gave me a mission I never asked for. No parent should ever have to become an expert in eating disorders because their child died from one. But here I am. And on my best days, I believe that purpose is a gift … and a blessing.

I have learned to speak loudly for those who are silenced by shame. I have learned to ask hard questions, even when the answers are inconvenient for people in power. I have written articles with a tone that is off putting. I have made dear friends. And others have made themselves staunch enemies. That alone has surprised me. After all, aren’t we all working toward the same goal?

Valuable lessons are learned each day. One of the most important lessons I learned is that love can outlive a child, not because it replaces them, but because it honors them.

Every time a family finds help, every time a young person reaches recovery, every time someone feels less alone because of something I may have shared or that Morgan provided to them … this is my daughter’s legacy. These are her blessings.

There is an empty chair at my Thanksgiving table. It will always be empty. But every year, that space teaches me something new.

It teaches me tenderness. It teaches me to pay attention to the fragile, invisible battles others carry. It teaches me that gratitude does not require a life without heartbreak; it only asks that we keep our hearts open anyway.

Some years, that feels possible. Some years, it doesn’t. But the blessing is in the trying.

If I could give thanks for only one thing, it would be love. I am grateful that love is not undone by death. I am grateful that being Morgan’s daddy did not end the day she took her last breath. I am grateful that grief, painful as it is, is simply love in its most honest form.

This Thanksgiving, I give thanks for my daughter’s life, for those young people she helped, for the people fighting the good fight in a broken system, for the parents who keep going, for the survivors who refuse to be defined by their illness, and for the unseen blessings that rise from sorrow like morning light after a long night.

Nine years later, the gratitude is softer. More complicated. More real.

But it is there. And that, too, is a blessing.

Ashes Set Free

We live in a society of rules. Rules for seemingly everything. In 1925, Texas passed a law stating it was illegal to milk another person’s cow. In 1937, Minnesota passed a law prohibiting women from dressing up on public streets as Santa Claus. In 1961, Gainesville, Georgia passed an ordinance stating it was illegal to eat fried chicken with a fork. In Oklahoma, it is technically illegal to cuss in public places, in the presence of a female, or around children under the age of 10. [Which if enforced, would result in a reduction of the average Oklahoman’s verbal communications by 65%.]

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that various international, national, state and local laws exist regulating the spreading of a loved one’s ashes. It should also come as no surprise that there is a cottage industry of corporations who for a shiny dime, will plan, assist and guide you through the spreading of your loved one’s ashes.

I can only imagine Little Johnny, the Ash Scatterer in first grade. When his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, Little Johnny enthusiastically responded, “I wanna grow up and help spread my Grandpa’s ashes around the Back 40!”

In the United States, traditional burials are slowly being replaced by cremation and alternative burial or ash-scattering services. According to the 2020 NFDA Cremation & Burial Report, the cremation rate was 56%, surpassing the burial rate of only 37.5%. Cost is certainly one factor. The freedom to release the remnants of your loved one in special places, places of meaning, of meditation, of places which bring peace and comfort are certainly other reasons.

Scattering your loved one’s ashes can elicit deep emotions. In the best of circumstances this act can renew your spirit, strengthen your resolve, be a bold, ever-growing bond and a reminder of your loved one. Ashes are the last, tangible vestige of their physical presence. To leave them in places where your loved one wanted to go, or talked about, or where you had incredible shared experiences, more closely binds your souls together.

For those who know me even in passing, it should come as no surprise that I did not look up nor even consider any laws passed by international, national, state or local governments which would prohibit me from spreading the ashes of my beloved daughter, Morgan.

Morgan is now offshore near Tahiti. She became one with the Grand Canal in Venice, Italy. She is in Washington, D.C. She is a part of a peaceful brook in Kyoto, Japan. She is in the end zone of the Cotton Bowl where she and I enjoyed a number of Texas – ou rivalry games together. Off the coast of Cabo San Lucas. Joined with a shipwreck off Barbados.

And now, part of San Francisco Bay having become one with the water in Sausalito.

Morgan being Morgan of course had to have the last laugh. As I was remembering her, her laughter, her intelligence and yes, her pain, I slowly opened the small container. As she was becoming one with the water, a sudden burst of wind came up and part of her was blown back toward me! Really Morgan? Really? What the actual blue hell?

Well, that was unexpected! The solemnity of the moment being interrupted by the absurdity of wanting perfection.

Afterwards, we slowly walked down the rocky shoreline. About 10 minutes later a local fisherman hooked what appeared to be a large fish. We watched with fascination the on-going struggle. His helper grabbed a large net and when the catch materialized, it was a Stingray! About a 4-foot-wide Stingray! It wasn’t until I returned home that the timing and symbolism of this event was made clear.

Some people believe Stingrays, with their graceful underwater movements represent adaptability and inspire people to navigate life’s difficult currents. They stand for emotional harmony and the significance of preserving inner peace even in choppy waters.

Stingrays are perceptive animals that exhort us to believe in our gut feelings and inner wisdom. They teach us how to approach life’s challenges with poise as they move with grace and finesse. Aren’t those lessons universal? Certainly, I have attempted to learn some of them through Morgan, reading her journals and remembering her strength and struggles.

Poise. Grace. Finesse. Inner peace. Harmony. So easy to write. So difficult to find and embrace. So elusive. We all desire peace and harmony.

And yet, a harsh reality which frightens so many is that sometimes going to war is the only way to find and obtain those elusive qualities of peace and serenity.

But those qualities are present. Surrounding us. Within our grasp. Sometimes, it takes an Ai generated song to remind us of that which gives us strength. And hope. And resolve.

https://suno.com/s/gr86nC62zW2wJ3Mr

Deadly Heart Conditions and Grandbabies … like Peas and Carrots

For Christians, especially the 1.4 billion Catholics across the globe, Easter weekend is the epitome of the Circle of Life.

Christ dying on the cross on Good Friday. T.S. Elliott once wrote, “The dripping blood our only drink; The bloody flesh our only food; In spite of which we like to think that we are sound, substantial flesh and blood — Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.”

With that backdrop, two days later, we rejoice His resurrection.  Craig D. Lounsbrough wrote, “Easter is a time when God turned the inevitability of death into the invincibility of life.”

The Circle of Life.  This year, made even more poignant with the passing of Pope Francis just mere hours after Easter Sunday passed.

Life and Death. Light and Darkness. Hope and Despair. All inextricably linked.

For me this past weekend, the bittersweet reality and memories of tragic events four years ago reared its head once again. And was made manifest in the present.

But first, we must flash back four years ago.

On the evening of November 6, 2020, my son Hanford advised me that he and his wife were on the way to the hospital. The same hospital in which both my beloved daughter and loving father breathed their last. But this time it would be different. This time, new life awaited!

At 7:42 a.m. the next morning, I received a Facetime message.  I immediately see the smiling face of my son, Hanford, the exhausted but glowing face of his incredible bride, Rebeca, and … the hope and promise of a better world in Riley Emily Dunn. Born just six (6) minutes before. Tears fill my eyes as I watch the parents so filled with love that they can barely communicate holding the miracle they brought into the world. And for a moment in time, that huge hole that exists within my heart felt a little smaller.

But, that was to be short lived.

Sunday evening, November 8, 2020, about 8:00 p.m., I was told that my older brother, Chuck, an American Airlines pilot, adventurer and the picture of health, was being rushed to a hospital. Whether it was a heart attack, a heart aneurism, or severe stroke, we did not know at the time. 

And so, the very first time I held my granddaughter in my arms, I had to tell my son that my brother’s life was essentially over … that I was flying to Florida the next day to tell the medical professionals to end the procedures keeping his heart pumping.

The seconds of your life tick away. Endlessly. The sands of time pouring through an hourglass. Which may cause one to wonder how many grains of sand are left.

Afterwards, we tried to go back to our daily lives …while we picked up the pieces from the carnage that death had taken. At year’s end, we tried to believe the worst was behind us. We tried. And before 2021 was even one week old, the spectre of Death tried to revisit us, mocking us, grimly laughing at us, taunting us with, “Hold My Beer.”

Almost two months to the day when I got that phone call from my older brother’s now widow, on Tuesday January 5, 2021, I received a call from the wife of my younger brother, James. His wife called to tell me that, “Jim has had a massive heart attack. He’s in the hospital in surgery right now.”

So, yes, my younger brother, almost 2 months to the day my older brother died of a heart condition, had a major heart attack known as “the widowmaker.” I was told he had 100% blockage in one heart ventricle.

But survive he did.

Which brings us to the present.

Once again, my son and his wife were expecting their second child.  A boy. My first grandson. His due date was supposed to be around April 12. The joy! The expectation. Even though they shot down my suggestions for names. I could not understand why they did not think that “Worthington Winthorp” was not a good name.

Now young Logan (the name they chose) was becoming the size of a Mack truck.  So, a C-section was scheduled for April 7. The birth went without a hitch. 9 lb. 12 oz, 21 ½ inches long.  Welcome to the world Logan!

And then once again, the macabre hand of fate intervened.

My younger brother James was scheduled to fly to Croatia to meet his daughter, Avery.  Avery is taking a gap year going on a global adventure. But a day or two before he was supposed to go, on Wednesday, April 16, 2025, James began to feel a stronger fluttering of his heart.  The prior two weeks, he had worn a heart monitor as medical professionals tried to learn more about his health. So, on that Wednesday, he cancelled his trip and set up an appointment with his heart specialist.

On Good Friday, April 18, 2025, he was scheduled to go in to have a stent or balloon inserted to clean out his arteries. But… not so fast my friend. His physical health was far worse than believed.  95% blockage in one artery. 99% in another. Which leads us to … open heart surgery.

Much to his chagrin, the medical professionals would not allow him to leave the hospital. In fact, he was transferred to another hospital so the procedure could be performed.

So, while the Easter Bunny was merrily hop, hop, hopping into our homes, James was in a hospital… waiting. With only time to think.

Open heart surgery, with all of its complications and uncertainties was scheduled for Monday, April 21, 2025.

And so…

As I anxiously awaited the news, I pondered life and death. Light and darkness. Hope and despair. The fates bringing one new, incredible life but at what cost? Would there be the ultimate price to pay? A zero-sum game. Quid pro quo. What cruel joke was this?

In the Game of Thrones series, among the many poignant lines, the following takes place …

So today we tell death … Not today.

The normal 4 hour surgery took only 2 hours. But, it was not his time. Not today. But for another?

Sometimes Death is not to be denied. On that same Monday I was told that the grandmother of Rebeca (my son’s wife), had passed away in her sleep on Easter Sunday. Rebeca’s last grandparent.

So as we remain thankful for life, we remember those who have transitioned to their next stage of existence.

My brother’s recovery will be long and difficult.  But there is life.  The life that flows through my brother and my grandson, Logan. The life that flows through me. The life that flows through all of us.

Life … Light … Hope.

That is a future worth embracing.

Merry Christmas Daddy.

Christmas… the Holidays… the joys of the Season. That time of the year when we draw closer to family. When we remember and embrace the very first Christmas gift given to us … Love.

A parent’s love. Pure as the first snows of Christmas. For God so loved His children that He sent His Son, that someday we might return to Him.

And yet culturally, and as a society, we seem to be distancing from that impactful message.

Cynicism, self-absorption, greed and tribalism seem to be the primary motivational and identification factors of our society. We identify by whatever political party we voted for. And we shun those who voted for someone else. In our fear and ignorance, we only want to hear those voices which agree with our own opinions.

We are subjected to an endless stream of new Hallmark movies every year. Movies which usually involve a career driven person in a large city going home to their small town to save a hotel, or Christmas tree farm or small business. And, while doing so, reconnecting with the first love of their life. But, that is not real life.  That is not reality. Especially during these holiday times.

The Holidays are a time for families. A time to celebrate with loved ones. A time to remember those whom we have lost. A time to reflect on the past year. And a time to look boldly ahead.

However, for parents like me, we feel the loss, the anguish, the grief caused when a beloved child is taken from us. That grief is so much more acute at this time of the year. Further, that grief can rear its head in unexpected and unforeseen ways.

In the holiday comedy movie, The Family Stone, the story of a dysfunctional but loving family is told in humorous ways even as difficult, heart rendering topics are addressed. Then, one brief scene happens. It seems almost like a throw away interaction between two characters. Late on Christmas Eve, one of the daughters, the pregnant daughter, is sitting on a couch, her sister asleep on her lap, Judy Garland’s version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas is playing on the television. The lights are turned down low, the lights on the Christmas tree in the background.  The father, who is carrying the weight of an incredibly heavy burden walks past, looks upon his daughter and lovingly says, “Good night, Susannah. Merry Christmas.” Susannah looks at her father and with obvious love in her eyes simply says, “Merry Christmas Daddy.”

That is when the dagger is pushed into the heart. Knowing that I, and many other fathers like me, will never hear those words again from our daughter. It freezes our soul. And we die just a little inside each time.

And yet, we cannot let that grief become our masters. We cannot let it define us until the end of our days. Yes, we must acknowledge that grief exists and always will. But we must find ways of persevering. Of finding strength and character to continue with our life’s journey. And often times that strength and resiliency is brought to us as a present … as a gift.

In 2018, it was a 10 year old boy. I wrote about this incredible soul:

https://dadsjourneywithed.blogspot.com/2017/12/and-sometimes-angel-appears.html

That is the story of a 10 year old boy with an incurable disease and only a short few months to live. That day two firetrucks, along with many firefighters, appeared in front of my apartment building. As I looked at this boy, who knew his time was going to be short, he was so animated! He was laughing, waving his arms, putting the fireman’s helmet on, he worked the siren, and a joy, a sweet, innocent wonder just emanated from him.  

All I could do was stand there and look at him.  His hair neatly combed, his face absolutely glowing.  His smile was this incredible, pure expression of the joy and love that surely must have been in his heart.  There were about 6 firemen around him … most had tears in their eyes and tried to look away so the boy would not see that. And in that boy’s presence… you could feel a divinity at work. And that boy allowed me to keep my grief at bay.

This year again, I was feeling the sting of loss particularly deeply. Frustration, dejection. I also knew I could not actively seek out inspiration and redemption with the naïve hope that I would find those attributes. Those blessings have to come to you. And I had lost hope that those blessings would find me and lift me from my despair.

I should have had more faith.

On one of my social media pages, The Book of Faces, an extensive thread appeared. It was started by a friend from a number of years ago, a friend and her husband with whom I had lost touch.

https://www.facebook.com/amey.b.strothers

There are 37 photos in this thread. And the topic? Her battle against cancer over the course of the past 14 months or so. And the photos were so open, so graphic. Photos which brought to life their journey. Photos of her hair (and his) being shaved and them lovingly touching their bald heads together. Her sitting through chemo treatments.

Photos of them at various hospitals. Her smiling, laughing, crying and… persevering.

Then, when you read her words about this journey.  A journey she brings to life as she lays bare her emotions. Overwhelming fear. Hurt. Anger. And then? Resiliency. Courage. Love. Belief. Strength. And Faith. Faith in her God. Faith in all around her.

And now, the doctors report her to be cancer free. I can only imagine that life must seem so incredibly new for her. That she feels reborn. That she feels free, unshackled from the burden of fear, of her own mortality.

From her incredible words, from those stirring photos we can find … inspiration. We can find love. We can find faith. We can find … a renewed purpose at Christmas.

Amey and Richard. You may not have known it at the time but you have brought to the world an incredible Christmas gift and allowed it to be shared. You manifested the very meaning of the first Christmas gift given to us. In addition, you have given us hope.

Hope, faith and love.

Thank you. Thank you for making me feel renewed inspiration and strength to persevere.

Merry Christmas.

Father’s Day and Tribes

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

A day upon which we remember, and hopefully honor our fathers. To acknowledge their lives and their contributions to our lives. To thank them for the indelible bond they formed with us when we were children.

Fathers are our first role model.  And by that, it could mean a very good, productive, strong role model.  Or possibly … not.

Many times, our path in life is initially shaped by our fathers. This could include our chosen profession. Our outlook on love, happiness and life. Ideally, we learn how to treat and honor our future partners by observing how our father interacted and engaged with our mother.

Many times, our views on education, on work ethic, on morality, on our leisure activities are shaped by our fathers. They support us when we are down. They share in our victories and our sorrows. Being the disciplinarian when needed. And perhaps, teaching us that life is hard. That we will fail early and often. But failing is not the important thing. So long as we embrace the need to pick ourselves up after each fall, learn from it, and use that to become wiser and bolder.

Collaboration and shared parenting with our mothers cannot be understated in terms of importance. From each, we learn something different. Something important.  And without that shared perspective on life, so too our own views on life can be rendered incomplete, or biased, or less enlightened and evolved.

In fact, the evidence is overwhelming … children are more likely to thrive— behaviorally and academically, and ultimately in the labor market and adult life—if they grow up with the advantages of a two-parent home. Numerous academic studies confirm that children raised in married parent homes are less likely to get in trouble in school or with the law; they are more likely to graduate high school and college; they are more likely to have higher income and be married themselves as adults. Research suggests that boys are especially disadvantaged by the absence of dads from their homes. These facts are indisputable.

And doesn’t that pertain to everything in life? A balance in friends, in work colleagues, in associates? Differing, yet intelligent views being debated respectfully. Being open to the endless possibilities in life that are before us. Without that diversity of thought, that diversity of wisdom, the views and perspectives that our dads brought to us, views very different than that brought by our mothers, we are incomplete. We are more likely to settle back into the comfort of those who think exactly like us, act like we do, have the same viewpoints and outlook on all issues. We become tribal.

It is inevitable that one of two manifestations occur in a tribe. One, we become complacent and lazy in our thinking and exploration. We only look for circumstances which support our tribe’s beliefs. After all, we are safe within our tribe. We do not need to expand our horizons. The group mentality predominates. We are correct on all issues within our tribe. 

The second manifestation is we become warlike. Because we are right, because we believe we are just, because we believe our tribe is all powerful, because we believe our views are the absolute best for society, we must impose our views on society as a whole. After all, it is for the common good. Our tribe knows best. And society WILL comply with our views.

This is particularly true in the eating disorder community and its tribe. Now make no mistake, these are two very different groups of people.

The eating disorder community consists of those families, husbands, wives, dads, moms, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters … people who are struggling with eating disorders. Those who are doing the suffering, the living and the dying.

But what constitutes the eating disorder community tribe? This tribe largely consists of women who tend to be politically and socially very far left; extremist in their disregard of medical sciences and related objective standards and criteria; wishing to enforce their view of centering persons based on the color of their skin or the larger product of mass and gravitational force applied instead of prioritizing those who are the most gravely ill; spewing forth their ideological blather regardless of accuracy and integrity knowing that the likelihood of adverse repercussions for their misconduct and irrational belief system is inconsequential.

As for dads and this eating disorder community tribe, observation and experience teach us that for the most part, dads are verboten … not welcome. Routinely dads are ostracized, forsaken, ignored, pushed aside, back stabbed. Unless of course that dad kowtows to the tribe’s uncompromising extremist views and meekly complies with the tribe’s dictates.

I could, once again, set forth the overwhelming facts and statistics supporting this opinion, as I did in this past article:

https://adadsjourneywitheatingdisorders.home.blog/2019/08/05/mobilize-the-marginalized-members/

But what would be the point? Again, those are simply statistics, facts, reason and logic. But the eating disorder tribe does not base its mania upon facts, reason and logic. Its mania embraces over the top emotionalism and self-loathing. Instead of debating and discussing complex biological, genetic and societal structures and proposing workable solutions, the tribe simply slaps a label on an issue, lifts high their pitchforks and burning torches and declares victory.

And the eating disorder community is worse off for that.

In the second part of this missive, we will look at the ramifications on eating disorders which have resulted from the attitudes and misconduct of the eating disorder community tribe. It is likely to not be pretty especially since we will look at facts, logic and reason.

But never forget, we dads persevere. We have resolve and resiliency. Yes, at times and ok, more often than not, we need direction. But we undertake tasks with passion, strength and determination.

Up until now, the eating disorder community tribe has acted with impunity, without interference or push back from dads. No longer.

That needs to end. For the sake of all.