Who We Are

For some reason, my father chose to move into a house, on the North West side of Oklahoma City. As memories of the house are recalled, my Mother will say the move was motivated by his want to be as far away from her side of the family as possible. Built in the 1940's, I remember walking through the house after we closed, I'm four or five, and believing every part was absolutely magical. I do not think I had ever seen an attic before. Dad will renovate, nearly the entire property, but my favorite parts remain the spaces that were a bit sketchy. Mom let us roller-blade in the house and as you went from one end to the other, a significant slant downwards would give you a good amount of momentum. The living room had a beautiful, huge, double pane window, that would fill up with water, like a fish tank, when we got rain.    There was a large mulberry tree in the backyard, under a wood fort we would make mud pies with miniature wild onions, even though we were only minutes from dow...

The next few days are a blur and I lean fully on the support from friends and family as I navigate a PTSD response I had no idea I would experience. Nightmares, leg spasms and a constant nausea are just a few of the symptoms that bombard me. The fifth day, after my television interview, I finally have a breakdown and my Husband takes the kids with him to go stay with his Dad. My dear friend Marti comes to stay with me and forces me to leave the house for the first time in almost a week. We drive to a local lake and she takes me to the dam where we stand and she tells me to breathe and let go. I watch the water pumping fiercely through the dam and I feel a release deep in my core. A strong feeling of warmth overwhelms me, and a small voice reminds me, I must press on.        I sleep better that night but still wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. I feel like I’m suffocating and have to rush out the door of my bedroom onto my pati...

Six years ago, I listened to a doctor tell me my baby had hydrops. But, I didn’t know what that meant really.   It meant that a writhing 48 hours later we would lose our little girl. I was seven months pregnant.  My niece and I were one week apart with our babies. I had friends who were pregnant with me.  It was my first pregnancy, and I had no idea what was happening.  So, when there were problems or differences, I just thought, I will deal with it and fix them, like I always do. There was no fixing her. The onset of knowledge of the additional fluid and the loss of Camille was ten days apart. Ten days of tragic loss, coupled with a rebounding life, when we thought she just had Down Syndrome. She would be fine and we would love her and help her live her best life.  God had other plans. She would have struggled; requiring two surgeries immediately after birth. Her tummy and her heart. I had to beg a specialist doctor to see me and ...

I am so brave as I sit in front of the camera crew; about to describe a sexual assault that happened to me, at the hands of Grant Pankratz, almost twenty years ago.  Leaning on my years of dance and theater training I feel no shyness as the cameraman adjusts my microphone and when the journalist asks me how I feel, I can honestly answer that I feel just fine. How bizarre it is to finally be speaking about something that is still so visceral. I can take my mind back, easily, to the exact moment it happened and replay it like a favorite television show and yet is so secret I have never even told my husband. I get through the interview easily with little emotion and do not feel at all overwhelmed; even after everyone at the filming tells me I absolutely must file a police report, before the story airs the next evening on the ten o’ clock news.                      As I drive away from the filming location I realize what ...

After failing my written Learner's Permit test, sadly, three times I was finally granted an official driver's license. I was not over the moon or patting myself on the back for reaching any sort of finish line. I was much higher on the eye roll vibe than any sort of grateful attitude for meeting this moment. My Father is an over-the-road truck driver at this time; I had been driving their stick shift Honda Accord since I was eight. Learning to navigate this said stick shift started as many others had done, on a dirt road in Dover, Oklahoma. On the North side of Route One my Grandma Ruth's house had played host to many before me, cutting their teeth driving, while at the same time waving "Hi" to fellow country dwellers as paths crossed. My understanding of myself then, much as it is now, is tough. I did not give much attention to the Permit test, as I had been driving for years. Only nervous as I backed out of her driveway, as it was bookended with two ditches, and...