I haven't always been one to make decisions. In fact, I would say that I've spent most of my life being completely and utterly wishy-washy. It was never about having opinions…it was about the abject fear that I would make the wrong choice.

My behavior changed sometime during my late 20s. I couldn't tell you the catalyst for sure, as the second half of my last decade was like a remodeling project that just wouldn't end. I'm hardly even the same person!

But irony strikes again: I married a waffler.

I am suddenly in the position where I want to violently shake him until a decision falls out. How quickly I forget that I used to be THAT person. Instead, total frustration blinds me.I am not talking about big decisions, obviously. You should spend considerable time deciding on a new life direction, but you can probably flip a coin between Ruffles and Lays without the world ending.

Time is weighted differently in my new perception of life. I would much rather live with a decision that could have been better than waste months trying to figure out what to do. I guarantee that your guest doesn't spend time thinking of the Lays while he stuffs his face with the Ruffles, but those long moments of uncertainty in the snack food aisle are lost to you forever.

Nick has been looking for a new pair of winter boots for months. He has found several that fit the bill, but he has yet to buy any of them. It's like those brides who try on too many dresses and suddenly none of them look right: he's in winter boot overload. He has been asking my opinion on this pair or that as he conducts his extensive online research. I gave him decent feedback in the beginning.

I say decent because I really don't have any sort of opinion on what he puts on his feet. Yet, I gave him my thoughts as if I would be given the credit or blame for his foot wardrobe. Heading into month two of the research, I started giving him a simple thumbs up or thumbs down depending on which one I gave him for the last product he showed me. I threatened him a few hours ago that one day I would just come home with a pair of boots and HE WILL WEAR THEM—even if they're the wrong size…that's just the price you have to pay for not making your own decisions.

This all boiled to the surface today over a series of text messages with my cousin. She sends me a picture of a bare spot in her apartment and asks what she should buy to make that space feel complete. I tell her a bench with storage would be aesthetically pleasing and practical: two birds, one stone. She loves the idea of a bench. Where can she buy an inexpensive bench with storage she wants to know. I confer with Google, and we find the perfect seller.

Upon sending a picture from bench-people's website, she falls head over heels in love with one of their products. I mean, it's almost indecent how much passion she has for this bench. She thinks it's perfect, just perfect. Even better: it's within budget! She confesses that she wasn't thinking of a bench, but now she sees only THAT bench in her empty space. Michelle and the bench sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G…

"Good deal. Are you shopping today? Do you want company?" I question in reply. She does want company, but…only…is this the right choice? She reneges, backtracks. Maybe there is something better out there…maybe…maybe…maybe…

"Oh no," I thought sadly. Et tu Brute?

Reading my silence correctly, she writes, "I need help making decisions. You're THE DECIDER! We're so lucky to have you!" She's just lucky that in my Laura 2.0 revamp I haven't shaken my weakness to flattery. Watch out for 3.0 though—you're not going to want to mess with her.

Meanwhile, I may decide to use "The Decider" as my wrestling stage name: "Meek and Moody" isn't putting the fear in anyone's eyes.

I started the year marrying a man with the most beautiful heart I have ever seen.

I have learned a new life with him over the past six years. Oh, he can irritate me to tears…but he is also selfless. He moves Heaven and Earth to make me smile, even when I'm determined not to. He often comes through the door with shopping bags from one of his excursions saying, "How much does Nick love Laura!?" It's just how he thinks. He wants me to feel special…loved, always loved. I am fortunate that he was right there waiting for me when I least expected to find anyone there.

He helped me live out a fantasy in June when we went to Las Vegas to see Paul McCartney in concert. Even though we were two tourists having fun together, I know we went there because he knew that it would make me absurdly happy to see my favorite musician of all time perform live. (And it most certainly did!)

I grew close to my cousin again this year. We were best friends as children, but we grew apart. I think we're finally in the same phase of our lives at the same time, and it has been a salve to my heart to have that connection back. I was particularly glad to have her around when I found out that I needed a hysterectomy.

Every time it made me emotional, I scolded myself—almost cruelly. Snap out of it. It's not like I can have children anyway, so what's my problem? Stop being weak, Laura. Just STOP IT: somebody is going to see if you don't. Then I would put the mask back on and appear catatonic to life as it happened around me. She saw straight through my smokescreen and validated my darkest feelings…giving me a safe place to acknowledge them…making me acknowledge them.

I spent July recovering from surgery. My medical leave gave both my body and my mind time to heal. I started blogging more regularly again during that time because I finally recognized how I needed writing to help me connect the dots when answers aren't obvious. I feel more like myself than I have in years.

I will forget that I had to use my first sick day since 2006 because Nick gave me an awful cold after we returned from Florida in January. I will forget that the last installment of the Harry Potter movie franchise came to theaters. I will forget how I nearly died when I cut my thumb with that apple slicer. I will forget turning the spare bedroom into a closet. I will probably even forget that I turned 30 years old in 2011.

What I will always remember is the joy I had in finding parts of myself that I thought were lost. The year was golden, and I am happy to greet the next as a good friend who will surprise me, make me laugh, make me cry, and help me love.

The drive to work was treacherous this morning. The roads were deceptively clear, looking dry but randomly blanketed with black ice. We were listening to the news on the radio as we inched along, and we heard a terrible story. A dive team was searching the Rock River for a man who went into the water as the result of a car crash. He witnessed an accident on a bridge and left his vehicle to help a victim from theirs…when he slipped off the bridge and into the icy river. By tonight, the divers were looking to recover his body, for there was no hope left that he would still be alive in those frigid waves.

That man got out of bed this morning, got dressed, and left his home for what was going to be an ordinary day. Maybe he didn't wake his children before he left the house, but he'll be back soon. Maybe he was going to work early because he works whenever he can, but he'll slow down later. Maybe he had a fight with his girlfriend the night before, but he'll make it up to her tonight.

Maybe none of these things are true.

Maybe all of them are…then all the plans he pushed to tomorrow will never come to be. We're not in the habit of embracing mortality: there's always more time.

But actually, there's never enough.

He'll never have another moment with his children. He'll never slow down enough to enjoy life. He'll never be able to comfort his girlfriend in the aftermath of their argument. He's all out of chances, but who knew it would go that way? It was a day that started like any other…ordinary.

How perspective would change if we actually realized that any moment could really be our last…

I sent Nick off to bed as the last hours of Christmas day dwindled; his eyes had grown heavy while he rested on the couch. I was tired too, but I was feeling too anxious to sleep. I decided to watch a movie instead—I have watched very few this year. As The Christmas Shoes began to spin, I positioned the tissues close to my hand.

Now, it's not all that common for a straight-to-DVD movie to be on my scroll of must-sees during the holidays. (It's hard to stand up next to Jimmy Stewart, Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant, and Danny Kaye, after all.) This movie, however, touches a nerve. It's a story based on a song by the same name. A little boy's mother is dying of heart failure, and he wants to buy her shoes to wear once she gets to heaven.

It's sweetly innocent… and heavy (at least it is for me). It probably doesn't help that it was around this time six years ago that I realized that my mother would be leaving. Soon. I dissolve whenever I hear a story about a child losing his or her parents…really, a story about anyone losing someone who they loved. I cannot help but be empathetic to that overwhelming sensation of loneliness, and I cry raw tears—as if it were only yesterday when Mom took her final breath. I don't let myself reside in that place of despair, but the memories of those emotions are vivid and easily summoned.

The movie is incredibly touching, and I don't think anyone is immune to the breadth of emotions it stirs. I seem to get caught on a different part of the goodbye every year. This year, it was her husband telling her that he and their son were going to be fine…that it was okay to go. I remember visiting her in the hospital on January 19, 2006.



My brother and I were in the hall outside her room when one of our aunts came out. With a hand on each of our shoulders, she told us that we needed to tell her to go.

Everybody else had already told her, but she continued to fight against the inevitable…so that left her children. Charlie and I couldn't tell her that day. We hugged each other and cried because we knew we would have to find the strength to lie. We would have to tell her it was okay to go when it really wasn't. It wasn't okay at all. On that day, our tears would have betrayed us and our best attempts.

She came home on a Saturday. Hospice nurses came to our house and made the living room into a makeshift hospital room. We all kept vigil around her, not wanting her to feel alone when she left. On Sunday, my pastor took me and Charlie aside and reiterated that we needed to tell her to go. "She's holding on for you," he said. I remember his eyes shining with unshed tears as he swallowed hard and said, "I wouldn't be able to leave my children either."

She wasn't herself by that stage. She was looking through us as though seeing something that we could not; her eyes did not focus on us as we leaned over her bed. Yet, there were words that everyone said we needed to say…words that felt sharp and jagged in my throat. Charlie went first.

After about three minutes, I heard the door slam from where I sat in the far south-eastern corner of the house. Everything seemed to rattle as my brother ran as fast and as hard as he could away from the house…the room…the bed…her. I was rattled too…by the strength and the violence of his feelings. Stumbling a bit, I made my way to her bedside.

I sat next to her and started talking. She was non-responsive, and I wasn't sure that she could hear me or comprehend what I was saying. Nonetheless, I told her how she inspired me. I told her what her love meant to me. I told her that I wanted to live up to her example. And, on a sob, I told her that I was going to be okay. Suddenly, profoundly, she opened her eyes and pierced me with her gaze. I watched as twin tears gathered in her eyes, and we stared at each other for several seconds. I saw the question in her eyes. Will you really be okay? they asked. Slowly I nodded, realizing only at that second that it was true.

Then the moment was over. Her eyes closed, her head lolled to the side again, and her clenched fist loosened. I kissed her cheek and felt my heart break.



These images replayed in my mind as I watched that scene last night. When the story ended, my tears had not, so I watched the scene again (and again and again) until I was finally spent. I went up to bed feeling lighter and less burdened. For once, I fell into sleep immediately and did not wake for almost seven hours. I can't remember the last time I slept so easily or for so long. I have so many hurts that still need to be soothed…but I keep forgetting that they are there. How many memories have I put on a shelf to deal with when I felt less vulnerable?

The cry felt good…cleansing…and afterward, love filled the void where the grief had been.

Today is the last day of work before my company closes for the holiday; I only had to work until 11:30. I was awesomely productive with desk work until 10:00 when I had a meeting scheduled. Of all my project teams, I was meeting with my favorite. We've worked together on our project for about two years now, and we have all become good friends. Our conversations steered away from our agenda almost immediately.

Karen started talking about her dog…her dog Max who goes to doggie day care every day. Apparently they gave him "dog nog" the other day (which I had never heard of but Google says it exists). Before I consulted with Google, I challenged the existence of the eggnog for dogs. Mona piped in that she's heard of it, but some dogs are allergic.

Karen:
"Yeah, some dogs are sensitive to the whey…"

Mona:
"Isn't whey in a lot of dog food too?" Karen nodded.

Karen (softly, almost singing):
"…eating her curds and whey!"

Mona:
"Hah! Yeah! Curds and whey!"

Then "whey" became a funny word for some reason, and Patty and Becky started to have an entire conversation using only that word and varied intonation.

Patty:
"Whey?"

Becky:
"Whey!"

Me (distracted by an email I was answering):
"I don't like spiders."

Now, I thought this was perfectly in line with the conversation because they were talking about Little Miss Muffet, weren't they? And didn't a spider come along and scare her away? Well, it would have scared me away too, and that's reason enough to dislike spiders.

But apparently, they were not thinking of what scared Little Miss Muffet or Little Miss Muffet at all. They thought I was suffering some sort of psychotic break: why else would I randomly confess my dislike for spiders? The room was suddenly engulfed with laughter—and not just any laughter, but the kind of laughter that reduces you to tears and that you just can't snap out of…the contagious kind that goes on long after the subject is forgotten.

Me (focused now and speaking in my best bored monotone):
"'Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a SPIDER who sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away.' You know, you really shouldn't put someone down just because their brain works better than yours."

I went back to my email before Karen started talking to me through hiccuping starts and stops.

Karen:
"You're just like my husband. We were watching TV one night and he just up and says, 'I hate snakes.'"

Mona:
"Can you imagine the conversation? She'd say, 'I don't like spiders.' He'd say, 'I hate snakes.' One of them would say, 'Will you be my friend?'"

Though I have no proof, I am sure that Karen's husband was making perfect sense at the time. I bet he'd be an awesome friend who wouldn't mistake my brilliance for idiocy like everyone else seems to!