family

All True, All At Once

/ Lori McLeese / 1 Comment

The crying is more intense, yet shorter in duration. Once Mom recognizes me as me, she starts shaking and crying, sobbing, “My baby, my baby.” I hug her and hold her tight and murmur, “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay.” This display of emotion lasts for about 30 seconds, and then she pulls back, her hazel eyes staring up into my brown ones, her gripping my shoulders, and very seriously she says, “Is it okay? Can we go?” I nod and she says, “Really? Really?” I nod again. Her whole demeanor changes when we’re getting ready to go out (which at this time of the year involves two layers of pants, three layers of tops, a heavy coat, scarf, hat, mittens and earmuffs). She is transformed from a zombie, wandering around aimlessly and staring into space, to an excited 81 year old lady. Conflicting emotions arise in me, all of which are true, all at once. I love seeing her happy, even if just for a brief moment. I wonder (again. Again, again, and again.) if I made the right decision to move her to a facility. Guilt, over the times I’m not there. Thankful for the time we can spend together.

It’s Christmas Eve and all of our regular restaurants are closed. We go to a hip restaurant downtown. As we sit down, I notice how busy it is and make the decision to order an easy appetizer, hummus, so that Mom has something to snack on while our sandwiches are being prepared. Mom is not patient. As soon as we get settled, and she wants to know where our food is. Thankfully, the hummus arrives quickly. The waitress places it in the middle of the table and gives each of us a share plate. Mom pushes the share plate to the side, pulls the hummus platter towards her, and asks me if I’m going to eat. I can only laugh. I tell her my food is coming as she snacks on celery and carrots and pita and hummus. The waitress eyes us quizzically as she sees the platter in front of Mom, but doesn’t say anything. Again, all the conflicting emotions are all true, all at once. Thankful that we are here together. Bemused that she’s forgotten the concept of sharing. Sad that I am now the caretaker and she is the care-ee. Anxious wondering how many more of these moments we’ll have together. And grateful, oh so grateful.

Everything Is So Good

/ Lori McLeese / 2 Comments

“I am so glad you’re here. I have not eaten all day. I am so hungry.”

Mom shares this when I arrive, as soon as she stops crying. When I visit, she’s usually either in her bed, napping, or wandering the halls. Once she recognizes me, she starts shaking and crying, opening her arms wide. As I embrace and calm her, telling her over and over that it’s okay, she says, “I thought you’d never come.” And then tells me she’s starving. I know that she has just eaten, and I don’t mention it. 

We have our routine. Saturday is Campfire Grill. Sunday is Flat Rock Wood Room. Monday is Village Bakery. Chicken strips, pepperoni pizza, Avocado BLT, respectively. Consistency is a blessing. 

It’s Sunday. We split a garden salad. She has trouble using a fork, so she picks up pieces of lettuce with her hands and manipulates them into her mouth. We’re at a point where I state what I want to be true, and she agrees. “This is so delicious.” She nods and says, “So good.” “This is just the best day.” “Best day,” she repeats. “Isn’t it just a beautiful day?” “So pretty,” she echoes. The pizza arrives, and I caution her it’s hot. This does not dissuade her, and after attempts of sawing it with her fork, rubbing the tines back and forth, back and forth, with little luck, she picks it up with her hands. 

After one slice, she declares herself full. I ask for a box and the check and we prepare to leave. 

She carries the pizza box, containing all but two slices of pizza, and I help her navigate her way to the parking lot. I go to open her car door, and she says, “Have we eaten yet? I am so hungry!” 

I laugh and tell her that I have a surprise for her in the car. We buckle in, and I tell her to open the box she is holding. She is delighted with the snack for the ride home. “This is so good!” She exclaims. It is. Everything is so good. 

Saturdays

/ Lori McLeese / 5 Comments

Our Saturdays have a comforting familiarity. Park, ice cream, Hallmark movie. And some days we have interesting tangents. Like today. 

I usually arrive midday. Mom is either in bed, or sitting on the patio staring into space. I step in front of her and call her name, and it takes her a few beats to recognize me. But when she does, it’s the sweetest of sweet feelings. Her eyes light up and she says, “You came!” I know this is a fleeting reaction, and I savor it each Saturday that she still recognizes me. We hug, and I help her get ready for our outing. Sometimes that involves bathing her, sometimes helping her change out of her nightgown, and sometimes reminding her to use the restroom before we depart.

We go to the nearby park, and walk. We used to walk for almost an hour; now our walks are one short loop, about 25 minutes as she slowly, ever so slowly, shuffles. She loves seeing the children playing at the park, and parents are so incredibly generous, encouraging their littles to say hello to Mom. I wish there were a way for me to transmit the eternal gratitude I have for these parents. Thank you for indulging an elderly lady who wants to come close to your child. Thank you for being so incredibly gracious, and encouraging your child to wave or say hello. Thank you for smiling. 

As we finish our walk, I ask Mom if she needs to use the restroom. Usually she says no, and we continue to our next stop, the ice cream parlor. Today, however, she said yes. We walk into the restroom, and she entered the stall. I stand outside the stall, because she doesn’t usually lock the stall, and I don’t want someone to walk in on her. I hear her finish and flush the toilet, and then struggle with the door. Oh, no. She has locked the door. “Mom, can you hear me?” “Yes.” “I want you to slide the silver latch, okay?” Through the narrow crack between the wall and the door, I see she steps back from the door. I reach up over the door and point downwards. “Do you see the latch I’m pointing to?” “Yes.” “Okay, please slide it.” I see her step back and lean against the wall. “Mom?” “Yes.” At this point I kneel on the floor, trying not to gag. My philosophy about public restrooms is to get in and out as quickly as possible. I reach my arm under the door and point up to the latch. “Do you see my hand?” “Yes.” “Okay, touch my hand.” She does. “I want you to move your hand up, up, up, up….” She did, and when she reached the latch, I said, “Okay, now slide the latch.” She stepped back from the door. I wondered what other words I could use to encourage her to slide the latch. I drew a blank. 

I realized I would need to crawl under the door into the stall. I am not a small person. This would mean laying on the floor, of a public bathroom, and shimmying into the stall. I tried not to gag as I laid down on the floor and scootched forward. I inched into the stall and stood up. I slid the latch and Mom said, “Well looka there.” I tried to rid my mind from thinking about what germs were on the bathroom floor. We exited the stall and I helped her wash her hands. 

Mom’s language use has diminished. She’ll start a sentence, and can’t recall the words to express her thoughts. I try to help her, and sometimes it works, and sometimes it makes her more frustrated. Today, when we pulled into the parking lot of the ice cream parlor, she sing-songed, “Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream.” I smiled. I’m so happy that connections are still made.

We returned to her home, and propped up on her bed to watch a Hallmark movie, holding hands with our legs intertwined. Al, her special gentleman friend from across the hall, wandered in. He saw me and smiled. “I wanted to see who was in bed with Sybil!” I laughed, and said it was just me, and he didn’t have any competition. He said he was going home, and would see us later. He ambled across the hall back to his room. 

Vipassana training emphasizes impermanence. The good won’t last forever, and neither will the bad. I try to remember this with each day that I spend with Mom. Don’t get too attached. This is fleeting. And oh my goodness, still how I wish each day could be like this – the recognition, the tenderness, the sweet love. I know it won’t be like this always, and I say a prayer of gratitude. Today was a good day. 

Time Travel

/ Lori McLeese / 5 Comments

Today’s Bloganuary prompt:

If you could, what year would you time travel to and why?

I’d travel back to December 2018, right when Dad was diagnosed with amyloidosis, and we were told he’d likely have 18 months to live (he passed four months later). I’d spend every day with him, talking. We could talk about anything and we’d be happy. In reality, we did talk a lot. Jokes that we had heard, him trying out for a AAA baseball team (and how he never realized his arm could hurt so much after just pitching one day), his journalism career, building the cabin, spirituality, favorite books. But I would do so knowing we only had four months (not 18) and pack as much love as possible into each day.

Confident we were beating the odds

Or, I’d travel back to July 2015. When I met Mom and Dad in Italy for vacation. And we had so much fun exploring markets, eating gelato, visiting museums, and exploring cathedrals. We watched glass blowers in Murano. And bought antique jewelry. And rode gondolas in Venice. That was the summer we recognized the first signs of Alzheimer’s in Mom.

In a gondola in Venice

Maybe I’d travel back to December 2009. I had joined Mom and Dad in Vienna, Austria, to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Each day we walked from Christmas Market to Christmas Market, snow falling gently on us, arm in arm, laughing constantly. There was music everywhere, beautiful string quartets. We ate great food and drank delightful wine. Then we spent Christmas in France with dear friends. It was one of our best vacations together. We were all healthy; we were all happy.

In Paris, celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary

Or maybe I’d travel back to June 1973. We had just moved into our new house in Rural Hall, NC. Dad drove to downtown Winston-Salem each day for work in an old, tattered, dark green Volkswagen Beetle. When it was time for him to return home, I’d walk, often barefoot, through the woods, along the quarter-mile gravel driveway, to wait and watch for him. I’d see the dark green Beetle Bug turn the corner at the end of the street and shimmy towards our driveway. I’d jump up and down, my scrawny arms waving, yelling, “Welcome home!” and he’d stop so that I could get in and ride back down the driveway with him.

And we’d still have a lifetime together.

In Search of a Honky Tonk

/ Lori McLeese / 6 Comments

Whew. It’s been three months (almost) since we moved to the new house. For three months, I’ve felt as though I’ve simply been trying to survive. And I finally feel like I can take a deep breath without threat of an emergency looming.

The first two and a half months were filled with tears. From Mom. Every. Single. Day. The gut-wrenching, sobbing, face-swelling tears. She hated the new house that she had declared we had to move into. She missed Dad. She missed her friends in Winston-Salem. She didn’t think the house was tall enough, and began plans to build a third floor. She hated the yard. As soon as her caretaker would go to the bathroom during the work day, she would sneak into my office, crying hysterically. Her doctor asked me if perhaps she were pulling at my heartstrings. Perhaps?

Even though Mom has Alzheimer’s, and asks me the same question multiple times in a row, I’ve been hesitant to say anything that could be misleading. In my mind I wondered, “What if this were the one time when her memory worked?” I finally realized that reality is fleeting, and it’s better to say what works in the moment rather than what might be considered the absolute truth.

Recently, she’s created the reality that Dad bought this house for us before he died. That this was where he wanted us to be. I’ve nodded and said, “Yes, he thought we’d be happy here.” And I do believe, if there is a heaven, or if there are souls, that he does believe we would be, or that we are, happy here. Thanks, Dad.

Mom and I spend a lot of time on the front porch in rocking chairs. I’ve had to come to terms that it’s okay not to be productive all the time. It’s been a hard lesson to welcome. We spend hours each evening, just sitting and rocking. Sometimes talking. Sometimes being. As we were sitting, she asked me what time it was. Time is confusing for Mom. I told her it was 5:00. She threw her arms up in the air and shouted, “YES!” I was flabbergasted by this response and asked why she was so excited that it was 5:00. She explained, “After 5:00, we’re allowed to go anywhere!” I nodded, wondering why we couldn’t go wherever we wanted before 5:00. She followed up with, “Do you know of any good honky tonks around here?” I stared at my God-fearing, church-going, stricter-than-all-get-out punishing mother in awe.

“I’m not sure I do, Mom. But I suppose we can find one.”

A Perfect Evening at the Lake

/ Lori McLeese / 5 Comments

Mom and I walked around Beaver Lake tonight, in the hour before sunset. She said she liked walking in the evening, that was Dad’s favorite time of day. I don’t know if that was Dad’s favorite time of day or not. And it really doesn’t matter. She tells me a lot of things I know aren’t true, and I listen and nod and smile and say, “I didn’t know that.”

At one point we rounded a bend, and I wanted to cry at how perfect everything was. It was cold, but not too cold. There were others at the lake, but not too many people. The water was still enough to be a mirror for the clouds, and darkness was slowly enveloping us. We stopped. “Look at how calm the water is, Mom. Isn’t it gorgeous?” “Yes,” she said, “it’s perfect.”

The Joy of Not Being Needed

/ Lori McLeese / 1 Comment

On Sunday afternoon, my phone rang. It was Mom. “What time is it right now where you live?”

I looked at my watch. “4:04 pm.”

“What time is it right now where I live?” For a split second, I thought about this. Could there, would there, be any chance that time where she is could be slightly more in the future than where I am? She’s north of me by about three miles. I told her, “It’s 4:04 pm where you are, too.”

She sighed. “Okay. The clocks don’t work. They all say zero.”

I knew what had happened. She had pressed the “clock” button on the microwave instead of “start.” It had reset to 0:00.

“Would you like me to come and reset your clock now?”

“No. It’s fine. Just reset it the next time you’re here.”

“Maybe you could have Gloria (caretaker) reset it tomorrow when she’s there with you.”

“I’ll do that. Gloria can do anything.”

*******************

This afternoon, my phone rang. It was Mom. “What time is it right now where you live?”

“It’s 4:54 pm. What time does your clock say?”

“It says 0. I don’t know what time it is.”

“I have a work call in a few minutes and then I’ll come over and reset your clock.”

********************

I arrive to Mom’s apartment about 6:30 pm. I let myself in and loudly announced I was there. She appeared from around the corner and said, “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to reset your clock.” 

I reset it, and wrote the directions for how to reset it on a post-it note so that if Mom accidentally reset it to 0:00, Gloria would know how to program it.

I hugged her tightly, told her I loved her, and she told me I could go. I put my coat back on and asked if she was going to attend the 7 pm movie. She nodded and said she’d walk me downstairs. When we got to the lobby, she shooed me off and started talking to her friends, also going to the movie.

I wondered if this was how she felt when I was a teenager and immediately pretended not to know her as soon as she dropped me off anywhere. I smiled, glad that she didn’t need me, glad to see her so social with others in her home.

Saying Goodbye

/ Lori McLeese / 59 Comments

Question: What do all of these things have in common?

  • A bottle of Purell by the front door
  • Protein bars in the pantry
  • A partially filled pill box on the kitchen table
  • Reading glasses on the side table
  • An unopened letter on the desk
  • Protein shakes on the second shelf of the refrigerator

Answer: They will inspire unimaginable waves of grief when you realize that your father will never use any of them again.

Dad went into the ICU on Thursday. And even though he had been in and out of hospitals since December 26, it was different this time. He was in pain, unbearable pain, from peritonitis. When the Emergency Department doctors diagnosed him, I asked if it was curable. They assured me it was.

Except that it wasn’t. And three days later, Dad drew his last breaths surrounded by his wife, his children, and his pastors.

Dad was the epitome of love and compassion. He thought of others and how we could work together to make this a better world. When I was in high school, and questioning organized religion because of (insert myriad of reasons), instead of forcing me to attend services, he asked me what I would like to do to help others. So from then on, we worked the Samaritan Soup Kitchen downtown on Sunday mornings. I didn’t think much of it then, but later I realized what a sacrifice he was making to take me downtown every Sunday morning. He actually liked church. He liked the social aspect of it; he liked the faith aspect of it.

I was supposed to travel to Charleston on Thursday morning for a friend’s 50th birthday celebration. As I was getting ready to go, I went into his bedroom to say goodbye and noticed he was in incredible pain. We ended up calling an ambulance because I couldn’t transport him in my car without hurting him. He apologized, saying that he always ruined my trips. I laughed and told him not to worry about it – there were more important things. On Friday, from the ICU, he told me to go to Charleston, to be with my friends, it was important to celebrate relationships.

One thing he was clear about was that he did not want to be sustained by life support, and he had documented that thoroughly. We had discussed it on Saturday morning before I left for Charleston. His doctors had come into the room and said that if the infection didn’t clear up soon, they would need to remove the Tenckhoff catheter that he used to perform peritoneal dialysis. I looked at them and asked how he would be able to perform dialysis. They said he could revert back to hemodialysis. I shared that that wasn’t an option for him, since his blood pressure was so low. They said that CCRT, the continuous dialysis (which was apparently very painful and could only be done in the ICU) was the other option. From his bed, Dad shook his head and looked up at me with pleading eyes. I told him I knew that wasn’t what he wanted, and we wouldn’t let that happen. The doctors left. I reminded Dad that he was of sound mind and he could make the decision at any point to leave the hospital and we would engage with Hospice at home. He joked that he had never been of sound mind. He also said that if they told him he would have to be in this existence for a month, that wasn’t the life he wanted. I asked him if he would agree to the treatment for a few more days, maybe a week, to see if things got better, and then we could re-evaluate. He said that sounded like a good plan. He told me to be safe, enjoy my friends, and we’d see each other the next day.

So on Saturday mid-morning I went. Early Sunday morning I learned his condition had worsened, so I drove immediately to the hospital, praying the entire four hours I was driving that I wouldn’t get a speeding ticket and that he would survive until I got to the hospital. When I entered the ICU room, my Mom, my brother, and my sister were already there. I was overcome by guilt and sadness. He was fully on life support, exactly what he didn’t want. His eyes were half open and he was gasping for breath. I was gutted.

I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and told him I was there. He opened his beautiful blue eyes and said, “No way!” I repeated that I was there, Mom was there, Greg was there, and Ashley was there. The whole family was there and he was surrounded by love. Again, he said, “No way!” closed his eyes, and leaned back. We talked to him and told him how much we loved him, how much we appreciated all that he had done for each of us and for our community, how much we’ll miss him, how we cannot imagine living without him in our lives. I choose to believe he heard us. Occasionally he would squeeze my hand, or an eyebrow would raise, or a slight smile would pass his face. My brother left to get some sleep before his night shift.

And then the nurses asked to speak to us. I went out of the room. Before they said anything I blurted out, “He’s dying and he’s on life support and he didn’t want that and he’s in so much pain and we have to abide by his wishes and I don’t want him to die and he’s going to and is there anything you can do to cause him to be in less pain?” And then I collapsed.

They tried to tell me I was making a decision out of love. I was honoring his wishes and he was suffering and if we moved to “comfort care” they would have a lot more latitude with what they could administer.

I called his pastor. They ordered drip painkillers from the pharmacy.

We waited for his pastor to arrive. We waited for my brother to return. I checked his phone to see if anyone had sent messages that I could share with him. There were a couple, as well as about 300 spam and marketing messages over the course of one day. I chided him for subscribing to so much junk, then proceeded to read the offers to him, one by one. We laughed, and I hope he was laughing, too.

The pastor arrived. My brother arrived. The painkillers in a drip bag arrived. We said a prayer, holding hands. I explained to him step by step what would happen. I reminded him the first thing he told anyone when he checked into a hospital was that he has a full DNR (do not resuscitate) order. And that he didn’t want to live a life sustained by life support.

The nurses started the painkillers. “Dad, they’ve hooked you up to a stronger painkiller. You won’t feel the debilitating pain that you’ve experienced over the last few days anymore.” They stopped the blood pressure medicine drip. “Dad, they’re stopping your blood pressure medicine drip. Your blood pressure might drop.” They stopped the CCRT process which was cleansing his blood. “Dad, they’re disconnecting you from CCRT. I know how painful this was over the past few days, and you won’t have that pain anymore. This is what you asked for, and we love you so much.” It was 3:33 pm.

I had an idea that when someone is taken off life support, they die. But they don’t. The body keeps fighting, keeps breathing. The heart keeps pumping. We continued to hold his hands and tell him how much we loved him for the next 1 hour and 13 minutes. I was watching an artery? a vein? in his neck, mirroring his heart beat. I watched it slow. And slow. And stop. And I heard a guttural cry. I wondered where it was coming from when I realized it was coming from me. There is nothing that could have prepared me for him drawing his last breath. The tears would not stop flowing as I sobbed, heaving to breathe.

The nurses told us we could stay as long as we wanted. I don’t know if we stayed a couple of minutes or much longer. I do know that when I leaned over for to give Dad one last kiss goodbye, his body had gone cold.

And They Didn’t Charge for Parking…

/ Lori McLeese / 13 Comments

Sometimes things in life have a way of sneaking up on you. A few pounds weight gain. The end of the month. A surprise ending in a movie. A heart attack wasn’t really something I would have put on that list, though.

In hindsight (now that we’ve read all the webMD pages about heart disease) he had every symptom. But we weren’t thinking in terms of, “Oh, could this be a heart attack?” He had shortness of breath. But he had also just climbed two flights of stairs to get to my house. He had weight gain. But he had also eaten out almost every night for the past couple of weeks, and indulged in an abundance of holiday goodies. His feet and legs were swollen. But we had spent the day walking around Biltmore House and had been on our feet for hours.

We were enjoying the afternoon together when he complained about shortness of breath, and that he might need an inhaler. I suggested we go to the newly opened urgent care center, less than a mile from my house. He insisted it wasn’t a big deal. I went online and showed him there was an appointment available in the next 10 minutes and encouraged him to put his coat on.

The staff at the urgent care center instructed us to go the the ER right away. He said it could wait until they got back to Winston-Salem, where they live. I suggested we go to the ER right away, because the staff at the urgent care center really had nothing to gain by recommending we visit the ER (I didn’t think they would receive kickbacks for ER referrals…). We all agreed to go to the ER. Then I realized I had no idea where the ER was. Fortunately, my first three months in town hadn’t necessitated a hospital visit. The urgent care staff told us to go to Mission Health Hospital. We thanked them and headed over. I dropped off my parents at the entrance to the ER, then parked the car. I was worried that I didn’t have a ticket or placard for the car, and wondered if it was okay to leave the car in the lot. I had this thought that people in emergency situations often don’t think clearly, or make mistakes they normally wouldn’t. The last thing I needed was to come back to an empty spot and a towed car.

The ER staff ran tests for several hours, then said he’d need to be admitted. He’d had a heart attack, and they placed him on medicine that needed monitoring.

A heart attack?

Granted, my knowledge of heart attacks is rare, and mostly from the media. I remembered Fred Sanford on Sanford and Son talking about “the big one” and clutching at his chest. There have been dozens of tv shows and movies where someone has a heart attack and immediately collapses. That hadn’t happened. We had walked around Biltmore House just that morning. Dad was moving slower than usual, but he’s also in his late 70s, so I gave him some slack. There are days that I move slower than usual, too.

So there we were, Christmas week, in a hospital room overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains – dad in the hospital bed, mom in one chair, and me in the other. I asked the staff if I needed a parking permit and they said no, the lot I was in was fine. Every hospital staff member was outstanding. The doctors, the nurses, the nurse practitioners, the dietitians, the hospitalists, the administrative folks – every person answered our questions in a compassionate matter, smiled, and was, well, simply a lovely human. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I was pleasantly surprised by the care and quality of service that we received.

And we were so grateful. That this happened while we were together. That this didn’t happen while one of us was on our frequent travels. That I work for a company that didn’t blink an eye when I said, “I need to take the next few days off to help care for my dad.” That they have health insurance so that this unexpected event won’t bankrupt them. And, this may seem silly, but that we didn’t have to pay for parking (and my car wasn’t towed). Small things delight me.

They discharged him with instructions to follow up with his primary care physician and a cardiologist once he was back home. And to exercise more. And to eat a low sodium diet. We went to the grocery store and were surprised at how much sodium is in so many foods. We searched online for low-sodium recipes and foods. We talked about exercise routines. And we were thankful that we spent another Christmas together, even though it wasn’t how we expected.

Hospital View.JPG

Friday Night Lights

/ Lori McLeese / Leave a comment

My godson is 18 and the captain of his high school football team. A lot of information to take in there. MY GODSON IS 18! How did that happen? Okay, topic for another post.

He’s the captain of his high school football team. I am so proud of him. He’s a good kid. He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s humble. I love seeing him lead his teammates. I’ve tried to go to as many games as possible this year. Until Friday, he had won every game I had watched this season. And they wanted to win Friday.

I love high school football. The kids are hungry. They play for the love of the sport.It’s a fun game to watch, no matter what the outcome.

You could tell that George’s team was nervous when they took the field on Friday night. They missed passes. They snapped the ball too high, resulting in a heartbreaking “Oh my goodness, really?” 4th down on the opposing team’s 10 yard line.

But they settled down. Going into the 2nd quarter they were down by a lot of points. And they came back. They ran the ball. They passed. They played hard and played smart. At halftime the score was tied. Yay!

The 3rd and 4th quarters were wrenching. The opposing team, Moreau, made a touchdown. Piedmont made a touchdown. Tie, tie, tie. Until. Until a minute left in the game. With Piedmont’s possession. They made the pass. They made the touchdown. They made the 2-point conversion. Woot! Woot! Woot! With 35 seconds left in the game, Piedmont was winning by one point. Yes.

And then. Moreau had not passed the entire game. They ran. They ran well. Really well. Well enough to score 40 something points. And then, they decided to pass. It was a good play. No one was covering number 47. He caught the hail Mary pass and ran into the end zone.

Ohhhhhhh.

But wait. There’s more.

Piedmont, with 35 seconds left on the clock, was determined to move the ball down the field. And they did. Until the very last play. Another hail Mary pass. The receiver caught it on the 1? 1/2? yard line? And was stripped of the ball.

Ohhhhhhh.

What a finish. So close. Yet, not. I literally felt my heart breaking for my godson. Oh, if I could just step in and take life’s disappointments for him. But I can’t.

Better luck next time, George. You played hard, and you played well. You’ve got a lot of people cheering for you, a lot of believers. You can do it.