As a former journalist, I understand and support news organizations’ decision to out Josh Duggar as one of the thousands who had an Ashley Madison account.
After all, Duggar was the executive director of a lobbying group that harshly judged anyone who didn’t fall into line with its definitions of marriage and family values.
Because of that role, because he actively sought out and criticized people he deemed to be “sinners,” Duggar was fair game and should be held accountable for not practicing what he preached in D.C. and all over this county.
(A county which was founded on apparently archaic concepts such as “freedom” and separation of religion and state.)
But all of the Ashley Madison members whose marriages and lives are being upended by journalists seeking to satisfy the salacious masses — they don’t deserve this.
OK, yeah. Those politicians who won office due to their “family values” campaigns? Out ’em. Those public figures who have boasted about their own supposedly pristine “moral character” while passing legislation that discriminates against people who have a different idea as to what “moral” means. Out ’em.
But retired public figures? Politicians who never uttered a peep about morality and marriage? Our soldiers?
Please. Leave them alone.
Nothing is served by publicly shaming these folks, and, in turn, their families.
Those in the military already face repercussions. There’s no need to throw them to the wolverine masses.
And the others? How about showing a little compassion? Think of their spouses. Their children.
It’s one thing to learn that a spouse has been unfaithful. But to have that pointed out in the daily newspaper or television broadcasts?
That’s just damn cruel.
So one of the benefits of nearly dying in the desert is the realization that people will do — or say — anything to convince themselves that something that horrible will never happen to them.
They’ll tell you about all of the things they would never do. They’ll tell you about all of the things you should have done. Or rather, they’ll tell you about all of the things that THEY would have done.
And in their scenarios, they survive. Or hell, they’ll never find themselves in the dire situation you faced because they “never would have …”
So easy to say.
And such utter crap.
In the past few days, I’ve read all of the vitriol directed at a father, who, allegedly, forgot that he had picked up his 18-month-old from daycare and left him in the car upon arriving home.
Oh, how the internets lit up!
“I would never…”
“How could you…”
“What kind of parent…”
And no matter how great of a parent you think you are, you’re gonna screw up.
Ten days after my little girl turned 2, I gave birth to a little boy.
Honestly, the next year passed in a haze. Neither kid slept. Baby boy was up all night. Baby girl refused to nap during the day. I didn’t sleep at night. I didn’t nap during the day.
One morning, I took the kids out to the car, strapped them into their carseats and then plopped down in the front passenger seat. Mind you, Hubs had left for work an hour or so earlier. Why I thought he — or anyone else, for that matter — would be chauffering me and the kiddos anywhere remains a mystery.
One afternoon, I spent 10 minutes trying to unlock my car while my toddler whined and fidgeted and my baby squirmed impateintly in his infant carrier.
Finally, I realized: “This isn’t my car.”
This, friends, is what new parenthood and sleep deprivation will do to you.
I was a mom to a toddler and newborn. And I held a full-time job. I could afford only 7 weeks of maternity leave.
In short, the fact that I got up each morning, fed and dressed the kids and then held down a job … well, looking back, I still wonder: “How the hell did I pull that off.”
On a wing and a prayer.
So here’s this dad in Hot Springs who, presumably, picked up his toddler from daycare and then forgot that he had his son in the car upon arriving home.
Wanna hear about the time my 2-year-old locked me and her infant brother out of the house when I forgot to get him out of the car before letting her into the house?
I’ve seen this family’s Facebook page. This toddler was loved and doted upon. His dad didn’t just leave him in the car so that he could dash into Walmart while high on meth.
You can point your pointy fingers and say “I would never” all you like, but …
This father wasn’t “stupid” or an “asshole” or anything else you want to call him. He was one of us.
A parent who loved his kid beyond anything.
I get it. You want to call him stupid and uncaring because … .well, that means YOU are not stupid and uncaring and therefore your child won’t die.
In October 2013, I ventured into a desert that I thought of as beloved and familiar territory. And I when I came out of that desert on a stretcher, I did so with the realization that there are no guarantees. You can “I would never” all you want to and still end up in a hospital with doctors telling you that your kidneys, heart, lungs and liver are all failing.
You can brag about your prowess as a parent and yet turn your back for one second only to see your child slip under the water.
You can call other parents “stupid” or “uncaring” and still lose you own sweet babe in the mall.
So stop it. Just. Stop. It.
Your cruel and judgemental words aren’t helping this family. They’re not helping anyone.
Because honestly? You can tell yourself that “you would never” until the day you depart this earth and guess what?
Bad shit is still going to happen to you. It happens to all of us. We can do our best to avoid it. We can do our best to tell everyone why nothing terrible will ever happen to us.
But at some point, we all face tragedy.
So please … instead of calling for this man’s head and lifelong imprisonment, let’s just imagine …
Is there anything worse than what he is going through right this very minute? Is there?
Is a life sentence going to be anymore painful than what this father is experiencing tonight? Do you really think he cares about whether he’s arrested and charged with manslaughter or negligent homicide? Really? Do you?
I’ve got a lot of friends on Facebook who have always struck me as compassionate and caring people. And then I read what they say about this family and I wonder, “Who ARE you?”
I almost orphaned my kids by thinking “I would never” before heading off on a desert hike.
But I did.
And you might too.
Tempting as it may be to reassure yourself that your child will never be hurt because “you would never” … well, resist that temptation.
Because none of us signs up for this parenting gig thinking that we would ever fail our children.
Please. Let’s be kind to one another. Let’s be compassionate. Let’s suppport one another. Yeah, it’s scary to admit that one of us could forget that our baby was in the car. But it happens. And a lot of other terrible things happen due to a lapse on our part.
Again, as I always say, there’s only one thing God asks of us.
This is a mother, praying over her teenage son in the ICU. This picture has gone viral. Why?
Because we mothers know what it is to love a human being beyond infinity. We know what it is to offer ourselves in exchange for a life, to be willing to die for a child.
Look at her. This mother. Her son, once just a fluttering inside her stomach, once the baby scrounging for a nipple, once the little boy who collected rocks or bugs, once the little boy who shared all of his secrets with the main woman in his life …
She kneels before his bed and prays. She begs God to bring him back to her. She just wants one more conversation, one more hug, one more chance to let that boy know that he is her everything.
Please remember this mama and her boy in your prayers.
So six weeks or so into the Legislative session, I became Patient Zero at the Capitol.
I roamed the hallways and committee rooms, hacking and wheezing, with handfuls of tissue stuffed into my purse.
Those lucky enough to encounter me on a regular basis soon succumbed. I infected co-workers, lawmakers and reporters.
One day, I approached a member of the Democrat-Gazette’s Capitol Bureau to ask if his roommate, a mutual friend, was feeling better.
“I heard she was sick,” I said.
“So it was you,” he said, backing away. “You’re Patient Zero.”
“It’s OK,” I assured him. “I don’t think … *cough* … that I’m contagious … *cough* … anymore.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied. “Riiiight…”
And then he vanished into the media room. Which locked emphatically behind him.
Weeks passed. Still, I continued to collapse into coughing fits. When I ran out of cough drops, people from other state agencies gave me peppermints and candy. Anything, really, to shut me up.
Now just a couple of years ago, I would have high-tailed it into the doctor’s office, where I would have presented the staff with a list of possible diagnoses, all of them dire and, usually, terminal.
But that whole near-death-in-the-wilderness thing cured me of my lifelong hypochondria. Because really? If you can go out for what’s supposed to be a pleasant hike and find yourself in the throes of renal and heart failure a week later, you realize that there’s not much point in trying to pinpoint what might be your ultimate cause of death.
It could be a spider bite. It could be lung cancer. *cough*
In our household, I am normally the one nagging Rick to go to the doctor.
This time, it was my husband issuing pleas that I make an appointment.
“I don’t have time,” I argued, honking into a Kleenax.
He looked at me and shook his head.
“What?” I protested. “It’s my new mating call.”
I honked again and arched an eyebrow.
“You’re already keeping me up all night,” he noted dryly. “And not in a fun way.”
I felt his pain. I wasn’t getting much sleep either. Did you know it’s possible to reverse-snore? Like, instead of making noise when you inhale, you make these hideous mucousy sounds when you exhale?
Yeah. I’ve been all sorts of sexy, let me tell you.
Anyway, today I finally ventured into my doctor’s exam room.
“This has been going on for how long?” he asked incredulously.
Bear in mind, I have more than once burst into his office in a panic.
(Questions I have asked my doctor: “Are you sure I don’t have lymphoma?”
“So these are migraines and not a sign that a bulging brain aneurysm is about to burst?”
“Are you sure it’s mono and not Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or Tuleremia?”)
Now here I was, all sorts of casual, lounging on the exam table while he looked at x-rays of my lungs and sinuses.
“Given how you sound and the fact that you’re running a fever, I would have sworn that you had walking pneumonia,” he mused.
“Well. I’m going to start by treating you for bronchitis and sinusitus.”
“OK,” I replied.
People, I came home today with a whole passel of drugs, which will either knock me into sedated oblivian or turn me into a ravenous, raging fiend. Or maybe they’ll just cancel each other out.
Regardless, I promise: The days of Typhoid Cathy are coming to an end.
It will be safe, once again, to enter my office.
And my husband might actually find me somewhat attractive again. Unless, of course, he’s too busy catching up on all that missed sleep.
The woman’s hands were firm, yet gentle. She plucked the twigs from my snarled hair. And then she washed it three times.
“Look,” she said, showing me the rinse water after the third shampooing. “It is clean now.”
All morning, she had lurked outside my hospital room, thwarted time and again by doctors and nurses who insisted on blood draws, breathing treatments and tests.
Finally, when the medical staff departed, she shooed my husband from the room and set to work.
Often, I flinched and moaned when her washcloth skimmed over the cactus needles still embedded in my hands, torso and legs.
“I am sorry, mija,” the woman murmured. “So sorry.”
But she wasn’t just sorry for the pain she inflicted. She was sorry that I had suffered at all. I could hear it in her voice.
Word had spread quickly through hospital hallways that the woman lost for five days and four nights in the Chihuahuan Desert was in the Telemetry Unit at the University Medical Center of El Paso.
My caregivers didn’t judge me. That first night, they kept me alive. And then over the next several days, they tended to my wounds. They marveled that I had survived.
When I walked again for the first time in five days, one of the physical therapists asked me to autograph the cane I had used.
All of these people believed that if I had been given a second chance, well … then there was hope for all.
Not everyone shared this attitude. Over the next year, even as I thanked God daily for my second chance, I learned what it is like to be second-guessed.
“But why didn’t you …?”
I get it. It’s totally human to want to second-guess others. Doing so makes us feel better, safer.
“Well, that would never happen to me because I would never…”
Yeah. Well. Until it does. Because you did.
We are none of us infallible. And most of us, most of the time, are pretty good at figuring out where we went wrong. And we accept responsibility for the consequences.
Your pointing finger does nothing but remind us of our own former smugness … and how it leads to downfall.
My arrogance almost cost me my life. Karma? She’s not just a bitch. She’s a bitch on wheels with lightning strikes etched on each spoke.
When I think of the woman who washed my hair, my body … apologizing as she did so … I marvel at her grace.
I was lost and then found. I was dirty, and then cleansed.
On this Easter, my advice to you … to me … is this:
Don’t second-guess the actions of someone who — trust me, here — already has been thoroughly humbled.
Instead, help that person appreciate and take advantage of his second chance.
After all, second chances are few. They should be celebrated. Not questioned.
On the evening of Friday, Oct. 4, 2013, I spent several hours grappling with the realization that I was likely to die alone underneath a mesquite tree in the Chihuahuan Desert.
At that time, I was still lucid, and therefore able to evaluate my life, my actions and my relationships.
And the one question that I kept coming back to … ?
Have I been a good person?
By “good,” I mean kind.
Because believe me, folks — when you know you’re going to die, and, as a Christian, you know you will be judged by God in, say, quite possibly, just a few hours, you start thinking pretty darn hard about how you’ve treated people.
Do my kids, husband, family and friends know how much I love them?
Have I made peace with everyone with whom I needed to do so?
Have I been kind to those who needed kindness? Have I been accepting of others’ decisions, even when I disagreed with those decisions? Have I resisted the temptation to judge those whose beliefs are not my own?
Um. Mostly? I think? Maybe?
When searchers found me two days later, naked and shivering under that same mesquite tree, I got a second chance — not just at life, but at spending that life as a different person, one who understands that how WE live means so much more than trying to decide how everyone ELSE should live.
Really, it all comes down to what my kids learned in pre-school:
“Be nice to your friends.”
I would extend that to include acquaintances, strangers and even enemies.
Because when you are naked and wounded and dying for lack of water in the desert, you realize that all that really matters in the end is you.
Your behavior. Your choices. Your ability to accept and love.
God isn’t going to ask whether you changed other people’s behavior to meet his standards. He’s going to ask whether you changed yours.
I am so grateful for the extra time I’ve been granted. I still look at my children and marvel that I can touch them, hug them, tell them just how much I love them.
I am married to my very own hero, a man who overcame incredible odds to bring me home.
I am the daughter and sister of loving family members.
I am so lucky to have a close and wonderful network of friends.
And I am going to be the first to tell you that what matters most in this life is not what other people are doing.
What matters is what you are doing.
Be grateful. Be happy. Don’t preach Jesus. Live Jesus.
And always, always … be nice to your friends.
I tell people that what happened in the desert in late 2013 was a transformative experience.
It was the worst — and best — thing that ever happened to me.
Worst, because I almost died. I almost lost the chance to see my children grow.
Best, because the experience taught me that you can’t let fear dictate your life’s course.
And so it is that I — a lifelong journalist — started a new job in a new field last week.
I knew I needed a change. But until I started my new job, I didn’t realize just how much I needed something different. Something challenging.
And I’ve found that once you start making big changes, it’s easier to keep embracing the new.
Suddenly, I’m thinking about new schools, new houses, new hobbies.
I feel so alive. So invigorated.
And I wonder if that’s why God let us stumble through the desert close to death.
Maybe you have to accept death in order to embrace life.
I don’t know.
Regardless. I am so grateful to still be around. I am so happy to have a chance to try something out of my comfort zone.
What I do know, after last year, is that life is meant to LIVED — not endured or survived.
So happy new year, all! And God bless.
Remember that old Hee-Haw ditty?
Deep, dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all
Gloom, despair, and agony on me
This has been one helluva holiday season in our household, let me tell you. Rick’s cousin, a man as close to Rick as any brother, died a few days ago. He was terminally ill. We knew he didn’t have long. But oh, how we had hoped that Gale would be able to see one last Christmas.
It wasn’t to be.
We had planned to attend Gale’s funeral today as a family. But on Friday, our poor girl-child finally came down with the flu that had already felled the E-man, myself and Hubs. It’s been 10-plus glorious days of good times around here, folks. Fever, chills, hacking and general misery.
Normally, by this time, the smell of a freshly cut Christmas tree would permeate our home.
This year’s holiday scent is lemon Lysol.
So today, while Rick and the E-man headed down to south Arkansas for the funeral, I prodded our poor girl into an urgent-care clinic. Once in the exam room, the nurse asked her to put on a face mask.
That, peeps, is when I finally lost my tentative grip on sanity.
At first, I just chuckled.
My daughter looked at me quizzically.
“It’s just that … well, you look kind of like a Sneetch with that mask on,” I explained — before doubling over and laughing.
Girl-child gave me one of those slitty-eyed looks so perfectly executed by preteens.
“You know,” I gasped. “Sneetches. Dr. Seuss. They have those snouts…”
“Yes,” she said, “I know what Sneetches look like.”
Her expression suggested that she was not the person in the room in need of a doctor.
I kept laughing. Until I cried. Hell, it’s a wonder I didn’t pee my pants.
“It’s just … I mean … this just totally summarizes our holiday season … ”
“We’re missing Gale’s funeral so that you can wear a Sneetch snout and get retested for the flu that we already know you have just so we can get some Tamiflu and maybe get you well by Christmas .. even though we don’t even have a tree or decorations up or presents or …”
“Ooooookaaaaay,” Daughter said through the beaky mask.
“I’m sorry!” I snorted. “I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for mothers who laugh at their sick children … their sick children with SNOUTS!”
By the time we left, I had finally composed myself enough to explain that while some holidays don’t turn out quite like we expect or want, you just have to learn to roll with life’s punches. Don’t bother asking, “Why me?” Don’t get angry. Don’t get depressed.
It’s life. It’s messy and yet it’s glorious.
I mean, I’m HERE. I’m not a set of skeletal remains in the Chihuahuan Desert.
We’re together, and my husband, kids and I share a sense of humor that, while a little twisted, allows us to get through situations like … well, like this one.
Anyway, when we got home, I started looking through posts from my old blog and found one that illustrates how finding the humor in a bad situation can carry you through the bad times.
And, after all, the darkest hour is just before dawn.
So here’s a post from 2007. Enjoy:
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 2007
A Christmas of Calamities
I was actually eager to come to work this morning because – omg, two days without Internet access and my fingers had started to shrivel and fall off … because, you know, I clearly didn’t need them anymore.
On the Eve of Christmas Eve, the power in the master bedroom went off. Hubs fiddled with the fuse box and got part of the room powered up, and then there was this pop and a hideous burning smell.
“Fire in the attic!” Hubs yelled. “Call 911 and get the kids out of here!”
My daughter, Tootie, and stepdaughter were already up, having smelled something strange in Tootie’s room. I snatched a sleeping E-man out from his bed and we all headed outside.
Minutes later, the first fire engine pulled up. The E-man was agog.
So was his mommy, during the few seconds, that is, that she forgot the house might be on fire.
Firemen! Oh, goody! Merry Christmas to me!
Then all rationality returned when I remembered the state of our bedroom — which, given that we had just returned from a weekend away — looked as though 20 sugar-fueled toddlers had romped through it.
And yes, fleetingly, I did wonder: Could I maybe dash in and tidy up before they start, you know, putting out flames?
As it turns out, there was no fire. There is, obviously, a problem with our wiring. An electrician is coming tonight. Meanwhile, we have no power in that part of the house. And since the previous homeowner did terrible things with the phone lines underneath the house, the wireless unit thingy is operational only in our bedroom.
I’m not sure who was more horrified by the realization that we would be without the Internet — me or my stepson.
“You mean I can’t get online?” he asked over and over. “At all?”
Hey, buddy, you’re supposedly grounded from MySpace. I’m the one who’s going to be suffering here.
By Christmas Eve, Hubs was curled up on the couch, hacking and whimpering under an afghan, while I hurriedly assembled and wrapped toys.
“I think I hab a feber,” he sniffled. “Can you beel my borehead?”
It’s been joy, joy, joy around these parts, let me tell you.
So. Hubs remains ill. We still have no power. No Internet. *sob*
But hey, I can now say I’ve had firemen in my bedroom.
If only they hadn’t been greeted by the sight of my old, stretched-out maternity bra dangling from the closet door, which, of course, is conveniently located next to the fuse box.
Ever since getting lost in the desert, I pay attention to stories about missing people.
Well, more attention.
I’ve always had an interest in helping to find the lost.
Now? Even more so.
That’s because last year, I joined their ranks.
Here’s the thing. People LOVE to criticize those of us who get lost. They talk about how we were unprepared or deserved what we got. They talk about how we should be charged for “what taxpayers had to pay” in our search and rescue.
Never, however, do they imagine that they or their loved ones could one day be one of the lost.
It doesn’t take much.
A wrong turn while hiking. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. A car accident. A small child who gets out of the house when a parent isn’t looking.
And there you have it.
A lost person.
I can tell you from personal experience that all a lost person wants is to be found.
I hoped and prayed to be found alive. But as death drew ever closer, I prayed simply that my body would be found.
That, I knew, would help my family during their grieving.
Several weeks ago, I decided to drive down to Texas to participate in a boot-camp fundraiser for one of the many groups that helped find me and bring me home.
TEXSAR, which is made up solely of volunteers, is one of the entities that showed up at Big Bend Ranch State Park after I went missing.
Anyway, I decided that I wanted to participate in their fundraiser Saturday.
Which, as it turned out, fell on the day after these men and women had had to search for one of their own — a sheriff’s deputy who was swept away in a flash flood.
Her name is Jessica Hollis. She was inspecting low-water crossings to determine whether barricades needed to be set up. She also was a member of a SAR dive team.
If anyone should have survived that flood, she should have.
Her body was found on Friday. TEXSAR’s fundraiser was on Saturday.
I had been following the story of Deputy Hollis. Once you get lost in the wild, you tend to pay attention to stories about other people who run into trouble.
I was crushed when I learned that she had died.
At the same time, thank God SAR teams found her body.
That’s what I prayed for in the desert — that if I wasn’t found alive, that my body would be located so that my family would know what happened.
Members of TEXSAR, I know how much you wanted to find that deputy alive.
But as someone once lost out there, alone, I can tell you that she would be ever so grateful to know that her body was located. You have given a family what they most needed: answers. And their loved one.
Alone in the Texas desert, I wanted my family to know what had happened to me. I wanted them to have something to bury or cremate.
I wanted to be found. Even if it was too late.
Too often, we look at the missing and criticize them for becoming lost. We forget that any of us might, at one time, lose our way.
Thank God for the volunteers who search for those of us who lose our paths.
Thank God for those who dedicate their time and energy to finding the lost.
So tonight, the cat planted himself in the kitchen right in front of the oven.
“What’s he doing?” my daughter asked. “Is something back there?”
“Oh, no,” I breezily assured her. “Our cat’s too lazy to chase anything.”
“I heard some scratchy noises back there awhile ago,” my son chimed in.
“Stop trying to scare your sister,” I said.
“But I did,” he insisted.
“There is nothing behind the oven,” I replied.
Fifteen minutes later …
A horrific screeching noise caught my attention.
“Squee! Squee! Squee!”
I rose from the couch, only to see Mr. Kitty, our overweight orange tabby, trotting into the living room with a small, squealing rodent clenched between his teeth.
“Aiiieeeee!!!” I screamed, leaping onto the couch.
“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” hollered my son, who also had seen the rodent.
“EEEEEEEK!!” my daughter yelled. Bear in mind, she had no idea why we were all clustered together on the couch, screaming.
We fled, still screaming,to the front porch.
“What do we do?” my daughter asked, peering inside.
The mouse, having escaped Mr. Kitty’s jaws, fled under the grandfather clock made by Hubs’ grandpa.
Undeterred, Mr. Kitty crouched in front of the clock, swiping a determined paw underneath.
The chase continued, with the mouse running behind two sets of curtains before zipping underneath the buffet in the dining room.
And there it remains, with Mr. Kitty crouched nearby, waiting…
Hubs is on his way back from shooting the Hogs game.
When he gets here, he will be charged with helping Mr. Kitty finish his first kill.
Someone. Hold me.