Home.

As you know by now, Mom and Dad have moved to their new house. It’s been a whirlwind for the Hatches in the last few months as Mom and Dad closed on their new house about two weeks before mom’s diagnosis. So in addition to getting ready for and beginning Mom’s treatment, we had to also figure out how to go through a house we’ve been in since 1986, sort, purge, pack, organize, move, unpack, and re-organize – while of course not letting Mom do any of those things!

You could say I’m a bit sentimental. I texted the new owner of the house to ask if I could take the doorknob from my childhood bedroom. I knew I’d have a hard time saying goodbye to the house that my little 2-year-old southern self moved into 30 years ago. But then cancer happened. Priorities changed. The move became fast and furious, happening on nights and weekends – and VERY fast.  There was barely time to think, much less mourn the house or take last photos (we didn’t have time to take any until the house was empty).

But something happened. The sadness and bittersweet feelings of losing the house lessened.  Not because I wouldn’t miss 703, but because it became so obvious that while the spiral stairs could certainly tell some stories, they didn’t make that house our home. Mom did.

Yes, I’ll miss the porch, and the spiral stairs.  I’ll miss the sound the floors made when you walked in a certain way down the hall, or the way the cabinet squeaked every morning when Dad made coffee. I’ll miss the living room where countless birthday parties, showers, and slumber parties have been held.  But do you know what I’d miss more than any of that if it left?  Mom.

That’s why on Tuesdays, there is no place in the world I’d rather be than in the teeny tiny infusion room with her. If I didn’t already live in Nashville, I’d likely be trying to quit my job or orchestrating a transfer to get home to be near her.

Those rooms, cabinets, fire places, and sounds didn’t make 703 our home – Mom made it our home. And what is now so clear to me is that our home will continue to be what it always has been – filled with love and kindness, because that is who Mom is.

The house changed a LOT over the 30 years. The love and work Mom and Dad put into that house is only rivaled by the love (and work!) they put into me and my brothers. And the same way our home is where they are, so is that love.  And that, after all, is what matters – all that matters. Recently I’ve seen it every day Dad has tirelessly made sure Mom is taken care of, and the way he made sure the new house was unpacked and organized in record time. So 30 years later, our family is reminded of what is really important, and that a house is just a house.  But true home is where your mom is (and dad too!).

Miss Kathy

As a little southern toddler growing up in New Orleans, I’d occasionally slip and call my Aunt Kathy “Miss Kathy” – and she loved to remind me of that story.

Back in 1948, my Oma (grandmother for you non-German speakers out there) gave birth to her first child, a little girl. Nope, not my mom. My aunt. Growing up, I would hear stories about my mom and her sister, making me all the more desperate for a sister of my own, convinced I was missing out on a key life experience. I loved to hear the stories Aunt Kathy would tell about my mom (nothing salacious here, mom continues to be difficult to live up to!) and vice versa. Despite some hilarious sisterly bickering (AK would later in life admit that she was so terrible to mom as kid!), they became the closest of friends as the only girls with 4 brothers.

AK & Opa

She had a way of telling a story that sucked you in. It wasn’t just the words she used, but the inflections in her voice, the pauses in her sentences, and the expressions on her face. Occasionally, I’ll catch myself using a similar inflection or intonation when telling a story, and I always laugh inwardly, knowing where I picked that up. Her story-telling and ability to recount so many tales made sense – she was a librarian.  I remember her giving me the “top secret” passwords to the online resources of the high school library where she worked to aid me in some of my research in college.

I don’t think I ever told her my secret dream about becoming a writer. I wish I had. She would have been one of the first people I would have run to with my finished manuscript and asked for her brutally honest review.

Uncle Drew & Aunt Kathy

She (along with my dad), made me enamored with history. I have always been fascinated by people of that generation who lived through the Vietnam War. After she told me the story of her fiancé who was killed in Vietnam by a sniper, I did an oral report on him for school. I asked her a million questions. She told me stories about visiting West Point, and when I went to visit friends of my own at West Point, I excitedly returned and we huddled as I showed her photos from my trip.

When I went to college in Ohio, she made sure I had a supply of yellow smiley face cookies from Buskens – she told me they were to help me make friends. I never knew if I should take offense to the fact that maybe she thought I needed cookies to make friends ☺  And when I was rushed to the hospital one night in Oxford, with my parents 6 hours away, Aunt Kathy and Uncle Drew were there in a heartbeat, taking care of me, getting me back to their house, and keeping watch until my parents arrived.

She took such an interest. Not just in me, but in everyone. Was she really interested in the minute details of my daily grind in the consulting world in DC? I can’t imagine. But she always asked questions and always took an interest. She sent my dog birthday cards. Let me repeat, she took the time to send my dog a birthday card (because she knew, of course, that Fern was basically my child).

When Aunt Kathy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer 4 years ago (after beating breast cancer nearly 20 years earlier), for a brief second, time stopped. I waited to wake up, to let the other shoe drop and find out that it wasn’t really what they thought.

Me, AK, & Mom - kicking pancre-ass ;)

Amazingly, God gave us nearly 4 more years with her – far longer than the average prognosis. We had more visits, more family vacations, more weddings, marshmallow guns, cupcake hats, shopping sprees, and Thanksgiving dinners. More time to hear more stories.

Even when she was at her sickest, I always pictured her at my wedding one day, always pictured her at future family events, even though the suppressed logical part of me knew that wasn't likely. Four months later, I suppose our family is still adjusting to our new normal. I can't truly do justice to AK in writing - perhaps I may never be able to. There is an inclination to make people out to have been saints after they pass away. So let me just say that she was an amazing, beautiful, wonderful person, and if you didn't know her, you missed out.

66 years. It seems like such a brief sprint. But when I think of all she did, all she saw, and all those whom she impacted during that time, it is incredible. It inspires me to live fully the way she did, and especially, to never stop learning.

AK, Oma, & Mom

Happy birthday, Aunt Kathy. We love you. Have fun celebrating with Opa. 

You don't need to wait 20 lbs to start loving yourself

I had dinner a couple nights ago with two former coworkers.  Within the first three minutes of arriving, one of my friends had told us that she has lost ten pounds - in two weeks.  I’ll also mention here that this friend doesn’t need to lose a pound. She is - and has always been - quite thin, but healthy. But that’s not the point.

In these situations, there is only one socially acceptable response. “Oh wow, good for you” “That’s so great!” “How’d you do it - you look fantastic” - and the like.  So…why do we do it? Are we as women really so insecure that we need to make statements which will elicit predictable responses just to build up our self-esteem, not to mention potentially making others feel worse in the process?  What’s wrong with this picture?

I work with primarily women, and it is amazing the number of times each day that someone comments on their weight, their diet, or their need to lose {insert number here} pounds. It has gotten to the point that these comments really make me angry.  I don’t do anything outwardly, of course, but inside, I SCREAM. Is this still where we are? Why do women still judge their worth based on their dress size or their scale reading? I know this topic is not new, but come ON, ladies. There are so many more important issues!

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I need to lose a few pounds. Do I obsess about it? No. Why not?  Because I think that loving myself is more important than torturing myself to adhere to a ridiculous societal standard. And, I have found that in loving myself, I want to be healthier. But not because “healthier” can mean skinnier (and it doesn’t always), but because I simply want to be happy, and loving myself is the first step. But here’s the crazy thing - you can love yourself just as you are. Just. as. you. are. Right now.  Not twenty pounds from now. Not when you get abs.  Right. Now.

You don't have a soul.  You are a Soul.  You have a body.  ~C.S. Lewis

You are not your body. Health is important - very important. We should all strive to take care of our bodies, but loving yourself is the first step to health. Let’s be honest - most people doing the “diet of the moment” or starving themselves are not doing it because they love themselves. They are doing it because they think it will make them happy - they’ll attract men, get the job, “fit in,” etc.

I’m starting to actually think that we haven’t moved the needle at all. Despite some media efforts and great campaigns like Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty, culturally, we haven’t changed at all. If anything, it’s getting worse.

I’ve had multiple people in my life battle eating disorders. I’ve certainly had my share of insecurities and body image issues. Unfortunately, that is the norm for any woman - or young girl - today.

How do we change it? How do we change the minds - and more importantly, the hearts - of millions of women? How do we change the messages that young girls are constantly bombarded with?

Unfortunately, much of this is out of the control of the everyday woman. But what is in our control? The way we talk. The comments we make about ourselves. Treating our size and outward appearance as the first and foremost descriptor of ourselves.

(credit: totalbeauty.com)

Is it really the worst? Personally, I want to be known for the kind of person I am and strive to be. If someone thinks of me, I hope they think of my spirit and (hopefully good) qualities - and not of my body type. Until society changes - and hopefully, one day, it will - I am going to focus on making sure I show people that I see their self - their characteristics and qualities that make them who they are. It's a small step, but if it starts to shift even one mind, I'll gladly take a million small steps.

"Dreams don't work unless you do."

Thesis...In...Progress...

(I'd much rather be writing here)


I feel as if I've become a major procrastinator.  I've been finding everything possible to do in lieu of my graduate thesis.  On one hand, I've gotten a lot done! But it's time to peel back and transition my skills to academic writing for a few days...

I left my heart in Haiti...

One of the absolute best weeks of my life was one in which I didn’t have air conditioning, “showered” under a cold trickle of water (on a good day), had heat exhaustion, and was surrounded by people with infections and in poor health. The. best. week. ever.

I love to help people. It’s what I do. It’s what makes me feel most alive. Have you ever felt like your heart is literally smiling? That’s how I feel when I’m helping others.

While always attracted to international work, I didn’t know how to do anything about it. An “uncle” (those friends of your parents that aren’t really uncles, but you call them such) became really involved in helping orphans in Russia. I had met people who had made trips to Africa. But it all seemed so far away, and something that I could never actually do.

The Haiti earthquake happened, and I watched with the world. I made my donations, but longed to do more – to really help. I’m not a doctor, nor an engineer. So even if I wanted to go, how would I? Join a medical team? Nope. A construction crew? Not that either.

Haiti had always been in my periphery. My parish is “twinned” with two parishes in Haiti, whom we help to support monetarily. Back in the 1980s, there were some medical mission trips, but there hadn't been any in decades. A few folks from our church’s “Haiti Committee” had visited in 2012 to get a lay of the land and see where our help was needed. Then, in 2013, the bulletin noted an upcoming meeting for anyone interested in possibly traveling to Haiti.

And my dream was born.

I didn’t have to think twice. You can bet I was at that meeting. Having absolutely no clue what I was potentially getting into.

Surprisingly, it took me a few weeks to make the final decision to go. It was like every potential fear creeped up and into my head – what could go wrong, the health risks, the political instability.

Malaria? Maybe. Political turmoil? Check.

Life changing? Absolutely.

The Haitian children walk miles to school every day. They are all dressed in bright, vibrant colors - and all the girls have ribbons to perfectly match their dresses.

From the room of the Church in Thomassique

The trip wasn't about me. It wasn't about doing something that made me feel good. It was about using myself. More so, allowing God to use me. I was a vessel.

Learning to give prescriptions in Haitian Creole: "one, two, or three pill(s) per day"

The Haitian people need so much. Diseases which are "no big deal" in the U.S. are literally life-threatening in Haiti, without the proper medicines and tools to diagnose and treat. Health education is extremely difficult, given that most don't have basic education on which to build.

In the "clinic" - an empty building where we set up camp

Shortly after I returned, I wrote, "my eyes and heart have been opened and stirred more than I can describe. The refrain in my mind as I think about the past 7 days: Take the time to love people. Everything else will fall into place. Nothing is as important as love."

The little girl in yellow would have come home with me if I had my druthers. She was attached to my hip the moment she came in and was giggling and smiling nonstop.

We gave this little boy a matchbox car - you would have thought we gave him the world. He and his mom were so grateful.

Painted at the orphanage. "Let the children come to me..."

I learned so much in Haiti. And not just how to diagnose worms and scabies. I learned about unconditional love - and all the ways that Haiti is truly 100x richer than American will ever be. I learned that when a voice in your head is telling you everything that could go wrong, it probably means you should do it. And I learned that when you do things for God, you will never, ever go wrong.

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." ~ Mother Teresa

Friday tidbits

Taking a break from full-on blogging today to catch up on reading for grad school... class tomorrow.

In not-totally-surprising news, the 4:30am wake up call this morning was not entirely successful.  And by "not entirely successful," I mean that I got out of bed at 6:20. Le sigh.

A couple tidbits:

• I'm planning a surprise for a friend that I am SO excited about, but won't be able tell her for a week or two.  
• At the end of my first week back at work after two weeks off for Christmas, it already feels like Christmas was eons ago.
• Power was out for a couple hours this afternoon, while temps were in the high 20s.  It came back, and all was well, but thought I may end up at my parents' house if it hadn't.  It really made me appreciate those men up in those buckets - especially on these bitter cold days.  Thanks, NES crews!
• My last semester of grad school starts tomorrow.  I feel like I'm tipping over the very top of the hill on the roller coaster.  It's going to be one crazy, fast, stomach-turning ride from here on out.  And there will probably be points where I scream and throw my hands up in the air - just like a roller coaster. 

Getting up early...an experiment in discipline (and caffeine?)

Being off work for two weeks over the holidays has wreaked havoc on my sleep schedule. I love sleep. I never outgrew my teenage love of sleeping in. On the flip side, mornings are my most productive (assuming I can drag myself out of bed). I can stay up late every night, but I also want to get up uber early each morning to seize the day. Are you sensing the problem yet?

I recently read a tip from Jeff Goins that one should get up early in the morning to write. Start your day by accomplishing your writing, and it will give you a boost throughout the day. I really love this idea. It would be a great way to tackle my thesis. But can I do it? In an ideal world, I’d get up at 4 or 5, write for an hour or two, then shower and go to work. But, that means going to bed by 9 – maybe 10 at the latest? And by getting up that early, I’m sure I’ll be exhausted by the time I get home at 5 or 6.

Sure, I can supplement with copious amounts of caffeine, but I need to cut back on that. Plus, I read recently about everything the brain does developmentally while you sleep – only affirming my love for sleep. So I sit at a crossroads…how do I make the most of my time? I’ve always hated the cliché that you make time for that which is important you to. But unfortunately, it is true. It’s time to really discipline my days. That thesis is not going to write itself, Megan.

I'm starting an experiment by waking up at 4:30am tomorrow.  Hopefully I’ll write.  Soon, you’ll know.