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In One Month...

Jacey is one month old today. Already! It seems the month prior to her birth felt so slow (mainly because I had no idea what day she would be arriving, and we had yet to know if we were having a boy or girl), and now the time has flown by. I know one month goes fast, as well as 3 years, and 6 years... Here's just some random thoughts of mine as we celebrate the first month of Jacey Johna's life!


In one month, I have...
gotten over my fear of having 3 children in our house.
been trying to resist buying matching outfits for all the girls.
watched 2 sisters welcome a third, and dote on her every minute they can.
heard the sisters tell me every single time she cries, as if I'm completely unaware of the fact.
watched my husband embrace another daddy's girl.
remembered how breastfeeding relaxes me (and helps take off the baby weight).
remembered how potent those baby poops are, especially when it explodes out of a diaper.
forgotten how much it hurt to labor and give birth with no epidural (eh, not really).
forgotten what it was like to sleep through the night.
enjoyed waking up to that little crying baby at 2 a.m. (seriously, I do).
loved just watching her sleep, gaze around, and flail as she figures out her body parts.
loved taking naps with that little warm body on my chest.
realized that I better eat up every second with her, as she is our third and final child (unless God has other plans)!

Forever Changed in the Blink of an Eye

Over the years, I have written and spoken a great deal on one of my life's most pivotal events. When I worked for Pinnacle Health, they had a publication called "Art and Soul", to which employees could submit artwork, photography, essays and poems. I chose to submit a story on my experience with Flight 800 that was published in the summer of 2005. Instead of writing something new, I've chosen to blog this story for today.

It’s amazing how quickly your life can change. Just when everything seems to be absolutely perfect, the unthinkable occurs, and your illusion of immortality is shattered.

            It was the summer of 1996, the summer before I would begin my senior year of high school. All was right in my little world. Hanging out with friends and my new boyfriend were the exciting events at the time, and since it was the first summer I was driving with a license, I volunteered to chauffeur everyone around in my mother’s car. I had reached the apex of independence in my 17 years. Little did I know my life would take a rapid course down from that peak.

            On the night of Wednesday, July 17, around 11:30 p.m., I arrived home to find my mom and brother waiting for me at the front door. I immediately sensed something was wrong because no one ever greeted me at the door even if I came in a little past my curfew. They said they had something to tell me and I was to follow them downstairs. I think it was my dad who spoke the words, but looking back, it’s all a blur. All I knew was that the worst imaginable tragedy had settled over my hometown.

            Many members of my high school’s French Club were planning a journey to France. I heard about it through several of the 16 people who were going on this excursion, including one of my best friends, Monica Weaver. I saw her two days before she was to leave, and she talked excitedly about the new clothes she bought for the trip, and the francs she had received from the bank. On the morning that she left, we talked on the phone for 45 minutes, chatting about our boyfriends and of course, her trip. She didn’t seem the least bit hesitant about going, and who would be? It was an amazing opportunity for them since the French Club didn’t venture overseas every year. At the end of our conversation, we decided that she would call me when she got back (while she recovered from her jet lag), and we said our good-byes, unknowingly for the last time.

            The 16 members of the French Club, their five chaperones, and 209 other passengers boarded TWA Flight 800 at JFK Airport, and within minutes after taking off, vanished into the night after the plane exploded in midair and fell to the sea below.

            It was instantly all over the news. By the next morning when I went to my high school, the mob of reporters was unbelievable. How could this happen to my hometown of Montoursville? With a population just over 5,000 and nestled next to Williamsport, it was just your average sleepy hamlet, relatively unknown to anyone living outside of Lycoming County. Then suddenly overnight, our small town became the focal point of Pennsylvania, America, even the world. It was too much to bear. I realized that this was a life-changing event, and I had to face it no matter how impossible it seemed.

            Within the week after the crash, funeral services began, some with or without the deceased, depending on whether their body had been found in the waters. In the space of four days, I attended five viewings and four funerals, more than I had been to in all of my 17 years, and more than I hope I ever have to attend for the rest of my life.

            The school year approached quickly, and I was a mix of emotions. How could I face my senior year without Monica? The last day I saw her, we talked about how we would have so much to write about in each other’s yearbooks, and also our plans for the upcoming year: mall trips, bowling, and just driving around and being teenage girls. I couldn’t comprehend why that had been taken away from her. She had so much going for her! She planned to go to school to be a nurse or a physical therapist, and I was clueless about my future. The 16 students that perished were vibrant, very involved in the school and extracurricular activities, and knew what they wanted to achieve in life. I tried to make sense of the tragedy in my own mind, piecing together specific Bible verses and trying to remember that God has a plan for everyone, but even now it’s still hard to grasp why so many young lives were taken away much too soon.

            I went through much of my senior year as I did any other school year, enjoying the dances, football games, parties with friends, and being a part of the school musical, but a lot of times I felt very sad and lonely. I looked forward to graduation and moving on in my life.

            As time ticked on, the pain I felt from the death of my friends lost some of its sting. There were weeks that would go by where I wouldn’t even cry, but yet not a day would pass when I didn’t think of Monica or my other friends that I lost, or the tragedy itself. Nearly nine years has passed, and it still crosses my mind every day, whether it’s a brief moment when I see the pictures of my friends that I’ve displayed in my hallway, or if I hear of a tragic event and it reminds me of what I lived through at such a young age.

            Visiting her gravesite was probably the most difficult thing in dealing with her death. It made the incident all too real, and many times I left crying. But there was a time I spent there when I felt very comforted.

            In late December of 1998, I went up to the cemetery around 11 p.m. Earlier that evening, I visited with Monica’s family, and in between going out to eat and meeting up with friends, I felt the need to stop at the cemetery.

            It was a beautiful night. There was crisp snow on the ground, the moon was shining brightly, and the stars were twinkling. I approached the area where many of the Flight 800 victims are buried. Their wind chimes swayed musically in the light breeze, and I knelt by Monica’s decorated headstone and for some reason felt at ease to talk to her out loud, even though I had always visited the site in silence. After a couple minutes, I said, “I have never done this before. This is a little different for me. I just wish I could know if you can hear me. I wish I could have some sort of sign!” I drifted off into regular conversation again, and a couple minutes later, I noticed something. All of the wind chimes had silenced. There was still a breeze, but there wasn’t a sound. Right then and there, I felt Monica’s presence, listening to me talk as she had done so many times before.

            Living through the tragedy of Flight 800 has changed me in so many ways. I’ve learned a lot about life, love and death. Being 17 at the time, they were lessons I never expected to learn so early in life. Never taking anyone or anything for granted, realizing how short and meaningful life really is, and how to make the most of what you have are just a few of the key lessons I’ve come to understand. I’ve heard that God will take a negative situation and come out with something positive. As I’m living my life now, I’d definitely have to agree. 

...And Then There Were 3

“A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” –John 16:21

I just happened to stumble upon this verse during my pregnancy on a day I was feeling discouraged about my sciatic pain, and it made me feel much better. (Well, when it comes to God, there is no "stumbling upon verses.") Also, since I had decided I was not going to use an epidural during this delivery, it also served as a reminder that I could go without pain relief. Don’t get me wrong, I have used epidurals for my other two deliveries. I have told others to get an epidural if they can. I’m not trying to be a hero of any sort. So why would I choose differently this time? During my labor and subsequent epidural with Averey, I experienced a drop in blood pressure that needed shots of ephedrine, an oxygen mask, and me turning on my side in order to stabilize it. It made for a long uncomfortable night. And when push came to… well, push, the numbing effect of the epidural left me with minimal pressure for motivation to push. However, there wasn’t much pain, so the drugs did their job. Kelsey’s birth was a different story. Since my water had been broken for awhile and I was Group B Strep positive, and the laps I did around the maternity floor didn’t progress things far enough, I was dosed up with pitocin. It eventually made me reach the point where I had to request the epidural. Unfortunately, my blood pressure didn’t stabilize and reached scary low levels, so they had to turn it off. When it was time to push, I could feel EVERYTHING. While it was painful, I realized that if I would have another child, I wasn’t going to mess with the epidural. After all, I knew what it was like to give birth without one. I also figured that since Averey’s labor was 30 hours, Kelsey’s was 11 ½, that the third labor should just be a few hours. Right?

Much to my excitement, at my 37 week checkup on Friday June 22^nd, the doctor pronounced me 70% effaced and 1 cm dilated. I was officially full-term, and therefore could really go at anytime. Since Kelsey arrived at 38 weeks on the dot, I was hoping for another early baby. (Even Averey was born one day before her due date.) Both Jake and I knew that I most likely wouldn’t make it until July. I’d been having random contractions for a week, and I was feeling my stomach could not stretch any further. However, Jake’s uncle had passed away just a couple days earlier. With the services being held the coming Monday, Jake’s only request of Baby G was that he or she stay in until Monday was over. Oh, and not to mention our front and side doors were being replaced that day also. Thankfully, Baby G obliged.

Tuesday was another day off work for me, so Averey got to have a friend over. Kelsey and I went to the pool later on, and then I went to a Pampered Chef party in the evening. I knew I’d head back to work in the morning, but in the back of my mind I thought perhaps my four day weekend may turn into maternity leave…

1:15 a.m. Wednesday. Another random contraction. A bit more painful than before. Then another. Then another. Hmm.  Could this be it? It was enough to get me out of bed and walking, enough to get Jake out of bed, and then not enough to make me go back to bed. I might have fallen back asleep until another random contraction about an hour and a half later. Finally, at 4:15, they seemed to come about every 5 minutes. Jake convinced me that I should probably call the doctor. The OB on call told me to come in and they would check me out. After Jake’s mom arrived at our house, we headed for the hospital. We arrived bright and early at 5:30 a.m. The nurses hooked me up to the monitors, and I was glad to see that my contractions weren’t just figments of my imagination.

And thus began one of the longest days EVER.

My pre-admission questioning had been completed, just in case they decided to keep me. I said I would feel like an idiot if they sent me home for false labor with my third child. The nurse assured me that I wouldn’t be the first one to do so. I don’t think I had the pleasure of being checked to see how far dilated I was until about two hours later. I was a bit disappointed to hear I was only at 3 cm. Then they told me to walk for about an hour. The L & D/Maternity floor at Mount Nittany isn’t exactly a large scenic track, and I had déjà vu from the laps we made as I tried to move Kelsey down the birthing canal three years earlier. At least Jake and I were getting some exercise, although since I hadn’t eaten since 8:00 the night before, it didn’t help my growing hunger. One of the nurses told us that 15 laps was a mile. I’m guessing when it was all said and done that we walked about two miles. And it didn’t do wonders in getting me further dilated.

Jake went down to the snack bar and ate breakfast. I tried to ignore the food, not to mention all of the commercials on TV for restaurants and all sorts of tasty treats. The ice chips just weren’t doing much for me other than making me have to pee quite often which is no picnic when you’re in labor. I was finally able to drink some ginger ale, but those sips did little to satisfy me.

I think somewhere around lunch time, I had progressed to 3.5 or 4 cm. Woo hoo. The doctor said they could send me home and I could be dilated like that for a couple weeks (say whaaat?), or since I had tested positive for Group B strep yet again, they could start me on the antibiotic, kick on the pitocin and get things into gear. Since I delivered Kelsey at 38 weeks, and I was only two days away from 38 weeks, they decided I could stay and get things moving. Not thrilled about the idea of pitocin since it put me over the edge the last time, but my nurse was fantastic. She respected my wishes and understood my reasoning for not wanting an epidural, and while she reassured me that they could do things to prevent the drop in my blood pressure if I chose the epidural, she also said that if I did not want the drugs that she would do what she could to help me achieve that goal.

Even though Jake and I had the TV on, I still lost track of time. The hours (and minutes) seemed to drag, and reading became boring, playing Angry Birds on Jake’s Kindle Fire just became frustrating, and sleeping was out of the question. The pitocin started to amp up the contractions, but they were still tolerable… for awhile. I was so glad to get some Jell-o in the meantime. I savored every slurp. By mid-afternoon, I was up to 5 whopping cm, but then the doctor broke my water so I figured things would really kick into gear!

Not so much. The pain got a little worse, and I got irritated with sitting in bed, so I asked the nurse for a change in position. I decided to be adventurous (?) and go for the birthing ball. I could picture all sorts of clumsy scenarios by sitting on a ball while contracting, but it helped at least move some things along. While I thought that most of my water had surely leaked out, I was proven wrong when I sat on that ball. Holy gushing. Surely I would be close to 10 cm now! But when I learned I was still at just 5 cm, I cried. Both Jake and the nurse assured me that it was all right. She told me that her shift ended at 7:15, and I would have the baby before her shift ended. (Maybe this was after 5 p.m.? I don’t remember…) She suggested that I try the rocking chair, and at that point, I could have stood on my head if it meant the baby would pop out. Well, I think the rocking chair did the trick. The contractions were frequent and ferocious, and I can’t remember the last time (if ever) I screamed like that in my life. I’m sure I scared some first-timer out in the hall. I just didn’t care at that point, and when the doctor came in, she told me that I was ready to push.

Leaving out any gory details, the surprisingly long labor I endured with baby number three turned into the quickest delivery I’ve had. It happened so fast: Jake looking at me and telling me that it was a GIRL, seeing her for the first time, and then Jake’s phone ringing with my mom on the other end, anxiously awaiting any news. (It was a long day for all parties involved.)

Jacey Johna (feminizing Jake's middle name John) Gummo arrived (17 hours after my first contraction began) at 6:38 p.m. on Wednesday, June 27th. She weighed in at 6 lbs. and 12 oz. and measured 20 ¾ inches long (although I wonder how exact a science it is, measuring a newborn who’s just spent 9 months scrunched up in utero). She came out with a nice head of light brown hair, and looked almost identical to Kelsey at birth. It was another amazing experience to give birth to another healthy beautiful girl. And while poor Jake is severely outnumbered, he contends that God knows that he should be able to handle four females under his roof. After all, he was certain we were having another girl anyway (well, he claims that at least up until the last month—then he wasn’t so sure). He referred to Baby G as a “she” every time he touched my belly and was met with a kick. He’s got a better intuition than I do--he's two for two now! I really had no clue; but what a wonderful surprise it was.

I’d forgotten how wonderful and cozy newborn babies are. I said during my last sleepless month of pregnancy that I would rather be up with a crying baby than to be awake and uncomfortable. She wakes us from our slumber, but to nurse her in the middle of the night is incredibly relaxing. And since we’ve pretty much decided that three is our magic number, I might as well cherish this time since it will probably be my last time to enjoy my own infant. Even though she is my tiniest baby and can barely fit into the closet of sisterly hand-me-downs she has, I love her itty-bitty body. While I wonder what her personality will be like—if she’ll be a nurturer mother hen like Averey, or a comical busybody like Kelsey, (or something entirely different) I just want to take this time day by day and soak up the moment. As Averey and Kelsey (especially Kelsey) seem SO big to me now, the time with Jacey seems even more precious because the evidence that babies grow up so fast is staring me in the face (even when I shut that bathroom door).

Nine months feels like such a long time when you only get glimpses of that baby moving and grooving and hiccupping inside, when you’re trying to decide on names, when you feel so exhausted that you wonder how you can function daily. You wonder what this baby is going to look like, what their cry will sound like… and then they arrive, nine months has flown by, and upon seeing that baby, it all falls into place, and you wonder what you ever did without them.

Some Pregnancy "Final Thoughts"

I have reached the “finish line”, so to speak, in my third pregnancy. When you think about it, 36 weeks technically equals 9 months anyway. I have enjoyed my pregnancies, for the most part. Each one has had its bumps in the road, but I’ve never hated being pregnant like some people I know. Usually they have good reason to despise the condition: morning sickness, bad acne, large weight gain, bed rest. I have been fortunate enough not to experience those side effects. So while you could say I’m a seasoned pro when it comes to pregnancy, I am no expert, and I realize that everyone’s experiences are different.

During three pregnancies, people have dispensed advice and opinions at their leisure, telling you what to expect (while you’re expecting). I’ll admit, I like talking to people about being pregnant, and it is something that truly resonates with women in conversation as we each have our own experiences to share. While it is deeply personal, I have been in a room full of moms, and there are no holds barred when it comes to sharing those birthing stories! Talking to strangers about pregnancy can be interesting too, and while gory details are spared, I’ve had some nice conversations with some customers in the pharmacy I work at, comparing pregnancy notes and chatting about our little ones.

I find that most people are pretty joyous when it comes to discussing the prospect of a new baby on the horizon. I have been surprised with this pregnancy that I did not gain weight right away and my belly is just kind of like a basketball. I would’ve thought with the third I’d be as big as a house. This time, nearly on a daily basis, I am told how cute, great, gorgeous I look. That is not to boast, because obviously I don’t often feel that way, especially when I think my stomach can’t stretch any further. But it is so nice to hear considering that when I was carrying Kelsey and a customer actually said, “Hi chubby!” I gave her a Look and laughed it off with an obvious sarcastic growl undertone. I don’t even know how she would’ve thought that would’ve been remotely funny to say, and I still don’t care for that customer to this day! (No words have been spoken of my body size this pregnancy.)

I find that the older population thinks it’s pretty neat that we don’t know the gender of our child. “How wonderful!” “What a nice surprise!” It’s often my friends who comment, “How can you not find out? That would drive me crazy! I have to be able to plan!” Quite frankly, I think anybody who is pregnant more than once should NOT find out at least one time. I’ve had the experience of knowing that Averey was a girl, and I was thankful to have that knowledge, even though it’s not how I would’ve chosen originally. But with Kelsey and this one as a surprise, well, it’s pretty amazing. How often in life do we have good surprises? How often in life do we just sit back and NOT have everything planned? We have enough gender neutral onesies, and if we have to paint the bedroom again, it won’t be that difficult a task since the baby will be in our room with us for a couple weeks anyway. Jake and I have both come to the realization that either gender will be a wonderful addition to our family. Considering the miracle of conception to birth, I can rest in the fact that not knowing the gender will give me good reason to push even harder! Besides, when the child arrives, that is when you meet him or her for the very first time. Sure, you see the ultrasound photos and the movements rocking your belly in the weirdest motions and you’ve had time getting acquainted, but the delivery is the moment of truth. Does it really matter that you knew their gender four months ahead of time?

There are some things I won’t miss about being pregnant. Discomfort in sleep, pressure on the bladder, sciatic pain, a desperate need for an overload of fiber… and annoying comments. This goes beyond “Hi chubby!” This is the your-pregnancy-is-exactly-like-mine-and-I-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about type remarks. Honestly, I think most people mean well, but I think it’s the pregnancy myths that people believe that clearly must be true… and make no sense whatsoever.

Case in point, a conversation I had yesterday with a customer.

Customer: Are you having a boy?

Me: I don’t know!

Customer: You’re carrying out front like you’re having a boy!

Me: I actually carried the same way with both of my girls, so who knows?

Me (what I really wanted to say): And how am I supposed to carry a girl? Off to my side? In my rear?

This drives me BONKERS! I apologize if there are any of you that are convinced gender determines how you carry, but personally, I think it’s a bunch of hogwash. During my pregnancy with Averey, I was working in a hospital. While waiting for an elevator, another employee says, “Oh, you’re having a boy because I carried just like that with mine.” Having the knowledge of my ultrasound actually came in handy so I could curtly say, “Actually, I’m having a girl.” Come to think of it, anytime someone makes a remark on how I’ve carried in ALL of my pregnancies, they always determine that I’m having a boy! This time, they could be right, but the track record isn’t so great thus far. And how, may I ask, does a baby’s genitalia establish the positioning in one’s uterus anyway? I have never once looked at a pregnant woman and felt compelled to say the baby’s gender based on the position of her bulge.

Then there’s the heartburn/baby hair myth. I had heartburn and some disgusting reflux with Averey, and while she had some hair at birth, it was hardly enough to comb after a bath. Kelsey came out with a decent crop of spiky blond hair, but not once did I have heartburn with her. It also could be due to the fact that I chomped down Tums every night before bed, but still. This one has given me some heartburn, but we’ll see about the hair. I’m just not sure how hair (encased inside amniotic fluid nonetheless) could actually cause the heartburn. Yet I’ve heard fervent discussions over this matter as if it has some merit.

Then there’s the gender determining tests: the string test, the Chinese birth calendar, peeing in a toilet full of Drano… you’ve heard them all. While they can be fun (or funny), I’ve found only one test determines the gender: birth!

As I head into my final four weeks (or less) of pregnancy, I anticipate the compliments and brace myself for more doozies as I will continue to carry this baby out front (because I’m not sure where else to put it), and people learn that this is my third pregnancy (Wow, your hands will be full!). While we’re entering uncharted territory, I am eagerly awaiting to meet this karate-chopping baby who thinks my bladder is a trampoline. And hopefully someday, I won’t be dispensing unwanted opinions on others’ pregnancies, but sharing in the joy and miracle that bringing a child into this world really is.  

It's So Hard to Say Good-bye to Yesterday

It was 15 years ago today that I entered the Montoursville High School gymnasium in my royal blue cap and gown, ready to move on to the next phase of my life. After my senior year, I was a mix of emotions, and graduating symbolized a lot more than just getting a diploma.

I remember being so excited about being a senior after watching the previous classes leave. It seemed that being part of the senior class would be fun and full of activity. Each class had their Class Day: all the seniors wore white, performed in skits poking fun at their time at MHS, showcased a slide show and then sung their class song. While it could bring tears and the reminder that the graduating class was really leaving Montoursville, I still looked forward to the event. When the class of ’96 graduated, it was our time to shine.

And then Flight 800 happened.

Summer trips to Mexico for the Spanish Club were routine, but the French Club hadn’t travelled to France during our time at the high school. On July 17, 1996, 16 students and their 5 adult chaperones left for Paris aboard TWA Flight 800 from JFK Airport. A few of my friends were part of this trip, and to say they were excited was an understatement. But the plane crashed minutes after takeoff, killing all 230 passengers. Some say this is how the “real world” came to Montoursville: a rude awakening for a town of 5,000. We lost six members of our class, and words can’t even explain the profound loss of so many youth. As one of my closest friends, Monica Weaver, perished in that horrific incident, I was extremely saddened that someone I had grown very close to over our junior year would not be around for the fun senior year we were anticipating. My cousin (and one of my best friends) graduated in June and would head off to college in the fall, and while a couple of my other best friends and my boyfriend were still in school, they were in classes below me. Monica was that one friend I was going to spend so much time with, and she was gone. This inevitably changed the course of my senior year.

The first day of school was unlike any other, and while the events of the summer were still fresh in everyone’s mind, it seemed to me that people were moving on. I ended up taking a step back as this was the day that Monica’s body was identified—the last of the Montoursville group. As we got further into the year, I felt as if people were forgetting. A foolish assessment, but I was sad a lot more than I let on, and I just didn’t feel that anyone felt the same. My friend Erin (a junior) and I grew close over the year because we had both lost very close friends, and she originally was supposed to go on that fateful trip. That friendship was positive for the both of us, and while we are in different phases of our lives and live far apart, we can pick up the phone after a couple months and ease into conversation to this day. I think the bond developed out of the loss of friends truly cemented our friendship.

In Psychology class, we had to complete a project, and a lot of people sent surveys around the school to collect data on a certain subject. I chose to do my report on Flight 800 and how the student population was affected by the tragedy. I saw that the effect on a lot of people, whether they were friends with someone or not, was greater than I expected. However, my report went missing from the blackboard in the Psych room. I have no clue what happened to it, and I was disappointed not to have that piece. But being the pack rat I was (am), I saved the surveys with all of my other Flight 800 memorabilia.

My senior year still had some bright spots, and I tried to make the most of it by spending time with friends, my boyfriend, participating in “Guys and Dolls”, and enjoying the school dances and prom. I do believe people seemed a bit friendlier that year, and that was a positive result of such a terrible tragedy.

I would have to say that the happiest and saddest day was Class Day. It was a little strange to see all the members of my class dressed in white, but as we waited outside the auditorium that beautiful June day, a rainbow formed around the sun. Was it a sign? We liked to think it was. We all carried white roses tied with blue and gold ribbon, and as we entered the auditorium to Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way”, each of us made our way to the stage to drop off our roses in memoriam of our classmates lost. This was mentioned at the introduction of Class Day, and after a brief moment of silence, the show was underway. With two hilarious sketches, “wills” from the seniors to other classmates or people in other classes, people named “most likely to…” or “class (ditz, yuppie, mooch, fill in the blank)”, we got to the good part: the slide show. Set to music, a majority of kids in my class had a specific snippet of a song played for them, describing their personality, or name. (For instance, some Jeremys in my class had “Jeremy” by Pearl Jam. Obviously.) Some were flattering, others not so much. Mine was “Supermodel” by Jill Sobule… and to this day I’m still not sure why, since it should’ve been the “Hokey Pokey”, referencing my maiden name Polk.

After lots of photos of our class, the screen flashed blue with the words “In Memory of Flight 800.” The auditorium grew silent. A photo montage of the six members of our class, Jessica Aikey, Jordan Bower, Amanda Karschner, Kim Rogers, Monica Weaver and Wendy Wolfson, was set to “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. To see their baby and childhood pictures on the screen immediately set me off in tears. Near the end, I was surprised to see myself in a photo with Jess and Kim from about 8^th grade, and then when a photo of Monica and I flashed on the screen from the last day of our junior year, I could hardly take it. After the slide show ended, you could have heard a pin drop (if it weren’t for those of us crying) until loud, clear applause broke through the silence.

Then it was time to take the stage to sing our class song, “These Are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs (which I hated before that… but now hold dear for sentimental reasons). I was a wreck but pulled myself together to enjoy the moment. The juniors sang us the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help From My Friends” (and adding on “Hit the Road Jack” at the end—we poked some fun at their class that day as we thought they were a little more favored by the faculty).

I heard some people from my class were going to take the roses up to the cemetery where our classmates were laid to rest. I knew I couldn’t go up there as I rarely visited the cemetery that year. But as I drove out of the high school parking lot and saw my classmates up on the hill, I turned up the road towards them. Arriving up there, seeing my classmates arm in arm, each group of friends by the headstone of their dearest friend, crying… I realized I was not alone in my grief nearly 11 months after the incident. I sat in front of Monica’s grave, sobbing, while a couple of my friends consoled me. We started talking about Flight 800, our friends lost, our senior year, saying good-bye, and before we knew it, there were only five of us left up on that hill. One of my friends commented that he never realized how hard it would be to say good-bye.

Two days later would be our final farewell to MHS at graduation. We were stuck indoors as we were told the football field had just been re-sodded (or whatever you do to keep football fields nice), but we were all pretty much convinced that the administration did not want us outside due to a media frenzy over our class being the first to graduate after Flight 800. We didn’t think it was going to be a big deal for the media. But wouldn’t you know it? When we pulled in to the parking lot, there were cameras lined up the street. I heard one classmate went as far to unplug some of them.

It was a fitting ceremony; the top three guys in our class spoke about our time at MHS, Flight 800 was not forgotten, but yet the living were much celebrated. Soon we were lined up to receive our diplomas. When my name was called, I learned I was also receiving the Monica M. Weaver Memorial Award. It seemed surreal to be receiving an award in honor of the friend who I expected would be receiving her diploma with me, so it was a bittersweet moment. After our row got their diplomas, I looked inside the shell and nearly panicked when I did not see my diploma. My friend next to me whispered that we would get them after we turned in our caps and gowns, remember? Must not have been paying attention to that one. Alas I had to have one more stupid moment before I left school.

The six in our class that died on Flight 800 received their diplomas posthumously. I could not imagine being in our class president’s shoes as she had to read those six names, each responded to with thunderous applause.

Thirteen years from the time (most of us) started Kindergarten in 1984, and it was over just like that. And now 15 years have flown by! I find it hard to swallow that so much time has passed, and yet sometimes, I don’t feel any different than I did back then. I would like to think I’m a little bit cooler than I was, but in reality, probably not. While I had no serious career ambitions (and that is how one ends up a pharmacy technician!), I knew more than anything I wanted to get married and be a mom. Well, I certainly filled in that blank, just not in a way I ever expected.

Some people look back on their high school days with pain, some look back in laughter, some look back in regret, and some look back to reminisce. I can say that I do all of those. My senior year truly encompassed all of those emotions. In some aspects, I was glad to leave, but for awhile, I did have a hard time letting go. I figured someday I would settle back in Montoursville, but it was not meant to be. I view that as a good thing for me—I needed to get away and move on. While the path I traveled was a bit crooked and unconventional, I am grateful to be living in State College now. Far enough away, but close enough that we can still enjoy a visit (and that my parents can come and see their grandchildren). I am thankful for the life I had in Montoursville, but even more so that my narrow teenage eyes have been able to see greater things than I imagined possible as I left Montoursville High School for the last time.

Reflecting on Those High School Years...

Jake and I mark a small milestone this year: we’ve been out of high school for 15 years. Seriously? I can remember when my mom was out of high school for 15 years. It was 1988, and she got a booklet in the mail that listed all of her classmates and what they’d been up to since 1973. I was fascinated by this and would delve into her yearbook and match up the people with their pictures. I had nine years before I would graduate high school, and it seemed so far away. Over the years, I would look at my mom’s yearbooks again and have a good chuckle at her pictures, and the clothing and hairstyles. She warned me that I too would laugh at my yearbooks someday. Fifteen years later, I still don’t think I look quite as ridiculous as my mom, even if I was totally rocking the Jennifer Aniston ‘do in my senior pictures...

I look back on high school with some fond memories. Jake, on the other hand, was glad to leave. I graduated in a class of 170 people; Jake graduated with over 400. I didn’t know every single person in my class, but I at least knew their names. I don’t even know how you could begin to find your place in a class that large. Other than the fact that Jake was tall (people mistake him for being a football player all the time) and teachers knew his brother (which occasionally was a strike against him), he skated through State College High School under the radar (which is something he didn’t seem to mind). When we talk about our high school days, the only regret he seems to have is that he didn’t work to his full potential. Maybe.

I can’t say I have numerous regrets about high school. When I take the time to read old journal entries, I sometimes cringe at things I said or did and can’t believe how stupid I could be. But I guess that’s all part of growing up and maturing. Other than the choice of some of my classes during my senior year (I so wish I would’ve taken more art classes than the unnecessary Advanced Chem and Pre-Cal, which just made me feel dumb), knowing I could have done better in some classes, and perhaps more involved in activities, I’m pretty satisfied with my high school career. And really, 15 years later, how much of it even matters anymore?

I had a good group of friends over the years, and I wasn’t much for teenage rebellion since I didn’t want any privileges taken away. I was (and still am) a horrible liar. I never could’ve pulled off lying to my parents… oh, I’m sure there’s a couple things I got away with, but I didn’t sneak out, the parties I attended were sans alcohol, and I paid enough attention in health class that I feared ever trying any illegal substance. (And still do to this day.) I focused my dramatics on boys. I was never quite happy with my appearance since I wore glasses through 8^th grade (and glasses from the late '80s and early '90s were anything but cool), and even contact lenses didn’t make me feel any less of an ugly duckling. I was never without makeup, and even when my friends were kind enough to tell me my lipstick was waaaay too bright, I perceived that as an insult to my appearance. It didn’t help that my complexion was anything but clear and had the tetracycline/Retin-A combo to treat my acne. Thankfully, I didn’t have the super-visible-not-able-to-cover-up-with-makeup-acne, but a lot of it was my own fault since I liked (and still have this terrible habit) to pick. The bright side to my (still) oily face is that my mom constantly reminds me that I won’t have wrinkles when I get older since I was lucky (?) enough to inherit her oily genes. Not what you want to hear at 16 though. Nor did I enjoy hearing friends say, “Oh my gosh, I have A zit!” I’m like, “Okay, let me show you all of mine. I can play connect-the-dots!”

Being a high-schooler in the mid-‘90s was pretty carefree. Not that I can speak for everyone. I was fortunate enough to have a decent home life, and in spite of getting doses of real life through seventeen magazine (no cable at my house), I lived in my own little world. I didn’t give much thought about college, and after a sampling of dorm life at Penn State during 4-H State Days, I was a little uneasy about attending college. I knew it was what I was supposed to do after high school, but I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. (Oh wait, I still don’t!)

I am very nostalgic about the ‘90s. The movies I watched repeatedly (Clueless, Dumb & Dumber), the music I overplayed (Live, Alanis Morissette), the TV shows I obsessed over (Friends, hence the haircut)… I’m sure my kids will make fun of me someday for all of that stuff, and not to mention some of my clothes (I’m making fun of me too for some of those outfit choices—yikers!), but those things will always remind me of my teenage life, which in all honesty, was pretty darn easy compared to some of the stuff I’ve dealt with as an adult.

But were they the best years of my life? As I'm a working mom and a wife and just trying to keep up with housework, bills and remembering all the things that need to get done for the day... not even close. I am blessed to be at this point, something that was so difficult to imagine 15 years ago.