Using only the little pink toolkit that my dad gave me for Christmas, a hammer, a towel and a hair dryer, I fixed (somewhat) the dent on my own. Here’s how I did it: I used the tools from the little pink toolkit to remove the rear bumper from my car. Then I took the bumper inside my house and heated the dented area with a hair dryer (so the plastic would be more pliable), covered the dent with a towel (to protect the plastic from the hammer’s sharp edges), and banged on it with a hammer. Using the little pink tools, I reattached the bumper to my car. I didn’t have quite the right tools or training to completely smooth out the dent, but at least now the clips can keep the bumper in the right place. Not bad for an hour’s work.

It was probably karmic retribution for the time I traumatized my friend Alana’s son, Ryland, after he proudly introduced me to his menagerie of stuffed animals. “Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and see their eyes glowing red and saliva dripping off their teeth?” I asked him. I still don’t know why I said that. Last year the elementary school gave my mom the school records for me and my siblings, so we got to see what our teachers thought of us. The kindergarten teacher I always thought adored me wrote, “lacks impulse control.” Maybe some things don’t change. Anyway, poor little Ryland was probably about 9 or 10 at the time I planted suspicions about his stuffed animals in his mind, and he burst into tears at the thought of his friends transforming into scary monsters while he slept. He had to sleep with his parents that night. It took a lot of convincing on Alana’s part to get him to believe his pandas would just snuggle with — not devour — him.

Last week I interviewed Alana’s daughter for one of my classes, so I went to Alana’s house for the first time in a few years. Ryland didn’t recognize me at first, but after a few minutes he asked his mom, “Is Maren the one who made me cry that one time?” Alas, yes. Fortunately, Ryland hasn’t needed years of therapy to develop into a pretty well-adjusted 12-year-old and crazy good Rock Band drummer. But still, what kind of person says that kind of thing to a kid?

So, back to my night. Finally around 4 a.m. it started raining and drowned out the tapping sound outside my window, so I was able to go to sleep. And when I looked outside this morning, I saw that the rain had washed away all traces of the dead babysitter, too. I hope I fall asleep faster tonight.

I probably never would have thought of participating in the Big Climb if my sister Celia hadn’t died of leukemia almost a year ago. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that there’s a bit of hero worship going on when I talk about her. Celia was a terrific person, the kind of sister anyone would love to have. I did the Big Climb in her memory. But I felt more of a sense of loss than accomplishment at the top of the 1,311 stairs I climbed in the Columbia Center. I felt like Celia should have been climbing with me, but we’ll never have that chance. I was glad to see posters of leukemia and lymphoma survivors posted on many of the floors in the Columbia stair well, but I couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. Why didn’t my sister make it? Why was her poster “in memory of” rather than “in honor of”?

Supposedly time heals all wounds, but this one feels as raw as it did that day last May when my dad told us Darren was going to take Celia off the ventilator because she had a blood clot in her brain and the doctors couldn’t detect any brain function. That day I thought there was still time for a miracle — but the one I wanted didn’t happen. God took my sister without asking my permission or anyone else’s. I still can’t think of a good reason why. But I firmly believe that Celia is still being her wonderful self and helping others find more purpose in their existence.

Climbing the Columbia tower was hard, especially because I hadn’t done any training for it. I had thought about climbing the stairs on the Fremont side of Queen Anne hill — 15-20 times up the 80 stairs should have been decent training — but I let general grad school busyness get in the way. Even with my flabby, untrained legs, I would do back-to-back Big Climbs every day for the rest of my life if it would bring my sister back. It won’t. But I’ll try to keep climbing. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough and make it high enough to get to where Celia is.

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Meg made some fabulous chocolate pots de crème in lieu of a cake for me. All in all, it was a pretty decent birthday.

Cheers!

I haven’t figured out the answer yet, but the bird got it right on.