In 1922 James M. Barries stood before the graduating class at St. Andrew’s University in Canada and delivered an hour-long commencement speech on courage to the generation four years removed from World War I. JM Barrie, famous for the infinite youth ascribed to the timeless character Peter Pan, began by refreshing his audience with a simple truth: “You remember someone said that God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.” 

Family is an indisputable sole source for memories, providing roses that guide steps in the darkest of days and lowest of moments. While some may be family of blood, others may not and the definition of what family is can be left to your own interpretation. Regardless, Barrie adds, “In my experience – and you may find in the end it is yours also – the people I have cared for most and who have seemed most worth caring for – my December roses – have been very simple folk.” 

If simple folk are those you care most for, then family can file in nicely. As a father, it doesn’t get more obvious that my two children are those who I love deeply and who provide the memories that cause me to sit back and sigh contently. Flipping through photo albums on my phone months later, literally and figuratively in December, it’s pictures of the kids and the shenanigans and adventures we share that give hope and endurance for a brighter future, for both the present and the future. 

Don’t get me wrong, Kai is a full participant in this equation, but for the sake of this essay and thesis, specifically, my Navy Rose is the provider of both reminders from Barrie as she is my Rose, shining brightest in her too many Decembers. 

Lately, in 2024, Navy encountered a rough start to the new year concerning her VACTERL Association as she was knocked out with a nasty RSV-like virus and continued to throw up regularly on top of that which wiped her out to the tune of an extended Primary Children’s stay and far too many tumultuous nights.  

Navy’s ‘emesis’ has been our biggest medical challenge with her as she’s grown up. It’s bloody, it’s chunky, it’s projectile, it’s aggressive, it’s so, so much, and it only occurs in the middle of the night.

For years, we’ve gone through these battles. At first, it was a rush to the ER to figure her out with urgent questions to all the specialists and the whole world wide web. We did scopes and scans and everything internal was just fine: no scars, no tears, no clots. A few months would go by and then a violent night would occur and then another few months would go by without any incident. 

And when I say bloody, I mean it. Literally. It’s dark red, sticky like hot tar, and smells strongly of “ew.” And when I say chunky, I mean it. Literally. Chunks of food if she’d eaten earlier, chunks of others if she hadn’t. Either way, add in chunks of mucus, chunks of saliva, chunks of raw meat, chunks of something from inside. And when I say projectile, I mean it. Literally. Like a hose on full blast, she’d throw up this way and that way, bendy and forward as the throw-up would shoot up three feet or off her bed and past her rug.

It went like this for a while, until 2024 escalated the cycle. From February to Spring Break, Navy was throwing up in the night every other night or streaks every night. We’d wake up to a panic cry or a violent heave during those episodes, catching as much as we could in a Halloween trick-or-treat bucket she keeps bedside for this very reason. Her hair would be matted, her stuffed animals would be gory, her blankets caked in chunks. Baths in the night, laundry in the hall until morning, and Navy, getting used to the routine, would apologize and sleepwalk through the motions. It wasn’t just one and done, most nights contained multiple episodes every few hours. 

When the morning came, we’d have to pre-wash the linens to get out the chunks to save the washer. We’d wash her stuffed animals in the sink so they wouldn’t stain. We’d lug the laundry down the stairs and back up again, sometimes being adults and not doing the laundry for a few days and she’d sleep on blankets and the basket would stare at us from the hall tauntingly.

It was a chain reaction, less sleep meant more grumpy and more throw-up meant more hunger. She’d endure this 24-7 tummy problem but added a 24-7 foreboding anxiety around those tummy problems and the fear of throwing up. A boy at preschool was just trying to play tag with her, tapped her belly, and she had a crippling fear of going back to preschool ever since because she didn’t want to throw up on anyone. She threw up when we tried staying up late at a friend’s house for New Year’s Eve and has brought scared energy to all new houses since then. Even her bed in our trailer has had its share of horrors.

We communicated with our team and tried new doses and new medications (only $150 out of pocket every month, nbd) and even a second opinion on what was going on, but nothing helped so we simply endured. 

Every other night. Every night. Every three hours. Every episode. 

And I thought of that this past weekend as Navy had endured a stretch of awesome-ness with growth, achievement, throw–up–free nights, and golden memories in handfuls of roses. 

A trigger for an episode is similar to a trigger for many people, motion sickness, and driving in a car. With new glasses meant to help, Navy sat in the backseat of our Blue Baby F-150 as we went through pristine Sardine Canyon and Logan Canyon up hills and down valleys towards Bear Lake and Garden City for a cabin weekend. Usually on a tablet watching SuperPets or Paw Patrol, Navy wasn’t feeling it and asked if she could listen to Dad’s music instead. 

My love language, I’m a sucker for that.

Whenever we can, the music is maxed at 30 and we sing Jakky Boy! by Parris Mitchell, Hey Mario by Patent Pending, or stick to the classics like Eye of the Tiger or Thriller. She knows every word, her shoulders know every movement, and she shines in song with all her favorites. (Whose Afraid of Little Old Me recently released by Taylor Swift is my current favorite performance from our Navy girl.)

But this time, she was OK with some new songs of whatever I was listening to, which just so happened to be “My Top 20” playlist that has more than 20 of my favorite songs ever. All chosen for specific reasons, the playlist is special, saved for sacred drives such as these. When it’s time to stop stressing, when it’s time to just unwind, the playlist is ready for a blast to the past with a song from high school or a prompt into philosophical or existential thinking from a lyric or two.

We were just about to begin a stretch of three by Forever the Sickest Kids, a band from high school that kicks in high gear and knows how to drop in the bass. I was driving solo, Kai was on his tablet, and Navy was content with her window down. The three songs – Whoa Oh (Me vs. Everyone), Hey Brittany, and My Worst Nightmare – kick off their best album, Underdog Alma Mater, and go back-to-back-to-back to set the tone of youthful energy for 10 straight minutes. To me, the three are one straight stretch that can’t be broken apart, not to be interrupted, and to only go hard. 

Forever the Sickest Kids was a Warped Tour find, and then a Warped Tour staple then onward. They kicked onstage and violently rocked wherever they performed, which made them a must-have on Steve’s iPod. I worked in a movie theatre growing up, as a projectionist sitting in the attics and balconies to start and stop the shows with the heavy, old metal machinery. On more than a few, FTSK stickers reside.

So, I was ready to go hard and bang my head most appropriately as the driver when Navy said she wanted to listen to Dad’s songs. With the wind blowing, we felt the air rush and heard the Logan River crash and push powerfully alongside.  I told Navy to be ready for the rock and she delivered, pulling out her air ‘taquar” (guitar is just a hard word to say sometimes) while catching onto the chorus and singing WHOA OH, WHOA OH as loud as she could. 

Her eyes were closed. Her smile was soft. Her nine fingers were strumming in pretend. And in every chorus, her voice rang louder and louder, brighter and brighter. Kai, engrossed in his headphones with his tablet, was oblivious but that core memory for Navy and I was put into a capsule and rolled into the vault to become a blossomed rose whenever that next December rolls around.