I wonder how I got here. How things got to be so complicated and how I did nothing to prevent it or stop it. I think back to what life was like when things were simple. When everything made sense. When routines were just routines but a way of life. And I enjoyed it. When the world was brighter, or at least my world was.
Everything is dark and gray. The air seems colder than it’s ever been. It doesn’t feel there is any sunlight in the future, no warmth, nothing to look forward to. Walking with my head down seems like the right thing to do. To raise my chin would imply that I am ready and willing to accept whatever is ahead of me. That couldn’t be any further from the truth. In a perfect world I would retire to my mess of an apartment where I would live in pajamas and slippers day in and day out in complete solitude. But, as I have learned time and time again, this is not a perfect world. Far from it.
***************************
I remember hearing this horror story of a man who was depressed. He thought he had it all. His job was wonderful and paid well. He had a beautiful wife and two adoring children who were smart, beautiful, and well behaved. His home was clean and orderly and dinner was always on the table when he arrived home from work. His wife, his high school sweetheart, ironed his shirt every morning before work and readied his coffee and briefcase just before he left. His kids kissed him goodbye in the morning and kissed him goodnight before bed. They got straight A’s and respected their parents and did their homework. His family was close and loving, they were funny and intelligent. They were envied by most.
Until one day he came home to find his wife in bed with another man. His cousin. His best man at their wedding. The one who had comforted him when he lost his father to Cancer just two winters earlier. In a fit of rage, he screamed at his wife and demanded to know how long this had been going on. Much to his dismay he learned it had been going on for years. In fact, his youngest, a little girl, might not even be his. She was eleven by now. Devastated he ran out of the house, dropping his briefcase and coffee mug on the bedroom floor before leaving.
The wife picks up his briefcase and discovers a card and small box had fallen out of it. The card was addressed “The Greatest Love I Have Ever Known”. She knew she probably should not have opened it, but she did anyway. Inside that tiny box was her mother’s engagement ring. The one she had inherited when she graduated high school. Just weeks after her mother had passed away. It was beautiful, but it didn’t fit any of her fingers. It broke her heart knowing that she couldn’t wear it. She stared at it sadly in her jewelry box from time to time. When had he taken it? And how had she not even known?
He had it resized for her. To wear on her right hand. It was cleaned and sparkled brighter than she had ever seen it. As she put it on her finger, one single tear ran down her cheek. She paused before opening the card for fear of what wonderful things he might say to her in there.
“Nancy, after nearly twenty perfect years of marriage, I couldn’t love you any more than I do now. Because my heart might burst otherwise. You are everything to me, and I don’t know what I would do without you. Will you remarry me?”
He shot himself that night in his office. Alone. In the dark. And much to everyone’s amazement, there was no note. No e-mail left behind. No “sign” that he was hurting and no unusual behavior in the recent weeks. No clues. No nothing.
But Nancy knew. She knew that she had taken her children’s daddy away. That she had broken his heart more than he could bear. She had destroyed their beautiful family and shattered any chance of a normal life for her kids. She knew.
***************************
What stunned me the most was that this man could take his own life. He was so low that he truly felt that he couldn’t go on any longer. Life was no longer important. His children’s lives were no longer a concern. He thought only of himself and what he could and couldn’t handle. He didn’t think about whether or not his kids could handle it. And he never even gave them a choice.
But there are multiple things in this story that are horrifying and things that are not as bad as they seem on the surface.
He left his wife and young children to fend for themselves. He was selfish and didn’t worry about their safety. He left his wife feeling guilty for the rest of her life, thinking about how it was all her fault and her children would not have the wonderful lives they were meant to have had she not slept with his cousin.
But his children, should they learn from this, could go one of two ways. They could be weak; letting the past hold them back and frighten them about so many things in the future. Or they could be strong, learning early that life is not fair and ready to entertain whatever life’s tragedies will be thrown their way.
***************************
I have seen beautiful things. But I have seen horror. I have watched loved ones die slowly over the course of year while in pain. I have buried friends that were just too young to die. I have seen what being selfish can do to people, others, and themselves. I have witnessed deceit and injustice.
But now matter how bad things got for me, I was never selfish enough to take my own life. Giving up was just not an option. And it never will be. I will push on. Always. Getting stronger with each obstacle thrown in my path in hopes of tripping me, or slowing me down, or encouraging me to stop the journey all together.
Life continues.
Not forever.
And not for everyone.
Which is why I value every fucking second that I have.
Because I am lucky to each and every one of them.
Luckier than some.
No matter how hard it gets.
Is it true that when Father Time falls asleep time stands still? And if that is true, why does he always fall asleep in moments of tragedy? Or in moments that are filled with endless amounts of love?
It is possible that love and tragedy are things that Father Time can never explore or experience and so he is filled with such boredom that he will ultimately fall asleep, making time stand still, the world halting, and reality feeling like anything but?
This weekend stood still for me. Father Time sleeping from Saturday all the way straight through until Monday morning.
Saturday afternoon I got a surprise from Mr. Unrealistic. He was on his way to see me. And escort me to the Halloween parties I had already agreed to attend. I was ecstatic. He could not get there fast enough. Time had stood still. And time continued to stand still until he left Sunday morning.
I tried to remove the goofy smile off of my face, but it was no use. He made me smile. Just for being near me, just for listening to me, just for looking at me, and not looking at me at all. He is perfect in every way important to me. He held my hand, whispered in my ear, hugged me whenever he had the chance, and would sometimes just stare into my eyes without saying a word. I was in heaven, the happiest I’ve been in a very long time, and I knew right then, that things would only get better.
I wanted to tell him that I think I love him. But I know that “think” lessens “love’s” value. And I didn’t want him to think I devalued the “love” I MIGHT have for him. I wanted to tell him that I think about him all the time and that one day I could really love him. I wanted to tell him that the world is a brighter, happier, much more interesting place for having him in it, and I am beyond privileged to having him in my life and for allowing me to be in his.
I wanted to tell him that I don’t know how to be sad, angry, or anything negative when he’s around or even when I’m just thinking of him. I wanted to tell him that he truly is the most amazing person I have ever met and every day I look forward to learning more about him, seeing more with him, and thinking more of him.
…And time stood still that night. When he hugged me. And kissed my forehead. And told me I am remarkable in every way possible and that he can’t wait to fall in love with me.
**************************************
Sunday morning.
I awaken and feel as though the night before had never happened. That it was all a dream. And I am not as lucky as I think I am.
Just when I thought time would start back up where it left off, I check the time on my phone to see if it’s real. I have seventeen missed calls on my cell phone and two new voicemails. From two people. Completely unrelated to each other. No connection, they’ve never even met before.
I check the voicemails before I call anyone back.
“Dean, its Diane, Matt’s Mom. Call me right away at home.” I hear a click and was surprised that I didn’t hear a goodbye first.
Second message:
Sobs. Short fast breaths. “Dean? I need you. Please.” Another click. Another message without a goodbye. My heart drops, stops even. Time is moving slow.
I call Diane. Who informs me that Matt has been killed in fire. My friend. One of my very best guy friends. A house fire. With a few of his friends. While enjoying the last of the nice beach weather. And I wonder, did Father Time fall asleep again? Did he forget that we need time to heal? That time is the only thing that can help us? Is he purposely torturing me by making time stand still and forcing me to grieve with no end in sight?
I fall to my knees, unable to breathe, unable to fathom what was said, what I feel, and what to do next. I want to fall into a deep coma, and be alone, and cry to myself. I want to be left in a dark place, in silence, all alone. But I know that being alone with my thoughts will only eat away at me. And I have another call to make. To my friend, a friend who needs me, and I don’t yet know why. I want to be selfish, and be alone, and ignore that message, but I don’t know how. I have to be there for my friend. I don’t know what else to do.
“Dean. Please help me. I don’t know what to do.” He says, his voice shaking uncontrollably. He says that he can’t leave his house, because he can’t drive, because he can’t do anything. Not even breathe. And I know the feeling.
I arrive at his apartment to find him lying on his kitchen floor. His face is red, and bloated, and he has been crying for hours. But I’m sure it feels more like days, weeks even. He tells me that Carrie has died. My friend. My high school teammate. My college companion. My first roommate. His fiancée. The love of his life. His best friend.
I fall to my knees again. Time stops. And we hold each other. And cry. And I don’t say a word, because I don’t know what to say. I know nothing will make it better. Make anything better. I want to tell him she’s happy, but I know it won’t help. I want to tell him she didn’t suffer, but I know she did. And I want to tell him that there will be justice, but I have seen it before. And justice does not always follow through when a drunk driver hits an innocent woman head-on going the wrong way. Not even when she’s engaged to be married, and carrying a child for the past four and a half months, and on her way home from the job she hates but works at anyway to help pay the mortgage on the brand new house her fiancée built for her. She hates that job, doesn’t need to work at all, he insisted that she didn’t. She insisted that she did. That’s the way she was. “Nothing in life is free… Except for love. And I have that. Why be greedy about anything else?” She always said.
She quit her job finally. That was her last night. Her last night at work. Her last night on Earth.
He had gotten a second chance at love. His first wife gone. At 23 years old. Cancer. Tumors. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. Caught too late. Left him to raise their little boy alone. Only eight months old. He never thought he’d love again. Not until he met Carrie. Who showed him that sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, and deserve it, and appreciate it enough, and are open to it, you get a second chance. They were having a little girl. To be named Isabel. After his first wife. Carrie thought it was perfect.
**************************************
Matt. Son. Brother. Grandson. Nephew. Cousin. Friend. Boyfriend. College student. 21 years old. Gone. So quickly.
Carrie. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Granddaughter. Niece. Cousin. Friend. Fiancée. Mother-To-Be. 24 years old. Gone. So quickly.
So I beg you, Father Time, to please wake up. Save me from this pain. Because I need you, Father Time, to keep time going, so I can keep going.
Just the thought of him brings a smile to her face. Sometimes she swears she can smell him if she tries hard enough. And when it’s quiet enough, she can hear his laugh crystal clear.
They had met at a Halloween costume party and had instantly gotten along while discussing the details of their costumes and analyzing everyone elses’.
He never treated her right, but she misses him anyway. He had a temper, and sometimes she was the target. She was tough, pretended things were fine. She thought it was normal. She had not been hit as a child, or by any other man, but she thought she was in love.
When he tried really hard, he was romantic. He made her laugh and hugged her from behind when she least expected it. He knew that was her favorite. While he was a horrible boyfriend, he was a great friend. He really understood her, and she thought that’s what made it all worth it. He could read her like a book and she wished she could do the same for him.
He lied to her about other girls. He would kiss them and treat them great. She knew about it. But she always thought “It’s just sexual. Those girls mean nothing to him. He LOVES me.”
He lied to her. And she lied to herself.
She was a hypocrite. She did not want him living such a destructive life anymore, though she had no problem ruining her own. Much to her surprise, he agreed to slow down and then eventually stop. The summer went well. He was less angry, more importantly he was less angry with her. There were fewer girls. There were still girls, but a lesser amount of of them. Things were turning around, she thought. “He really does love me,” she thought.
That’s when she learned. Things were not as great as they seemed. There were additional girls, he just hid them better. His lifestyle was more harsh than before, she was just blind to it. She gave him the ultimatum.
“It’s me. Or it’s everything else.” At that moment in time, he wanted everything else. But he was thinking differently a week later. He was calling her and calling her. It took everything she had not to answer that phone. Finally, she couldn’t do it anymore. She answered the phone that morning.
“I want to see you. I’ve changed. I gave it all up. But to do it forever, I need your help. I want your help. And I want you to be around. Please meet with me tonight so we can talk about it.”
She agreed to meet with him. Even with everyone’s disapproval, including her own.
But he was lying again. He had not given up anything. For that night, while on his way home to get ready to meet with her, he had seen it harmless to blow some lines with a friend before driving. His judgment was gone. His perception has disappeared. His conscience had disintegrated.
He and his friend would be the last to see each other that fateful night. At excessive speeds, the car would flip numerous times killing its two passengers, their families’ hearts, their dreams, theirs souls, and their futures.
That was four years ago today. And I’m still sorry that he’s gone. And I still miss him. Even though he never treated me right.
My sister is getting married this New Year’s Eve. She is my only sister. I have two step-sisters, a sister-in-law, and a cousin who might as well be a sister. But no one compares to my TRUE sister. She is my best friend, my confidant, my conscience, my non-romantic soulmate.
We did not always get along. In fact, we hated each other. I never thought in a million years that we would ever be civil, let alone be as close as we are.
Our brother got married his past May. It was beautiful. But it was hard. My sister and I had a hard time for him. He was concerned about having a traditional wedding with all of the traditional things. Father/Daughter dance, cutting of the cake, throwing of the boucquet, etc. He was heart broken.
“Ever since I was a little kid, I always wondered what song I would choose to dance with mom to on my wedding day. It never occured to me that I would not dance with her. That she would not be here to dance with me.”
My sister and I cried for him many times before, during, and a few times after the wedding. I was so sad for him. He had always appeared to be so strong, but he was really sentimental and emotional and it ate at me to see him like that. I wanted to fix everything for him. But I knew I couldn’t.
And now it’s my sister’s turn. When it was time for my brother to get married, I did think of what it would be like when it’s my sister’s turn. And at the time, I thought to myself, that it wouldn’t be as hard for her as it was for him. I thought “Well, they don’t do a Mother/Daughter dance. And other than family photos, there’s almost nothing that the mother and daughter do together.”
Boy, was I wrong.
My sister, and I (the horrible maid of honor that I am) head out looking for bridal gowns. My sister does not like being the center of attention, so we went just the two of us. She felt more comfortable knowing it was just me there. We got there and my sister and I were looking around. Things were going really well. She had picked out a bunch that she wanted to try on and they had started a fitting for her.
After about a half hour of picking out dresses, it was time to start trying them on. When we arrived at the fitting room area, my sister stopped dead in her tracks. She turned around and stared at me. I knew that look. That was the look that told me that her heart stopped. That someone had ripped it out and stomped on it. And me, being her sister, needed to protect her. I needed to stand up for her, make her feel better, revive her.
There were six other brides-to-be trying on dresses. All were with their mothers. And it was more than my sister could bear. My heart broke for her. Because I knew, there was nothing I could to take the pain away.
We left without trying on any dresses.
That was the first time in a long time that I couldn’t protect her.
I let her down.
I quit smoking yesterday. I smoked my first cigarette at the age of eleven. And was smoking regularly at the age of twelve. So I have been smoking for over ten years. Does that make anyone else sick to their stomach other than myself?
I calculated some things and I have to say the results were quite disturbing.
* I have spent approximately $32,850.00 on cigarettes in my lifetime.
* I have smoked approximately 109,500 cigarettes in my life time (not including the second hand smoke I was inhaling since birth from three daily smokers living with me.)
* If it’s true what they say (you lose 7 minutes of your life with every cigarette you smoke) that means I have lost 766,500 minutes.
* In other words I lost 12,775 Hours of my life.
* In other words I lost 532.29 Days.
* That’s the same as saying I lost 1.46 years… MINIMUM!
And I have asthma.
And I’m alergic to cigarette smoke.
And lung cancer runs in my family.
Both sides.
So does Emphysema.
And throat cancer.
And yet, I’ve been smoking for over ten years.
I’m done.
It’s a waste.
And far too risky.
Especially for someone like me.
Someone who wants to live.
And enjoy life.
And travel.
And have a family.
See my kids grow up.
And see my grandkids grow up.
Any other smokers care to join in my new Smoke-Free lifestyle? I promise you won’t regret it.
Am I religious? « Starting Today…
I was reading Starting Today’s blog this morning (as I do every morning) and noticed that she had a post about religion. Now, while I was taught that some things should never be discussed publicly (i.e. religion, politics, and baseball depending on the who you’re rooting for and who everyone else is rooting for) I don’t always think my parents had it right.
There is nothing wrong with a healthy debate.
First, some back story:
I was raised Catholic. My mother was religious. Made us all go to church every Sunday. My dad never went. It was always Mom, my brother, sister and I. We went to CCD classes once a week at night to “study” the bible and the history in Catholicism. We each made our first communion and my brother and sister had made their confirmations. I was just a child and always thought that being Catholic was the right thing to do. I never thought that people of different religions were wrong for NOT being Catholic. I just that since my mom had raised us to be that way, that’s the way it was meant to be.
We prayed every night before bed. We did not, however, say Grace before meals. (Go figure.) My mom was diagnosed with Cancer in 1990. She never lost faith. Not even when things got rough. She was severely sick and in and out of the hospital all of the time. When she was not around, my Aunt brought us all to church for her. My Grandmother (mom’s mom) was diagnosed with Cancer not even a year after my mom was. My mom’s parents lived with us. My dad (being as handy as he is) had turned our garage into a separate apartment for them adding a large master bedroom upstairs with two walk-in closets, their own bathroom, kitchen, and living room downstairs. They were a second set of parents for my brother, sister, and I.
When my grandmother started noticeably get sick I started to question things about my religion. “How do we know that the stories in the Bible are real? Couldn’t they just be made up and we would never know because the people who actually wrote them died a long time ago?”
“SINY! Go see Sister Agnes right away!” I was always being punished for asking questions. Here I was, being taught that “God” gave us all free will and imagination. And yet, a curious child was being punished, for what? Being curious.
My mom passed away in 1994. She still never lost faith. She still believed that “God” had bigger plans for her. And that this was how it was supposed to be. As much as it broke her heart to leave us, her children, she felt that “God” had a mission for her to help others. And that “God” didn’t think we needed her, but someone else did.
I felt like, if “God” needed her to help someone else… Couldn’t she live? And help them while I was at school? And then come home, have dinner with us as usual, help me with my homework, and then tuck me in? Did she need to die to help someone? Because I know it didn’t help me. Or anyone else in my family for that matter.
It was October 27th, 1994 when she passed. I was nine. My brother was sixteen and my sister fourteen. We didn’t take it lightly. (As you may have guessed.) My grandmother was getting worse and worse in the meantime. And as “Starting Today” mentioned, I felt the same way. There was no way that if “God” did exist, he wouldn’t make us lose her too. It was too soon. And we weren’t prepared. But “He” did. She passed away January 2nd, 1995. My grandfather (mom’s dad) was not sick. He died of a broken heart March 10th, 1995.
How could “God” be so cruel? It’s been almost thirteen years since they’ve been gone. And since I lost my best friend in a car accident. I didn’t think I would make another friend. We were thirteen. I thought I would never be as close with anyone ever again. That changed. I made another friend. We were sixteen. She was killed in a car accident. And still I made another friend. And I had a boyfriend too. My boyfriend drowned May of my senior year of high school. He was eighteen. And then my best friend died in a car accident, seventeen years old. The night before my high school graduation. He was on his way over to my house. He never made it. My dad, being in the fire department, responded to the call, and I was the first to find out.
That’s it. No more friends. No more boyfriends.
But that changed. Again. I started dating this guy I met at a Halloween party. He was killed in February of 2004.
I lost my other grandfather in December of 2005. Two friends to the Iraqi war in 2006. And another boy I dated in 2006 to a motorcycle accident.
And just this year alone, I lost three people I went to school with (two of which I was rather close) to drug overdoses.
Does it ever end? Can I ever believe that there is a “God” out there who “watches over us”? And “protects us”? Because where was “He” when those people needed protecting. Where was “He” when I needed protecting?
So the conclusion is that I am not religious. I was raised to be. Made my communion. I even made my confirmation after my mom had passed even though I didn’t believe in it. I did it for her, I know she would have wanted me to.
I am spiritual. There are too many religions in this world, and I cannot conform to just one. I believe certain things from one and certain things from things from others. But there are things that I don’t agree with as well. So I cannot categorize myself as a particular religion. At least not at this point in my life.
Who knows… One day I might be able to. As of right now, there are still many things I need to learn, many things I need to experience, and there will always be many things I question.
Fall is quickly approaching. It’s my favorite season and my least favorite season at the same time. I love the weather, the smells, the cool breeze, the quiet streets, and the changing of the leaves.
This October marks the thirteenth year that my mom has been gone. Once September hits I know that October is closing in faster than I would like. I can’t help but be… reminiscent of my past.
She had been sick since I was five and passed when I was nine. I can count all of my memories of her on one hand. I am so envious of my family for having hundreds and even thousands of memories of her while I wouldn’t recognize her if she walked right up to me today.
How does one forget their own mother? A mother is arguably one of the most important figures in a child’s life. I was nine. Not three. I should have tons of memories of her. I should know what color her eyes were, what she smelled like, little quirks she had, sayings she used, and how her hugs and kisses made everything better. I should know what her favorite animal was, her favorite color, I should be able to hear her say “I love you”.
Instead, I remember what she wore in her casket the day of her wake. I remember screaming in the church at her funeral when they were carrying her out “Where are you taking my mom?” I remember that it rained that morning. And that I didn’t go trick-or-treating. I remember that my sister couldn’t cry because she had cried too much at home. I remember that my brother has never looked more like a zombie than he did that horrible morning. I don’t remember seeing anyone at the church but I know that it was so full they had to turn people away. I remember that all the men in the fire department with my dad wore their Class A uniforms to her funeral. That’s the first time in the department’s history that was done for someone who was not a member. I remember that flowers were sent to my house because there was no room for them at the funeral home. That had never happened before. That’s how much my mom was loved and appreciated.
I remember the day I went back to school and everyone was afraid to talk to me. Even my teacher.
But most vividly I remember when and how my dad told me that she was gone. I had slept at my best friend’s house the night before. My sister was in upstate New York on a school field trip for three days. My brother was at work at the movie theater and then stayed at his friend’s house afterward. She was home with my dad and one of her sisters. I didn’t feel good that night. My stomach didn’t really hurt, but something didn’t feel right. I wanted to go home. So I called my dad. My Aunt answered the phone and convinced me that I would be alright if I just laid down and tried to fall asleep. I found out twelve years later that my brother and sister also called right after me with the same complaint and wanted to go home as well. They were both convinced to stay where they were as I was. She passed within 15 minutes of our phone calls.
I lay on the floor in my friend’s room. Her mom came in and whispered in my ear that next morning. “Your dad is coming to pick you up. He’ll be here in about five minutes.” I didn’t ask questions. It didn’t even seem strange. It was early in the morning. But he would often pick me up if I wasn’t home really early in the morning and drop me off at my grandparents’ house if my mom was having a hard time and needed to go to the hospital again.
I waited by the front door with my bag on my back, clenching my pillow on my stomach. I still didn’t feel right and I couldn’t describe it either.
My dad pulled into the driveway and didn’t get out of the car. My friend’s mom kissed the top of my head and hugged me goodbye. We were only three blocks from home, but the ride felt like forever. My dad never said a word or even looked in my direction. I thought I was in trouble for something.
When we pulled up to the house he shut off the car and didn’t move for a minute. Then he got out and walked around the car opening my door for me and helping me out. He knelt in the driveway and put one hand on each of my shoulders. He only looked me in the eye for a split second. He shut his eyes, lowered his head and let out a few quiet tears.
“Your mother’s not with us anymore.” I didn’t know what he meant. She moved? She left us? I don’t understand.
“She’s gone. I am so sorry.” And that’s when I got it. I threw down my pillow and my bag. I rant up the driveway and into the house faster than I had ever run before. The bed was made. Sheets were folded and stacked on pillows on the bed. An IV stand stood empty, unattached to anyone or anything next to the head of the bed. All I could do was scream “No.”
To this day I still hate myself for forcing my dad to say those words. With my brother and sister he didn’t have to say a thing. All he did was look at them and they both knew. I know now that for my dad to have to come up with the words at that moment in time and tell his nine year old daughter that her mother had passed away was probably one of the hardest things he has ever had to do in his whole life.
I will never forget a single detail of that day for as long as I live. I will never forget the thoughts that ran through my mind and how I felt at that exact moment, the moment when I knew that I would never see my mom ever again. Because I still feel it everyday. And every October it intensifies. And every fall I think of all the birthdays she’s missed, my brother’s wedding, my cousin’s new baby boy, my sister’s first house, and all of the fun we’ve had in between.
I wonder if I will ever really remember her one day. That maybe I have those memories somewhere in there. I just locked them away to protect myself. Some think I will, some think I won’t.
…I’m still unsure.
