Sadness and Gratitude

So I said I was going to take a mini-break from blogging. Truth be told, last night I was in a sad state and I didn't feel like putting it out there for the whole world to read. Yesterday morning I went to a message board I recently started re-frequenting to check on a woman named Jewelyn that I've known casually for several years. She was due to have her baby girl yesterday, and I knew she was getting induced.

I was delighted to see that she'd gone into labor on her own. This was something I wanted for myself so badly, and we all know how that ended up... but that is beside the point. I'm glad that she didn't have to be induced, since it can be such a nasty business.

She had posted a new thread asking for labor and delivery advice from mothers on the board, and as I read through the thread, I found myself getting sad to the point where I was crying. Every single piece of advice to her felt like a knife in my heart. There were things said like "Your body was meant to do this" and "Cherish every moment, even the hard ones."

Clearly this advice was coming from people who had relatively uncomplicated labors. I couldn't help it - I took it really hard. After all, my body failed me during my labor, making it impossible for me to cherish anything about my birth experience. I felt so bitter about this innocent advice thread that I went and signed up at the International Cesarean Awareness Network (ICAN) website - it had become obvious to me that I needed support from people who had been there.

I spent much of yesterday with that familiar feeling of failure. I just felt sad, with all those awful feelings surrounding Charlie's birth washing over me.

This morning I went to check the board for a post announcing the birth of Jewelyn's baby. I was really sad to see that Jewelyn had had an emergency C-section. I felt awful for her, especially because I knew she had labored for hours. I posted something to that effect and left the board.

I checked back in maybe ten minutes later and was shocked to read that Jewelyn had suffered an amniotic embolism, had no brain activity, and wasn't going to make it. Childbirth had killed her.

Since finding out the news, this whole day has been lost. I can't think of a better word than lost. I can hardly think; I've been glued to the computer; I've been trying to make sense of this tragedy. And well, I can't make any sense out of a newborn baby girl without her mother and a husband without his wife. It is horribly, devastatingly unfair.

This has put my whole life, and especially my birth experience, into perspective. Yes, it was not ideal. Yes, it completely sucked. Yes, I will probably never really get over it. But I lived through it. And Charlie lived through it. What the hell more can a woman ask for?

Please, please, please keep this family in your thoughts. And if you feel so inclined, make a donation to Jewelyn's family through PayPal: the email address is 4jewelyn@gmail.com. It doesn't have to be much - even a dollar would be great. But they will need help.

And do something else for me, would you? Go hug your loved ones and tell them that you love them. You never know when your time is up, so cherish it. Make today count.

As for me, I'm going to get in touch with a local ICAN support group and start attending meetings. I want to move forward with hope instead of looking back with bitterness. I want to be a better person. Because when Jewelyn died, we lost a genuinely good person. We're all going to have to be better to make up for losing her.

***

For each comment I get on this post, I will donate $1 to Jewelyn's family's fund. So get to commenting, folks! And spread the word. Let's take care of this family.

A Decade

I realized earlier this month that it has now been ten years since 1999. One decade. That is hugely significant. I can clearly remember the late 90s. I'm one of those people who thinks that the 90s were recent. When I was younger, I would have made fun of me.

On a more serious note, today marks the 10-year anniversary of the violent death of a girl I once knew. I write about her every year on or around this day. If you'd like some background on what happened, click here.

I remember how her death came when we were on the cusp of a new century and new millenium. How, in the midst of all that possibility of technology and growth, there was this senseless, awful tragedy to reckon with. How my entire hometown struggled to make sense of what had happened. How shocked and frozen I felt upon hearing the news. How I watched her broken-hearted parents walk down the aisle at the church where they held her funeral.

Ten years later, I'd be surprised if anyone really understood the meaning behind her murder. It's just one of those things that does not make more sense no matter how much time passes. The murder of a 20-year-old by handgun is not one of those things that can ever be explained or "gotten over." It just doesn't work like that. Death, no matter how it happened or who it happened to, is hard fact of life. I think the finality of losing someone is one of those things you have to learn to live with. You have to make a space for that loss in your life. You have to acknowledge that it's there in order to move on.

But today I want to talk about life, not death.

I think many, many people (myself included) get bogged down by everyday life. There's marriage and work and kids and school and bills and a failing economy and not enough hours in the day. It's hard not to be overwhelmed by our responsibilities. But I think it's important to remember what our real responsibilities are. They do not include money, a job, a house, or the overdue bills. I'm talking about something a little more elementary. I'm talking about spending time with those we love, saying "I love you," following our deepest dreams, and trying to be healthy (in all ways).

It seems that we spend so much time trying to get to the right place at the right time that we forget to look around and say, "Hey, I'm here right now. I'm going to enjoy this." Before we know it, the moment has passed and we are on to the next thing.

But the truth is, I'm tired of letting the moments pass me by. I complain a lot about things sometimes, and while needing to vent is certainly valid, I wish I had the wisdom to really understand that where I am is where I am and that I shouldn't get upset with myself for not being where I think I should be.

But I am not wise. I'm just human. Completely and irrevocably flawed. A creature of hindsight, not foresight.

However, I have always been keenly attuned to the idea of death. It is not some abstract thing to me. It is a reality. Since I was a young girl, I have known that my time on this Earth is limited and that if I'm going to live, I better do it now and do it as well as I can. Still, it took me forever to realize that while I was waiting for my life to start, it had actually already started and begun to play out.

In three months or so, Roy and I will have a real live baby to care for. Charlie is going to complicate and change our lives in ways we probably haven't even begun to anticipate, but one thing I know is that Charlie will instill in us an amazing amount of love and hope for all of life's possibilities. Ultimately, I think love and hope are what keep us holding on when times are hard; they propel us forward and keep us afloat. And yeah, I think one of our main responsibilities in life is to give that love and hope to others. You never know who might need it.

One thing that I want to remember today is that a 20-year-old girl died 10 years ago, and she had no choice in the matter. It's only fair to her (and to the others that have passed on) that we live and that we do it well, with love and hope in our hearts. And that's another reason why I'm doing Love Week this coming week. I need to remember how lucky I am. I need to remind myself that every day is a gift, as cliche as it sounds. I need to know that the world can be as beautiful as it is cruel. And ultimately, I need to be reminded of the fact that love and time are the ultimate healers of our pain and sorrow.

Thanks for listening.

For the Love of a Dog

Dear Sasha,

Today you departed this world and left behind a big hole in my heart.

I found you at the Humane Society when I was 13 years old. You were 6 months old and the perfect present for a brand new teenager. You were just the kind of ugly mutt that I had always loved and that the rest of the world neglected. You were covered in fleas and ticks, but you cleaned up really well when it came time for us to take you home. On the drive to your new home, you were so scared you were drooling everywhere. I felt so sorry for you.

You quickly adapted to your new home though. Soon you had earned the affections of everyone around you. We gave you so many nicknames, like "Firf" and "Firfacles" and "Maggot." (Okay, so I never once called you "Maggot.") Your life was a simple one, filled with days of sun, food, green grass, and lots of rubs. You were always so sweet. And damn, you ate a whole hell of a lot! But you won our hearts and remained there. Even after I left home, you stayed behind, but you were always so happy to see me when I came back. Truly, it was like no time had passed.

I had known for awhile that you were not going to be around much longer. You gave us quite a scare less than a year ago when you got really sick. I thought for sure you were going to leave us that day, but you got better and hung in there. It was only right that you stayed around long enough for me to get married - after all, we grew up together.

Tonight, when my mom called, I knew by her voice that something was terribly wrong. She didn't want to tell me right then because I was just getting out of class, but because I pressed her, she told me that she had to put you to sleep earlier in the day. You were in so much pain and were so old. You were incontinent and couldn't even hold yourself up anymore. I kept it all in pretty well until she told me that she was having you cremated and wanted me to have your ashes. I pretty much lost it then, right in the middle of the campus parking lot.

I really don't want your ashes. I just want you to be alive and healthy. But I know you were in so much pain, and I never wanted you to suffer. So I have decided that I am happy to take your ashes if it means that you are running around crazily in some amazing doggy heaven.

And so, my Firf, I guess this is goodbye. We watched each other grow up, and frankly, I don't know how I will ever get over losing you. I love you so very much and will miss you always. Even though I was very much expecting this, I still wasn't prepared to lose my favorite canine forever.

Safe travels, fuzzy one.

Always,

the girl who loves you


PS - If you happen to see Melinda and Chris's dog Roxy in the great beyond, please befriend her. She too passed on today and will need a good friend. Here is her picture, so you know who to look for.



PPS - Kim reminded me that both you and Roxy will have a guide in the great beyond. Her name is Molly, and she needs some good friends too.



RIP, Sasha, Roxy, and Molly

Words for the Departed

Today is a special day. It's my old friend Paula's deathday. It's been nine years since she died, and every year on or around March 8, I try to honor her with some words.

I met Paula when we were both 11 years old and in sixth grade. We were both in the same GT (Gifted & Talented) classes, and we both took Theatre Arts as an elective all throughout junior high. We got to know each other quite well as we made our way through those awkward junior high years. Because we had so many classes together, we ended up hanging out together a lot.

Paula was a beautiful young girl. She had this silky, thick, dark brown hair, big brown eyes, and olive skin. She had a cute figure too. She was intelligent and quite a good actress.

Despite her good qualities, my feelings towards Paula were very conflicted. I felt like she tried too hard, so she got on my nerves quite a bit. She didn't have many friends because other people thought she was annoying as well. She also had a lisp, which I'm sure was hell to deal with, and people constantly made fun of her for it. I felt really sorry for her, and part of me truly liked her. My evil adolescent self often won over, and I would talk behind her back or be mean to her. And the evil adolescent Paula could be very mean and spiteful as well. We were just two young girls who didn't know how to really treat each other with respect.

We still had some great times though. I remember this one weekend afternoon when we went to the movies to see Aspen Extreme. In the middle of the movie, Paula laid down on the seat and rested her legs up against the back of her chair so they were in the air (think of a pin-up girl's pose). I was so mortified that she was sitting the wrong way in her chair. Later on she told everyone who would listen that I was the one who sat the wrong way in my chair. Oh, the humiliation!

Being the Theatre Arts geeks that we were, we would often attend and perform in local competitions. In 8th grade, Paula and I (along with several others) performed a record mime to Monster Mash and had an absolute blast (and even advanced to semi-finals!). We also competed in the group interpretation category and performed a Shel Silverstein poem.

Later that year, the little group that both Paula and I were part of decided overnight (in true girl fashion) that they didn't like me anymore. They stopped speaking to me, and our silence lasted all throughout high school. (I'm sure that this was mostly due to the fact that I went to a different high school and didn't see any of them for all those years.) I don't think I saw Paula once during our high school years. I heard about her though. She developed a certain reputation, and to this day, I don't know how true it was. (Honestly, it doesn't really matter anyway. None of us are saints, not even the dead.)

During the spring semester of my second year of junior college, I began to see Paula around. She had a class across the hall from my political science class, so I would always see her before and/or after class. One time I ran into her outside of the building. She bummed a cigarette off me, and we exchanged a few superficial words. That day it became clear to me, without saying a word about it, that everything that happened in junior high (whatever it was) was over with. We were adults.

Paula had a boyfriend named Geoff who she'd been with for a couple of years. Apparently, he was the jealous type, and eventually she got tired of it. She broke up with him on a Sunday evening, and the next day she went to work as usual at the local monogram shop called Initially Yours. Geoff showed up to see Paula and was allowed into the back where she was working.

But Geoff wasn't there to talk. Instead, he pulled out the gun he had concealed and shot Paula point-blank in the head. Right afterwards, he shot himself. It is my understanding that both died instantly. Paula was 20 years old.

It is surreal when someone you know dies. But murder? I just couldn't wrap my 19-year-old brain around it. Even now, at 28, I can't really comprehend what happened to Paula. On one hand, it's very simple. An obviously unstable and troubled person took her life in a very violent way. But on the other hand, she was there one minute - and gone the next. The fact that we are all so fragile is probably the most scary thing in the world to me.

When I heard about Paula's violent death, I was in a state of denial and shock for awhile. I couldn't cry. I went to her funeral, and there were so many people there. The church was completely filled. I saw people I hadn't seen in years. It was like a big reunion under the worst of circumstances. Our little town was horribly shaken up by the murder-suicide.

I will never forget seeing her parents walking down the aisle to the front of the church that day. They were literally leaning on each other; it was so obvious that they were completely filled with despair and totally emotionally broken.

And yet, I still couldn't cry.

At school, I kept expecting to see her before or after my political science class. And every time, I had to remind myself that she was gone, that I would never see her walking briskly down the hall again, that I would never see that half-smile of uncertainty again.

A couple of years later, a gun store opened up next to Initially Yours, the place where Paula worked and was killed (by a gun, no less). I hated that so much. I often imagined her parents driving by and the terrible shock they would experience at seeing a gun store so close to where their only child was killed. I couldn't believe the insensitivity of opening that gun store. Frankly, I still can't.

Nine years have passed, and this is the first year that I've had a few lonely tears fall over Paula's death (while writing this, incidentally - I think this is the deepest I've gone into telling the story of the Paula I knew). Her passing still shakes me to the very core of my being. I just can't believe that the girl with all that beautiful hair and that endearing lisp, who loved to dance and act and be silly, is gone. I just can't believe it. She will never finish her college education, get married, perform in any more plays, have children, travel, or die peacefully. Her life was cut way too short by someone who might've actually gotten over it had he not acted on impulse less than 24 hours after being broken up with. Who knows what might have happened if Geoff had just given it time?

It is all so senseless and tragic. And every year on the anniversary of Paula's death, I write a few words for her and try to make sense of what's left behind. I write to atone for the shitty way I treated her when we were young. I write to help myself understand the reality of death and the horror of violence. I write because she cannot speak: her voice is forever silenced.

Somewhere in my mind, I still remember that voice, especially as she read that Shel Silverstein poem that we performed for competition:

“Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
the impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves,
then listen close to me...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.”

RIP, Paula Christine Green
October 1978 - March 1999

Untitled

For the life of me, I don't know what title to give this entry. I actually had a completely different blog entry in mind for tonight, but this is so much more important than my new haircut.

Bryce Brown died today of metastatic melanoma. When he was diagnosed in July, he was already Stage IV. Yet he and his wife Tammy decided to fight for his life. They fought until the end, as a matter of fact. It was so inspiring to read their story on their blog. They taught me about the things in life that are really important. Somewhere along the way, I got extremely attached to them. And it all came out tonight when I found out the news via another website - and I just bawled. I couldn't help it. I am devastated for his family - and for the rest of the people that suffer from this horrible disease.

I hope whoever reads this will keep Bryce and his family in their thoughts. I'm sure his wife would appreciate comments on his blog once she posts something about his passing. Just consider paying forward the kindness.

RIP, Bryce. The only thing that makes me feel any better is knowing that there's no cancer where you are.