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Saturday, November 29, 2008
A Belated Use of Pictures
Hey! I'm glad I thought to use this AFTER Thanksgiving. I just thought I might as well since Thanksgiving was only two days ago and such. Well, and at least I'm somewhat appeasing my father who opposed the placement of a certain picture of a certain turkey from my last post.
All of these pictures were done with a mouse on MS (Microsoft) Paint when I was in seventh grade. They are all the result of my semi-carpal tunnel. I love how this turkey seems to have no neck. Hehe...
All of these pictures were done with a mouse on MS (Microsoft) Paint when I was in seventh grade. They are all the result of my semi-carpal tunnel. I love how this turkey seems to have no neck. Hehe...
Also, I don't know why I felt this particular pilgrim needed to look like a beatnik or something.
While I'm at it, here's a belated clip you may or may not appreciate or understand for the season: (Hope everyone had a Thanksgiving that was just as eventful and crazy as this!)
For anyone who is viewing my blog that I do not already know or hasn't commented yet, I would absolutely love to hear from any of you. Tell me a little bit about yourself if you want or tell me how crazy my blog is. Whatever you like--I'd be utterly delighted to get any comments from any person! I'm so excited and honored to see people on my blog map who are looking at my blog (hopefully with some enjoyment) from all over the world. I think it's amazing and would love to see their blogs or just know something about them. Thanks a lot, everyone!
For example, if this doesn't seem weird or stalkerish, who are these two viewers? : )
Dalton, GA, United States
Sat, 29 Nov 2008 08:21:11 -0600
Thousand Oaks, CA, United States
Fri, 28 Nov 2008 22:12:44 -0600
Sat, 29 Nov 2008 08:21:11 -0600
Thousand Oaks, CA, United States
Fri, 28 Nov 2008 22:12:44 -0600
Okay, I'll stop...for now.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
It's a great day! It's a great day!
Relax and take it easy, all you turkey-baking moms! Everyone else, help out as much as you possibly can and then some. Be grateful and happy for who you are and where you live. Don't take for granted your family or all of your blessings!
Give thanks to everyone and everything you love and enjoy this special day with your family
and friends.
Have a very, very Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A Very Questionable Activity
(A.K.A 20 Questions Online)
Okay, if you've got at least five or so minutes, you've got to try this out. It's very fun and doesn't require a lot of brain power, which is good news for me. Just scroll down a little, pick which category you'd like and try to stump the game! It's crazy how accurate this is--unsettling, even.
Click Here!!!---> http://www.20q.net/
Still not convinced? C'mon! It's easy, free, and is virtually limitless! There's a category for everyone in your family, even you!
What're you waiting for? Hurry up before I smack you in the neck!
Okay...if you already know about this or have an electronic version, then I will spare you suffering a very painful neck bruise as seen here from my previous victim.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
You're the Birthday! You're the Bithday!
Click this link and click the fourth one down! http://www.lardlad.com/assets/quotes/season3/8F11.shtml
Hey, here's to a person I know fairly well! She's kinda my mom and sorta been there whenever I have ever needed her. I guess I care/admire and am flabbergasted just a little bit with all she's done for me, our family, and everyone she's ever come in contact with. To a small degree, she's one of the most selfless, optimistic, generous, hardworking, and humorous human beings I've ever had the privilege to meet and live with.
There once was a lady named Annette
Who had a birthday and didn't know what to get.
Her daughter had no clue as well,
but didn't want to go to a store,
so instead wrote a lymric she'll hopefully not regret.
For your and (more likely) my amusement, here are some somewhat relevant clips for the occasion:
Just nod your head and smile.
I love you so much! Have an awesome birthday!
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Four Worst and Best Days of My Life to This Point
I got this tag idea from my sister's blog, so I decided to try it out and see what happens.
The Four Worst (in no real particular order):
1. Urgh! Just thinking about this stupid, incredibly crappy day brings back many nightmares. When me and my brother James shared a couple of classes after his mission, we both took a myths and folklore class that nearly killed me. The final paper was due on a Friday, and I still had much to do for it. Me and James spent most of the day writing in the library lab at the college. Finally, I was so close to finishing (thank heavens because the paper was due by 5:30 and it was nearing 5:00). Then, indifferently, the library aid started turning off computers, announcing the library was closing--ON A FRIDAY. I was panic-stricken. Racing to hurry and save my day's work, I frustratedly thought, "This isn't done yet. I still have to print this out. I'm screwed." I saved my work, just as the last computers were being switched off. I had my paper, but not in hard copy. James drove with me to the computer center where I shoved my floppy disk into the computer. Big mistake. That piece of garbage disk decided to not be read by the computer--so good bye paper-I've-been-manically-working-on-for-the-last-six-hours. I remember running out to meet James, who'd tried to help me recover my paper, while I fought back tears. He had left to turn in his paper--I was going nuts. My paper wouldn't show up on the computer. Somehow, some of it had saved, but not the most recent work, which was a lot. As I tried to find James' red car, it began to rain, reflecting, ironically, my exact mood. I cried freely, as cars and students occasionally passed by me. I ran back to the building where we were supposed to turn in the paper, but it was locked. I couldn't believe it. Very, very eventually, things turned out OKAY--I was able to turn in the paper even though it was a final (What a swell guy!), but I got a C on it after all of my work and worry. :D I wanted to scream, a lot. Oh, and that same wondrous day ended with Red River Valley. I'm surprised no one ended up in the hospital or morgue who was in close vicinity of me that day--especially my teacher.
2. Hey, by pure coincidence, this also happened to be the day I repeatedly think back on and say, "Why did I do that?" When I was in primary, about 11 years old or so, my friend suggested we pull the chair out from the boy sitting in front of us as he got up to use the bathroom. Her mischievious grin and encouraging demeanor was enough, I readied my hands for some chair pulling. I will NEVER EVER do that do anyone ever again. As the boy fell on the ground, my friend and I snicked a little at the act, until we saw his face--he was holding back tears, clutching a scraped elbow. I felt lower than the most ancient roots in current existence at that moment. I assumed, as I apologized, everything would be okay, he'd forgive us and the teachers wouldn't kill us. Well, I'm still here, but at the time, I wished I could've died. Every teacher was looking at me like I was Satan himself. I tried to say I was sorry again to Jordan, but he was helped out the room. I've never felt so bad about something. Every primary teacher gave me a look I'll never forget--in case I ever forget what deep disappointment and disgust looks like, that is. I don't ever want to be looked at like that as long as I live.
3. I used to not understand what it meant to be scared out of one's mind, now I do. When I was ten or so years old, we had my cousin Nathan and my mom's old roommate and friend, Hope, come over for the fourth of July to celebrate with us by shooting off fireworks and watching movies. After lighting off the last firework, we retreated inside and began watching the movie What About Bob in my mom's room, all of us (me, James, Phil, Nathan, Hope, and my mom) somehow on the bed. About halfway through the movie, our tabby cat, Tiger, jumped onto the bed, after being in the garage for a while. I remember vividly laying down on my mom's bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, and seeing, silhoutted by the glow of the TV, four pairs of spindly legs moving slowly across my stomach. I remember freezing, knowing that a spider was crawling on me--a large spider. I wanted to scream, but forced myself not to freak everyone else out. Gathering what wits remained I announced somewhat tremulously, "Guys, there's something on the bed. I think it's a spider." I've never seen anyone move so fast. The light went on, and me and my mom balanced upon the only chair in the room. James shouted that a black widow--my ten-year-old heart stopped--was crawling off the edge of the comforter. By then, me and my mom were balancing as far away from that acursed creature as possible on a small wooden chair. Phil, my older brother, managed to corner the arachnid in one of my mom's relatively new brown sandals. Asking, tentatively, if he could squish the spider in her shoe, my mom relented. After that, no one felt remotely tired. I, being a young girl, was in hushed hysterics. I felt, as we all sat in the front room, that every bug known to man was coming for me, literally. As I hated all spiders in any form and black widows paralyzed me anytime the name was mention, I was basically losing it. Eventually, my mom regained composure and said we should all try to get some sleep. Everyone consented, but I hesitated greatly. After I left the front room and returned from the bathroom, the fear had left me for the most part. My mom slept, quite understandably, in my room that night... Brrrrr! That memory still gets me.
4. Last year in April, my best friend lost her brother in a tragic car accident. I wrote a memior of this day, which puts it much better into words than I could right now. Note: Some names have been altered to preserve each person's privacy.
I don't think I'll ever forget getting that text message. It was around 10:30 in the morning. The sun was out, but the sky was grayish and the air was chilly. I was just about to enter the Fitness Center to exercise for a half hour or so when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took out my black and silver phone. I saw the small red light on the front blinking—a text message. I was partially grateful for the interruption. It would limit how long I could exercise before heading for my next class, but, at the same time, I had never been overly crushed when I had to limit my exercise time. Just one more reason why I'm not an athlete.
I read the one sentence on the tiny grey screen: "Mary Anne, last night Tyson died in a car accident ." Before I had even begun to translate this message into a reaction, I saw it was sent by one of my best friends, Melanie Gibson. Slowly, like the chill of the air around me, an unclear comprehension was creeping into my conscious thought. I batted away this thought before it had fully 'become' a thought. My first sincere thought that came into existence was: Why in the world is Melanie joking about her younger brother like this?! That's a really way weird way to be funny. Why did she send me this? I truly, truly did not realize. And then I did. Or, I began to.
The numbing realization began to enter into me. The impossible and ludicrous truth. This wasn't a joke. I felt a familiar pricking at the corners of my eyes. I called her. It wasn't true. But it was. She would never joke like this about her brother. Before she answered I knew it. I knew it was true. Tears were starting to surface. She answered.
Much more shakily than I wanted to, I asked, "Melanie?"
She answered. She said my name. In that one word I heard—I felt—the truth, the heavy and terrifying truth. I only remember her crying once, only when her life had reached a very low point. She hadn't cried yet, but her always sunny voice was wavering now and all but broken. I didn't want to hear her like this. It was true. He was dead.
I just remember saying over and over, "Oh, Melanie." "I'm so sorry." and, "I wish I could do or say something more than just say 'I'm sorry' to you."
It was painful—no—it was unbearable to hear her like this. We were always joking, always laughing. I could always cheer her up. She could always cheer me up and brighten my day. Not this time.
She apologized. She apologized! Why was she apologizing?
"I'm sorry I had to tell you by texting you, Mary Anne. I wasn't sure if you were still in class. I just wanted to let you know."
Her 'sorry' was too much for me to hear. I knew why she was apologizing. I understood. I still didn't want to hear her apologize for such a necessary action. Water was suspended painfully in my eyes. I never did like crying in public. Who does?
There I was, standing outside the Fitness Center. I poured my heart out to my friend—my dear friend—through a grey plastic-encased contraption. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be here receiving curious and confused looks from the college students drifting past me to the metal-lined entrance. I tried to pretend they weren't there. I wasn't there. Only me and Melanie were talking. That's what mattered. I forced myself to look at that ugly wall. Oxidized metal bolts stuck out of the wall. Stains covered most of the surface.
I was surrounded by concrete hedges on either side. I didn't want to be here. I still saw the people floating by. I focused only on her. Her voice. Her pain. I was desperately trying to comfort her, my friend, as I tried to stay composed. Standing there beside that ugly, stained wall, I tried not to deepen her sorrow, her pain. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be holding her—hugging her as fiercely as I could! I promised to be home soon. I apologized for not being able to come home sooner, but she was with her family anyways. It was her family's time to grieve with her, not mine. I don't remember when I actually started crying during that call. I know I cried, though.
I asked if she wanted me to say a prayer. So I prayed. I couldn't think straight. I wanted to say something really meaningful or comforting to her. My voice was wobbly and high, like an old women's. I asked to say the prayer because I wanted to give her as much comfort as I could. What my prayer consisted of I'm not so sure. I know I included phrases like "please be with her at this time" "let thy spirit be with her and her family" and "let her be comforted." I wish I could've said more than just variations of one simple request. At least I tried.
I apologized for my lame prayer. I think I was literally trying to make her feel better by trying to make myself feel worse. Just one more reason why I shouldn't be a psychiatrist. She was too smart, too kind to even go along with it. She thanked me for my prayer. I felt like I had done a decent job on offering the prayer, but I still wanted to do more for her. I wanted to be hugging her, my friend. Instead, I was staring through blurred eyes at a rough, colorless canvas. I felt lost and empty—numb. I don't remember who said they had to go. Maybe it was me, because exercising for half an hour for a class is obviously more important than embracing a grieving best friend.
I can't recall for sure, but I believe Melanie asked if I could let my parents know. I don't blame her one iota for asking, but I'm sure in the 'poor me' portion of my brain I was sorta thinking: Uh, oh. Can I stay composed? Am I composed enough for this? I really don't want to be the one to let them know. Just one more reason why I shouldn't be a doctor. I'm sure my thoughts sounded selfish. They probably were. First I called my mom. Her voice was so sympathetic and kind. It helped, but I was still numb. I then called my dad. He also had many comforting things to say. I felt a little better, but I was still lost.
I was lost, inside and out. If ever out-of-body experiences were real, it was that day while I pedaled away on an exercise bike. I think about it now and wonder why I made myself exercise right after that call. I really probably should've just gone home. I guess it seems odd and slightly unwise to go work out in such a state, especially since I normally would've done a jig for not having to exercise. I was unfeeling of everything. I'm sure I looked like a pedaling zombie or something. Pale, vacant, and limp. Really not the image I usually like to project in public. I always listened to the radio with my MP3 player when working out there, but even as the idea entered, it felt totally wrong. No, I didn't want to hear peppy, radio music right now.
I didn't want to feel or be like a shell of myself, but I already was. I was a numb, grey, empty shell. I longed to be somewhere else. Anywhere quiet and less bright. I wasn't there in that bright, hot room. Some people were humming away on treadmills. Others were lifting weights in the background noise of laughter, music, and melting conversations. It had to be that day, while I sat throbbing the pedals of the bike up and down, two girls were gabbing away. I felt them looking at me. One had red hair and one was blonde. I stared ahead and heard their friendly babble. I know they noticed me. I didn't want them to. Even if they had known me, I didn't want them to flood my numb, grey shell with concern and low tones. Not yet, I had lost myself. I still was putting off actually 'feeling' anything.
I ended up in my English class somehow. Why am I in here, now? All we would be doing was watching the movie Renaissance Man, staring Devito, for most of the period. The last thing I wanted to hear or see right now was my least favorite actor. So I finally started feeling and hurriedly wrote a note explaining how I had just found out about my best friend's brother passing away. I think my teacher knew something was wrong before I had even handed over the note. He nodded and said it was fine if I had a small extension on my essay and asked if I would like to leave. I think I said, "Yeah." or something. I didn't hesitate to avoid listening to Danny Devito struggle hopelessly and painfully through a weak role. I left and came home.
I got home before my dad. I can't recall at all what I was doing or where I went until he did. Soon after he came home, Melanie said she would be over. Soon I heard knocking on the door. I walked over and opened it. There she was, standing there with an attempt of looking friendly through her pain. The reality of her brother's death was still new to me. I had been avoiding it or, at least, unable to really feel it. I reacted oddly and stupidly. I had 'forgotten' what had happened. She didn't look that sad either. I held the door open and happily said "Hey!" What an idiot… I remembered. She broke down on our front porch just feet from me. This was real.
She was in my arms on the couch and she was crying. I pressed her into my arms and cried with her. It felt amazing and awful to finally be with her. It's what I wanted and had thought of since the text message that grey morning. But now it made me feel so sick to have her helpless, shaking against my arms and body. Then, just as if I hadn't gotten the news, as if it had never happened, she started talking. I was chatting with her and we were laughing. We were laughing and I knew it, but didn't understand how it had happened.
I've always wondered why we do this. Why we laugh when faced with death. I don't think of happy, chuckling faces when I think of death. I see tears, jerking, grimacing mouths, and bowed heads. But it isn't death that makes us laugh. There are few losses we face in life that would qualify laughing. When I think about this now, it's become even more clear why we laughed that day. We laugh because it's what we know, what we need. There is nothing in this world that can demolish grief as laughter can. It is what unites us; it is what heals us. When we yearn to communicate or comfort but cannot speak, we laugh.
I felt like I had failed at trying to be a comfort and let her grieve openly. But she needed to laugh, and so did I. Is there an unspoken rule that we shouldn't laugh in the face of death? I think I unconsciously wondered what my dad thought of us laughing together on the couch. I think he knew. He understood we needed it. There was plenty time to cry, but only glimpses to laugh. I'm sure others would've looked at me incredulously and even shook their stern, grey faces. Now, when I think back to that moment, I truly believe that: If we can never laugh, we can never fully overcome the grey void of death. If we can not laugh, the death stays with us. We start to die little by little inside if we can't start to let go and live by laughing.
We started joking more and more about other things. Did it really happen? Did she really text me this morning? I didn't understand, but I loved it. We were laughing with sincere vigor. We weren't "fake laughing" like in all soap operas where the girls pretend they're happy and laugh through their crying. No, we were real and so was our laughter. We were laughing, and it was the most real thing I'd felt that entire day. It was odd to laugh when I knew she had come over to grieve, but (as I write this) I wonder. Maybe she came over to escape and feel something more as I longed to. I felt her crying in my arms and her laughter sparking life into my body. There was no longer grey in me or in her.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The Four Worst (in no real particular order):
1. Urgh! Just thinking about this stupid, incredibly crappy day brings back many nightmares. When me and my brother James shared a couple of classes after his mission, we both took a myths and folklore class that nearly killed me. The final paper was due on a Friday, and I still had much to do for it. Me and James spent most of the day writing in the library lab at the college. Finally, I was so close to finishing (thank heavens because the paper was due by 5:30 and it was nearing 5:00). Then, indifferently, the library aid started turning off computers, announcing the library was closing--ON A FRIDAY. I was panic-stricken. Racing to hurry and save my day's work, I frustratedly thought, "This isn't done yet. I still have to print this out. I'm screwed." I saved my work, just as the last computers were being switched off. I had my paper, but not in hard copy. James drove with me to the computer center where I shoved my floppy disk into the computer. Big mistake. That piece of garbage disk decided to not be read by the computer--so good bye paper-I've-been-manically-working-on-for-the-last-six-hours. I remember running out to meet James, who'd tried to help me recover my paper, while I fought back tears. He had left to turn in his paper--I was going nuts. My paper wouldn't show up on the computer. Somehow, some of it had saved, but not the most recent work, which was a lot. As I tried to find James' red car, it began to rain, reflecting, ironically, my exact mood. I cried freely, as cars and students occasionally passed by me. I ran back to the building where we were supposed to turn in the paper, but it was locked. I couldn't believe it. Very, very eventually, things turned out OKAY--I was able to turn in the paper even though it was a final (What a swell guy!), but I got a C on it after all of my work and worry. :D I wanted to scream, a lot. Oh, and that same wondrous day ended with Red River Valley. I'm surprised no one ended up in the hospital or morgue who was in close vicinity of me that day--especially my teacher.
2. Hey, by pure coincidence, this also happened to be the day I repeatedly think back on and say, "Why did I do that?" When I was in primary, about 11 years old or so, my friend suggested we pull the chair out from the boy sitting in front of us as he got up to use the bathroom. Her mischievious grin and encouraging demeanor was enough, I readied my hands for some chair pulling. I will NEVER EVER do that do anyone ever again. As the boy fell on the ground, my friend and I snicked a little at the act, until we saw his face--he was holding back tears, clutching a scraped elbow. I felt lower than the most ancient roots in current existence at that moment. I assumed, as I apologized, everything would be okay, he'd forgive us and the teachers wouldn't kill us. Well, I'm still here, but at the time, I wished I could've died. Every teacher was looking at me like I was Satan himself. I tried to say I was sorry again to Jordan, but he was helped out the room. I've never felt so bad about something. Every primary teacher gave me a look I'll never forget--in case I ever forget what deep disappointment and disgust looks like, that is. I don't ever want to be looked at like that as long as I live.
3. I used to not understand what it meant to be scared out of one's mind, now I do. When I was ten or so years old, we had my cousin Nathan and my mom's old roommate and friend, Hope, come over for the fourth of July to celebrate with us by shooting off fireworks and watching movies. After lighting off the last firework, we retreated inside and began watching the movie What About Bob in my mom's room, all of us (me, James, Phil, Nathan, Hope, and my mom) somehow on the bed. About halfway through the movie, our tabby cat, Tiger, jumped onto the bed, after being in the garage for a while. I remember vividly laying down on my mom's bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, and seeing, silhoutted by the glow of the TV, four pairs of spindly legs moving slowly across my stomach. I remember freezing, knowing that a spider was crawling on me--a large spider. I wanted to scream, but forced myself not to freak everyone else out. Gathering what wits remained I announced somewhat tremulously, "Guys, there's something on the bed. I think it's a spider." I've never seen anyone move so fast. The light went on, and me and my mom balanced upon the only chair in the room. James shouted that a black widow--my ten-year-old heart stopped--was crawling off the edge of the comforter. By then, me and my mom were balancing as far away from that acursed creature as possible on a small wooden chair. Phil, my older brother, managed to corner the arachnid in one of my mom's relatively new brown sandals. Asking, tentatively, if he could squish the spider in her shoe, my mom relented. After that, no one felt remotely tired. I, being a young girl, was in hushed hysterics. I felt, as we all sat in the front room, that every bug known to man was coming for me, literally. As I hated all spiders in any form and black widows paralyzed me anytime the name was mention, I was basically losing it. Eventually, my mom regained composure and said we should all try to get some sleep. Everyone consented, but I hesitated greatly. After I left the front room and returned from the bathroom, the fear had left me for the most part. My mom slept, quite understandably, in my room that night... Brrrrr! That memory still gets me.
4. Last year in April, my best friend lost her brother in a tragic car accident. I wrote a memior of this day, which puts it much better into words than I could right now. Note: Some names have been altered to preserve each person's privacy.
I don't think I'll ever forget getting that text message. It was around 10:30 in the morning. The sun was out, but the sky was grayish and the air was chilly. I was just about to enter the Fitness Center to exercise for a half hour or so when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took out my black and silver phone. I saw the small red light on the front blinking—a text message. I was partially grateful for the interruption. It would limit how long I could exercise before heading for my next class, but, at the same time, I had never been overly crushed when I had to limit my exercise time. Just one more reason why I'm not an athlete.
I read the one sentence on the tiny grey screen: "Mary Anne, last night Tyson died in a car accident ." Before I had even begun to translate this message into a reaction, I saw it was sent by one of my best friends, Melanie Gibson. Slowly, like the chill of the air around me, an unclear comprehension was creeping into my conscious thought. I batted away this thought before it had fully 'become' a thought. My first sincere thought that came into existence was: Why in the world is Melanie joking about her younger brother like this?! That's a really way weird way to be funny. Why did she send me this? I truly, truly did not realize. And then I did. Or, I began to.
The numbing realization began to enter into me. The impossible and ludicrous truth. This wasn't a joke. I felt a familiar pricking at the corners of my eyes. I called her. It wasn't true. But it was. She would never joke like this about her brother. Before she answered I knew it. I knew it was true. Tears were starting to surface. She answered.
Much more shakily than I wanted to, I asked, "Melanie?"
She answered. She said my name. In that one word I heard—I felt—the truth, the heavy and terrifying truth. I only remember her crying once, only when her life had reached a very low point. She hadn't cried yet, but her always sunny voice was wavering now and all but broken. I didn't want to hear her like this. It was true. He was dead.
I just remember saying over and over, "Oh, Melanie." "I'm so sorry." and, "I wish I could do or say something more than just say 'I'm sorry' to you."
It was painful—no—it was unbearable to hear her like this. We were always joking, always laughing. I could always cheer her up. She could always cheer me up and brighten my day. Not this time.
She apologized. She apologized! Why was she apologizing?
"I'm sorry I had to tell you by texting you, Mary Anne. I wasn't sure if you were still in class. I just wanted to let you know."
Her 'sorry' was too much for me to hear. I knew why she was apologizing. I understood. I still didn't want to hear her apologize for such a necessary action. Water was suspended painfully in my eyes. I never did like crying in public. Who does?
There I was, standing outside the Fitness Center. I poured my heart out to my friend—my dear friend—through a grey plastic-encased contraption. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be here receiving curious and confused looks from the college students drifting past me to the metal-lined entrance. I tried to pretend they weren't there. I wasn't there. Only me and Melanie were talking. That's what mattered. I forced myself to look at that ugly wall. Oxidized metal bolts stuck out of the wall. Stains covered most of the surface.
I was surrounded by concrete hedges on either side. I didn't want to be here. I still saw the people floating by. I focused only on her. Her voice. Her pain. I was desperately trying to comfort her, my friend, as I tried to stay composed. Standing there beside that ugly, stained wall, I tried not to deepen her sorrow, her pain. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be holding her—hugging her as fiercely as I could! I promised to be home soon. I apologized for not being able to come home sooner, but she was with her family anyways. It was her family's time to grieve with her, not mine. I don't remember when I actually started crying during that call. I know I cried, though.
I asked if she wanted me to say a prayer. So I prayed. I couldn't think straight. I wanted to say something really meaningful or comforting to her. My voice was wobbly and high, like an old women's. I asked to say the prayer because I wanted to give her as much comfort as I could. What my prayer consisted of I'm not so sure. I know I included phrases like "please be with her at this time" "let thy spirit be with her and her family" and "let her be comforted." I wish I could've said more than just variations of one simple request. At least I tried.
I apologized for my lame prayer. I think I was literally trying to make her feel better by trying to make myself feel worse. Just one more reason why I shouldn't be a psychiatrist. She was too smart, too kind to even go along with it. She thanked me for my prayer. I felt like I had done a decent job on offering the prayer, but I still wanted to do more for her. I wanted to be hugging her, my friend. Instead, I was staring through blurred eyes at a rough, colorless canvas. I felt lost and empty—numb. I don't remember who said they had to go. Maybe it was me, because exercising for half an hour for a class is obviously more important than embracing a grieving best friend.
I can't recall for sure, but I believe Melanie asked if I could let my parents know. I don't blame her one iota for asking, but I'm sure in the 'poor me' portion of my brain I was sorta thinking: Uh, oh. Can I stay composed? Am I composed enough for this? I really don't want to be the one to let them know. Just one more reason why I shouldn't be a doctor. I'm sure my thoughts sounded selfish. They probably were. First I called my mom. Her voice was so sympathetic and kind. It helped, but I was still numb. I then called my dad. He also had many comforting things to say. I felt a little better, but I was still lost.
I was lost, inside and out. If ever out-of-body experiences were real, it was that day while I pedaled away on an exercise bike. I think about it now and wonder why I made myself exercise right after that call. I really probably should've just gone home. I guess it seems odd and slightly unwise to go work out in such a state, especially since I normally would've done a jig for not having to exercise. I was unfeeling of everything. I'm sure I looked like a pedaling zombie or something. Pale, vacant, and limp. Really not the image I usually like to project in public. I always listened to the radio with my MP3 player when working out there, but even as the idea entered, it felt totally wrong. No, I didn't want to hear peppy, radio music right now.
I didn't want to feel or be like a shell of myself, but I already was. I was a numb, grey, empty shell. I longed to be somewhere else. Anywhere quiet and less bright. I wasn't there in that bright, hot room. Some people were humming away on treadmills. Others were lifting weights in the background noise of laughter, music, and melting conversations. It had to be that day, while I sat throbbing the pedals of the bike up and down, two girls were gabbing away. I felt them looking at me. One had red hair and one was blonde. I stared ahead and heard their friendly babble. I know they noticed me. I didn't want them to. Even if they had known me, I didn't want them to flood my numb, grey shell with concern and low tones. Not yet, I had lost myself. I still was putting off actually 'feeling' anything.
I ended up in my English class somehow. Why am I in here, now? All we would be doing was watching the movie Renaissance Man, staring Devito, for most of the period. The last thing I wanted to hear or see right now was my least favorite actor. So I finally started feeling and hurriedly wrote a note explaining how I had just found out about my best friend's brother passing away. I think my teacher knew something was wrong before I had even handed over the note. He nodded and said it was fine if I had a small extension on my essay and asked if I would like to leave. I think I said, "Yeah." or something. I didn't hesitate to avoid listening to Danny Devito struggle hopelessly and painfully through a weak role. I left and came home.
I got home before my dad. I can't recall at all what I was doing or where I went until he did. Soon after he came home, Melanie said she would be over. Soon I heard knocking on the door. I walked over and opened it. There she was, standing there with an attempt of looking friendly through her pain. The reality of her brother's death was still new to me. I had been avoiding it or, at least, unable to really feel it. I reacted oddly and stupidly. I had 'forgotten' what had happened. She didn't look that sad either. I held the door open and happily said "Hey!" What an idiot… I remembered. She broke down on our front porch just feet from me. This was real.
She was in my arms on the couch and she was crying. I pressed her into my arms and cried with her. It felt amazing and awful to finally be with her. It's what I wanted and had thought of since the text message that grey morning. But now it made me feel so sick to have her helpless, shaking against my arms and body. Then, just as if I hadn't gotten the news, as if it had never happened, she started talking. I was chatting with her and we were laughing. We were laughing and I knew it, but didn't understand how it had happened.
I've always wondered why we do this. Why we laugh when faced with death. I don't think of happy, chuckling faces when I think of death. I see tears, jerking, grimacing mouths, and bowed heads. But it isn't death that makes us laugh. There are few losses we face in life that would qualify laughing. When I think about this now, it's become even more clear why we laughed that day. We laugh because it's what we know, what we need. There is nothing in this world that can demolish grief as laughter can. It is what unites us; it is what heals us. When we yearn to communicate or comfort but cannot speak, we laugh.
I felt like I had failed at trying to be a comfort and let her grieve openly. But she needed to laugh, and so did I. Is there an unspoken rule that we shouldn't laugh in the face of death? I think I unconsciously wondered what my dad thought of us laughing together on the couch. I think he knew. He understood we needed it. There was plenty time to cry, but only glimpses to laugh. I'm sure others would've looked at me incredulously and even shook their stern, grey faces. Now, when I think back to that moment, I truly believe that: If we can never laugh, we can never fully overcome the grey void of death. If we can not laugh, the death stays with us. We start to die little by little inside if we can't start to let go and live by laughing.
We started joking more and more about other things. Did it really happen? Did she really text me this morning? I didn't understand, but I loved it. We were laughing with sincere vigor. We weren't "fake laughing" like in all soap operas where the girls pretend they're happy and laugh through their crying. No, we were real and so was our laughter. We were laughing, and it was the most real thing I'd felt that entire day. It was odd to laugh when I knew she had come over to grieve, but (as I write this) I wonder. Maybe she came over to escape and feel something more as I longed to. I felt her crying in my arms and her laughter sparking life into my body. There was no longer grey in me or in her.
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The Four Best (in no particular order):
1. I can't pick exactly just one day, but when I was five or so, our family went to Mammoth, California. The memory that sticks out very vividly to me is when my older brother James and I would bring our plastic dinosaurs outside the condo where we were staying and play with them on the lawn on top of a large dark grey rock right in front of the building. James and I would crouch by the rock and spend hours and hours playing with our toys. He would play the parts of his dinosaurs, the woolly mammoth and the burnt orange triceratops, I would play the parts of mine, the purple and green brontosaurus (the long neck as I called them), my brown, greenish pterodactyl with wings that flapped when you pressed a square button on its back, and the other triceratops. I can't remember ever having so much fun with my toys or my brother, James. This is definitely one of my fondest memories of all time.
2. (Sorry, Lisa.) When I finally passed my last math class EVER in college! I try to appreciate, when slightly possible, the purpose of math. I see the importance in the basics, but in college, I was beyond through with math, and it just so happens to be my worse subject--bar none. I've never felt more relief and a sense of accomplisment when I prayfully hoped as I perused my math 1050 final grade sheet. A 'C'! I guess it's a little ala Tommy Boy, but I was on cloud 10 when I saw that glorious little curved symbol. I was done. It was over. No more countless hours spent learning complicated formulas I scarcely undrerstood when, quite coveniently, I'd then lose all trace of my knowledge acquired through hours of futile studying when any quiz or test was taken.
3. Brace yourself for randomness... Having my ears, which were pierced for the second time, finally HEAL completely earlier this year. I've never been so continuously grateful for something. Almost every day I literally thank the heavens that my ears don't hurt anymore, as they were continuously tender and made sleeping on my side virtually impossible. It took me forever to get my ears pierced the first time, and I ended up loving it. Then one ear got infected and I let my ears close up--fearing another earring-embedded-in-the-back-of-my-ear fiasco.
After a couple years, I longed to have my ears pierced again and finally did so for a very sweet b-day gift from my mom. After my ears had been impaled again, I tentatively hoped and prayed my ears wouldn't get infected. My mom assured me that definitely wouldn't happen. I did all in my power to keep this wish alive. I cleaned my ears every day and NEVER slept on them. Still, my ears started becoming more and more tender. I literally wanted to cry. I stopped mentioning the discomfort to my mom--I hated making her feel bad when I certainly wasn't trying to. I kept telling myself in my head, day after day after day, They're gonna heal really soon. Just keep them clean and don't sleep on them. It can't be too much longer! How wrong I was.
Finally, after a year of cleaning the same earrings (Yes, I know this was a terrible idea to leave them in so long, but I didn't want my ears to close up.) I stopped wishing that my ears would stop hurting and tried to accept it. (Wow, now this sounds like a worst day thing.) Then, (perhaps it was psychological) one day--my ears stopped hurting for good!! What ever day that was, is one of the best days of my life. I love wearing earrings and will never, ever, EVER take this privilege for granted.
4. The day I discovered my love for writing stories. I'm sure this happened when I was much younger, but when I started writing a fifty-page short story in my dad's english class for eighth grade, I realized how enthralling and pleasurable it truly was to write. I can't imagine my life with out a knowledge, love, and growing talent for writing. There's nothing like it. I revel in creating worlds, characters, descriptions, dialogue, however I want, whenever I want, with only a pen/pencil, piece of paper, and decently-functioning brain.
Wow, kinda long, but it'll make up for my severe lack of posting a lot skills.
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