Plenty of little girls dream of being nurses or doctors, but I wasn't one of them. This might surprise some of you, but the human body and it's disgusting functions has always grossed me out. It's true that I've always liked watching those real-life operation and autopsy shows, but that's just television and I'm pretty sure that I'd faint if I had to see any of that mess in real life. I even felt a little skeeved out while hanging out in the morgue at a hospital. . .and all the stiffs were locked up!
Several years ago, my husband had a hernia operation. He had the poor taste to ask me to check his wound and change his dressing. I tentatively peeled back the tape and recoiled like a snake was lurking underneath. I swear that it looked like they installed a zipper and my tummy did flip-flops whenever I had to look at it. He was annoyed with my theatrics and he took over his own nursey duties as soon as he was able.
My husband recently had back surgery. That means that he had an incision on his back. He can't change a dressing on his back. Guess who gets the honor?
My heart started pounding in my ears when I only looked at the skin surrounding the bandage. It was such a deep shade of purple that it almost looked like our son had colored on his back with markers. I readied my supplies, took a deep breath, and went for it. I yanked off the tape, quickly swabbed it down with whatever the heck it was that they sent him home with, and covered it with gauze as soon as I could. I had faced my fear (aversion is probably a better word) and I felt excited that it was almost over.
For some reason, I was holding my breath through all of this and I exhaled in a rush of relief. My breath made that stupid gauze roll off his back and I was forced to see the incision again. The floor felt like it shifted under my feet and I tossed the gauze back on his wound. I yanked off several lengths of tape and pressed it to his back, being gentle while desperately trying not to get my fingers anywhere near what I knew was underneath that gauze pad. I know it makes no sense. . .it's not like something would jump from his incision and pull me in, but it really freaks me the heck out! Finally finished, I wandered out of the room to rest for a few minutes.
So, my friends, don't ever think you can count on me in a medical crisis!
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Monday, March 14, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Grief PSA - Part II
I wrote a lot of posts about grief after my brother passed away last September. Most of those posts were read a lot and shared by many readers. I've noted that sometimes people just don't know what to do or say around someone who is grieving and that is what prompted me to write the first Grief PSA post.
I'm writing this post because it's clear to me that most people don't know what to say to someone who is hurting after a miscarriage. I don't think the people who have said these things to me are trying to be hurtful, at least I hope not, but these words do carry quite the sting at the moment.
DON'T SAY:
- You just need to relax. Every single time that I hear this, and it has been a lot, I want to reply, "And you just need to STFU." If it were only so easy as simply relaxing. If only! I might add that this line in particular pisses me off because, let's face it, it puts the blame for the entire thing on the woman who has lost her baby. How wonderfully kind and loving, eh?
- At least the baby wasn't born. True, the baby wasn't born. It wasn't born because it died before it could be born. This was, in fact, a real and living baby at one point and now it is not.
- At least you didn't get too attached. As someone who intentionally had been trying to conceive, I can say that this baby was a very real and loved family member to me from the moment that conception was suspected. Attachment and love already existed even in the earliest days.
- It wasn't even a baby yet so I don't know why you're so upset. Fine, let's argue semantics. Sure, it's technically called a fetus. It's a fetus with arms, legs, fingers, toes, a heart. . .it was very wanted, already loved, and it was living at one time. Now it's heart has stopped and that's why it's so upsetting. What was alive is not living any longer.
- Your baby was probably messed up so this is a blessing. No, no it isn't. Any baby is a gift, regardless of the so-called imperfections.
- You're being stupid/silly/crazy/irrational/fill-in-the-blank. And you're being cold and heartless, so what's your point and how does this help the person who is grieving?
- Get over it, this happens to a lot of women and you don't see them carrying on about it for weeks on end. Yes, this does happen to a lot of women, but this happened to me and I'm still hurting over it. Perhaps insensitive comments such as these are why most women don't feel that they can talk about it? And I can't say that I blame them for suffering in silence because these "helpful" comments are anything but helpful.
DO SAY:
There really isn't anything to say, is there? A simple, "I'm sorry," would suffice if you feel the need to say anything.
If you've experienced a miscarriage, it may be helpful to share your story with the person who has recently lost their baby. I was shocked at how many women I know who have experienced a similar situation, but I was comforted by their words and encouragement. Some went on to have perfectly healthy pregnancies and others did not. Some lost their babies before they even knew they were pregnant, and others ended in a stillbirth. No matter how far along they were, all experienced hurt and grief when they lost their baby.
Why do I mention these things? Because it is perfectly normal and natural to grieve over a lost baby! I'll repeat it in case that didn't come across loud and clear: It is perfectly normal and natural to grieve over a lost baby! I think it would be suspect if I didn't care. However, I also acknowledge that other people grieve differently so I'm not saying there is anything wrong if one doesn't grieve for a miscarried baby. There's no right or wrong when it comes to grief. It just is what it is and we all feel loss and experience grief differently.
Perhaps one day my story, as documented in this blog, will serve as comfort and encouragement to another woman who is suffering. And, if that's the case, then I suppose this experience is worth the present pain.
I'm writing this post because it's clear to me that most people don't know what to say to someone who is hurting after a miscarriage. I don't think the people who have said these things to me are trying to be hurtful, at least I hope not, but these words do carry quite the sting at the moment.
DON'T SAY:
- You just need to relax. Every single time that I hear this, and it has been a lot, I want to reply, "And you just need to STFU." If it were only so easy as simply relaxing. If only! I might add that this line in particular pisses me off because, let's face it, it puts the blame for the entire thing on the woman who has lost her baby. How wonderfully kind and loving, eh?
- At least the baby wasn't born. True, the baby wasn't born. It wasn't born because it died before it could be born. This was, in fact, a real and living baby at one point and now it is not.
- At least you didn't get too attached. As someone who intentionally had been trying to conceive, I can say that this baby was a very real and loved family member to me from the moment that conception was suspected. Attachment and love already existed even in the earliest days.
- It wasn't even a baby yet so I don't know why you're so upset. Fine, let's argue semantics. Sure, it's technically called a fetus. It's a fetus with arms, legs, fingers, toes, a heart. . .it was very wanted, already loved, and it was living at one time. Now it's heart has stopped and that's why it's so upsetting. What was alive is not living any longer.
- Your baby was probably messed up so this is a blessing. No, no it isn't. Any baby is a gift, regardless of the so-called imperfections.
- You're being stupid/silly/crazy/irrational/fill-in-the-blank. And you're being cold and heartless, so what's your point and how does this help the person who is grieving?
- Get over it, this happens to a lot of women and you don't see them carrying on about it for weeks on end. Yes, this does happen to a lot of women, but this happened to me and I'm still hurting over it. Perhaps insensitive comments such as these are why most women don't feel that they can talk about it? And I can't say that I blame them for suffering in silence because these "helpful" comments are anything but helpful.
DO SAY:
There really isn't anything to say, is there? A simple, "I'm sorry," would suffice if you feel the need to say anything.
If you've experienced a miscarriage, it may be helpful to share your story with the person who has recently lost their baby. I was shocked at how many women I know who have experienced a similar situation, but I was comforted by their words and encouragement. Some went on to have perfectly healthy pregnancies and others did not. Some lost their babies before they even knew they were pregnant, and others ended in a stillbirth. No matter how far along they were, all experienced hurt and grief when they lost their baby.
Why do I mention these things? Because it is perfectly normal and natural to grieve over a lost baby! I'll repeat it in case that didn't come across loud and clear: It is perfectly normal and natural to grieve over a lost baby! I think it would be suspect if I didn't care. However, I also acknowledge that other people grieve differently so I'm not saying there is anything wrong if one doesn't grieve for a miscarried baby. There's no right or wrong when it comes to grief. It just is what it is and we all feel loss and experience grief differently.
Perhaps one day my story, as documented in this blog, will serve as comfort and encouragement to another woman who is suffering. And, if that's the case, then I suppose this experience is worth the present pain.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Dream a Little Dream
I've been having bad dreams lately. In general, they have to do with not being able to protect myself or my son. Almost all of them involve me being attacked in our home and either not being able to find one of our firearms or, inexplicably, not knowing how to use it.
I tend to wake up just as I realize that I'm unable to defend myself against this intruder. I'm willing to use deadly force so I suspect that these attacks in my dreams are likely to end in my death. I think these dreams are highlighting that I can't necessarily control everything that happens, particularly life or death.
The message is unsettling, to be sure, but it is the truth. I've been trying to conceive for 18-months with no luck yet so I obviously don't control life. The sudden loss of my only brother last month demonstrates that I sure don't control death either.
I had a very strange dream last night. It didn't quite follow the standard dream formula that I've been experiencing lately. After mulling it over for a bit, it actually left me feeling pretty good.
I dreamt that I was walking with my son in the jogging stroller and that a man asked me for money. I said I did not have any and he attacked me, trying to get to my handbag. I was able to run away, but he somehow tripped me up and I landed face down on the sidewalk. The stroller began to turn and I thought it might roll away. I knew if this happened that my son would end up in traffic and I saw red. I grabbed the tire pump (which is located in the basket below) and I clocked the perp. Then I launched myself at him and we fell next to a brick planter. I began to choke him and beat his head against the bricks. He fought to escape and I grabbed his wallet as he ran away. I grabbed my son and started calling the police with my attacker's drivers license information. Suddenly I noticed that he was returning with a gun. Holding my son against my chest, I ran. I ended up shot three times; my rear, my shoulder, and the top part of my ear. Fast forward to this Thursday (funny how dreams do that, huh?) and I asked a friend to take my son to a Trick or Treat event since I was unable to attend. She asked why and I explained that I had been shot on Tuesday. I added that "God was looking out for me." She asked how I figured, after all, I had been shot three times and could have been killed. I explained that I'm still here and I'm going to be okay.
You don't have to look real deep to see what I think this dream means. Yes, I've been wounded. I've been wounded on many fronts in this last year. I'm hurting emotionally and mentally. Sometimes physically and sometimes spiritually. But these wounds, though they may hurt and oh how they do hurt, they aren't lethal. I'm still here and I'm going to be okay because God is looking out for me.
Sitting here with that realization, all I can say is: Hallelujah!
I tend to wake up just as I realize that I'm unable to defend myself against this intruder. I'm willing to use deadly force so I suspect that these attacks in my dreams are likely to end in my death. I think these dreams are highlighting that I can't necessarily control everything that happens, particularly life or death.
The message is unsettling, to be sure, but it is the truth. I've been trying to conceive for 18-months with no luck yet so I obviously don't control life. The sudden loss of my only brother last month demonstrates that I sure don't control death either.
* * *
I had a very strange dream last night. It didn't quite follow the standard dream formula that I've been experiencing lately. After mulling it over for a bit, it actually left me feeling pretty good.
I dreamt that I was walking with my son in the jogging stroller and that a man asked me for money. I said I did not have any and he attacked me, trying to get to my handbag. I was able to run away, but he somehow tripped me up and I landed face down on the sidewalk. The stroller began to turn and I thought it might roll away. I knew if this happened that my son would end up in traffic and I saw red. I grabbed the tire pump (which is located in the basket below) and I clocked the perp. Then I launched myself at him and we fell next to a brick planter. I began to choke him and beat his head against the bricks. He fought to escape and I grabbed his wallet as he ran away. I grabbed my son and started calling the police with my attacker's drivers license information. Suddenly I noticed that he was returning with a gun. Holding my son against my chest, I ran. I ended up shot three times; my rear, my shoulder, and the top part of my ear. Fast forward to this Thursday (funny how dreams do that, huh?) and I asked a friend to take my son to a Trick or Treat event since I was unable to attend. She asked why and I explained that I had been shot on Tuesday. I added that "God was looking out for me." She asked how I figured, after all, I had been shot three times and could have been killed. I explained that I'm still here and I'm going to be okay.
You don't have to look real deep to see what I think this dream means. Yes, I've been wounded. I've been wounded on many fronts in this last year. I'm hurting emotionally and mentally. Sometimes physically and sometimes spiritually. But these wounds, though they may hurt and oh how they do hurt, they aren't lethal. I'm still here and I'm going to be okay because God is looking out for me.
Sitting here with that realization, all I can say is: Hallelujah!
Friday, October 15, 2010
Therapeutic Jewelry or Big Pharma?
Therapeutic jewelry isn't going to cure cancer or improve the longevity of HIV patients, but I'm very interested in it at the moment. In the interest of disclosure, I neither have cancer nor HIV. Besides, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you'd surely know if I did!
This is going to sound like I'm turning into a full-on crunchola, but I've been researching therapeutic jewelry to help relieve some light physical complaints. Specifically, hazelwood necklaces for the heartburn that I've been suffering lately and amber necklaces for the migraines that used to cripple me several days out of every year. Okay, husband, you can stop laughing at me now. . .oh, come on, please stop it!
I've been intrigued by therapeutic jewelry for years. When I was a very little girl (under five for sure), I recall my grandmother wearing a copper cuff bracelet. I assume that she wore this bracelet to help with arthritis pain or something similar, but it seems like all she got was a green wrist for her trouble because she stopped wearing it and I never saw that copper cuff again. A former co-worker began to wear a magnetic bracelet to help relieve knee pain. You know, he complained of pain and limped whether or not he wore that magnetic bracelet.
At one point in my life, I wore hematite to help deal with the anger that was the root cause of depression. Nothing but a lot of talk therapy helped with that. I wore rose quartz to heal a deep emotional hurt. Only time healed that wound. Even more ridiculous in hindsight, I sought to relieve my migraines by using amethyst. And essential oils. And aromatherapy. And acupressure. Guess what? Migraines still knocked me on my ass until I finally asked for a prescription from my doctor.
I'm embarrassed that I actually believed in foolishness over pharmaceuticals. I suffered needlessly for over ten years by dicking around with alternative migraine treatments before I asked for help from my doctor. I hate that I wasted so much time suffering needlessly. My migraine medication does something that amethyst, essential oils, aromatherapy, and acupressure could not do - it works to quickly relieve my migraine pain and it allows me to live a normal life.
And yet, here I am all these years later, looking at necklaces that are purported to relieve a physical symptom. A physical symptom that is already adequately managed and a physical symptom that can be easily managed! My ability to place hope in new age horseshit is truly staggering, isn't it?
Why am I interested in trying an alternative therapy? Well, besides the obvious answer that I'm being a total ding-a-ling? Because I would prefer a natural remedy to my ailments if possible. I'm willing to bet that my husband just rolled his eyes at that last statement.
Why do I prefer a natural remedy? Again, I guess it's because I have an endless ability to place hope in new age hippie horseshit. Maybe it's because Big Pharma is consistently demonized, primarily because they want to make profits. . .just like every other business, including businesses selling "natural" or "organic" remedies. Or homeopathic remedies. Or therapeutic amber and hazelwood necklaces. Or essential oils. You see where I'm going with this?
On one hand, I feel that I should just go with what definitely works, what has been proven to work, and STFU. After all, I know for sure that I'll be getting relief after spending my money on my migraine medication or heartburn medication. I can't say the same for the new agey rip-offs that I've tried in the past. But, on the other hand, I guess I really buy this "natural" hype and the testimonials are so dang compelling. Seriously though, why am I placing anecdotes over evidence? Snake oil salesmen over scientists? Maybe I really am a hippie at heart - at least on some level?
Can jewelry be beautiful and therapeutic? Can wearing a necklace made of hazelwood beads really restore your acid/alkaline balance? Does amber really help relieve a laundry list of pains? Have you tried any of these types of therapeutic jewelry? If so, please share your experience!
This is going to sound like I'm turning into a full-on crunchola, but I've been researching therapeutic jewelry to help relieve some light physical complaints. Specifically, hazelwood necklaces for the heartburn that I've been suffering lately and amber necklaces for the migraines that used to cripple me several days out of every year. Okay, husband, you can stop laughing at me now. . .oh, come on, please stop it!
I've been intrigued by therapeutic jewelry for years. When I was a very little girl (under five for sure), I recall my grandmother wearing a copper cuff bracelet. I assume that she wore this bracelet to help with arthritis pain or something similar, but it seems like all she got was a green wrist for her trouble because she stopped wearing it and I never saw that copper cuff again. A former co-worker began to wear a magnetic bracelet to help relieve knee pain. You know, he complained of pain and limped whether or not he wore that magnetic bracelet.
At one point in my life, I wore hematite to help deal with the anger that was the root cause of depression. Nothing but a lot of talk therapy helped with that. I wore rose quartz to heal a deep emotional hurt. Only time healed that wound. Even more ridiculous in hindsight, I sought to relieve my migraines by using amethyst. And essential oils. And aromatherapy. And acupressure. Guess what? Migraines still knocked me on my ass until I finally asked for a prescription from my doctor.
I'm embarrassed that I actually believed in foolishness over pharmaceuticals. I suffered needlessly for over ten years by dicking around with alternative migraine treatments before I asked for help from my doctor. I hate that I wasted so much time suffering needlessly. My migraine medication does something that amethyst, essential oils, aromatherapy, and acupressure could not do - it works to quickly relieve my migraine pain and it allows me to live a normal life.
And yet, here I am all these years later, looking at necklaces that are purported to relieve a physical symptom. A physical symptom that is already adequately managed and a physical symptom that can be easily managed! My ability to place hope in new age horseshit is truly staggering, isn't it?
Why am I interested in trying an alternative therapy? Well, besides the obvious answer that I'm being a total ding-a-ling? Because I would prefer a natural remedy to my ailments if possible. I'm willing to bet that my husband just rolled his eyes at that last statement.
Why do I prefer a natural remedy? Again, I guess it's because I have an endless ability to place hope in new age hippie horseshit. Maybe it's because Big Pharma is consistently demonized, primarily because they want to make profits. . .just like every other business, including businesses selling "natural" or "organic" remedies. Or homeopathic remedies. Or therapeutic amber and hazelwood necklaces. Or essential oils. You see where I'm going with this?
On one hand, I feel that I should just go with what definitely works, what has been proven to work, and STFU. After all, I know for sure that I'll be getting relief after spending my money on my migraine medication or heartburn medication. I can't say the same for the new agey rip-offs that I've tried in the past. But, on the other hand, I guess I really buy this "natural" hype and the testimonials are so dang compelling. Seriously though, why am I placing anecdotes over evidence? Snake oil salesmen over scientists? Maybe I really am a hippie at heart - at least on some level?
* * *
Can jewelry be beautiful and therapeutic? Can wearing a necklace made of hazelwood beads really restore your acid/alkaline balance? Does amber really help relieve a laundry list of pains? Have you tried any of these types of therapeutic jewelry? If so, please share your experience!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Anecdotes Are Not Science
It seems to me that society is much more wary of western medicine than it was even just a few short years ago. Perhaps it's because we are less prosperous and can't afford it as easily so we choose not to value it? Maybe it's because we have gained incredible amounts of information via the internet and we figure that our Google research is just as good as an educated doctor's opinion? Is it simply that fear-based marketing is more effective than actual science at whipping the masses into a frenzy?
Something persuaded me to revisit my stance on vaccines. Unlike Thomas Dolby, who was handicapped by science, I was blinded with the crazy on the internet. There seems to be a severe lack of understanding of how vaccination works, particularly as it relates to herd immunity, efficacy rates, and what passes for scientific evidence.
Ordinarily, I don't worry about how other people raise their children. I may think that breast is best, but I don't really care if you choose to use formula from the first feeding session. I may think that it's unnecessary and potentially unhealthy for young infants to have any solids, but I don't really care if you believe a bit of cereal makes your baby sleep through the night. I may think that vaccines are the greatest accomplishment for the good of all mankind (and there were a lot of accomplishments!), but I don't care if you are willing to risk your child's safety by eschewing vaccines.
Ha! Just threw that last part out there to see if you were paying attention. Yes, I do care if other parents vaccinate their children because their personal choice may negatively impact my child. That's how vaccination works. If the full herd isn't immunized, the herd has chinks in it's armor against pretty horrible illnesses. Did you get that? Every unvaccinated person offers the potential for deadly diseases to sweep through society. Every time that you choose not to get a booster, that illness has a chance to overwhelm your immune system.
I know what you're thinking, "But if you're vaccinated, why do you care?" Glad you asked! That's where an understanding of efficacy rates comes into play. Very few things offer 100% guarantees and vaccines are not an exception. That's why it is even more important that everyone gets their shots. If everyone is immunized, an 80% efficacy rate isn't that big a deal because the illness is highly unlikely to gain a foothold and spread. Those unvaxed folks, well, their super-awesome immune systems (and they all claim to have one) don't exactly stop a virus from reproducing and spreading.
If you're thinking that these diseases aren't all that deadly, I have to say that the vaccines have worked altogether too well. No one remembers the days when children were disfigured, permanently crippled, or killed by illnesses we immunize against. We eradicated smallpox. We have the technology to eradicate so many more of these horrible viruses.
Ignorance is one thing, but submitting anecdotes and claiming they are science is far worse. I've read some heartbreaking stories of perfectly wonderful little children who received some shot and were dead just days later. That's sad and that's a shame. But that does not prove that a shot is the reason for the child's death. To say otherwise is disingenuous at best and it would be like me saying that Five Guys killed my brother. He never ate there before, but he ate there the day before he died. So, therefore, Five Guys is the reason my brother died. Doesn't really make sense, does it? Guess what? It's also not scientific evidence.
Perhaps you are saying, "But all of these diseases aren't that bad; you had chicken pox and you ended up fine." Yes, I did have chicken pox. I was lucky to have it as a young child because it is far more debilitating for adults. I missed a week or so of school and I was fortunate that I didn't end up with any scars from the horribly itchy blisters. However, my bout with chicken pox also means that I can get shingles later in life. See, the varicella-zoster virus (the same one that causes chicken pox) still lives somewhere around my spinal cord, as it does for all who have suffered chicken pox. Years from now, that virus can somehow reactivate and result in shingles. Do you know about shingles? I've known two men who have suffered bouts of shingles and both swear it was impossibly painful. As a bonus, through part of the outbreak, you can infect others so that they can then get chicken pox. Hm, do I vaccinate my son against a harmless virus like little ol' chicken pox or do I let him succumb to a virus that can kill him and that might potentially reactivate in a spectacularly painful fashion many years later?
Unvaccinated people are society's parasites. I don't mean that as an insult, I mean it in the most literal sense. They are enjoying good health thanks to the actions of others. I believe that, like paying taxes and obeying the law, getting your shots should be included in the price to live in a civilized society. However, I don't run the country (yet!) so my thoughts on the matter really don't matter. Parents are free to opt out of vaccinations and put their children at risk. Unfortunately, their choice also puts my child at risk.
I don't always agree with their conclusions, but Penn & Teller did a Bullsh*t episode on vaccines that you might find interesting. Enjoy!
Something persuaded me to revisit my stance on vaccines. Unlike Thomas Dolby, who was handicapped by science, I was blinded with the crazy on the internet. There seems to be a severe lack of understanding of how vaccination works, particularly as it relates to herd immunity, efficacy rates, and what passes for scientific evidence.
Ordinarily, I don't worry about how other people raise their children. I may think that breast is best, but I don't really care if you choose to use formula from the first feeding session. I may think that it's unnecessary and potentially unhealthy for young infants to have any solids, but I don't really care if you believe a bit of cereal makes your baby sleep through the night. I may think that vaccines are the greatest accomplishment for the good of all mankind (and there were a lot of accomplishments!), but I don't care if you are willing to risk your child's safety by eschewing vaccines.
Ha! Just threw that last part out there to see if you were paying attention. Yes, I do care if other parents vaccinate their children because their personal choice may negatively impact my child. That's how vaccination works. If the full herd isn't immunized, the herd has chinks in it's armor against pretty horrible illnesses. Did you get that? Every unvaccinated person offers the potential for deadly diseases to sweep through society. Every time that you choose not to get a booster, that illness has a chance to overwhelm your immune system.
I know what you're thinking, "But if you're vaccinated, why do you care?" Glad you asked! That's where an understanding of efficacy rates comes into play. Very few things offer 100% guarantees and vaccines are not an exception. That's why it is even more important that everyone gets their shots. If everyone is immunized, an 80% efficacy rate isn't that big a deal because the illness is highly unlikely to gain a foothold and spread. Those unvaxed folks, well, their super-awesome immune systems (and they all claim to have one) don't exactly stop a virus from reproducing and spreading.
If you're thinking that these diseases aren't all that deadly, I have to say that the vaccines have worked altogether too well. No one remembers the days when children were disfigured, permanently crippled, or killed by illnesses we immunize against. We eradicated smallpox. We have the technology to eradicate so many more of these horrible viruses.
Ignorance is one thing, but submitting anecdotes and claiming they are science is far worse. I've read some heartbreaking stories of perfectly wonderful little children who received some shot and were dead just days later. That's sad and that's a shame. But that does not prove that a shot is the reason for the child's death. To say otherwise is disingenuous at best and it would be like me saying that Five Guys killed my brother. He never ate there before, but he ate there the day before he died. So, therefore, Five Guys is the reason my brother died. Doesn't really make sense, does it? Guess what? It's also not scientific evidence.
Perhaps you are saying, "But all of these diseases aren't that bad; you had chicken pox and you ended up fine." Yes, I did have chicken pox. I was lucky to have it as a young child because it is far more debilitating for adults. I missed a week or so of school and I was fortunate that I didn't end up with any scars from the horribly itchy blisters. However, my bout with chicken pox also means that I can get shingles later in life. See, the varicella-zoster virus (the same one that causes chicken pox) still lives somewhere around my spinal cord, as it does for all who have suffered chicken pox. Years from now, that virus can somehow reactivate and result in shingles. Do you know about shingles? I've known two men who have suffered bouts of shingles and both swear it was impossibly painful. As a bonus, through part of the outbreak, you can infect others so that they can then get chicken pox. Hm, do I vaccinate my son against a harmless virus like little ol' chicken pox or do I let him succumb to a virus that can kill him and that might potentially reactivate in a spectacularly painful fashion many years later?
Unvaccinated people are society's parasites. I don't mean that as an insult, I mean it in the most literal sense. They are enjoying good health thanks to the actions of others. I believe that, like paying taxes and obeying the law, getting your shots should be included in the price to live in a civilized society. However, I don't run the country (yet!) so my thoughts on the matter really don't matter. Parents are free to opt out of vaccinations and put their children at risk. Unfortunately, their choice also puts my child at risk.
I don't always agree with their conclusions, but Penn & Teller did a Bullsh*t episode on vaccines that you might find interesting. Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Grief PSA
I'm not all that smart. I don't think all that quick on my feet. I can rarely find the right words in person. But there is one thing I think I know and I know it well.
Grief. I know how to address grief.
I'm not saying that I handle my own grief very well because I know that I really don't - that's part of the reason I was up crying at 1:45 am while writing this post. Oh dear, morning will come altogether too soon! I do, however, know how to address the grief suffered by other people.
Since my brother died three weeks ago I have heard all kinds of platitudes and lamentations. I can honestly say that most of the things people say are helpful, but some are not. I stop short of saying that those people are unkind. . .I just think that no one really knows what to say when someone suffers a devastating loss. Coupled with the fact that sibling loss is not a widely recognized type of grief in society (loss of parents, spouses, and children are definitely covered, however), I think it's not terribly surprising that no one really knows what to say.
In an effort to educate the readership on what not to say to someone who is grieving, here are what I have determined are the best things to say (and not to say!) to a person who is suffering grief. Please enjoy and learn from this Public Service Announcement.
DO SAY
- I'm sorry. It doesn't bring a loved one back, but it's somehow nice to know that someone feels the loss through your loss. . .does that make sense?
- Can I bring you a meal? I never understood this line. . .until I suffered a severe loss. Yes, please do bring a meal because grieving families are not thinking about their bellies and they might not eat at all otherwise.
- I'm here whenever you want to talk about it. It might be a long time, but know that one day this loss will need to be processed. Verbally. Be a friend; just listen and offer tissue as necessary.
- I wish there was something I could say that could help. Let's face it, there is nothing that can help when someone is suffering grief. But it is still a kind thing to say that might give some measure of comfort.
- I'll miss him/her. It doesn't remove the pain, but grieving friends and family usually like to know that their missing loved one was loved by others.
- I'm sorry. I mention this one again because it is such an appropriate response that so many can't seem to give. You aren't accepting responsibility for the death, you are empathizing with someone who hurts.
DON'T SAY
- He/She is in a better place. Really? Because the person who is grieving feels that their loved one's better place is with them!
- At least they aren't suffering. Guess what? Grieving friends and families want their loved one back living on this planet, sans suffering.
- God has a plan. You know, I agree that God does, in fact, have a plan. And that plan is not much comfort to someone who is longing for a loved one on this side of Heaven.
- Aren't you over it by now? No, apparently they are not. Show a little love and compassion for someone who hurts a little more deeply than you do or someone who takes longer to process grief than you might.
It's comforting to share fond or funny memories of the departed, to hold hands or hug the grieving family and friends, and, perhaps most importantly, to check in on them long after the funeral flowers have died. Grief can take a long time to process, people. Some suffer loss much harder than you might and, as a friend, you should show kindness, love, and compassion for your friend.
Besides me, do you know someone who is hurting today? Was hurting yesterday? Reach out to them in kindness. . .your contact might just be the boost that they really need to make it through yet another day without their loved one.
In closing, I can think of nothing better to say than love God, love your family, and love your friends. Cherish today because you just don't know what tomorrow might bring.
Grief. I know how to address grief.
I'm not saying that I handle my own grief very well because I know that I really don't - that's part of the reason I was up crying at 1:45 am while writing this post. Oh dear, morning will come altogether too soon! I do, however, know how to address the grief suffered by other people.
Since my brother died three weeks ago I have heard all kinds of platitudes and lamentations. I can honestly say that most of the things people say are helpful, but some are not. I stop short of saying that those people are unkind. . .I just think that no one really knows what to say when someone suffers a devastating loss. Coupled with the fact that sibling loss is not a widely recognized type of grief in society (loss of parents, spouses, and children are definitely covered, however), I think it's not terribly surprising that no one really knows what to say.
In an effort to educate the readership on what not to say to someone who is grieving, here are what I have determined are the best things to say (and not to say!) to a person who is suffering grief. Please enjoy and learn from this Public Service Announcement.
DO SAY
- I'm sorry. It doesn't bring a loved one back, but it's somehow nice to know that someone feels the loss through your loss. . .does that make sense?
- Can I bring you a meal? I never understood this line. . .until I suffered a severe loss. Yes, please do bring a meal because grieving families are not thinking about their bellies and they might not eat at all otherwise.
- I'm here whenever you want to talk about it. It might be a long time, but know that one day this loss will need to be processed. Verbally. Be a friend; just listen and offer tissue as necessary.
- I wish there was something I could say that could help. Let's face it, there is nothing that can help when someone is suffering grief. But it is still a kind thing to say that might give some measure of comfort.
- I'll miss him/her. It doesn't remove the pain, but grieving friends and family usually like to know that their missing loved one was loved by others.
- I'm sorry. I mention this one again because it is such an appropriate response that so many can't seem to give. You aren't accepting responsibility for the death, you are empathizing with someone who hurts.
DON'T SAY
- He/She is in a better place. Really? Because the person who is grieving feels that their loved one's better place is with them!
- At least they aren't suffering. Guess what? Grieving friends and families want their loved one back living on this planet, sans suffering.
- God has a plan. You know, I agree that God does, in fact, have a plan. And that plan is not much comfort to someone who is longing for a loved one on this side of Heaven.
- Aren't you over it by now? No, apparently they are not. Show a little love and compassion for someone who hurts a little more deeply than you do or someone who takes longer to process grief than you might.
It's comforting to share fond or funny memories of the departed, to hold hands or hug the grieving family and friends, and, perhaps most importantly, to check in on them long after the funeral flowers have died. Grief can take a long time to process, people. Some suffer loss much harder than you might and, as a friend, you should show kindness, love, and compassion for your friend.
Besides me, do you know someone who is hurting today? Was hurting yesterday? Reach out to them in kindness. . .your contact might just be the boost that they really need to make it through yet another day without their loved one.
In closing, I can think of nothing better to say than love God, love your family, and love your friends. Cherish today because you just don't know what tomorrow might bring.
Year of Tears
I know you're thinking that it's a bummer that I'm back to what has become my regularly scheduled grief posts, but just be happy that I'm not talking about my period.
I believe that you need a full year to handle many transitions in life. I think it's important to date at least one year before thinking of getting married. I think it's smart to be married at least a year before you think about adding a child to the mix. And I think it's necessary to spend a year moving through the grief process before you're able to get much in the way of healing.
That last line was highlighted for me in the year I spent after the deaths of my best friend and my grandmother. They died within three weeks of each other in 2006. To say that it was a very dark and difficult time would be an understatement. I didn't always handle it well, but I did the best I could while still allowing myself time to wallow in my grief.
I handled the aforementioned deaths by throwing myself at my work. I no longer work for wages and, unlike time spent in my old office, I can totally get away with crying while doing housework. My brother's unexpected passing is far more painful and I feel the loss much deeper so I expect to feel this sadness for a longer period. Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of time because my son deserves to have his happy mama back and my tears really freak out the little guy. I don't know how I'm going to move beyond this grief, but I know that I'll have to do it somewhat quicker than I'd prefer.
I'm not saying that I won't cry again for my missing brother, but I'm also not saying that I'll cry every single day. Since my brother died three weeks ago, there has been exactly one day that I did not cry once. Though I'm currently back in denial ("This can't be" and "I'll really never see/talk to him again?"), I think that I'm making good progress with my grief.
Some days will be good, some will be hard. His birthday is coming up next month and that will be a really bad day. But eventually, one day in the future, I'll simply be thankful that I was lucky enough to have a wonderful big brother and I won't feel a sharp pang when I think of him.
I believe that you need a full year to handle many transitions in life. I think it's important to date at least one year before thinking of getting married. I think it's smart to be married at least a year before you think about adding a child to the mix. And I think it's necessary to spend a year moving through the grief process before you're able to get much in the way of healing.
That last line was highlighted for me in the year I spent after the deaths of my best friend and my grandmother. They died within three weeks of each other in 2006. To say that it was a very dark and difficult time would be an understatement. I didn't always handle it well, but I did the best I could while still allowing myself time to wallow in my grief.
I handled the aforementioned deaths by throwing myself at my work. I no longer work for wages and, unlike time spent in my old office, I can totally get away with crying while doing housework. My brother's unexpected passing is far more painful and I feel the loss much deeper so I expect to feel this sadness for a longer period. Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of time because my son deserves to have his happy mama back and my tears really freak out the little guy. I don't know how I'm going to move beyond this grief, but I know that I'll have to do it somewhat quicker than I'd prefer.
I'm not saying that I won't cry again for my missing brother, but I'm also not saying that I'll cry every single day. Since my brother died three weeks ago, there has been exactly one day that I did not cry once. Though I'm currently back in denial ("This can't be" and "I'll really never see/talk to him again?"), I think that I'm making good progress with my grief.
Some days will be good, some will be hard. His birthday is coming up next month and that will be a really bad day. But eventually, one day in the future, I'll simply be thankful that I was lucky enough to have a wonderful big brother and I won't feel a sharp pang when I think of him.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
About My Brother
What do you write about someone who was taken too soon? Someone who kissed his wife and went to work in the morning and was gone by that evening? What do you write about someone who you've known and loved for 35 years, but will never see again this side of Heaven?
My mind has been awash in memories since I first heard that my brother was suffering with an aortic dissection. I don't know why I immediately played the highlight reel of my years with my brother. Initially I was optimistic that he might be one of the 20% of patients who survive. If only wishes could become reality. . .
My brother was seven years older than me. Those seven years weren't significant at all at a certain point in adulthood, but there is a huge difference between an elementary school aged-girl and a high school-aged boy. I don't know many older brothers who would let their significantly younger sister pal around and hang out. But he did.
When I was really little, under five years old, he would wake me up when Mr. Bill came on Saturday Night Live. He had a giant Darth Vadar, a giant Godzilla, and a ton of Star Wars figurines. Sometimes we'd all play together. He had a blue sleeping bag and we'd pretend that it was a swimming pool. We'd cruise around on our rollerskates. It was good to have an older brother and an older sister. I was very lucky.
After our parents divorced. . .well, after our parents divorced, I didn't see my brother for a long time. I almost forgot that I had a brother. One day, he was back in my life. I ended up losing my own bedroom and had to bunk with my sister who was eight years older than me, but our brother was back and that was good.
We would ride our bikes to Heritage Park in Cerritos and goof off on the "Island". We would play army men. . .he always made me that dorky radio operator. He had a dart board in his room and we'd spend hours throwing darts. He loved to play games; Generals and Risk were favorites. When my parents finally broke down and bought an Atari, he figured out the tricks to advance in the games we had even though we weren't allowed to spend hours playing in the house.
He joined the Navy right out of high school. I was ten years old. I don't know that I ever told him this, but I woke up early the morning he left. If you know me well, you know how rarely I do that! Anyway, I woke up early and ran to his room. He was already gone. I crawled in his cold bed and cried myself back to sleep.
He visited us once or twice before he got married and started a family. He ultimately ended up fathering four children. He spent most of his Naval career stationed on the East Coast. My parents and I were ecstatic that he was getting stationed in San Diego. We finally were able to enjoy close relationships with his children.
It was hard after his divorce. So very hard. I will always cherish the memories of the last Thanksgiving that my entire family (my parents, my sister and her family, and my brother and his children) shared. Within months, his children were gone and he was stationed in Virginia. That is all I can bring myself to say about that painful time.
My brother told me that he was going to remarry. I told him that he was insane to take such a risk again, but he was in love. He said, "She's worth it." And she was worth it.
My brother asked my husband to be his Best Man and I was his wife's Matron of Honor. It was a wonderful weekend in Las Vegas. How I wish that we all enjoyed more fun times like that!
A few months later, my Grandmother died. My sister's wedding was scheduled a few weeks later. My brother wanted to know if they should come out for Grandma's service or for our sister's wedding. My mother said to come for the wedding so we could all celebrate together.
My brother and his new wife came out for my sister's wedding and the family enjoyed a final celebration together. I never saw my brother again.
Various things worked against us going to see him and them coming to see us. At least two trips had to be postponed and were never taken. I never saw my brother again.
When my father was so close to death, my brother asked me if he should come out. He said he'd get right on a plane. I regret that I advised him to just wait and see what happened. Had I told him to come, we could have seen him one last time. My only brother would have had the opportunity to meet my only son. Sadly, it wasn't to be and he breathed his last this past Tuesday.
I will always regret not telling him to come see us when our Dad was so sick. Always. I wish that I had said, "YES! We need you here right now. Dad might die and we need you. Please come now! Hurry!"
My brother gave 20 years of service to this country. He had a loving wife and four children. He had lots of friends who cared about him, truly cared about him, some of whom he never even met in real life. He was always trying to get me to play this on-line superhero game he liked and I would laugh, calling him a nerd. I wish I had played because I probably would have enjoyed it too. We did, however, share a deep love of reading.
Put simply, no one could have asked for a better brother. He was always there when needed. He was so helpful to me when I went through my divorce, even going so far as to help me move not once but twice. He even helped me work on my fixer-upper condo.
I'm in New Jersey right now with my brother's widow. She found something in his boxes in the attic and thought I might want it. It is a card, well, it's a card made of folded over notebook paper. It is a card that reads:
"To: Derek
From: Heather
Derek's are made of sugar and spice and are nice. But all I want to say is
open
Have a Wonderful, careing (sic), Loveing (sic) and Happy
EASTER!
Love,
Heather
xxxxxx
oooooo"
Why would he have kept something like that? Based on the horrible penmanship, I must have only just learned cursive so I guess I was around seven or eight-years old when I made it. I don't know why he kept it, but I am touched that he did. And I'm glad to take it back home.
Derek Rushing may be in Heaven right now, but he will also always be in my heart. Forever.
My mind has been awash in memories since I first heard that my brother was suffering with an aortic dissection. I don't know why I immediately played the highlight reel of my years with my brother. Initially I was optimistic that he might be one of the 20% of patients who survive. If only wishes could become reality. . .
My brother was seven years older than me. Those seven years weren't significant at all at a certain point in adulthood, but there is a huge difference between an elementary school aged-girl and a high school-aged boy. I don't know many older brothers who would let their significantly younger sister pal around and hang out. But he did.
When I was really little, under five years old, he would wake me up when Mr. Bill came on Saturday Night Live. He had a giant Darth Vadar, a giant Godzilla, and a ton of Star Wars figurines. Sometimes we'd all play together. He had a blue sleeping bag and we'd pretend that it was a swimming pool. We'd cruise around on our rollerskates. It was good to have an older brother and an older sister. I was very lucky.
After our parents divorced. . .well, after our parents divorced, I didn't see my brother for a long time. I almost forgot that I had a brother. One day, he was back in my life. I ended up losing my own bedroom and had to bunk with my sister who was eight years older than me, but our brother was back and that was good.
We would ride our bikes to Heritage Park in Cerritos and goof off on the "Island". We would play army men. . .he always made me that dorky radio operator. He had a dart board in his room and we'd spend hours throwing darts. He loved to play games; Generals and Risk were favorites. When my parents finally broke down and bought an Atari, he figured out the tricks to advance in the games we had even though we weren't allowed to spend hours playing in the house.
He joined the Navy right out of high school. I was ten years old. I don't know that I ever told him this, but I woke up early the morning he left. If you know me well, you know how rarely I do that! Anyway, I woke up early and ran to his room. He was already gone. I crawled in his cold bed and cried myself back to sleep.
He visited us once or twice before he got married and started a family. He ultimately ended up fathering four children. He spent most of his Naval career stationed on the East Coast. My parents and I were ecstatic that he was getting stationed in San Diego. We finally were able to enjoy close relationships with his children.
It was hard after his divorce. So very hard. I will always cherish the memories of the last Thanksgiving that my entire family (my parents, my sister and her family, and my brother and his children) shared. Within months, his children were gone and he was stationed in Virginia. That is all I can bring myself to say about that painful time.
My brother told me that he was going to remarry. I told him that he was insane to take such a risk again, but he was in love. He said, "She's worth it." And she was worth it.
My brother asked my husband to be his Best Man and I was his wife's Matron of Honor. It was a wonderful weekend in Las Vegas. How I wish that we all enjoyed more fun times like that!
A few months later, my Grandmother died. My sister's wedding was scheduled a few weeks later. My brother wanted to know if they should come out for Grandma's service or for our sister's wedding. My mother said to come for the wedding so we could all celebrate together.
My brother and his new wife came out for my sister's wedding and the family enjoyed a final celebration together. I never saw my brother again.
Various things worked against us going to see him and them coming to see us. At least two trips had to be postponed and were never taken. I never saw my brother again.
When my father was so close to death, my brother asked me if he should come out. He said he'd get right on a plane. I regret that I advised him to just wait and see what happened. Had I told him to come, we could have seen him one last time. My only brother would have had the opportunity to meet my only son. Sadly, it wasn't to be and he breathed his last this past Tuesday.
I will always regret not telling him to come see us when our Dad was so sick. Always. I wish that I had said, "YES! We need you here right now. Dad might die and we need you. Please come now! Hurry!"
My brother gave 20 years of service to this country. He had a loving wife and four children. He had lots of friends who cared about him, truly cared about him, some of whom he never even met in real life. He was always trying to get me to play this on-line superhero game he liked and I would laugh, calling him a nerd. I wish I had played because I probably would have enjoyed it too. We did, however, share a deep love of reading.
Put simply, no one could have asked for a better brother. He was always there when needed. He was so helpful to me when I went through my divorce, even going so far as to help me move not once but twice. He even helped me work on my fixer-upper condo.
I'm in New Jersey right now with my brother's widow. She found something in his boxes in the attic and thought I might want it. It is a card, well, it's a card made of folded over notebook paper. It is a card that reads:
"To: Derek
From: Heather
Derek's are made of sugar and spice and are nice. But all I want to say is
open
Have a Wonderful, careing (sic), Loveing (sic) and Happy
EASTER!
Love,
Heather
xxxxxx
oooooo"
Why would he have kept something like that? Based on the horrible penmanship, I must have only just learned cursive so I guess I was around seven or eight-years old when I made it. I don't know why he kept it, but I am touched that he did. And I'm glad to take it back home.
Derek Rushing may be in Heaven right now, but he will also always be in my heart. Forever.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Make Your Dash Count
I don't often remember birthdays, but I can nearly always remember the day that someone was called home. I guess it's because a birthday happens every year, but you can only die once. My best friend died four years ago this month.
Had you told me four years ago, three years ago, or even two years ago that I would one day forget to mark the day of her homegoing, I'd never believe it. But I've been so preoccupied pondering potential life that I did forget. Looking at the calendar, I realize that I first thought that I might be pregnant on the anniversary of the day that she breathed her last breath.
She called me late one evening in 2004. I was immediately on-guard because she never called me late at night. I cut to the chase and asked what was wrong.
"I have cancer, girl."
I was stunned. Cancer. Cancer? Freaking cancer?! How in the world does a young and healthy woman end up with cancer? Hell, I lived like a friggin' rock star in comparison and rarely got so much as a cold. But she got cancer.
V had a particularly aggressive breast cancer. She rejected the first suggested course of treatment, which was mastectomy. So she elected to have a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation therapy. You know, she actually beat her cancer. . .until it returned with a vengeance a few months later.
For reasons I'll never understand, she didn't want visitors. I guess she didn't want pity or useless lamentations. So I did the next best thing. I sent her greeting cards and notes every few weeks and I called as often as I could without feeling like I was being a pest.
Her mother called me one afternoon while I was at work. It went to voicemail, so I called the house. V's sister answered and I asked what was going on with V. Her sister said, "She's dying."
And she was. I got the hospital information and went that evening after work.
Visiting her in the ICU, I was shocked at her appearance. I thought that she probably looked much the same as when she was just a young babe. She was tiny, bald headed, and curled up in the bed. She looked so sweet and peaceful.
By the time that this evil disease finished ravaging her, she had cancer in her breasts, lymph system, bones, and brain. Toward the end, she could no longer even sign her name. At the end, she was in a coma on life support.
Her parents were given the task of making a heartbreaking decision. It's a choice no parent wants to face. They gave their precious gift back to God on August 11, 2006.
I remember calling her work voicemail a week after she passed away because I was aching to hear her voice. I was heartbroken that they had already reassigned her phone line. To this day I'd love to hear her say, "Have a blessed day," just one more time.
There were countless people at her funeral service. I'd estimate about a thousand, but that's probably too high. Easily a few hundred though. She was a wonderful friend and I'd guess that I wasn't the only one who considered her their Bestie.
V was only 36 years old when she died. Too damn young by any estimation. She'd never been married. She never bore children. Oh, but she touched a lot of people in those 36 years.
She worked her buns off for eight years to get her degree while working full-time. She always remembered birthdays and special occasions and never made you feel bad that you forgot. She was a generous Auntie, Godmother, and friend. She knew that downtime was important and she took countless vacations with friends and family members - I still have a picture of our SF trip on my fridge door. She was always so full of life and she always made you feel better just from being around her. She was the kind of person who I want to be one day.
The date of your birth and the date of your death are often separated by a dash. That dash is your life. She made the most of her short time here on Earth. She made her dash count.
Had you told me four years ago, three years ago, or even two years ago that I would one day forget to mark the day of her homegoing, I'd never believe it. But I've been so preoccupied pondering potential life that I did forget. Looking at the calendar, I realize that I first thought that I might be pregnant on the anniversary of the day that she breathed her last breath.
* * *
She called me late one evening in 2004. I was immediately on-guard because she never called me late at night. I cut to the chase and asked what was wrong.
"I have cancer, girl."
I was stunned. Cancer. Cancer? Freaking cancer?! How in the world does a young and healthy woman end up with cancer? Hell, I lived like a friggin' rock star in comparison and rarely got so much as a cold. But she got cancer.
V had a particularly aggressive breast cancer. She rejected the first suggested course of treatment, which was mastectomy. So she elected to have a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation therapy. You know, she actually beat her cancer. . .until it returned with a vengeance a few months later.
For reasons I'll never understand, she didn't want visitors. I guess she didn't want pity or useless lamentations. So I did the next best thing. I sent her greeting cards and notes every few weeks and I called as often as I could without feeling like I was being a pest.
Her mother called me one afternoon while I was at work. It went to voicemail, so I called the house. V's sister answered and I asked what was going on with V. Her sister said, "She's dying."
And she was. I got the hospital information and went that evening after work.
Visiting her in the ICU, I was shocked at her appearance. I thought that she probably looked much the same as when she was just a young babe. She was tiny, bald headed, and curled up in the bed. She looked so sweet and peaceful.
By the time that this evil disease finished ravaging her, she had cancer in her breasts, lymph system, bones, and brain. Toward the end, she could no longer even sign her name. At the end, she was in a coma on life support.
Her parents were given the task of making a heartbreaking decision. It's a choice no parent wants to face. They gave their precious gift back to God on August 11, 2006.
* * *
I remember calling her work voicemail a week after she passed away because I was aching to hear her voice. I was heartbroken that they had already reassigned her phone line. To this day I'd love to hear her say, "Have a blessed day," just one more time.
There were countless people at her funeral service. I'd estimate about a thousand, but that's probably too high. Easily a few hundred though. She was a wonderful friend and I'd guess that I wasn't the only one who considered her their Bestie.
V was only 36 years old when she died. Too damn young by any estimation. She'd never been married. She never bore children. Oh, but she touched a lot of people in those 36 years.
She worked her buns off for eight years to get her degree while working full-time. She always remembered birthdays and special occasions and never made you feel bad that you forgot. She was a generous Auntie, Godmother, and friend. She knew that downtime was important and she took countless vacations with friends and family members - I still have a picture of our SF trip on my fridge door. She was always so full of life and she always made you feel better just from being around her. She was the kind of person who I want to be one day.
The date of your birth and the date of your death are often separated by a dash. That dash is your life. She made the most of her short time here on Earth. She made her dash count.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
21-Years Later and I Still Hurt
Before going to bed last night, I turned the page on my wall calendar since today is the first of the month. Specifically, it's the first of July. I felt a sharp pang of sadness when I noticed the date because I realized that it has been twenty-one years since I witnessed the death of my beloved grandfather. I wish that was an exaggeration, but I literally saw him breathe his last breath.
Twenty-one years. Man, that's a long time. It seems impossible that it's been so long. I feel so young, how is it even possible that I was a teenager twenty-one years ago? It's hard to believe.
Prior to marrying my husband and having our son, the time I spent with my grandfather was the happiest I've ever been in this life. At one time, my grandparents lived nearby, but they had moved to Washington state and I missed them so much when they were gone. I'm so thankful that my parents sent me to spend several weeks with my grandparents one Summer.
That Summer, my mother was going to be gone on a training class for a couple of months. For several years prior, it felt like my sister drifted in and out of my life and my brother was already gone in the Navy. I guess that I was basically an only child by then. With all the other kids gone & grown, my folks had a little extra money and they bought me plane tickets to go visit for a few weeks.
This was my first plane trip and, for some reason, it made sense to wear kitten heels on the plane. Um, okay. I've always had odd fashion sense! My Aunt, my Grandma, and my Grandpa all met me at the airport. I RAN into their arms - I was so happy!
The Pacific Northwest may not sound like an ideal place for a young girl to vacation, but it was! We settled into a nice routine, my grandparents and I. Early in the morning, the three of us (and sometimes my Aunt) would harvest whatever was ripe in the garden. Then we'd eat breakfast, usually cold cereal with fresh-picked raspberries, milk, & sugar - YUM! We'd watch television or go to the store. My love of old television programs and game shows was lovingly nurtured in that house. At 3:00 pm, Grandpa and I would do garden chores: planting, staking, watering, dividing, etc. He tried so hard to teach me how to split wood, but I could never get the hang of it. Grandma would do the washing and I would hang the laundry on the line to dry. Grandpa taught me how to mow the lawn, but I never could get the lawnmower to start on my own. I still can't. Sometimes we'd all go fishing. That was the only thing I didn't like because the slugs seemed to be everywhere good fishing could be found. To this day I feel a little light-headed when I see a slug. But best of all, they had a kitten waiting for me when I arrived. A kitten! Oh, how I wanted a pet growing up! It was like a dream come true.
Nothing will ever taste as delicious as the green beans that I planted, grew, harvested, snapped, and cooked. A fresh carrot, straight out of the garden, is one of life's delights. Picking a raspberry and immediately popping it in your mouth is something that everyone should have the joy to experience.
As it always seems with good times, that Summer ended way too soon. I flew home. I wrote them letters about the goings-on of my life. I missed them.
Something I guess I never realized was that my Grandpa was a sick man the entire time I knew him. He took a drastic turn for the worse around May or June 1989. I talked with him on the phone, maybe it was Mother's Day or Father's Day?, and I knew. I don't know how I knew it. I wish that I didn't hear it in his voice. But I knew with certainty. He was dying. And he would be dead soon.
I sobbed on my father's lap that night. In typical childish selfishness, I didn't stop to consider that my father was distraught that his own father was close to death. But my father, bless him, he held me and told me that it was going to be alright. His calm assurance was what I needed and he somehow found a way to give it to me though he was suffering too.
My parents and I drove up to visit. It was unspoken, but I think we all knew that it would be our last visit. We were set to arrive on July 1, 1989.
My mother insisted that we stop to eat before driving into town. That was uncharacteristic as we'd usually eat after arriving to their house, but we stopped and filled our bellies. For some reason I remember that I ordered lasagna.
When I walked in their living room, I stopped short. My Grandpa had tubes in his nose. He was on oxygen. He sat up to give me a hug and I mumbled something about how happy I was to see him. I'm ashamed to admit that I was afraid.
I should add that I had never had a loved one die. I'd never had a pet so I'd never had a pet die. I never had to deal with grief or learn to heal after loss. All I knew about death is that it was permanent.
At some point the entire family was assembled in the living room: my Grandpa, my Grandma, my Aunt, my parents, and myself. My maternal grandmother had taught me how to crochet some months earlier and I was busily crocheting on the couch beside my Grandma. I remember that it was a grey mouse that could be made into a magnet. Grey. That was an appropriate since all color and light were soon to disappear.
Anyway, I was crocheting and I suddenly looked up. My Grandpa and I met eyes for a moment. I smiled at him and finally looked back down at my work. He moaned and his head pitched forward. He died. Just like that. He was alive in one second and he was dead in the next.
My Aunt and my Dad grabbed him and pulled him to the floor. They began to administer CPR. I stood there watching, totally impotent. My Grandma & I were hustled out of the room by my Mom. My Mom grabbed the phone and called 911.
I don't know how long it took for an ambulance to arrive. I don't even know how I got there, but I slowly became aware that I was sitting on the bench overlooking my Grandpa's garden. It was drizzling. That was fitting. My Mom found me and put me in my Aunt's car. The family followed the ambulance to the hospital.
We were ushered to a small waiting room when we arrived at the hospital. It was very small and we were the only people there. My poor Grandma. . .I can't even imagine how she felt in those moments. A doctor finally arrived. And, just like in the movies, he said, "I'm so sorry. There was nothing we could do." My Grandma cried out and collapsed into my Dad & my Aunt's arms.
He had a massive heart attack and there was nothing they could do. His heart stopped and my heart broke.
There you have it. The memory that I can't help but relive every July 1st. The only good thing that comes from remembering this pain is that I also remember the good times. That one wonderful Summer all those years ago.
My Grandpa drank his buttermilk with salt & pepper. He taught me how to chew tobacco and let me take a sip out of his Wild Turkey a time or two. He always wore a hat and suspenders. He favored flannel shirts. He really knew how to fish and he caught the tastiest salmon. He loved watching Elvira's show and he was kind to animals. He was an expert at whittling wood and he was extraordinarily creative. He was the best Grandpa in the world. And, 21-years later, I still miss him and love him.
Twenty-one years. Man, that's a long time. It seems impossible that it's been so long. I feel so young, how is it even possible that I was a teenager twenty-one years ago? It's hard to believe.
Prior to marrying my husband and having our son, the time I spent with my grandfather was the happiest I've ever been in this life. At one time, my grandparents lived nearby, but they had moved to Washington state and I missed them so much when they were gone. I'm so thankful that my parents sent me to spend several weeks with my grandparents one Summer.
That Summer, my mother was going to be gone on a training class for a couple of months. For several years prior, it felt like my sister drifted in and out of my life and my brother was already gone in the Navy. I guess that I was basically an only child by then. With all the other kids gone & grown, my folks had a little extra money and they bought me plane tickets to go visit for a few weeks.
This was my first plane trip and, for some reason, it made sense to wear kitten heels on the plane. Um, okay. I've always had odd fashion sense! My Aunt, my Grandma, and my Grandpa all met me at the airport. I RAN into their arms - I was so happy!
The Pacific Northwest may not sound like an ideal place for a young girl to vacation, but it was! We settled into a nice routine, my grandparents and I. Early in the morning, the three of us (and sometimes my Aunt) would harvest whatever was ripe in the garden. Then we'd eat breakfast, usually cold cereal with fresh-picked raspberries, milk, & sugar - YUM! We'd watch television or go to the store. My love of old television programs and game shows was lovingly nurtured in that house. At 3:00 pm, Grandpa and I would do garden chores: planting, staking, watering, dividing, etc. He tried so hard to teach me how to split wood, but I could never get the hang of it. Grandma would do the washing and I would hang the laundry on the line to dry. Grandpa taught me how to mow the lawn, but I never could get the lawnmower to start on my own. I still can't. Sometimes we'd all go fishing. That was the only thing I didn't like because the slugs seemed to be everywhere good fishing could be found. To this day I feel a little light-headed when I see a slug. But best of all, they had a kitten waiting for me when I arrived. A kitten! Oh, how I wanted a pet growing up! It was like a dream come true.
Nothing will ever taste as delicious as the green beans that I planted, grew, harvested, snapped, and cooked. A fresh carrot, straight out of the garden, is one of life's delights. Picking a raspberry and immediately popping it in your mouth is something that everyone should have the joy to experience.
As it always seems with good times, that Summer ended way too soon. I flew home. I wrote them letters about the goings-on of my life. I missed them.
Something I guess I never realized was that my Grandpa was a sick man the entire time I knew him. He took a drastic turn for the worse around May or June 1989. I talked with him on the phone, maybe it was Mother's Day or Father's Day?, and I knew. I don't know how I knew it. I wish that I didn't hear it in his voice. But I knew with certainty. He was dying. And he would be dead soon.
I sobbed on my father's lap that night. In typical childish selfishness, I didn't stop to consider that my father was distraught that his own father was close to death. But my father, bless him, he held me and told me that it was going to be alright. His calm assurance was what I needed and he somehow found a way to give it to me though he was suffering too.
My parents and I drove up to visit. It was unspoken, but I think we all knew that it would be our last visit. We were set to arrive on July 1, 1989.
My mother insisted that we stop to eat before driving into town. That was uncharacteristic as we'd usually eat after arriving to their house, but we stopped and filled our bellies. For some reason I remember that I ordered lasagna.
When I walked in their living room, I stopped short. My Grandpa had tubes in his nose. He was on oxygen. He sat up to give me a hug and I mumbled something about how happy I was to see him. I'm ashamed to admit that I was afraid.
I should add that I had never had a loved one die. I'd never had a pet so I'd never had a pet die. I never had to deal with grief or learn to heal after loss. All I knew about death is that it was permanent.
At some point the entire family was assembled in the living room: my Grandpa, my Grandma, my Aunt, my parents, and myself. My maternal grandmother had taught me how to crochet some months earlier and I was busily crocheting on the couch beside my Grandma. I remember that it was a grey mouse that could be made into a magnet. Grey. That was an appropriate since all color and light were soon to disappear.
Anyway, I was crocheting and I suddenly looked up. My Grandpa and I met eyes for a moment. I smiled at him and finally looked back down at my work. He moaned and his head pitched forward. He died. Just like that. He was alive in one second and he was dead in the next.
My Aunt and my Dad grabbed him and pulled him to the floor. They began to administer CPR. I stood there watching, totally impotent. My Grandma & I were hustled out of the room by my Mom. My Mom grabbed the phone and called 911.
I don't know how long it took for an ambulance to arrive. I don't even know how I got there, but I slowly became aware that I was sitting on the bench overlooking my Grandpa's garden. It was drizzling. That was fitting. My Mom found me and put me in my Aunt's car. The family followed the ambulance to the hospital.
We were ushered to a small waiting room when we arrived at the hospital. It was very small and we were the only people there. My poor Grandma. . .I can't even imagine how she felt in those moments. A doctor finally arrived. And, just like in the movies, he said, "I'm so sorry. There was nothing we could do." My Grandma cried out and collapsed into my Dad & my Aunt's arms.
He had a massive heart attack and there was nothing they could do. His heart stopped and my heart broke.
There you have it. The memory that I can't help but relive every July 1st. The only good thing that comes from remembering this pain is that I also remember the good times. That one wonderful Summer all those years ago.
My Grandpa drank his buttermilk with salt & pepper. He taught me how to chew tobacco and let me take a sip out of his Wild Turkey a time or two. He always wore a hat and suspenders. He favored flannel shirts. He really knew how to fish and he caught the tastiest salmon. He loved watching Elvira's show and he was kind to animals. He was an expert at whittling wood and he was extraordinarily creative. He was the best Grandpa in the world. And, 21-years later, I still miss him and love him.
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