Death in the Title

In the book of life people die everyday. The young and the old, the sick and the healthy, the rich and the poor. We all live to die. I have fantasized that if I was ever given a specific "sentence" I would use my credit cards to travel and buy stuff for people, but would I? I think I would sit around and watch sad movies and not answer my phone.

Death effects the survivors, not the dead, that is why it is so tragic when a young person dies. We loose the privilege of seeing who they would have become. Parents are childless, children become orphaned and we question over and over again why.

The chapters of my life have been filled with death since I was a child and I have come to accept it. I can't remember the last time I cried when someone died, but I can still see my Grandmother throwing herself onto the grave of my Father.

I think people who outwardly show the most suffering are the ones who inwardly feel the most guilt. I'm not judging, nor am I saying to be so demonstrative as my Grandmother was, equals guilt. I just think that those who are able to express love to the living seem less likely to grieve so dramatically when they're gone. It seems they need to prove their love to themselves and anyone who will pay attention. It makes me sad.

I will be cremated, I want no service. I want to leave quietly while people are just going about with living. If you want to say something to me, say it now. Waiting helps no one.

We'll both regret it but I'll be dead, so you'll be the bigger loser.

The Elephant

There was a young man who could make his hand walk and talk like an elephant. Well, in reality his mouth made the elephant sound, but it didn't really matter. The elephant would walk across the table, lift it's trunk in various directions and heights as if to smell the air for your presence. Once it found you it would sniff and make funny noises and somehow emote joy in the find.

Not every person lacks the inhibition it takes to enjoy this form of play. Luckily for me I knew someone who could. This small gesture would always make me laugh and lift my spirits. I'm sure the elephant grew tired of performing, as did the young man.

One day the young man put his hand in his pocket and got up and left. It must be stressful to achieve the same level of excellence day in and day out. Perhaps someone stopped believing in his worth so he stopped believing too.

Small gifts like this are precious.

As a child I saw real elephants dressed in silly outfits doing tricks at the circus.
I know I did because my parents told me I did.

I have no memory of those elephants.

She, Me, We

To look at us, you would see no common ground. She is tall, I am small. She is young, I am old. She is black, I am white. It has been four years now that we have shared our office space and our lives.

When I first met her, I was a bit intimidated. She is very strong and firm in her beliefs and proud of her culture. Unlike myself. I will not discuss religion or politics, and am quite secretive about my families beginnings and traditions.

Sharing a small space day in and day out leads to intimacy. We tell stories, new and old, funny and sad, and marvel at our similarities. Stories of family, men, betrayals, dreams, children, travels, experiences. Stories of life.

She has much more faith than I do, she believes her body and spirit need to be nourished, she believes in a higher power. I find her inspirational. I am the older one, she calls me "wise" but I still don't know what I believe in.

I do believe friendship is a gift. I do believe that people come and go from our lives for a reason. Whether this women is here to teach, comfort, or guide me. I love the way she says things and the way she thinks. We make each other laugh as the days pass. Some days she calls me foolish, some days I call her the fool.

She is my friend. Forever.

Hard to See

A hand full of people can see it in my face or hear it in my voice, but for the most part it is invisible.

Holidays are a hard time to hide it. I try, but at a gathering you will usually find me silent in the same
spot I sat or stood in since I came through the door. When I try to add to conversations my voice is
not heard, when I walk toward the middle of the action, I am not seen. My small steps become big failures and I retreat, 

I am alone, but not by choice. It's similar to the scene in the movie where someone is at the end of the corridor and the hallway grows longer and longer. If I made it to the end and opened the door I would surely fall into oblivion. This thought gives me comfort. 

People that don't suffer from depression don't understand it. They think it's weird, and it is. It overwhelms me sometimes unexpectedly. Even if I know what brings it on it doesn't mean I can control it.

Next time you see someone sitting alone or silent take two seconds to acknowledge them. So they don't start believing they are invisible. 

Feeling invisible is a side effect of depression. If you don't exist, you cannot be loved or appreciated, heard or validated. You feel as if you don't belong, you are not necessary. 

A simple look, smile, wink, touch, or word can make a difference.

Feeling unnecessary leads to hopelessness and despair.

I will be here when you are ready.

Taking Off

It couldn't have been easy for my mother, raising an eleven year old and a fourteen year old alone after her husband died, but she did the best she could. It was the sixties and she was just a mere forty herself. What I remember was a lot of yelling, until one night she literally kicked him out. At the time I was just happy to finally have my own room and not have to share it with my mom.

For years I never gave any weight to the situation, I just dusted myself off and put on a happy face despite my needs for guidance and attention. Looking back now as an adult to the me as a child, I can see the struggle and the pain clearly. There have been many aftershocks.

After losing my father at eleven and my brother at fourteen, you might say I floundered a bit. My mom was constantly out dating, while I was alone with my headphones and alcohol. I was clearly lost. I had relationships with boys, then I had relationships with men. I'm sure any shrink would say I was just in search of my father, or mother, or brother for that matter.

When my mothers brain tumor was diagnosed as terminal, I brought her to my home, and helped her die. That brought my brother and I back together, I was hopeful, but it was brief.

My brothers wife died six months ago. He is lonely and lost, so of course I have opened my home to him. He has been here for only one week.

People have commented on how generous I am, how wonderful it is that I have done this. It makes me uncomfortable to hear these words. It is he who has brought the comfort to me. Knowing that he is now here for the long hall brought me a peace I haven't known. I am finding myself again, that person who poked herself out on good days, seems to be slowly emerging. It's such a submerged feeling I'm not even sure what it it is, but I think I'm finding my wings.

Soon I should be ready to take off.

I'm Ready to Take a Chance Again

Well, its been just about four weeks, one cat scan, one MRI, and two neurologist visits later and I think my symptoms of a concussion are all pretty much over. Still some issues with my typing (but I was never that good anyway). No more nightmares, far less headaches, no problems rounding corners walking or driving. Concentration level returning. Ready to put my life on the line again with you.


I think.

Blowing Kisses

My daughter and I had been up for a few hours, I fed her breakfast, she blew kisses to her Daddy as he went to work and we were getting on with our daily routine. There was a play area in the basement for her, I had NBC in the background with Katie and Matt. While she played, I did laundry.

As I walked over the wooden gate between the laundry room and play area, the television was showing footage of billowing smoke coming from one of the World Trade Towers. There was talk that a plane had crashed into it. I thought that's one hell of a freak accident, I called my husband who was at work in Philadelphia, we pondered how this could "accidentally" happen. I informed him I would continue to watch, said "I love you", and we would check back later.

I stood transfixed in front of the TV, and minutes later I saw something flying around the tower in the distance, I held my breath. Within moments the second tower was hit, I watched it live on TV, but couldn't believe it happened. That's when I picked up my one year old daughter and held her close to me. My husband called and we both agreed it must be a terrorist attack. Then there were scattered reports of the Pentagon being hit. This was it, I thought, every major city has been targeted and the news reports would just keep coming. It was time to put my little one down for her morning nap so I did, because I needed to.

I called a girlfriend who worked in DC, she informed me she was safe and on her way home. Then, from the safety of my living room I watched the towers fall, the debris barreling down the streets of the city, the wounded, the people walking home over the bridges. The thick grey despair that fell over everything in the city. The wreckage of the plane near Pittsburgh.

I watched for days. The images I saw will haunt me forever. The way the photographs of the missing grew and grew along the walls at Ground Zero. All the while the rescue personnel continued searching. Interviews of people talking about the ones not yet found with hope in their hearts but anguish in their faces.

Knowing children just like mine had blown kisses to their Daddy's for the last time that morning.