(I wrote this last night, just before midnight, but was too tired to type it in. Now it's over 24 hours later, and I'm just making the time for it.)
2 more weeks. Ten days, really, since it's already the 2nd of December.
This time last year, I was deep into the usual end-of-semester angst. The last day of classes for me was Dec 8, I think. Or the 9th. Whatever that Tuesday was. I had class both Mon & Tues night, and in each class we were doing a final presentation to accompany our group paper. And in each class, I had volunteered to be the consolidator - the person who incorporates the group's individually written sections into one complete paper, ensuring proper format and seamless flow/coherence between the sections.
Our presentations were finished on the 9th. I spent the 10th catching up on a couple overdue individual assignments, and finally had a chance to come up for air.
Sometime that week, I checked my snail mail and found that Mom had already mailed out her Christmas cards. We had talked on Thanksgiving, and I had told her that (as usual), their Thanksgiving card was sitting on my desk, waiting to be mailed (along with Dad's birthday card, their hallowe'en card, their anniversary card, etc. I really *did* buy them, I'd just get sidetracked before signing and mailing them).
With my Christmas card, which included a surprise check (thanks, Mom!), she had enclosed a sticky note that said "so you won't feel bad about being late with your cards," and it was attached to a Valentine's Day card. I laughed out loud when I saw it, as she meant for me to do, and thought - "I should call her, and let her know how much I enjoyed that, and how much I needed that laugh, right now."
But it was the last week of school, with three papers to write, and a PC threatening to crash, and two presentations to deliver. And I'd be calling her on Saturday anyway, so she could tell me happy birthday. It wasn't really important - it could wait.
Then suddenly it was Friday the 12th, and I was spending the morning assembling a new microwave cart I'd bought myself for my birthday (mine died in 2001, and never made it out of Texas), and remembering the time Mom surprised me with a microwave cart for my birthday, on their first trip to Texas back in 1992. I drove her crazy because I insisted on assembling it myself, and would only let her sit and watch. To make it worse, I actually read the directions as I went along (Mom calls them "idiot sheets.")
So I was alternating between 1992 and 2003 in my head, listening to Christmas music that would sometimes shoot me back to around 1966 or so, when my phone rang.
I screen my calls, so I heard my sister's voice telling me to call home, it was important, but she didn't say what it was about, so I figured it could wait. Heard my cellphone ring, and checked the caller ID - her again. I inherited the familial stubborn streak, so I let that phone ring through to voicemail, as well. Whatever it was, it could wait another 20 minutes until I'd finished my microwave cart, and fixed some lunch. Then we could talk while I ate.
While I was heating my tomato soup, and grilling my peanut-butter/jelly sandwich (childhood winter-time comfort foods), she called again. It's urgent - call her at Dad's. Yeah, yeah... whatever. By now I'm getting ticked, because she's invading the solitude and enjoyment of my first free day since whenever.
So I sat down at my desk and tried to call, but the line's busy. I finally got through on her cell phone.
"It's me. What's so important?"
"Are you sitting down?"
"Yeah... eating lunch. Why? What's up?"
"Mom's dead. She died in her sleep last night Dad found her this morning."
My anger vanished, taking all my words with it.
"I can't talk right now," I managed to choke out. "I'll call you back."
It was just before 2pm in the afternoon, the day before my birthday.
My world had just collapsed.
...........................
Words? Tears? Words....
My words are my tears,
flowing freely like water
from my pen,
ink on paper
melting the icy inner corners
of my heart.
My words are my tears,
but my tears often follow my words.
.......................................
Part 2:
I sat there, resting my head on the table, trying to take in what I had just heard.
As always, I reached first to my online friends and community. My voice wasn't working, but my keyboard was. I was surprised to notice that my hands were trembling as I typed the words. Just a quick post, on 2 message boards, a way of deflecting the shock, dispersing the impact of the bomb that had shattered my day.
As I recall, I titled both of the posts "Happy F****g birthday to me." (Yeah, well... I never said I handled shock well)
I had gone through this once before, so long ago that I had forgotten the feelings that accompanied the implosion. It had been 21 years since the previous time, but the memory rushed back and overlaid the reality with a pain that, while just as great then, was minor compared to this new loss.
July, 1982. My National Guard unit was pulling their annual tour, what we called "Summer Camp," near Grayling, MI. The days were warm, the nights cool - a grand time to be up there. As an enlisted person (E4), I was subject to being assigned to various details around the Company, and on this particular day, I was pulling KP. I was washing up the pots and pans from breakfast when the orderly room runner came in and spoke to the Mess Sergeant.
He called me over and told me I needed to go over to the orderly room right away. Seeing the look on my face, he quickly reassured me that I wasn't in trouble.
I hurried to the orderly room, my normal duty location, and my friends there avoided looking at me. My captain told me that Mom had called, and I needed to call home; that it was an emergency.
So they let me use the company phone to call home. Mom answered, and tried to small-talk about trivial things. I interrupted her.
"They said it was an emergency, Mom."
She sighed. "I guess it is. You remember your cousin Jeff?"
How could I forget my favorite cousin? He was 2 years younger than me, but I had a strong case of hero worship. He was the best.
"Well, I guess he hasn't been too happy lately, because he shot himself yesterday."
I sat down in the chair that I had been ignoring, still holding the phone. My throat was locked shut.
"Mary? Are you there?"
My captain was standing beside me (it was a *very* small room), and I thrust the phone at him as I buried my face in my arms, unable to stop the tears.
I remember one of my friends walking me back to the tent, and the chaplain coming to visit.
Damn. I still cry when I remember that day.
Jeff had been struggling to break free of his past, and everytime he tried to do something positive, something negative happened. He wanted to join the Marines, but his broken collarbone wasn't healing fast enough. He had been saving his money to go to the World's Fair, and his ex-friends broke into his bedroom and stole it. Apparently, that was the last straw.
Setback after setback left him with no hope that he could see, and so he took the deer rifle he'd been given for Christmas, and drove away. They looked for him, and just as my uncle was reaching the spot where Jeff had hidden himself, Jeff pulled the trigger. A 30.06 slug in the heart will put you out of your misery real quick, although it's just the beginning of the misery for lots of other folks.
I cannot imagine my uncle's pain, being so very close to him, and still too far away to do anything except watch helplessly as his only son killed himself. Jeff was 19.
I cannot imagine my dad's pain, spending the morning watching your soul-mate sleep in her chair, only realizing when you tried to wake her that she wasn't really sleeping after all, and would never again be waking up in this life.
I can't even tell you about my own pain, because when I heard my sister's words, and they sank in, I went numb. The numbness disappears at times... the ice melts and flows out of my heart through my tear ducts, but for the most part, I don't feel the pain.
It was months before I felt anything, after that phone call.
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