Coming and going....

At last night's stewardship/finance meeting, talking about the church website I've taken over:

Margie: "Melissa, how much are your costs for maintaining the website?"

Me: "Oh believe me, you definitely can't afford me!"

*laughter*

A little later on, talking about something they wanted me to bring up at the next church council meeting:

Me: "Oh! No! I don't want to ask that. Last time y'all made me ask something, they all got mad and yelled at me."

Charlie: "Melissa, are you afraid? What happened to that confident, self-assured woman we heard not more than ten minutes ago?"

Me: "Oh that. She comes and goes."

They all cracked up and laughed..... but there's a rather sobering truth in that little revelation.

And lately I think she's been going more than coming....

The beauty of children.....

I was working at Food Lion this past Saturday night. And one of the women I work with at Frick came through my line with her daughter, who's around 12 or 13 I believe. We chatted for a bit, and then they left. Earlier today, Tracy stopped by my desk and told me after they left the store Lindsey was asking who I was and how she knew me. After Emily died, Tracy sent me a gift card from one of the local garden centers. She wrote instead of sending flowers, she thought maybe I would like to get a tree or something. The card was from her whole family, and I guess Tracy must have told Lindsey that I was the one they had sent the gift card to.
Then Tracy handed me a little envelope and said that Lindsey had asked her if she thought it would be okay to make me a card:

The front:
"Answer me when I call to you, O my righteous God. Give me relief from my distress; be merciful to me and hear my prayer."
~Psalm 4:1

Inside:
"Dear Ms. Melissa,
I heard about your sister and I realize that it was a long time ago but I wanted to say I'm sorry. I hope you are doing well, and if you ever need to talk to someone you can talk to me or God. I do really hope you are feeling better."

How precious is that? That's what I love about kids. They are so sincere, and so sweet. IT's funny-- we try and "dumb down" death when we talk to kids. We paint pretty pictures of people "going to sleep" or becoming angels and we write books for kids with pretty pictures and pearly gates. But I think that kids get it better than we do. It's not that they can't cope or understand, it's that we don't know how to explain what we ourselves still can't comprehend.

I told Tracy she better give that child a big hug from me. And tell her to never lose that sweetness.

On a lighter note- I've realized that I have become old. This is the second time this week that I've been called "Miss Melissa". I could be someone's kindergarten teacher or something. I think I've turned into an adult...

Valentines Day

I wore a pink sweatshirt this morning.


I'm sure you're wondering what is so earth shattering about that.
Well, I hate Valentine's Day. Seriously- worst holiday ever. And it's not because I'm single, or bitter, or anything like that. Even when I've had a date on Valentine's Day, I've hated it. Emily did too. We both would wear black in protest. Emily tried to paint her fingernails black one year, but mom drew the line at that.

Everywhere you go is a sea of red and pink, and stupid singing animals. Singing stuffed animals at Valentine's ranks right up there with Elvis's "Blue Christmas".
To me, a hideous stuffed ape singing "Wild Thing" just doesn't say "I love you."

I had to go to Wal-Mart last night to pick up a gift for my secret sister. I forced myself to walk down The Aisle. Talk about sensory overload. I don't even think red and pink really even go together. As I was trying to find the least obnoxious card, suddenly I heard a stuffed animal go off. Then another. And another. And another one after that. I peeked around the corner and there were three teenaged girls setting off all the toys at once. Then dancing and laughing. And I suddenly missed Emily so very much. She was a button pusher. Any toy that talked, walked, sang, danced, farted, or had any kind of button- Emily pushed it. I wouldn't go to a Toy's R Us with her unless it was absolutely avoidable. And as I watched those girls, laughing and having a grand old time-- I could see Emily and her friends doing something like that.

On a holiday that's devoted to celebrating love, I'm trying so hard to remember that Love isn't supposed to die....

Picture

I look at her picture
And it still seems so unreal
A wave of pain washes over
Taking over every thing I feel

I stare at her smile
The blue green of her eyes
Try to tell myself that
Love never dies

The face of my sister
As familiar as my own
I can’t stand that she’s gone
And left me here alone

I flip through the pictures
Those moments caught in time
Sisters---
Our hearts forever entwined.

A quote that actually means something…

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.” ~C.S. Lewis

Of all the quotes, sayings, verses, and other platitudes I’ve read or come across in the last 10 months, this one resonates with me the most. Because it sums up grief in one brief sentence, without trying to paint a rosy picture on it. I’ve long said that people who haven’t experienced a loss shouldn’t be allowed to tell you how to think or feel. Because even though they mean well, and their hearts are in the right place, they simply do not get it.

But this quote from C.S.Lewis, written about his wife who died, hits the nail square on the head. Emily’s absence touches everything in my day to day routine. From physical reminders to memories, to even a painful awareness of something she won’t be here for. It is like the sky- it spreads over absolutely everything.

Everytime my phone rings at work signaling an outside call, there’s still that brief moment where I expect to hear her sing-songy voice on the other end “hiiiiii it’s meeeee!!” My phone hardly ever rings- she was the one who called me the most. Oh, I used to get so irritated at her. She never really wanted anything, she was bored. And it never entered her mind that just because she was bored didn’t mean the rest of the world was anxiously sitting around waiting to talk to her. I would snap and get irritated. But no matter how curt or irritated I got at her, she always called back. My heart breaks all over again when I don’t hear her voice on the other end.

I see gray Ford Focuses everywhere. I avoid driving through town unless it’s absolutely necessary, because it hurts way too much to see her car parked in Diana’s driveway. Even though the door to her bedroom is closed, it still mocks me that her stuff is still there as she left it. I wish it was gone- I can’t stand the stuff. I think of her when I smell oranges. And when I see commercials for blood sugar meters. I think of her when I come across a cute stuffed frog and when I see daisies.

I think of her when I plan for the my next trip to Poland. And the trip to Sunset Beach again over Easter. I think of her when I see a preview for a new movie. And when I walk into my office and see all the plants from her funeral that are now growing into a forest. I think of her when I see a pair of sisters- fighting, laughing, carrying on.

I don’t think I ever want to step foot into an Outback restaurant again. That was one of her favorite places. And… it was there that I realized something was wrong with her. We were on one of our dinner/movie dates- maybe about a month before she was diagnosed with diabetes. By the time our dinner arrived, she had already gone through six sodas. By the time we left, she was up to 10 and still thirsty. I knew something then wasn’t right. And for some reason, I just can’t tolerate that place anymore.

People, places, things… so much that reminds me of her. It’s constant, and yet unexpected, and I’m so unprepared for when they show up.

Her absence is everywhere, and yet she’s nowhere here.

The fish and the toilet

Dad's gi-hugant silver dollar fish died on Wednesday night. That guy's been in his tank since the beginning, so it was at least a year old, maybe older.
I can't say I ever thought of fish really having a personality, but this guy was pretty amusing. As far as fish go. And he was big, probably about the size of a closed fist.

When we were younger, we had small tanks, and when one died Em liked to have a little moment of silence as we sent our little fishy friend off to the giant fishbowl in the sky.
Okay, y'all aren't six. We flush them down the toilet, and I don't really want to think about where they go from there.

So remember how big I said this fish was?

Make a fist-- go ahead. Yep, that's a big fish.

Dad flushes him down the toilet.

I heard him flush it twice. Then a few minutes later as I was walking past the bathroom, he told me to flush the toilet again. I should have but two and two together and realized then that he wasn't entirely confident our fishy friend was... er... all the way down.

Later on that evening, I flushed the toilet. And the water didn't go all the way down.

*sigh*

So I got the plunger. Dad came and was looking over my shoulder. I should have just let him do it. I was figuring a couple good plunges would be enough to..... send him the rest of the way down.

Nope.

It came back.

Scared the crap out of me.

I think I may have shrieked and bolted out of the bathroom and ran out into the kitchen.

I could hear my father cackling as he got a plastic bag and fished Mr. Fish out of the toilet.
And cackling all the way out the door as he took Mr. Silver Dollar outside.
And laughing all the way back upstairs.

The moral of my little story? If your fish is as big as your fist...... it's not going to fit down the toilet.

They say

They say time heals all hurts
They say the grief will go away
They say so many things to try
And explain it all away.

They say you will get better
After all you are so strong
They want you to remember
That life will go on

But it doesn’t change the fact
That she is no longer here
And that with every passing moment
That just becomes more clear

Yes life does go on,
I know it so very well
But some days it’s just....
So very hard to tell