*sigh*

Sometimes I'm so mad at Emily I could wring her neck.

Then I feel guilty for being angry, and I get mad at myself.

When I realize I'm angry at myself for being mad at her, I get angry at her all over again.

Then I feel twice as guilty.

Then I come across photos like this one and I'm no longer angry... I just plain miss her.

The breeze, it is a-blowing

It's a Friday afternoon.

It's sunny, 73 degrees, and a beautiful fall day. My windows are open, and the breeze is clearing out the stuffiness and stale air from the house. As corny as this sounds, I can almost taste Fall. It's slightly chilly, but a comfy sweatshirt and a pair of socks make the afternoon perfect.

Almost.

It's one of those times where everything comes together to make a moment almost perfect. Except for this heaviness that I just can't shake.

Terri's death makes me realize yet again how fleeting life is. In less than a month, she went from being healthy to being diagnosed with cancer, admitted into the hospital, then all to suddenly, she died. In a month. It takes me a month to get around to changing the water in my fish tank.

Heather's latest news makes me ache for my friend. And makes me curse the helplessness that I feel. Cancer is raging through her body and there isn't a dammed thing I can do about it. We met for breakfast this morning, and I had to bite back the platitudes and phrases I know she must be sick of. "What can I do? What do you need? I wish there was something I could do. I know you're going to beat this." But the thing is.... even though all those things are the wrong thing to say....not saying it leaves you with nothing to say. And that's harder. I think I can understand now why all those people said those stupid things after Emily died. Because silence is harder to bear.

I've been so lonely. I've been having a major pity party for myself. These last few weeks I've felt like the people who I thought were closest to me have abandoned me and forgotten me. I've been angry, I've been bitter, and I've been depressed. I lost a job, I lost a Bible Study group, but I didn't really expect to lose the people.

But things change. People change. And relationships change. I'm not really angry anymore. And I decided that being bitter wasn't hurting anyone but me. Sometimes the easiest thing to do is let go. I have good memories from these people. I'd rather hang onto that and keep those thoughts alive, rather than tarnish their memories with bitterness. Perhaps I should have tried harder. Made more of an effort. Sent more e-mails. Maybe not have inserted cutting and catty remarks on my blog on the off chance that they were reading it. Perhaps I should have.... should not have.... perhaps....
But one thing I've come to realize is that the people who truly love you, are the ones that won't make you try harder. Let me rephrase that..'cause sometimes friendship is hard. They won't make you try harder all on your own.

My heart is still so sore from Terri's death. And I am still helpless in regards to Heather's cancer. Even though I've let go, I still sometimes miss the familiarity of what I've lost. And Emily is the ever present shadow that I don't think will ever leave.

But yet... all these things offer one beam of light. I can still reach out a hand to a friend that is hurting, even if there is nothing to say. I re-live memories of friends and realize that sometimes there are certain ones that you only have for a season. And then the season changes. And everywhere I go, I take a piece of Emily with me. And still...I'm still here. I'm here and can appreciate the beauty that is outside my window at this very moment. It doesn't sound like much in the face of all this sadness. But sometimes a little is still enough to get by.

Seems the breeze blowing through my window has cleared the stuffiness out of more than just the room.

Update on Heather

Heather... oh Heather.

My friend Heather sent an e-mail update yesterday, and it's not good. The chemo is not shrinking the tumor. Her doctors are telling her that she has a rare cancer that will not go into remission. Removing the tumor is not an option, because they cannot remove the cancer cells, and it would continue to grow and spread.

She's looking into a second opinion. They want to do a research study on two drugs that have not yet been tested on humans. The drugs will not cure the cancer, but supposedly will keep the cancer at bay and keep the tumor from growing.

But underneath the research, second opinions, and more tests is the underlying message that she has terminal cancer. That's a hard thing to wrap your mind around. And if it's hard for her friends, I cannot imagine what it's like to actually have your death sentence handed to you like that.

When I spent that day at John's Hopkins with her, it was hard to believe she was so sick. If it hadn't been for the IV pole attached to her, you'd never have known she was ill. She was laughing and chatting and just being... well, Heather. Looking around, I felt so sorry for the people I saw. Especially that girl with the oxygen tank. But not Heather. Not my friend. She was going to be fine.

Turns out she's not. I'd like to believe that God is going to swoop down and perform a miracle. That the tumor is going to disappear along with all traces of cancer cells. And that's possible, I suppose. But the hard reality is that hundreds of people die from cancer. Each one of them has family and friends that are praying for that miracle "swooping" that never comes. I'd like to think that I'm not being cynical... just realistic. Cancer sucks. People die. And if God swooped in on every one of them, then I suppose it wouldn't be a miracle.

Have you seen the new commercial from the American Cancer Society? The one where they show cancer survivors/patients celebrating birthdays and at the end says "the official sponsor of birthdays?" It's a great commercial. And I can't watch it. It about breaks my heart into two. Terri was only 52. Grace was only 6. Elena was only 7. That girl from the cancer ward is only in her 20's. Heather's in her 40's. How many birthdays do they have left?

In my heart of hearts, I'm hoping that God proves me wrong. I want more than anything to be wrong and Heather to be cured. Heather amazes me. Her e-mails are full of a grace and strength and peace that I can't begin to understand. Where my mind fills with "what-ifs" "if onlys" and dark fears, Heather writes of her situation and fears with peace, trust, and faith. I know she's scared. She'll be the first one to tell you that. She accepts her situation and relinquishes control to Him. I want to bargain, plead, and negotiate with God on her behalf. And I'm sure that she's had her moments of pleading too. It's human nature- I think it'd be impossible not to. No matter how strong a person's faith is.

I know He doesn't bargain. I know that sometimes His answer is no. I know that He's always working in ways that we can't possibly understand.

I know that life doesn't always turn out the way we want it to.

But oh... I wish it would.

Things always look better in the daylight...

You'd think I'd have learned by now that hitting "publish" on a post that I've written in the late hours of the evening/early hours of the morning isn't always a good idea. Darkness seems to invite darkness and it never fails that the darkness of night seems to seep into my mind and heart., and thus carries over into my words. I woke up this morning thinking, "hmm... maybe I shouldn't have actually posted that after all". I find it easier to write what's on my mind rather than actually say it. I'm uncomfortable sharing, and showing, emotions. Emotions can't be controlled, and nothing makes me feel more uncomfortable than being in situations that I don't have a handle on. Words can be controlled. I can force words to say exactly what I want and how I want. I can edit, revise, and re-structure as many times as I want, to make sure it says exactly what I want. (I never realized how much of a control-freak I am.) And when you're up late and not sleeping, sometimes all you want is for someone to realize that you're hurting.

But then the morning comes and you realize that it really isn't quite as bad as you thought. As most things do, it looks better in the daylight. Not that what I was thinking and feeling wasn't real... but I think when you allow the darkness to settle in... that's all you'll ever see. Darkness.

I re-read what I posted and this morning realized that I don't want to be that person. I can't honestly say that I feel better than I did last night. That I don't have that same hollow feeling when I think about Emily, and Terri, and other family memebers and friends that have died. But I do feel different. I realized that I don't want to be that person that can only see the ugliness. I don't want to shut off everything and everyone and hide out in the dark. After all, things look better in the light, right? I need to remember that...

They say that's the way life goes...

I was awakened this morning by my cell phone- the obnoxious "whistling wizard" tone signaling that I had received a text message. At first I ignored it. Anyone who knows me, knows me well enough to know that I am neither coherent, nor pleasant, nor functional before 8AM. Then two minutes later, another message. Somewhere in my semi-alert state something triggered in my head that two messages early in the morning means something is not right. Bad news always seems to go hand in hand with bad timing.

The week I was laid off, my friend Terri from Bible Study was on vacation. She was still away the day that the group got together for a surprise lunch for me. The week that I left for Poland, they sent an e-mail around that Terri wasn't feeling well. When I came back, I read in an e-mail that she had been taken to the emergency room and had been admitted to the hospital. My former friends didn't seem to think this necessitated a phone call. (Yes, that is a trace of bitterness in case you missed it. I'm trying, I really am... but being forgotten by your friends is a hard thing to swallow.) I learned that Terri was diagnosed with an very aggressive form of full-blown leukemia. She was admitted to Hershey Medical for 8 weeks of intensive chemotherapy. Halfway through they had to stop because she had an infection and was too weak to handle the chemo. Though the last report I had received, she was doing better.

My text messages this morning were from two friends telling me that she died of a brain hemorrage last night.

Death has a funny way of sucking the life out of your heart. Time seems to be frozen, and yet it rushes by you in a blur. It's a curious place of your brain screaming "no" in denial and yet simultaneously your heart is breaking.

I didn't cry. I didn't yell. I didn't do anything. Part of me wanted to throw my phone across the room. But the other part realized that doing that couldn't erase the words burned into my mind.

The hardest part of death is coming to terms with the fact that someone you know and love is gone. I mean GONE. There are alot of people that I miss. Family that I don't see nearly as often as I wish. Friends that have moved, former friends from work, and friends I've left behind over the years. But yet, it's not quite as painful because even though I miss them- they are somewhere. They are still out there, only a phone call, e-mail, or car ride away. But missing someone who you know is not anywhere on this earth is a whole different story. It's hard to take Terri out of the "missing someone who is somewhere" category, and put her into the "missing someone who is gone" category. I've been thinking about her on an off all day today. It doesn't seem real.

What scares me is that I think I've become numb to grief. Since Emily died, she has become the measuring stick for all future griefs and hurts. And anything that falls short of that imaginary line on the stick gets shoved into a little compartment somewhere. Things like the loss of a job, the loss of a group of people that I thought were friends, and now the actual loss of a friend still don't seem to register high enough on the scale.

I think that makes me heartless. I didn't say a word to anyone today about Terri. Because saying it means I have to deal with it. And dealing with it makes it real. I think part of me is still stuck in that moment of trying to pretend I never saw that message. Perhaps I am in denial. Or perhaps I am simply crazy.

Whatever I am, I am for sure and for certain one thing- I am sick and tired of death. They say that's the way life goes. I say it sucks.

September 11th

I think every generation has one of those "where were you when.....?" questions. Like, where were you when Kennedy was shot. Where were you when the Berlin Wall came down. Where were you when the space shuttle exploded. My where were you when question would be September 11, 2001. I was actually in the car on my way home. I was listening to the radio (mix 95.1- I'll never forget it.) I was only half listening when they broke in about a plane crash in New York. I flipped a CD on, not wanting to hear news. My parents were in Hawaii and my grandparents were staying with us. I walked in the door and my grandmother is sitting on the couch in tears. She said something about a terrible plane crash. A paralyzing fear struck me when I remembered hearing about a plane crash. I thought something had happened to my parents. Then I realized that they were no where near New York. That moment of relief lasted for a split second when I saw the images on the TV. Images I will never forget. We stayed glued to the TV for hours. I watched what I thought was falling debris, only to realize that it was people jumping out of the windows. That was my breaking moment, when I had to walk away.

I think now that's where my aversion to watching the news stems from. Those horrific scenes are forever burned into my mind. And that was just from a TV screen. I simply cannot imagine how people who were actually there can cope with everything they saw.



A few weeks later, my father and I went to see the Pentagon. Perhaps because my dad worked at the Pentagon, it struck me in a more profound way than the Twin Towers. I thought of all the times that I got to visit my dad when he worked there. How important I felt walking through that building, and how proud I was of my daddy that he was one of the people keeping this country safe. And I thought of the men and women who died there that day. And of their kids who walked through those same doors I did and felt the same surge of pride. I stared at the blackened walls and the gaping hole and I felt hollow. In moments like that, the magnitude of what hatred can do threatens to drown every ounce of hope I have.

And now, eight years later... the surge of patriotism has faded. We're stuck in a war that I don't understand why we're fighting. Men and women are dying by the thousands and we've become desensitized to the numbers.

Where does it end?