Happy birthday…
You would have been 27 years old today. You should have woken up from your evening nap in the basement, shoved the cat off of your lap, and ambled upstairs to celebrate. We should all be sitting around the kitchen table eating a piece of Baskin Robbins ice cream cake with candles stuck haphazardly into it, and you should be blowing them out while ribbons of melted cream drip insolently down the side of the cake. You should be sitting in your chair, next to the window, ignoring the rest of us as you text furiously on your latest, greatest Smart-Phone. You should be shrugging sheepishly as you unwrap gifts, (including the Starbucks gift card I always get you )with a mumbled, barely audible, “Thanks.” You should be racing out the door to indulge in one of your smelly cigarettes before hopping into your prized yellow BMW M3 to join your fellow body-building gym rat friends.
Instead, Dad is in the basement with the television turned up loud to drown out his thoughts. He spent a really hard day outside - he’s ripped out the front porch and is tearing up the concrete to put in a new covered deck. He also smashed out the front houselights on the front of the garage today in a fit of grief. So many things outside lie shattered, in a state of repair - a perfect metaphor for our lives right now. Mom is upstairs in bed, sleeping, perchance to dream a happier dream of days past. As for me? Well, here I sit in the kitchen on Mom’s laptop, writing you a happy birthday letter that you will never read, mentally singing you a happy birthday song that you will never hear.
Most days, I really hate you for what you’ve done. I don’t think you could ever understand the anger and the hurt that currently ebb and flow within these four walls. I don’t think you could fathom the destruction that your absence has caused. I like to think that if you knew what the fallout of your actions would be, that you would have paused for just a moment before popping those pills. I like to imagine that you loved us enough that you would have spared us all the mess, if you had only known. But on so many occasions, I wonder if you loved us at all. What you did was not an act of love. It was not an act of redemption, of absolution, of comfort, of solace, of kindness, of gentleness, of peace. There is nothing that has destroyed us all so absolutely as your death. I can’t even understand why this happened. I tell myself that your depression was a terminal illness, that it ate away your brain, wrecking destruction in much the same way as a metastatic tumor. I’ll never understand any of this - ever. Just when I think things are under control, a small reminder of your life and death pops up demanding attention and the wound opens fresh.
The papers for your life insurance came in the mail today - apparently, you made me the sole beneficiary some unknown amount. I can’t decide whether to laugh or to scream. A part of me doesn’t even want to submit paperwork for the claim…the money would be so washed in blood and grief that its momentary sweetness would be lost. The other part of me says that this should just be a reminder to me of the boy you once were - the generous, giving soul who put others before himself, who saw a need arise and did everything in his power to fill it.
It reminds me of when we were just small children, turned loose on the prairie one summer. I don’t even remember the reason that you thought I ought to have a flower; perhaps I was sad and you wanted to brighten my day, or maybe it was just a reflection of the thoughtfulness you used to exhibit regularly. You scoured the prairie with its myriad of summer wildflower blooms before settling on what you thought to be the perfect flower. It was a huge, brilliantly purple blossom dwelling upon a tall stalk. With the abandon of childhood, you set about plucking the flower only to find that you had discovered a thistle in full bloom. Oh, how it pricked your small hands! You brought that beautiful flower to me, proud of your find; you had literally bled to find me something pretty. I think that’s my favorite memory of you, of the small, sunny boy you once were. I try and tell myself that this insurance claim and the financial easement it might eventually bring are same - a beautiful flower that you’ve bled to give me - but unlike that memory of yesterday, this gift was bought with a price too dear. I can't even find it in me to care much about the money - the only thing in my life I want at this moment is to see you again and money can't buy that.
I have so very many memories of you through the years - as the small boy who once was my best friend, as the cocky teenager with the world at his fingertips, as the withdrawn man who could still exhibit fits of kindness and love. I wish that the last ten years had heralded happier memories to which I could cling. But I try to remember you only as the the small boy who did everything with me, who shared everything with me. I try to remember the flashlight as it glanced off your face, casting shadows on the bedcovers we huddled under, whispering our secrets and our woes. I try to remember the look on your face, the absolute joy, when you drove home for the first time in your bumblebee yellow 1995 BMW. I try so hard to remember the good times, the ice cream cakes of birthdays past.
Another memory comes unbidden, of an elementary school playground, of harsh winter, of a little boy who had lost his gloves and stood before me with tiny frozen hands, tears streaming down his face. I put your little hands into my gloves with mine to keep them warm and tried my best to comfort you. The playground aide, a horrible woman by the name of Schumacher, found us huddled together and tried to pull us apart, informing me, “You can’t always save him, you know. He has to learn how to do things himself.” How true the words she spoke. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t help keep you safe, that all the love in the world could not save you from yourself. But at this instant, most of all I am sorry that you are not here in the kitchen with me enjoying a slice of birthday cake
Happy birthday, bud. I sure do miss you.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Notes on a Death
Last week, I got a 4am text message from my brother that read, “I love you. Just wanted you to know that. I love Mom, Dad, and Chris, too.” The next morning, I texted him back, telling him, “I love you, too. Call me sometime and we’ll talk.” The text was a little out of the ordinary for my brother (who was never prone to fits of affection as an adult) so I called my father, who was out. I called my mother, intending to mention the text to her…but got sidetracked in conversation and forgot all about it.
He called me two days later, on a Friday. I had just finished previewing a bone marrow biopsy in preparation for sign-out with my attending, when the telephone in the bone marrow room rang. As I picked it up, the 307 area code (Wyoming) registered, and I was more than a little confused. I had given the room number to Chris (who never uses it anyway), but not to anyone else. He must have been really determined if he managed to dial straight into the room where I was sitting instead of having me paged. When I picked up the phone, I heard him sobbing. His voice was thick with tears when he said, “Chelsea, it’s me. It’s Chandler. I’m not doing too good. Are you busy?”
At that moment, I was busy. My attending had just walked in, ready to sign out a bone marrow. So I told my brother that I was not free, but that I did want to talk to him. I promised him that I’d call him back in an hour, once we were all finished with work. I didn’t even say, “I love you.” I just said, “I promise, bud, I WILL call you back. Noon. One hour.”
I did call him back at noon, exactly like I promised, only to find that his phone went straight to a voicemail box that had not yet been set up. Sufficiently worried, I called my father’s phone, only to have my brother’s best friend answer. He started with, “Ken is in the ambulance with Chandler. He took some pills.” I just sort of shrugged to myself, thinking, “Oh Chandler, you asshole – now you’ll have a hospital bill you can’t afford when they fix you up.”
And then I heard the words “a LOT of amytryptyline pills.” The sister in me started praying as hard as I ever have that he had been found in time, before the medication took effect. But the doctor in me knew better – knew, somehow, that I would never see my little brother again. Now is not the time or place for a discussion on amytryptyline, but suffice to say that it is a serious, serious drug with a very narrow therapeutic window. In overdose, it is rapidly fatal. As a pharmacy technician, it’s something my brother (who knew almost as much about pharmaceuticals as I did) would have known.
I don’t know what my brother would have said to me on the telephone. I don’t know if he’d already taken the pills and was calling to say goodbye. I don’t know if he was in crisis and looking for me to talk him down before he did something stupid. I just don’t know. But what I do know is that in some of the final hours of my brother’s life, I was too busy to talk to him – busy with something that could have waited for another half an hour. What I do know is that my last words to him were not, “I love you.” What I do know is that when I got off the phone with him, I was annoyed at him for interrupting my work flow. Because, you see, this wasn’t the first time that my brother had called me, sobbing. It had happened numerous times throughout the years, and almost all of the calls always came at inopportune times (like in the middle of a class, or 3 in the morning, or during a movie.) He sounded no worse than he ever had in the past, and eventually, he’d also always been OK in the past. 9 times out of 10, things would have been fine. I just didn’t realize that this was the 1 time in 10 that I would fail my brother. I thought that when this day dawned, that I would be at peace – that I had already come to terms with the inevitability of this moment – but I guess not.
I’d give almost anything in my life just to be able to reverse time and talk to him – to tell my attending, “Hey, I really need to take this phone call.” But I can’t reverse time. I know, in my heart of hearts, that if he’d already taken the pills, he wouldn’t have told me where to find him. And if I had talked him out of crisis, it would only have been a temporary reprieve – it would have simply happened at another time. There are some kinds of broken that no amount of love can fix.
And so, my little brother, my only sibling, passed away on Friday, July 8th at the ripe old age of 26, just 22 days shy of his 27th birthday.
I’m not sure how one works through something like this. It’s early yet, perhaps too early to think things will ever be OK – but to be honest, I’m not sure they ever will be alright again. I’m not sure how one overcomes the guilt, the despair, the incredible anger (rage?), the tragedy, the loss, the hole in life’s fabric, the utter, senseless waste.
I’m sure that like many so called “suicide survivors” (ha – what a freakin’ joke) these feelings are not unique to me. But I’m not used to having my emotions be this labile, and in addition to the death of my brother, I also find difficulty dealing with these sudden bursts of crushing grief and, sometimes, rage. In some moments, I find myself so utterly angry that if my brother weren’t already dead, I would beat him senseless for being so careless and selfish. But mostly, there’s just sadness – a grief so great that words fail. Guilt is there, too, almost crushing the breath out of me as I walk through the land of “If Only.” I know that this is “normal,” that it is “expected,” but nothing about it feels normal to me.
I’m so angry that he was so cavalier about his life, that he was such a selfish, cowardly bastard that he couldn’t stand up and fight like a man. I’m so angry for the strain that this puts on my family, for the pain that this is causing my parents. I’m so damn mad about the strain that this is putting on my finances, so angry that I just had to spend $1,553.30 that I don’t really have on a pair of plane tickets, so angry that I have to take my leave unpaid, so angry that I have to dip into the “buy a house” savings to cover rent and expenses for August, so angry that my family has to clean up after his latest mess. We’re ALWAYS cleaning up after his messes, but this is the biggest fucking mess of all. I want to scream at him, I want to throw things at him, I want him to stand in front of me so that I can beat him senseless. And when that anger is spent, I want him to stand in front of me so that I can hold onto him tightly and tell him just how very much I love him, make him understand just how much I’ll miss him. I’ll never be able to do any of that. He’ll never be there at Christmas time or any other holiday. I’ll never smell his combination of body odor and cigarette smoke on anything again. I’ll never get to show him Vermont or help him discover the best maple creamies a person can have – which is a shame; he always did love ice cream. As my parents age, he won’t be there to help them (or to help me as I help them). I will never see him again in this lifetime. There are so many things he’ll never do, that WE’LL never do together, that he’ll never be. I never thought grief could crush, but sometimes I can’t even breathe. I lie awake at night, crying and replaying that telephone conversation in my head, praying and silently screaming. I am overwhelmed. I am spent.
I am a Christian, and I believe wholeheartedly that there is a God who loves us and watches over us all. I believe that this life is just a stopping place on our journey, that we are not meant for this world but for someplace so beautiful that it defies imagination. I know that One greater than I defeated death, that the grave can never claim victory. I know without a doubt that I will see my brother again one day, far away though it may seem. I don’t know what happens to our souls when we die – I haven’t a clue – but if they live on after death, I truly hope that my brother found the peace and comfort that he was so desperately seeking. I hope that he can finally know how very special he was, how very much he was liked and loved, how very much he will be missed. I hope that he is able to rest in peace.
He called me two days later, on a Friday. I had just finished previewing a bone marrow biopsy in preparation for sign-out with my attending, when the telephone in the bone marrow room rang. As I picked it up, the 307 area code (Wyoming) registered, and I was more than a little confused. I had given the room number to Chris (who never uses it anyway), but not to anyone else. He must have been really determined if he managed to dial straight into the room where I was sitting instead of having me paged. When I picked up the phone, I heard him sobbing. His voice was thick with tears when he said, “Chelsea, it’s me. It’s Chandler. I’m not doing too good. Are you busy?”
At that moment, I was busy. My attending had just walked in, ready to sign out a bone marrow. So I told my brother that I was not free, but that I did want to talk to him. I promised him that I’d call him back in an hour, once we were all finished with work. I didn’t even say, “I love you.” I just said, “I promise, bud, I WILL call you back. Noon. One hour.”
I did call him back at noon, exactly like I promised, only to find that his phone went straight to a voicemail box that had not yet been set up. Sufficiently worried, I called my father’s phone, only to have my brother’s best friend answer. He started with, “Ken is in the ambulance with Chandler. He took some pills.” I just sort of shrugged to myself, thinking, “Oh Chandler, you asshole – now you’ll have a hospital bill you can’t afford when they fix you up.”
And then I heard the words “a LOT of amytryptyline pills.” The sister in me started praying as hard as I ever have that he had been found in time, before the medication took effect. But the doctor in me knew better – knew, somehow, that I would never see my little brother again. Now is not the time or place for a discussion on amytryptyline, but suffice to say that it is a serious, serious drug with a very narrow therapeutic window. In overdose, it is rapidly fatal. As a pharmacy technician, it’s something my brother (who knew almost as much about pharmaceuticals as I did) would have known.
I don’t know what my brother would have said to me on the telephone. I don’t know if he’d already taken the pills and was calling to say goodbye. I don’t know if he was in crisis and looking for me to talk him down before he did something stupid. I just don’t know. But what I do know is that in some of the final hours of my brother’s life, I was too busy to talk to him – busy with something that could have waited for another half an hour. What I do know is that my last words to him were not, “I love you.” What I do know is that when I got off the phone with him, I was annoyed at him for interrupting my work flow. Because, you see, this wasn’t the first time that my brother had called me, sobbing. It had happened numerous times throughout the years, and almost all of the calls always came at inopportune times (like in the middle of a class, or 3 in the morning, or during a movie.) He sounded no worse than he ever had in the past, and eventually, he’d also always been OK in the past. 9 times out of 10, things would have been fine. I just didn’t realize that this was the 1 time in 10 that I would fail my brother. I thought that when this day dawned, that I would be at peace – that I had already come to terms with the inevitability of this moment – but I guess not.
I’d give almost anything in my life just to be able to reverse time and talk to him – to tell my attending, “Hey, I really need to take this phone call.” But I can’t reverse time. I know, in my heart of hearts, that if he’d already taken the pills, he wouldn’t have told me where to find him. And if I had talked him out of crisis, it would only have been a temporary reprieve – it would have simply happened at another time. There are some kinds of broken that no amount of love can fix.
And so, my little brother, my only sibling, passed away on Friday, July 8th at the ripe old age of 26, just 22 days shy of his 27th birthday.
I’m not sure how one works through something like this. It’s early yet, perhaps too early to think things will ever be OK – but to be honest, I’m not sure they ever will be alright again. I’m not sure how one overcomes the guilt, the despair, the incredible anger (rage?), the tragedy, the loss, the hole in life’s fabric, the utter, senseless waste.
I’m sure that like many so called “suicide survivors” (ha – what a freakin’ joke) these feelings are not unique to me. But I’m not used to having my emotions be this labile, and in addition to the death of my brother, I also find difficulty dealing with these sudden bursts of crushing grief and, sometimes, rage. In some moments, I find myself so utterly angry that if my brother weren’t already dead, I would beat him senseless for being so careless and selfish. But mostly, there’s just sadness – a grief so great that words fail. Guilt is there, too, almost crushing the breath out of me as I walk through the land of “If Only.” I know that this is “normal,” that it is “expected,” but nothing about it feels normal to me.
I’m so angry that he was so cavalier about his life, that he was such a selfish, cowardly bastard that he couldn’t stand up and fight like a man. I’m so angry for the strain that this puts on my family, for the pain that this is causing my parents. I’m so damn mad about the strain that this is putting on my finances, so angry that I just had to spend $1,553.30 that I don’t really have on a pair of plane tickets, so angry that I have to take my leave unpaid, so angry that I have to dip into the “buy a house” savings to cover rent and expenses for August, so angry that my family has to clean up after his latest mess. We’re ALWAYS cleaning up after his messes, but this is the biggest fucking mess of all. I want to scream at him, I want to throw things at him, I want him to stand in front of me so that I can beat him senseless. And when that anger is spent, I want him to stand in front of me so that I can hold onto him tightly and tell him just how very much I love him, make him understand just how much I’ll miss him. I’ll never be able to do any of that. He’ll never be there at Christmas time or any other holiday. I’ll never smell his combination of body odor and cigarette smoke on anything again. I’ll never get to show him Vermont or help him discover the best maple creamies a person can have – which is a shame; he always did love ice cream. As my parents age, he won’t be there to help them (or to help me as I help them). I will never see him again in this lifetime. There are so many things he’ll never do, that WE’LL never do together, that he’ll never be. I never thought grief could crush, but sometimes I can’t even breathe. I lie awake at night, crying and replaying that telephone conversation in my head, praying and silently screaming. I am overwhelmed. I am spent.
I am a Christian, and I believe wholeheartedly that there is a God who loves us and watches over us all. I believe that this life is just a stopping place on our journey, that we are not meant for this world but for someplace so beautiful that it defies imagination. I know that One greater than I defeated death, that the grave can never claim victory. I know without a doubt that I will see my brother again one day, far away though it may seem. I don’t know what happens to our souls when we die – I haven’t a clue – but if they live on after death, I truly hope that my brother found the peace and comfort that he was so desperately seeking. I hope that he can finally know how very special he was, how very much he was liked and loved, how very much he will be missed. I hope that he is able to rest in peace.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
A time to rejoice?
Osama bin Laden is dead.
To be honest, I never honestly thought that I’d hear those words. Now that they’ve been spoken, shouted, Facebooked, Tweeted, and splashed everywhere, I’m not sure what to think. Truly.
The part of me that is vindictive American wants to jump up and down while grinning from ear to ear. Why? Because part of me remembers the scared teenager I was 10 years ago. Ten years ago, I had just barely graduated from high school. My parents had just barely dropped me off at college, in a place that was quite literally across the country from everything and everyone I’d ever known. I’d been in D.C. for all of two weeks when September 11th happened. I was still in culture shock – transitioning from a Caucasian, middle class city of 50,000 people to a multi-ethnic/linguistic metropolis of 600,000. I was still figuring out how to get out of bed and to class on time without anyone forcibly dragging me out of the sheets; I was still trying to learn people’s names and get used to the idea of having a stranger for a roommate. And then, as Chicken Little once warned, the sky fell down.
When the towers fell and the Pentagon burned, I felt so small, so alone, and so very, very far away from home. The last place on earth I wanted to be in that moment was Washington, DC. I tried so hard to reach my parents, just to talk to them, and couldn’t because all of the lines were jammed with thousands of others doing the exact same thing in the exact same moment. I can’t really even describe how terrified and lonely I felt. Less than a week later, I found myself and three other people playing in a quartet on the pier in New Jersey, looking straight across the harbor at the smoking wreckage of the towers. After we’d finished, I simply sat down on a wooden bench and all I could do was stare. Debris was all over the place, bits and pieces floating on the water and a light ash still rained down from the sky. It was hard to draw myself away from the knowledge that those bits and pieces of ash and debris were the bits and pieces that make up the everyday lives of everyday people. Ten years later, when I reflect on that week in September, I can still feel the terror and loneliness and I can still see the ashes in the air. I didn’t lose a loved one that day, but a small piece of my childhood innocence was ripped away. September 11th forced me to understand that the world really was much bigger than I’d ever imagined, and so much more frightening.
So yes, a part of me raises a small, whispered, “Thanks!” to the American soldiers that rid the world of Osama bin Laden.
And yet - somehow – a larger part of me is unable to rejoice because what happened is not really justice – it’s revenge. And justice is not and never will be the same thing as revenge.
I’ll never argue that bin Laden was a good man, or a gentle one , and in some respects I believe that our world is ever so slightly better without his looming presence. But the reality is that for every bin Laden that we rid ourselves of, fifty more stand in line ready to take his place. I don’t believe that his death will bring about the end of terrorism; I think it will only cause those groups to organize and mobilize. It simply engenders more hatred within our enemies. I am afraid that the coming months and years will show America what terrorism really means. I’m afraid that his death will come at a cost that we ultimately will not wish to pay. Is that really something worth celebrating?
And we have forgotten that death always costs someone something. What about the 10 year old daughter who witnessed American soldiers placing a bullet into her father’s head? How does one celebrate that?
Speaking as a Christian (I’m not in the habit of preaching, so make of this what you will), ultimately, Osama bin Laden died without ever comprehending the depth of Christ’s love for mankind; he died walking a lonely road, never acknowledging or accepting a personal relationship with the Lord. He died with a heart so full of vengeance and hate that the concepts of grace, mercy, and forgiveness had no room to take hold. In rejoicing over this death, aren’t we also forgetting about grace? Is that not something about which we ought to be more ashamed than celebratory?
The death of Osama bin Laden, to me, is very much the embodiment of both triumph and tragedy. It’s a triumph, in a sense, for America – not for any one politician or political party – but for every American. We did exactly what we said we’d do nearly 10 years ago; we found bin Laden and we killed him. But it’s also a tragedy, because his death comes at the price of engendering more hatred and bitterness. To me, it is very much the principle of an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. MLK Jr said it better than I ever could when he said that:
“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to feel about the death of this man. The 18 year old me howls in triumph, while the 28 year old me shakes my head in disbelief. I can’t forget how I felt and what I saw in September 2001, but I am afraid of what the coming years will bring.
Osama bin Laden is dead.
To be honest, I never honestly thought that I’d hear those words. Now that they’ve been spoken, shouted, Facebooked, Tweeted, and splashed everywhere, I’m not sure what to think. Truly.
The part of me that is vindictive American wants to jump up and down while grinning from ear to ear. Why? Because part of me remembers the scared teenager I was 10 years ago. Ten years ago, I had just barely graduated from high school. My parents had just barely dropped me off at college, in a place that was quite literally across the country from everything and everyone I’d ever known. I’d been in D.C. for all of two weeks when September 11th happened. I was still in culture shock – transitioning from a Caucasian, middle class city of 50,000 people to a multi-ethnic/linguistic metropolis of 600,000. I was still figuring out how to get out of bed and to class on time without anyone forcibly dragging me out of the sheets; I was still trying to learn people’s names and get used to the idea of having a stranger for a roommate. And then, as Chicken Little once warned, the sky fell down.
When the towers fell and the Pentagon burned, I felt so small, so alone, and so very, very far away from home. The last place on earth I wanted to be in that moment was Washington, DC. I tried so hard to reach my parents, just to talk to them, and couldn’t because all of the lines were jammed with thousands of others doing the exact same thing in the exact same moment. I can’t really even describe how terrified and lonely I felt. Less than a week later, I found myself and three other people playing in a quartet on the pier in New Jersey, looking straight across the harbor at the smoking wreckage of the towers. After we’d finished, I simply sat down on a wooden bench and all I could do was stare. Debris was all over the place, bits and pieces floating on the water and a light ash still rained down from the sky. It was hard to draw myself away from the knowledge that those bits and pieces of ash and debris were the bits and pieces that make up the everyday lives of everyday people. Ten years later, when I reflect on that week in September, I can still feel the terror and loneliness and I can still see the ashes in the air. I didn’t lose a loved one that day, but a small piece of my childhood innocence was ripped away. September 11th forced me to understand that the world really was much bigger than I’d ever imagined, and so much more frightening.
So yes, a part of me raises a small, whispered, “Thanks!” to the American soldiers that rid the world of Osama bin Laden.
And yet - somehow – a larger part of me is unable to rejoice because what happened is not really justice – it’s revenge. And justice is not and never will be the same thing as revenge.
I’ll never argue that bin Laden was a good man, or a gentle one , and in some respects I believe that our world is ever so slightly better without his looming presence. But the reality is that for every bin Laden that we rid ourselves of, fifty more stand in line ready to take his place. I don’t believe that his death will bring about the end of terrorism; I think it will only cause those groups to organize and mobilize. It simply engenders more hatred within our enemies. I am afraid that the coming months and years will show America what terrorism really means. I’m afraid that his death will come at a cost that we ultimately will not wish to pay. Is that really something worth celebrating?
And we have forgotten that death always costs someone something. What about the 10 year old daughter who witnessed American soldiers placing a bullet into her father’s head? How does one celebrate that?
Speaking as a Christian (I’m not in the habit of preaching, so make of this what you will), ultimately, Osama bin Laden died without ever comprehending the depth of Christ’s love for mankind; he died walking a lonely road, never acknowledging or accepting a personal relationship with the Lord. He died with a heart so full of vengeance and hate that the concepts of grace, mercy, and forgiveness had no room to take hold. In rejoicing over this death, aren’t we also forgetting about grace? Is that not something about which we ought to be more ashamed than celebratory?
The death of Osama bin Laden, to me, is very much the embodiment of both triumph and tragedy. It’s a triumph, in a sense, for America – not for any one politician or political party – but for every American. We did exactly what we said we’d do nearly 10 years ago; we found bin Laden and we killed him. But it’s also a tragedy, because his death comes at the price of engendering more hatred and bitterness. To me, it is very much the principle of an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. MLK Jr said it better than I ever could when he said that:
“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to feel about the death of this man. The 18 year old me howls in triumph, while the 28 year old me shakes my head in disbelief. I can’t forget how I felt and what I saw in September 2001, but I am afraid of what the coming years will bring.
Osama bin Laden is dead.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Farewell, old friend
Dear Toshiba Satellite,
I first became acquainted with you in 2003, after I spent nearly my entire summer wages that I had earned working as a nursing assistant in a nursing home to purchase you. Perhaps it was because you were my first laptop. Perhaps it was because you were so much faster and sleeker and less bulky than my old desktop Gateway. Perhaps it was just the thrill of working hard to earn something. Whatever the reason, I fell in love with you from day 1.
We had a lot of great times, you and I. Your mobility ensured that we saw (parts of) the world together. We traveled to Maryland, Wyoming, California…and places in between. Together, we discovered the webcam, immersed ourselves in instant messaging, emailing, and minor gaming of the cute, female variety. We blogged together, made purchases together, you stored my precious pictorial memories, and when I needed to vent, you calmly listened while I typed to you my problems. We spent long hours together during finals weeks in college; even though you once lost my 40 page cell biology research paper the day before it was due and I (briefly) cursed at you, my overall love for you remained undiminished. You helped me to waste untold amounts of hours during the first 2 years of medical school – you most likely contributed in a major way as to why I nearly failed my very first gross anatomy written exam, but again, I forgave you. I also mostly forgave you when you had a mini-meltdown and refused to access the PowerPoint lecture presentations that I was using to study the night before one of my pathology examinations. You were, perhaps, the only piece of electronic/technologic equipment that I did not thump soundly with my fist during times of frustration.
And then the unthinkable happened. One evening during the end of my 3rd year of medical school, as I was logged on to the VA computer system remotely to update a progress note, you made a sickly noise. If a patient made a similar noise, I would have admitted them to the hospital forthwith. I realize now that you were trying your very best to warn me. But alas, technologically savvy I was not, and I ignored the signs and continued on with my work, oblivious to your peril. Three days following, I woke up to check my email and found that you had simply given up. No whirring sound or cheerful “Windows hello” greeted me upon the pressing of your power button. As I am female and quite aware of not only what the appropriate buttons are, but when and where to push them, I valiantly attempted to wake you a second time. But you were gone. I was heartbroken. In my saddened and slightly panicked haze, I did manage to remember that you had lasted me over 5 years. This was a feat that made me somewhat proud, not only due to my former track record with electronics, but because with the rate that technology advances, 5 computer years probably = 95 human years. Perhaps it was just your time.
So I saddened my wallet and replaced you – with *another* you. A newer model. I tried my best to remain faithful. Again, we had some good times. You kept me occupied on the epic residency interview trail of late 2008/early 2009. You helped me to keep in contact with friends and relatives, share my pictorial memories, and stay up to date with current medical literature. I have done my best to treat you with dignity and respect, to keep your “vaccinations” up to date with Dr. Norton, to keep you free from spyware and other malicious and obnoxious entities. I do not leave you on for insane lengths of time, and I do my best to shut you off in a proper fashion. (I apologize for that one very unfortunate incident involving an uncapped plastic water bottle which necessitated turning you upside down on top of a towel so that you could *ahem* dry out). Yet I fear that our relationship has run afoul. Your USB ports, which functioned perfectly fine several days ago, no longer appear to work – and your pop out disc drive has not dared to pop out on command in several months. Running more than one program at once has apparently become too taxing for you, and the presence of more than 3 simultaneous internet windows sends you into a slower-than-molasses panic attack. You have developed a more-than-slightly annoying habit of choosing to play videos so that video and audio no longer occur simultaneously. I feel that I have been pretty tolerant of your recent behaviors, willing to overlook many sins given our years of happiness together. But my dear Toshiba Satellite, the one behavior that I cannot abide by, cannot forgive, is the royal blue screen of doom that you choose to present me with unexpectedly this evening. I cannot overlook this slight – for where there is one blue screen of doom, there are many. I feel somehow cheated, especially because you are just over 2 years old. I do not understand. I am baffled. I have been good to you. In comparison to my very first computer, a large desktop Gateway in the fall of 2001, I have treated you like royalty. In return, you have given me a meager 2 years. I am upset, Toshiba Satellite, and I fear that our association may be nearing its end.
Because I have a small, sneaking suspicion that you just might suck.
Fondly yours,
~Me
I first became acquainted with you in 2003, after I spent nearly my entire summer wages that I had earned working as a nursing assistant in a nursing home to purchase you. Perhaps it was because you were my first laptop. Perhaps it was because you were so much faster and sleeker and less bulky than my old desktop Gateway. Perhaps it was just the thrill of working hard to earn something. Whatever the reason, I fell in love with you from day 1.
We had a lot of great times, you and I. Your mobility ensured that we saw (parts of) the world together. We traveled to Maryland, Wyoming, California…and places in between. Together, we discovered the webcam, immersed ourselves in instant messaging, emailing, and minor gaming of the cute, female variety. We blogged together, made purchases together, you stored my precious pictorial memories, and when I needed to vent, you calmly listened while I typed to you my problems. We spent long hours together during finals weeks in college; even though you once lost my 40 page cell biology research paper the day before it was due and I (briefly) cursed at you, my overall love for you remained undiminished. You helped me to waste untold amounts of hours during the first 2 years of medical school – you most likely contributed in a major way as to why I nearly failed my very first gross anatomy written exam, but again, I forgave you. I also mostly forgave you when you had a mini-meltdown and refused to access the PowerPoint lecture presentations that I was using to study the night before one of my pathology examinations. You were, perhaps, the only piece of electronic/technologic equipment that I did not thump soundly with my fist during times of frustration.
And then the unthinkable happened. One evening during the end of my 3rd year of medical school, as I was logged on to the VA computer system remotely to update a progress note, you made a sickly noise. If a patient made a similar noise, I would have admitted them to the hospital forthwith. I realize now that you were trying your very best to warn me. But alas, technologically savvy I was not, and I ignored the signs and continued on with my work, oblivious to your peril. Three days following, I woke up to check my email and found that you had simply given up. No whirring sound or cheerful “Windows hello” greeted me upon the pressing of your power button. As I am female and quite aware of not only what the appropriate buttons are, but when and where to push them, I valiantly attempted to wake you a second time. But you were gone. I was heartbroken. In my saddened and slightly panicked haze, I did manage to remember that you had lasted me over 5 years. This was a feat that made me somewhat proud, not only due to my former track record with electronics, but because with the rate that technology advances, 5 computer years probably = 95 human years. Perhaps it was just your time.
So I saddened my wallet and replaced you – with *another* you. A newer model. I tried my best to remain faithful. Again, we had some good times. You kept me occupied on the epic residency interview trail of late 2008/early 2009. You helped me to keep in contact with friends and relatives, share my pictorial memories, and stay up to date with current medical literature. I have done my best to treat you with dignity and respect, to keep your “vaccinations” up to date with Dr. Norton, to keep you free from spyware and other malicious and obnoxious entities. I do not leave you on for insane lengths of time, and I do my best to shut you off in a proper fashion. (I apologize for that one very unfortunate incident involving an uncapped plastic water bottle which necessitated turning you upside down on top of a towel so that you could *ahem* dry out). Yet I fear that our relationship has run afoul. Your USB ports, which functioned perfectly fine several days ago, no longer appear to work – and your pop out disc drive has not dared to pop out on command in several months. Running more than one program at once has apparently become too taxing for you, and the presence of more than 3 simultaneous internet windows sends you into a slower-than-molasses panic attack. You have developed a more-than-slightly annoying habit of choosing to play videos so that video and audio no longer occur simultaneously. I feel that I have been pretty tolerant of your recent behaviors, willing to overlook many sins given our years of happiness together. But my dear Toshiba Satellite, the one behavior that I cannot abide by, cannot forgive, is the royal blue screen of doom that you choose to present me with unexpectedly this evening. I cannot overlook this slight – for where there is one blue screen of doom, there are many. I feel somehow cheated, especially because you are just over 2 years old. I do not understand. I am baffled. I have been good to you. In comparison to my very first computer, a large desktop Gateway in the fall of 2001, I have treated you like royalty. In return, you have given me a meager 2 years. I am upset, Toshiba Satellite, and I fear that our association may be nearing its end.
Because I have a small, sneaking suspicion that you just might suck.
Fondly yours,
~Me
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Reflections on a Lost Life
When I was (much) younger, I had a picture of how my life would happen. I pictured things very simply. I saw myself going to college (University of Wyoming) where I would room with my best friend (Sarah). I’d major in something artistic and fun (violin performance) and minor in something equally funky-cool (creative writing). Along the way, I’d find romance and break hearts before finding the one perfect man who would sweep me off of my feet and into the sunset. We’d get married, get jobs teaching so that we could have our summers to live semi-spontaneously. We’d buy a pretty little house that would always be spotless – the dishes (and china) would always be clean and displayed handsomely. The laundry would always be found in neatly folded piles. There would be a place for everything, and everything would always be found in its place. We’d go on weekly date nights where we’d rekindle the magic of our early dating days. We’d always have enough sleep, time, and (somehow) money to do everything we could dream of doing. Perhaps I’d write a great symphony…or maybe a bestselling novel. We’d be blissfully happy, ever after.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
I look back and I realize just how much time changes things. I’m 27, halfway to 28. Not only am I in my late twenties, my late twenties are quickly on their way to leaving forever. How about a reality check?
I did go to college, although when it came time to apply, the University of Wyoming had been relegated to a mere “back-up” school – the thought of going to a place where I’d have a built-in network of contacts left me with a bad taste in my mouth. After a deal with my grandparents regarding college financing that I just couldn’t turn down, I made my way to Columbia Union College (now Washington Adventist University) – and somehow found myself in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. I never did room with my childhood best friend – but did manage to find a core of girls that are still my besties today, even though we don’t see each other much. I re-evaluated and decided that music performance and creative writing were simply not going to give me a solid foundation – I wanted something steady and stable – so the artist in me died a quiet death and lo! A scientist rose from the ashes. I got a degree in biology and spent my summers working in nursing homes and doing basic science research into the molecular pathways of lung and esophageal carcinoma (apparently). I made back-up plan after back-up plan and took the GRE, PCAT, and MCAT (for grad school, pharmacy school, and medical school, respectively). I got accepted into Ph.D programs for toxicology and microbiology, several pharmacy schools, and medical school. I went to medical school in southern California. Those four years are still, to this day, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s hard to describe medical school to someone who’s never gone – I say that it’s probably the Marine Corps boot camp of academia, except that it lasts for 4 years instead of 3 months. Somehow, I found myself becoming a pathologist…in Vermont – a choice that I think few people, including myself, really understood. Along the way, I found romance; I don’t necessarily think that I broke hearts, but I certainly had mine broken once or twice – and to some degree, I don’t think I ever really healed completely. There are parts of me that are bitter and wary and walled off tightly – I guess that’s what happens in love and heartbreak. I did manage to find a decent man. He’s not perfect, but perfection is hard to come by. Our dating days are long gone – we’re generally too tired to do more than watch Netflix on the sofa one night a week – goodbye romance. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day. I don’t own a home (thanks, $300,000 medical school debt) but do rent a nice townhome that’s probably way out of my budget. There are always dirty dishes in the sink, piles of unfolded laundry, and nothing is ever in the place it belongs. There is never enough sleep or time (thank you, insane hours of medicine) and definitely never enough money. I wonder how my life changed track so drastically.
I know that in the overall scheme of life that I shouldn’t complain. After all, I had the opportunity to go to college and graduate school. I got accepted to and (somehow) graduated from medical school. Even though it doesn’t pay nearly enough, I have a job and relative job security. I have a roof over my head, clean clothes to wear, and I always manage to pay the grocery and water bills. In spite of all of these blessings, I still feel discontent. In spite of all that I have been given, all that I have earned through hard work and dedication, I want something more. There’s a gap in my life – a spot waiting to be filled. But I don’t know where that gap is or what it needs for completion. I feel lost, rudderless, and adrift. I feel as though I’m trudging mindlessly along in a straight line to some destination, and I feel uneasy knowing that wherever I am bound is not the place I need to go. I have this irrational urge to wake up one quiet morning and leave. Leave the cell phone, leave the pager, and leave the responsibilities that choke up my life. I don’t know where I’d go – someplace where I could find myself, wherever that might be. I just want, for one moment, to feel free, to be spontaneous, and to find deep contentment. I want to find a purpose, something to love so deeply that it hurts.
I feel guilty for wanting these things, for wanting to leave this life behind, for wanting something different. It’s nobody’s fault – only mine.
What kind of person am I, to feel this way?
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
I look back and I realize just how much time changes things. I’m 27, halfway to 28. Not only am I in my late twenties, my late twenties are quickly on their way to leaving forever. How about a reality check?
I did go to college, although when it came time to apply, the University of Wyoming had been relegated to a mere “back-up” school – the thought of going to a place where I’d have a built-in network of contacts left me with a bad taste in my mouth. After a deal with my grandparents regarding college financing that I just couldn’t turn down, I made my way to Columbia Union College (now Washington Adventist University) – and somehow found myself in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. I never did room with my childhood best friend – but did manage to find a core of girls that are still my besties today, even though we don’t see each other much. I re-evaluated and decided that music performance and creative writing were simply not going to give me a solid foundation – I wanted something steady and stable – so the artist in me died a quiet death and lo! A scientist rose from the ashes. I got a degree in biology and spent my summers working in nursing homes and doing basic science research into the molecular pathways of lung and esophageal carcinoma (apparently). I made back-up plan after back-up plan and took the GRE, PCAT, and MCAT (for grad school, pharmacy school, and medical school, respectively). I got accepted into Ph.D programs for toxicology and microbiology, several pharmacy schools, and medical school. I went to medical school in southern California. Those four years are still, to this day, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s hard to describe medical school to someone who’s never gone – I say that it’s probably the Marine Corps boot camp of academia, except that it lasts for 4 years instead of 3 months. Somehow, I found myself becoming a pathologist…in Vermont – a choice that I think few people, including myself, really understood. Along the way, I found romance; I don’t necessarily think that I broke hearts, but I certainly had mine broken once or twice – and to some degree, I don’t think I ever really healed completely. There are parts of me that are bitter and wary and walled off tightly – I guess that’s what happens in love and heartbreak. I did manage to find a decent man. He’s not perfect, but perfection is hard to come by. Our dating days are long gone – we’re generally too tired to do more than watch Netflix on the sofa one night a week – goodbye romance. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day. I don’t own a home (thanks, $300,000 medical school debt) but do rent a nice townhome that’s probably way out of my budget. There are always dirty dishes in the sink, piles of unfolded laundry, and nothing is ever in the place it belongs. There is never enough sleep or time (thank you, insane hours of medicine) and definitely never enough money. I wonder how my life changed track so drastically.
I know that in the overall scheme of life that I shouldn’t complain. After all, I had the opportunity to go to college and graduate school. I got accepted to and (somehow) graduated from medical school. Even though it doesn’t pay nearly enough, I have a job and relative job security. I have a roof over my head, clean clothes to wear, and I always manage to pay the grocery and water bills. In spite of all of these blessings, I still feel discontent. In spite of all that I have been given, all that I have earned through hard work and dedication, I want something more. There’s a gap in my life – a spot waiting to be filled. But I don’t know where that gap is or what it needs for completion. I feel lost, rudderless, and adrift. I feel as though I’m trudging mindlessly along in a straight line to some destination, and I feel uneasy knowing that wherever I am bound is not the place I need to go. I have this irrational urge to wake up one quiet morning and leave. Leave the cell phone, leave the pager, and leave the responsibilities that choke up my life. I don’t know where I’d go – someplace where I could find myself, wherever that might be. I just want, for one moment, to feel free, to be spontaneous, and to find deep contentment. I want to find a purpose, something to love so deeply that it hurts.
I feel guilty for wanting these things, for wanting to leave this life behind, for wanting something different. It’s nobody’s fault – only mine.
What kind of person am I, to feel this way?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My Newest Obsession
My current obsession is a newer group on the music scene, Mumford & Sons. They're a relatively new folk rock band out of London, and I think they're pretty fabulous. Seriously. Check em' out.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Love the Way You Lie
Oh Eminem, I have missed you. And now you're finally back...with a pretty disturbing but otherwise awesome ditty. You've put out some great tunes in the past (you're one of my guilty pleasures), but you've finally gone and done it. You've put out what will probably be your most socially relevant tune. Your lyrics, my man, are sick. I'll admit it - I love, love, love this song. I love that you don't glamorize the destructive cycle of domestic violence - you give the audience realistic glimpses into the minds of the men and women who live in these relationships every day. I also appreciate the layering of emotion from both you (the abuser) as well as Rhianna (the abusee). It's brilliant. Really brilliant.
Admittedly, there are some aspects of the video that I don't really understand, like why you are wearing a wife-beater and hopping around in a wheat field like an overexcited, hormonal bunny-rabbit or why Rhianna is running around half-dressed in front of a major house fire (isn't she worried about 3rd degree burns over a significant portion of her body?). I still love it. Good job.
Admittedly, there are some aspects of the video that I don't really understand, like why you are wearing a wife-beater and hopping around in a wheat field like an overexcited, hormonal bunny-rabbit or why Rhianna is running around half-dressed in front of a major house fire (isn't she worried about 3rd degree burns over a significant portion of her body?). I still love it. Good job.
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