My cousin was on her way back to school after lunch one Friday afternoon. She was in a special program at her high school, the Natural Resources Academy, where they focused on different careers in the natural world. She wanted to work with the Orcas in SeaWorld. She was focused, and driven, so specializing in something in high school made a lot of sense for her. They had gone on a field trip that morning, out to the coast. How a whole class of students made a field trip to the coast and back in one morning, I'll never know.
She was driving her truck, one of her best friends in the seat next to her. It was a sunny day. The drive to get back to NRA goes down a windy back-woods road. My cousin was always a safe driver -- she was the kind of kid who you had to prod to get to go the posted speed. Slow and cautious. She probably got made fun of, but I doubt she ever cared.
They were about halfway there. Going around a left curve, a wall of rocks to her right and a slight ledge to her left, she drifted. Her tire tracks barely cross over the white line in her lane. She over-corrected, probably jerked the wheel thinking, 'Oh, crap,' and slammed on her breaks at the same time. The combination made her lose control of the truck. She veered too hard to the left. The truck literally flew over the embankment. Airborne for about twenty feet, the front driver side of the truck slammed into the trunk of a tree. The force of the hit sent the vehicle spinning clockwise, knocking the driver's side of the truck into another tree. The truck continued to spin and corkscrew, landing 180 degrees and upside down from where it had started.
The other girl, her friend, was seriously injured. She had some organs punctured, I believe, and some spine damage. She pulled through, which is a miracle. She has a lot of work ahead of her, probably years of physical therapy and pain and determination, but she did survive.
My cousin did not. I dont' know what her injuries were. I don't know what exactly killed her. I don't know how long she was alive after the truck crashed. All I know is that she didn't make it.
Later, I got a chance to talk to some of the nieghbors that live right next to the crash site. It turns out, she wasn't the first person to die there. Three others had died over the last ten years, in the exact same spot as my cousin, the most recent just over a year ago. The nieghbors had set up a tally one year, and recorded over 30 accidents in the same spot in less than eight months.
She wasn't speeding. She wasn't driving carelessly around the turns. She wasn't on her phone or texting. She was inexperienced. And the worst thing happened to her. Which is what hurts the most for me. How can someone be so good, so pleasant and doing all the right things, and still have this happen?
This is my comforting thought: She would have chosen this. If she had had a moment, if she had been asked, whether she wanted to die then or live and have her friend die, if she had been given that choice, this is how she would have wanted it. I truly believe that she would have been that giving, that brave. I trust that wherever she is now, whatever she's doing, she looks at this and knows that what happened is right. We can't see it or feel it, we are all left feeling how wrong this is, but I believe that she can now see a bigger picture than we can. And, hopefully, someday that picture will be revealed to the rest of us.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Darker than Black
One of my favorite websites is Six-Word Memoirs. I like to look at them and imagine the stories that go behind other people's lives. I was looking at them today and was struck by this one in particular:
"Is there something darker than black?"
And the thought that I had in response was:
"Yes. It's we're all covered in right now. I believe it's called grief. Most people think of it as gray. I used to think of it as gray, when I would try to picture it. But not now, not now that I've experienced it this closely. This disgusting, filthy pain that surrounds us -- that's darker than black."
I really just want to reach a point where I stop crying every time I see her picture.
"Is there something darker than black?"
And the thought that I had in response was:
"Yes. It's we're all covered in right now. I believe it's called grief. Most people think of it as gray. I used to think of it as gray, when I would try to picture it. But not now, not now that I've experienced it this closely. This disgusting, filthy pain that surrounds us -- that's darker than black."
I really just want to reach a point where I stop crying every time I see her picture.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
I began Speaking
I went to church last Sunday, and it was ... invigorating.
I haven't been to church in a number of years. I go every once in a while on Palm Sunday, because I like playing with the palm fronds and because I know that it makes my mother happy. After turning eighteen, I was old enough to make my own decision about whether or not I wanted to go to church, and I kept going for about a year. I thought of it as a learning experience, not a religious one, and eventually I got tired of waking up in the morning.
I visited a friend of mine last weekend. She's a particularly religious person, I've always known this about her. It didn't really hit home how much so until I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. There were prayers (actual prayers, not just the usual what's-expected-at-a-wedding-prayers) and they took communion and made a point to say that their marriage was not between the two of them. It was not simply blessed by God, but included him. Their marriage was a happy threesome.
Knowing this about her, I've always been surprised when she skips church when I come into town. I don't mind church. I always went with Mom, I've been to other churches. Again, I look at it as an experience to learn more about other people and the way they see the world. But last weekend her husband was speaking. Giving a sermon, sort of, but that's not really what it is in this church. And that's not really how it feels, either. I like her husband, like him a lot. He's always made an effort to be friends with me, knowing that I'm important in her life, and I wanted to be sure to do the same for him.
So, of course I went to hear him speak. That was my only intention, was to hear him speak. I would do all of the other things that you were expected to do in church (except take communion, I haven't done that since I was fifteen or so), like sing and stand and sit and listen attentively.
I was struck. I don't know how else to say it. The burial had only been two days before, and, even though I had left the burial feeling better, my emotions were raw and close to the surface. I can't tell you how many times I was touched by the peace that radiated in that room. When people sang, they were really singing, really feeling the words and notes and what they meant. They said prayers under their breath and improvised during musical interludes. People were dancing and lifting their hands in the air and laying on the ground in rapture.
The way these people trusted in God, trusted in him to make them whole and provide them with answers is something that I have envied in the past. Especially when times are hard. Especially through this death. I've often found myself thinking how much easier it would be if I could trust that there had been a plan, a purpose to this suffering that we are all left with. I've wanted it so badly, to feel comforted by an inability to understand a divine plan, but I can't seem to find it.
I managed to hide the tears I felt during the ceremony, but it wasn't easy. I didn't want anyone there to know my struggle, my pain. I wanted to store it inside and keep it for myself, keep until I could deal with it on my own time in my own way.
The pastor said (in reference to coming forward for communion), "Come forward when it feels right to you. And leave your grievances behind. If you hold a grudge against your neighbor, talk with God and find peace with that. Don't come up holding offense in your heart."
And all I could think about was how the biggest offense I was holding in my heart was with God and the universe for leaving me and my family in this state of permanent grief.
After church, I found myself with a bunch of people that I didn't know. My friend had gone off to do something church-like, and I was left to fend for myself. Out in the parking lot, I found myself talking to a girl that I had possibly met once or twice before. I didn't remember her, didn't remember her name, but she asked me about my tattoos.
I'll often give a general explanation of the tattoos on my wrist. I usually have to explain that my right wrist says "Write" and the left one says "Give." I got "Write" a year ago, to represent that I'm a writer. A few months ago, I knew that I wanted to get the word "Give" but I couldn't decide on a symbol to put behind the word. When my cousin died, I knew that I needed a flower, a flower that had particular meaning that could represent her. I decided on the larkspur, which means beautiful spirit. Having that simple embodiment of her, subtle though it may be, felt like the least that I could do.
I don't typically go into that kind of detail when people ask my newest tattoo. Unless I'm talking to a person who already knows of the death that I've been dealing with, I try not to bring it up. Sometimes, it just feels easier not to have to think about it.
But when this girl asked me about my tattoo, the words just started coming. I don't know why, I couldn't have explained it or shut myself up. For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to this girl, this girl whose name I didn't even know. I explained to her about the accident, about the type of person my cousin was. I told her that we had just had the burial. I talked to her about how hurt the family has been, how hurt I've been. I ended up telling her things that I haven't talked about to anyone.
It just seemed like the right thing to say. Maybe it was to help her. Maybe it was to help me. I don't really know. But I felt like God was speaking to me. Or the universe. Whatever you want to call it. That's about all the explanation I have for it.
I haven't been to church in a number of years. I go every once in a while on Palm Sunday, because I like playing with the palm fronds and because I know that it makes my mother happy. After turning eighteen, I was old enough to make my own decision about whether or not I wanted to go to church, and I kept going for about a year. I thought of it as a learning experience, not a religious one, and eventually I got tired of waking up in the morning.
I visited a friend of mine last weekend. She's a particularly religious person, I've always known this about her. It didn't really hit home how much so until I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. There were prayers (actual prayers, not just the usual what's-expected-at-a-wedding-prayers) and they took communion and made a point to say that their marriage was not between the two of them. It was not simply blessed by God, but included him. Their marriage was a happy threesome.
Knowing this about her, I've always been surprised when she skips church when I come into town. I don't mind church. I always went with Mom, I've been to other churches. Again, I look at it as an experience to learn more about other people and the way they see the world. But last weekend her husband was speaking. Giving a sermon, sort of, but that's not really what it is in this church. And that's not really how it feels, either. I like her husband, like him a lot. He's always made an effort to be friends with me, knowing that I'm important in her life, and I wanted to be sure to do the same for him.
So, of course I went to hear him speak. That was my only intention, was to hear him speak. I would do all of the other things that you were expected to do in church (except take communion, I haven't done that since I was fifteen or so), like sing and stand and sit and listen attentively.
I was struck. I don't know how else to say it. The burial had only been two days before, and, even though I had left the burial feeling better, my emotions were raw and close to the surface. I can't tell you how many times I was touched by the peace that radiated in that room. When people sang, they were really singing, really feeling the words and notes and what they meant. They said prayers under their breath and improvised during musical interludes. People were dancing and lifting their hands in the air and laying on the ground in rapture.
The way these people trusted in God, trusted in him to make them whole and provide them with answers is something that I have envied in the past. Especially when times are hard. Especially through this death. I've often found myself thinking how much easier it would be if I could trust that there had been a plan, a purpose to this suffering that we are all left with. I've wanted it so badly, to feel comforted by an inability to understand a divine plan, but I can't seem to find it.
I managed to hide the tears I felt during the ceremony, but it wasn't easy. I didn't want anyone there to know my struggle, my pain. I wanted to store it inside and keep it for myself, keep until I could deal with it on my own time in my own way.
The pastor said (in reference to coming forward for communion), "Come forward when it feels right to you. And leave your grievances behind. If you hold a grudge against your neighbor, talk with God and find peace with that. Don't come up holding offense in your heart."
And all I could think about was how the biggest offense I was holding in my heart was with God and the universe for leaving me and my family in this state of permanent grief.
After church, I found myself with a bunch of people that I didn't know. My friend had gone off to do something church-like, and I was left to fend for myself. Out in the parking lot, I found myself talking to a girl that I had possibly met once or twice before. I didn't remember her, didn't remember her name, but she asked me about my tattoos.
I'll often give a general explanation of the tattoos on my wrist. I usually have to explain that my right wrist says "Write" and the left one says "Give." I got "Write" a year ago, to represent that I'm a writer. A few months ago, I knew that I wanted to get the word "Give" but I couldn't decide on a symbol to put behind the word. When my cousin died, I knew that I needed a flower, a flower that had particular meaning that could represent her. I decided on the larkspur, which means beautiful spirit. Having that simple embodiment of her, subtle though it may be, felt like the least that I could do.
I don't typically go into that kind of detail when people ask my newest tattoo. Unless I'm talking to a person who already knows of the death that I've been dealing with, I try not to bring it up. Sometimes, it just feels easier not to have to think about it.
But when this girl asked me about my tattoo, the words just started coming. I don't know why, I couldn't have explained it or shut myself up. For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to this girl, this girl whose name I didn't even know. I explained to her about the accident, about the type of person my cousin was. I told her that we had just had the burial. I talked to her about how hurt the family has been, how hurt I've been. I ended up telling her things that I haven't talked about to anyone.
It just seemed like the right thing to say. Maybe it was to help her. Maybe it was to help me. I don't really know. But I felt like God was speaking to me. Or the universe. Whatever you want to call it. That's about all the explanation I have for it.
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