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Nov. 6th, 2006 07:47 pmGrandma had a stroke on Tuesday. It was really minor, and she doesn’t have any lasting effects from it. But she’s still in the hospital because of all the stuff that’s happened since the surgery. They don’t know what’s wrong with her. It could be anything from cancer to epilepsy; right now they’re leaning toward the latter.
I went home this past weekend and went to hospital to visit her. She looked awful: pale and weak and thin, and her hair was gray because she hasn’t been to hairdresser is so long, and it was horrible. Mostly she sleeps, and when does talk she’s usually confused, and she has to speak slowly and her speech is all slurred. And it suddenly all hit me that she’s old and that she could die. I mean, I always knew she was going to die, but I don’t think I ever really let myself believe it … I didn’t want to.
This is the woman who helped raise me: she took me shopping and out to eat; she taught me everything I know about cards, and read to me, and sang me those amazing lullabies nobody sings anymore; she’s the sole reason my mom, and two sisters, and I didn’t end up sharing some rundown one-bedroom apartment somewhere. You know, she looked so young that when she took me shopping people thought she was my mother. How can she die?
I used to think death would make you flip out, but it’s really much more subtle than that and much more horrible. I’m just sitting here, helpless, and life is going on, and I don’t understand how.
How can things go back to the way they were? How can I carry on with all of life’s little commonplaces? Who cares about what someone is wearing or how short the shortest pair of shorts you own is? How can I worry about doing my research paper and studying for Bio and registering for classes? How can I dance to ridiculously loud music and check the Internet and watch Friends like nothing’s wrong? How can I hold it together, when inside I am falling apart? And to think that a week ago I was worried about something as trivial as a guy! And this whole week has been so surreal, and I want to cry and scream at people for being so stupid and self-absorbed and caught up in trivial things. But mostly I just want everything to go back to the way it was. I want to know she’s at home, okay, and the way she was, and I’m starting to think that’s never going to happen.
And I don’t know why people keep telling me about the stupid stages of grief. Like that’s supposed to make me feel better. “Oh, I’m in the anger stage right now. Only two more stages to go.” And then what? And then I’ll be able to carry on with my life, without this person, and life is going to go on. And to me that all says, “Who cares that they’re gone?” Besides, I’m not convinced those stages are accurate. I seem to be experiencing denial, anger, and resolution or whatever the hell it is, all at the same time. And why do I care what stage I’m in (if they even exist) and why does it matter?
And fuck it all.
I went home this past weekend and went to hospital to visit her. She looked awful: pale and weak and thin, and her hair was gray because she hasn’t been to hairdresser is so long, and it was horrible. Mostly she sleeps, and when does talk she’s usually confused, and she has to speak slowly and her speech is all slurred. And it suddenly all hit me that she’s old and that she could die. I mean, I always knew she was going to die, but I don’t think I ever really let myself believe it … I didn’t want to.
This is the woman who helped raise me: she took me shopping and out to eat; she taught me everything I know about cards, and read to me, and sang me those amazing lullabies nobody sings anymore; she’s the sole reason my mom, and two sisters, and I didn’t end up sharing some rundown one-bedroom apartment somewhere. You know, she looked so young that when she took me shopping people thought she was my mother. How can she die?
I used to think death would make you flip out, but it’s really much more subtle than that and much more horrible. I’m just sitting here, helpless, and life is going on, and I don’t understand how.
How can things go back to the way they were? How can I carry on with all of life’s little commonplaces? Who cares about what someone is wearing or how short the shortest pair of shorts you own is? How can I worry about doing my research paper and studying for Bio and registering for classes? How can I dance to ridiculously loud music and check the Internet and watch Friends like nothing’s wrong? How can I hold it together, when inside I am falling apart? And to think that a week ago I was worried about something as trivial as a guy! And this whole week has been so surreal, and I want to cry and scream at people for being so stupid and self-absorbed and caught up in trivial things. But mostly I just want everything to go back to the way it was. I want to know she’s at home, okay, and the way she was, and I’m starting to think that’s never going to happen.
And I don’t know why people keep telling me about the stupid stages of grief. Like that’s supposed to make me feel better. “Oh, I’m in the anger stage right now. Only two more stages to go.” And then what? And then I’ll be able to carry on with my life, without this person, and life is going to go on. And to me that all says, “Who cares that they’re gone?” Besides, I’m not convinced those stages are accurate. I seem to be experiencing denial, anger, and resolution or whatever the hell it is, all at the same time. And why do I care what stage I’m in (if they even exist) and why does it matter?
And fuck it all.
The hardest part of love is letting go...
Sep. 24th, 2006 11:56 am"...this house is starting to feel less and less like Home and more like Where I Grew Up. And maybe what it all comes down to is that I’m not so sure I’m ready to be a grown-up." ~ Camryn
Yesterday I said goodbye to Hannah. I don't know when I'll see her again. Maybe not until Christmas 2008.
She came down to San Diego yesterday, and she, Camryn, and I went out together. We got sandwiches and sat by the bay. And I remembered how my eighth-grade trip was in San Diego, and my group had sat by that very bay, and it all seemed so long ago. And then Camryn started talking about "a year ago, today".
A year ago, yesterday, at noon, I was out at lunch with a friend, not particularly looking forward to BritLit. A year ago, yesterday, at noon, Camryn was in our uncle's apartment in Warsaw. A year ago, yesterday, Hannah was at Point Loma, where Camryn and I are now, probably eating lunch. And it's so strange, because we were all such very different people then, and yet when the three of us are together, it's like nothing's changed at all.
I cried when I said goodbye to her. I hugged her like I never wanted to let go. She's not emotional, and she hates hugging, and I knew I was making her uncomfortable, but I didn't really care. She said, "Just think, when I get back you'll be living in Flex." Flex are the on-campus apartments Juniors and Seniors can live in. I think it was her way of saying that when she got back, I would be just a few steps closer to being an adult; when she gets back, we'll be two entirely different people. She told me not to study abroad the Spring semester of my Junior year -- that will be during the first few months she's back -- and I knew that was the closest she'd ever get to admitting she'll miss me.
And this morning I was lying in bed, and I realized that my mom goes through this all the time: every time my mom says goodbye to her brother or sister, she doesn't know for sure when she'll see them again. And often it's years, and my uncle has probably had another girlfriend or two, and my mom has worked with new people and invested even more of herself in her kids, and we kids are a few years older. And it's really all just part of being grown up, and the thing is, I really don't want to grow up anymore. Being grown up hurts too much.
Yesterday I said goodbye to Hannah. I don't know when I'll see her again. Maybe not until Christmas 2008.
She came down to San Diego yesterday, and she, Camryn, and I went out together. We got sandwiches and sat by the bay. And I remembered how my eighth-grade trip was in San Diego, and my group had sat by that very bay, and it all seemed so long ago. And then Camryn started talking about "a year ago, today".
A year ago, yesterday, at noon, I was out at lunch with a friend, not particularly looking forward to BritLit. A year ago, yesterday, at noon, Camryn was in our uncle's apartment in Warsaw. A year ago, yesterday, Hannah was at Point Loma, where Camryn and I are now, probably eating lunch. And it's so strange, because we were all such very different people then, and yet when the three of us are together, it's like nothing's changed at all.
I cried when I said goodbye to her. I hugged her like I never wanted to let go. She's not emotional, and she hates hugging, and I knew I was making her uncomfortable, but I didn't really care. She said, "Just think, when I get back you'll be living in Flex." Flex are the on-campus apartments Juniors and Seniors can live in. I think it was her way of saying that when she got back, I would be just a few steps closer to being an adult; when she gets back, we'll be two entirely different people. She told me not to study abroad the Spring semester of my Junior year -- that will be during the first few months she's back -- and I knew that was the closest she'd ever get to admitting she'll miss me.
And this morning I was lying in bed, and I realized that my mom goes through this all the time: every time my mom says goodbye to her brother or sister, she doesn't know for sure when she'll see them again. And often it's years, and my uncle has probably had another girlfriend or two, and my mom has worked with new people and invested even more of herself in her kids, and we kids are a few years older. And it's really all just part of being grown up, and the thing is, I really don't want to grow up anymore. Being grown up hurts too much.
Tonight is my last night at home before I go off to college. And, to be quite honest, it kind of feels like my last night as a kid. It’s strange, because all this past summer there’s been the part of me that knows I’m going to college; and then there’s the part of me that’s still thinking I’m going to be home forever, that come September I’ll be going back to my old school with my old friends, that I’ll have all the time I want to chill in my room, sleep in my bed with my dog, and (as dorky as it sounds) hang out with my mom.
And then tonight, when I realized it’s my last night home, it suddenly all hit me that that’s not true. No, instead I’m going to a school where I know virtually no one, living there, sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine; and neither my mom nor my dog are going to be there.
And that’s when I realized that we’re all growing up.
Hannah graduated from college this past May, and she just joined the Peace Corps, and she’s leaving next month for training, and then she’ll be in the Ukraine for two years. And suddenly it just occurred to me that if she’s leaving home to go live in Ukraine for the next two years, then that means she’s on her own now. And if she’s on her own, that means she’s grown up.
I don’t think I’m ready to have a sister who’s grown up. If she’s grown up, it means that at some point she got older. And if she got older, then at some point I did too.
And tonight’s my last night at home. And when I come back all the glasses will be on the wrong shelves, and my mom will probably have rearranged my room, and my fan will have moved, and I won’t be able to find anything in the house ... and it won’t really be home anymore.
And my mom’s getting married in January, and she’ll be moving to Texas in June; and Camryn’s graduating next year, and then she’ll go to grad school in some other state, and then I’ll be all alone.
And tonight’s my last night as a kid.
I don’t mean that tomorrow I’ll be an adult. I just mean I won’t be a kid anymore. Something will have changed. Something will be lost. Dynamics will shift. Everything will be different.
And home somehow won’t be home anymore.
And then tonight, when I realized it’s my last night home, it suddenly all hit me that that’s not true. No, instead I’m going to a school where I know virtually no one, living there, sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine; and neither my mom nor my dog are going to be there.
And that’s when I realized that we’re all growing up.
Hannah graduated from college this past May, and she just joined the Peace Corps, and she’s leaving next month for training, and then she’ll be in the Ukraine for two years. And suddenly it just occurred to me that if she’s leaving home to go live in Ukraine for the next two years, then that means she’s on her own now. And if she’s on her own, that means she’s grown up.
I don’t think I’m ready to have a sister who’s grown up. If she’s grown up, it means that at some point she got older. And if she got older, then at some point I did too.
And tonight’s my last night at home. And when I come back all the glasses will be on the wrong shelves, and my mom will probably have rearranged my room, and my fan will have moved, and I won’t be able to find anything in the house ... and it won’t really be home anymore.
And my mom’s getting married in January, and she’ll be moving to Texas in June; and Camryn’s graduating next year, and then she’ll go to grad school in some other state, and then I’ll be all alone.
And tonight’s my last night as a kid.
I don’t mean that tomorrow I’ll be an adult. I just mean I won’t be a kid anymore. Something will have changed. Something will be lost. Dynamics will shift. Everything will be different.
And home somehow won’t be home anymore.
I have begun rereading the Chronicles of Narnia, and it is thoroughly depressing. Not because they are not as good as I remember them, but because they are so much better. And so it reminds me of when my mom first read them to me, and how much I wanted to be Lucy and go to Narnia.
Lucy was the first fictional person I ever wanted to be, and I wanted to be her very badly. I never wanted to be Jill, because Jill’s best adventure was not half so nice as Lucy’s worst one (though I do think it would be horrible to go through all the bother of growing up, only to have to come back and do it all over again), and for all that Jill only got to be a Lady but Lucy got to be a Queen, which I think, for Jill, pretty much sucks. I did, however, also want to be Aravis, partly because she was one of the main characters in my favorite chronicle (The Horse and His Boy) and partly because she had a sword. But I wanted to be Lucy most of all, because she always had the nicest time in Narnia out of anyone, and of course because she was the youngest and so am I.
I say Lucy was the first fictional person I ever wanted to be, and I’m almost sure she was, though I could be wrong, for I’ve wanted to be - and indeed, still want to be - many people. In fact, now that I think of it, I may have wanted to be Nala in Lion King before I wanted to be Lucy. I also wanted to be Wendy in Peter Pan, and Dorothy in Oz (except, of course, with a different name). When I first started to read Harry Potter I wanted to be Hermione, though now I think this was because I had a crush on Ron (and I still have quite a soft spot for him), because I certainly don’t want to be Hermione now. (The only reason I ever wanted to be Becky in Tom Sawyer was because she gets to kiss Tom.) It kind of goes without saying that I wanted to Leia in Star Wars (Hello, she got kiss freakin’ Harrison Ford! Who wouldn’t want to be her?). I don’t think I wanted to be anyone from Lord of the Rings until I saw the movies, and then I wanted to be Éowyn, mostly because she actually fights in battles, and partly because she has lovely outfits and marries Faramir (and also, she doesn’t look like Liv Tyler). In mythology I wanted to be Athena the goddess of war (this from the girl who was forced to give up fencing because she felt too bad about poking people with her sword). I also have this vague idea that when I was first learning mythology I wanted to be Helen of Troy, but I have no idea why I would have, so I may be making that up. I am fairly certain, however, that I wanted to be Odysseus. It is true that he is male and I am not, but there are no females in his story, and I often wished as a child that I was a boy (and now thank my lucky stars every day that I’m not). In fact, I could list many men I wanted to be as a child if I thought you were at all interested, but I’m sure you’re not.
This is the harsh reality of fantasy to those with active imaginations. The characters are always astonishingly ordinary, but in the story they have adventures that are dreadfully exciting, and they themselves are terribly important. And it always reminds you how fantastically dull your life is, and how horribly unimportant you are in it. And if these adventures happen only to extremely ordinary people then you know that you qualify more than a hundred times over and yet they do not happen to you. And it is extremely maddening, because you can imagine it so perfectly, and it’s almost as if it were real and you were there, except you are not there and it is never quite real enough. And it is all very frustrating.
This is what makes fantasy so beautiful and terrible and, above all, dangerous. I have often said that you have to wonder about someone like Tolkien, who spent his whole life making up histories and languages and art and literature and people and adventures for a world that did not exist except in his own head. Now, however, I’m beginning to understand it. Tolkien must have had a fantastically dull life to turn to his escapism so completely. Or perhaps it wasn’t really as dull as all that, but it was dull to him because he was a genius (and on this fact there can be no doubt). At any rate, it was escapism, and, in my opinion, escapism in its truest form. There is nothing quite so easy as escaping into your own mind, and nothing quite so difficult as coming out again. And the deeper you go the easier it is to continue on, and the harder it is to come out again. Because outside your head, in reality, you will never have to fight for your life or anyone else’s, and no one will have to fight for yours, and so you will never have any use for archery, nor will you ever see anyone engage in hand-to-hand combat, and certainly no one will make you a queen, or even treat you anywhere near the way any of the heroines in stories are treated. But in your head all this can and does happen, and more besides. And really, which would you prefer? So I understand where Tolkien is coming from.
And this is really the worst of it, because it is very difficult for me not to escape completely and instead have to face reality, particularly when I know there is no chance of fantasy becoming a reality for me. It’s easier to face reality if I’ve been “off” fantasy for a good bit. I haven’t seen LotR or Pirates or any of the other movies that usually trigger the escapism urge and fantasy desire in a long while, nor, until Saturday, had I read any of those books. But the moment I began reading again the desire returned with a vengeance. And it is a desire I know will never be fulfilled. And that is why rereading these books is so completely and thoroughly depressing.
Lucy was the first fictional person I ever wanted to be, and I wanted to be her very badly. I never wanted to be Jill, because Jill’s best adventure was not half so nice as Lucy’s worst one (though I do think it would be horrible to go through all the bother of growing up, only to have to come back and do it all over again), and for all that Jill only got to be a Lady but Lucy got to be a Queen, which I think, for Jill, pretty much sucks. I did, however, also want to be Aravis, partly because she was one of the main characters in my favorite chronicle (The Horse and His Boy) and partly because she had a sword. But I wanted to be Lucy most of all, because she always had the nicest time in Narnia out of anyone, and of course because she was the youngest and so am I.
I say Lucy was the first fictional person I ever wanted to be, and I’m almost sure she was, though I could be wrong, for I’ve wanted to be - and indeed, still want to be - many people. In fact, now that I think of it, I may have wanted to be Nala in Lion King before I wanted to be Lucy. I also wanted to be Wendy in Peter Pan, and Dorothy in Oz (except, of course, with a different name). When I first started to read Harry Potter I wanted to be Hermione, though now I think this was because I had a crush on Ron (and I still have quite a soft spot for him), because I certainly don’t want to be Hermione now. (The only reason I ever wanted to be Becky in Tom Sawyer was because she gets to kiss Tom.) It kind of goes without saying that I wanted to Leia in Star Wars (Hello, she got kiss freakin’ Harrison Ford! Who wouldn’t want to be her?). I don’t think I wanted to be anyone from Lord of the Rings until I saw the movies, and then I wanted to be Éowyn, mostly because she actually fights in battles, and partly because she has lovely outfits and marries Faramir (and also, she doesn’t look like Liv Tyler). In mythology I wanted to be Athena the goddess of war (this from the girl who was forced to give up fencing because she felt too bad about poking people with her sword). I also have this vague idea that when I was first learning mythology I wanted to be Helen of Troy, but I have no idea why I would have, so I may be making that up. I am fairly certain, however, that I wanted to be Odysseus. It is true that he is male and I am not, but there are no females in his story, and I often wished as a child that I was a boy (and now thank my lucky stars every day that I’m not). In fact, I could list many men I wanted to be as a child if I thought you were at all interested, but I’m sure you’re not.
This is the harsh reality of fantasy to those with active imaginations. The characters are always astonishingly ordinary, but in the story they have adventures that are dreadfully exciting, and they themselves are terribly important. And it always reminds you how fantastically dull your life is, and how horribly unimportant you are in it. And if these adventures happen only to extremely ordinary people then you know that you qualify more than a hundred times over and yet they do not happen to you. And it is extremely maddening, because you can imagine it so perfectly, and it’s almost as if it were real and you were there, except you are not there and it is never quite real enough. And it is all very frustrating.
This is what makes fantasy so beautiful and terrible and, above all, dangerous. I have often said that you have to wonder about someone like Tolkien, who spent his whole life making up histories and languages and art and literature and people and adventures for a world that did not exist except in his own head. Now, however, I’m beginning to understand it. Tolkien must have had a fantastically dull life to turn to his escapism so completely. Or perhaps it wasn’t really as dull as all that, but it was dull to him because he was a genius (and on this fact there can be no doubt). At any rate, it was escapism, and, in my opinion, escapism in its truest form. There is nothing quite so easy as escaping into your own mind, and nothing quite so difficult as coming out again. And the deeper you go the easier it is to continue on, and the harder it is to come out again. Because outside your head, in reality, you will never have to fight for your life or anyone else’s, and no one will have to fight for yours, and so you will never have any use for archery, nor will you ever see anyone engage in hand-to-hand combat, and certainly no one will make you a queen, or even treat you anywhere near the way any of the heroines in stories are treated. But in your head all this can and does happen, and more besides. And really, which would you prefer? So I understand where Tolkien is coming from.
And this is really the worst of it, because it is very difficult for me not to escape completely and instead have to face reality, particularly when I know there is no chance of fantasy becoming a reality for me. It’s easier to face reality if I’ve been “off” fantasy for a good bit. I haven’t seen LotR or Pirates or any of the other movies that usually trigger the escapism urge and fantasy desire in a long while, nor, until Saturday, had I read any of those books. But the moment I began reading again the desire returned with a vengeance. And it is a desire I know will never be fulfilled. And that is why rereading these books is so completely and thoroughly depressing.
