I knew that the first time I missed something happy and important, it would be difficult for me. And it was. I missed my little sister's Confirmation. I had missed plenty of her concerts and dance shows, but I had never missed something truly significant before - not since the day my mother brought her home from the hospital. But I missed her Confirmation. It was on a Wednesday evening and I didn't (and still don't) have any days off. I felt like a bad sister, a bad daughter, and a bad and selfish family member in general. I should have been there and I wasn't. I felt like I had let everyone down... And it hurt.
I knew that the first time I missed something sorrowful and important, it would be even more difficult for me. And it was. My grand-uncle died after a valiant battle against cancer. He was my father's uncle and the father and grandfather of people I am close to. Last May he was dancing at my graduation/birthday party. I expected to see him dancing at my wedding. And now he is gone. When my father called to say he had died, I felt so horribly alone. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough to make arrangements to come home for the funeral. He told me not to come - too expensive, etc. But I couldn't stay away. It was too important and I wouldn't have forgiven myself had I not gone home.
I thought I had more time. I thought I had another few years before the elders of my family would start dying.
The funeral and burial were difficult. I saw people who I had never seen shed a tear in my life just fall apart. They couldn't even look at the honor guard of firemen who stood outside of the Church when they carried him in for the funeral mass and out of the burial. I almost fell apart myself at the burial when one of the seaman sent to represent the U.S. Navy played taps on the bugle (a real bugle, not those damn recordings they've been playing at soldiers' burials - infuriating that this country will accept the greatest sacrifice from its soldiers yet can't find someone to play the bugle at their funerals). They folded the flag and presented it to my grand-aunt - another hard moment. There is something about all the ritual that tears at my heart. And I know its selfish to wish he were still alive. I know he is no longer suffering and that he is happy. But 14 years of Catholic school will do that to you - convince you that the ones you loved are now at peace with their God, happy and interceding on your behalf until you join them. If, at the end of my days, I learn that it was all a fiction, I will not regret having believed it. It would have been a pleasant fiction and knowing the truth would not have made me happier or better.
Watching all those people I love hurt and knowing that I can't do a damn thing about it - that is what really cripples me. I can't stand feeling so helpless in the face of suffering. If I could endure it for them, I would just to see them happy.
I need to go home soon.
Soon it will be time to stop rambling. There are things and people to take care of - there will be work to be done.
When I am in New York, I never feel so lonely as I do now. Perhaps, because just about everything and everyone I love is close at hand. I need only reach out and grab them.
Back to work tomorrow. Better, faster, stronger...
I knew that the first time I missed something sorrowful and important, it would be even more difficult for me. And it was. My grand-uncle died after a valiant battle against cancer. He was my father's uncle and the father and grandfather of people I am close to. Last May he was dancing at my graduation/birthday party. I expected to see him dancing at my wedding. And now he is gone. When my father called to say he had died, I felt so horribly alone. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough to make arrangements to come home for the funeral. He told me not to come - too expensive, etc. But I couldn't stay away. It was too important and I wouldn't have forgiven myself had I not gone home.
I thought I had more time. I thought I had another few years before the elders of my family would start dying.
The funeral and burial were difficult. I saw people who I had never seen shed a tear in my life just fall apart. They couldn't even look at the honor guard of firemen who stood outside of the Church when they carried him in for the funeral mass and out of the burial. I almost fell apart myself at the burial when one of the seaman sent to represent the U.S. Navy played taps on the bugle (a real bugle, not those damn recordings they've been playing at soldiers' burials - infuriating that this country will accept the greatest sacrifice from its soldiers yet can't find someone to play the bugle at their funerals). They folded the flag and presented it to my grand-aunt - another hard moment. There is something about all the ritual that tears at my heart. And I know its selfish to wish he were still alive. I know he is no longer suffering and that he is happy. But 14 years of Catholic school will do that to you - convince you that the ones you loved are now at peace with their God, happy and interceding on your behalf until you join them. If, at the end of my days, I learn that it was all a fiction, I will not regret having believed it. It would have been a pleasant fiction and knowing the truth would not have made me happier or better.
Watching all those people I love hurt and knowing that I can't do a damn thing about it - that is what really cripples me. I can't stand feeling so helpless in the face of suffering. If I could endure it for them, I would just to see them happy.
I need to go home soon.
Soon it will be time to stop rambling. There are things and people to take care of - there will be work to be done.
When I am in New York, I never feel so lonely as I do now. Perhaps, because just about everything and everyone I love is close at hand. I need only reach out and grab them.
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