“He loved golfing, fishing, cooking and traveling.”
As the preacher read from my brother’s obituary, my sister’s words rang through my head. “I had a brother, but you know, I didn’t really even know him.”
It’s been a week since my brother died, and I’ve been so busy focusing on being there for my dad and sisters that I haven’t really thought about the loss for myself, but yesterday it came over me a bit. I didn’t know that he and I had so much in common, and sitting there in the pew with my family, I really wished I had had the opportunity to get to know him as an adult. I think we could have actually talked, as adult siblings, but with more than 25 years between us, I never got the chance to know him. And now I never will. That, more than almost anything, made me sad and reflective, and I’m reminded of another loss, this one more close, but somehow still not as moving as it maybe should have been.
My maternal grandmother lived all her life in Colombia, South America. My wish as I matured and watched her age, was to learn enough Spanish to have a complete, raw and private conversation with her before she died. It never happened, because my Spanish is never as good as it should be, and it’s something that makes me sad to this day, when I think about it. But we don’t get second chances, and yes, of course I know this without the weight of a funeral hanging over me, but it seems like it takes a funeral or another sobering event to remember this. Afterwards, we vow to not take things for granted, insist upon rebuilding old bridges and finishing unattended business with others.
Why do we wait until it’s too late? I don’t think my brother and dad had fully patched up their past squabbles, and I don’t know how that makes dad feel. I know that I’ll never forget seeing a friend on the street and not stopping to say hi to her, only to learn of her death in a car wreck weeks later. Shit like that is spooky, and it happens often enough that it’s not just random. I wish I could come up with some sort of lesson for myself in all of this, but there isn’t one, at least, not a new one. I hate that it was a funeral that brought me home to family and gave me a chance to reconnect with the most important people in my life, but I’m thankful for each day that I’ve spent here on the farm, with my mom and dad, sisters, nieces, nephews and others. I may not have many memories of my brother, and unfortunately, that makes losing him a bit easier. Losing the other parts of my family will hurt more, because I’m closer to them, but in the end, it’s these memories and these interactions that truly make life worth living.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Givin' them the bird
Old people like birds. I've known this since forever, because my grandparents had all sorts of cockamamie home-made birdfeeders strung up all over outside their large picture windows. When my grandpa moved away, we took one of those birdfeeders and added it to our own assortment of home-made and store-bought feeders. each morning before heading off for school, I'd sit with my parents and enjoy the bluejays, robins, woodpeckers, thrush, canaries.. you name it, the birds would grace our front lawn and provide plenty of entertainment and breakfast discussion.
I was never particularly thrilled by the colorful clumps of feather and disease, but I didn't mind watching them, and listening to my parents was mildly amusing until it got annoying. Sort of like listening to an infant learn to talk.
And then I went to college, got a house with a nice hedge and began plotting death and revenge against the birds outside my window. Cardinals are a beautiful, strong and cocky bird (definitely my type of creature) but they wake up around 5 a.m. and let the world know of their presence. For a college student with 18 credit hour semesters, a newspaper to run and a job to hold down, anything that needs attention that early in the morning is akin to the devil. I would sometimes stumble home from the newspaper office at 4 a.m. only to be roused by these bastard red birds and their calls. If there's anything I've taken from the year I spent in that house, it's my hatred for birds. Ok, not necessarily a hatred of birds themselves, but of their call. As for birds themselves, I've been soured on their entertainment factor to no avail.
And now, I don't live at home anymore, so I don't have this type of "entertainment" at my disposal, but I certainly don't have to hear about it that much. Being home though, has reminded me of just how bitter I am against the feathered fauna of Northwest Nebraska. I wonder if at a certain age I'll regain or develop a newfound respect for these flying feats of biological construction, becuase my parents, my aunt, my other relatives-- they're all crazy about the Bluejays or the sparrows or the whatevers. I'm always amazed at how they coo and carry on over the winged visitors on the lawn, and I hope to God my life is never so boring as to invite birdwatching as a sport or pasttime. But I gotta admit: I do enjoy the dodo watching...
I was never particularly thrilled by the colorful clumps of feather and disease, but I didn't mind watching them, and listening to my parents was mildly amusing until it got annoying. Sort of like listening to an infant learn to talk.
And then I went to college, got a house with a nice hedge and began plotting death and revenge against the birds outside my window. Cardinals are a beautiful, strong and cocky bird (definitely my type of creature) but they wake up around 5 a.m. and let the world know of their presence. For a college student with 18 credit hour semesters, a newspaper to run and a job to hold down, anything that needs attention that early in the morning is akin to the devil. I would sometimes stumble home from the newspaper office at 4 a.m. only to be roused by these bastard red birds and their calls. If there's anything I've taken from the year I spent in that house, it's my hatred for birds. Ok, not necessarily a hatred of birds themselves, but of their call. As for birds themselves, I've been soured on their entertainment factor to no avail.
And now, I don't live at home anymore, so I don't have this type of "entertainment" at my disposal, but I certainly don't have to hear about it that much. Being home though, has reminded me of just how bitter I am against the feathered fauna of Northwest Nebraska. I wonder if at a certain age I'll regain or develop a newfound respect for these flying feats of biological construction, becuase my parents, my aunt, my other relatives-- they're all crazy about the Bluejays or the sparrows or the whatevers. I'm always amazed at how they coo and carry on over the winged visitors on the lawn, and I hope to God my life is never so boring as to invite birdwatching as a sport or pasttime. But I gotta admit: I do enjoy the dodo watching...
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Butterfly and the Diving Bell
"I am probably the only person watching this right now that really knows just how accurate the world looks."
I couldn't help thinking this over and over as the opening sequence of this new French film slowly came into focus for viewers at the Lakeshore theatre. Directed by Julian Schnabel and adapted from the book of the same name " Le Scaphandre et le papillon, this moving film plots the remaning days of former Elle editor Jean- Dominique Bauby after he suffers a massive stroke and becomes confined not only to his wheel chair or bed, but to the deadweight of his useless body.
Once a well-loved playboy and doting father, Bauby's descent into complete paralysis, and thus the depths of his mind, is tracked in this 112 minute visual dialogue of life after stroke.
Bauby is only 43 when stroke takes his freedom during a joy-ride with his son, and at the film's end, is only 10 days past publication of his memoir when pneumonia takes his life. The use of color, blurred images and jarred movements accurately depicts those first few days of hospital life post-stroke, and several times during the film I was moved to tears while remembering my own hospital bed awakening.
For Bauby-- a man intent on rewriting the Count of Monte Cristo-- the irony of admiration and invincibility are one and the same, as he becomes known as one of two cases of "locked-in syndrome." Able to communicate using only his left eye, he and a speech therapist devise an alphabetical system of reading/response for he and other to utilize in communication.
Although the cinematography is tunning and the visual representations of Bauby's new life are impressive, this film is remarkable becuase of the determination and dedication it shows during Bauby's most challenging times.
I know what it's like to go from high-living, invincible playboy (ok, chic chick) to bottom-of-the-barrel low, and I myself, know that I could not have done what Bauby did. the movie's tagline is "let your imagination set you free," and while I think that's lovely, I know that trapped in my own mind, in those first days, I was far from free or even able to imagine anything but death and my own pitiful existance. I left the theatre not quite in tears, but emotionall charged. I happen to be working on a book of my own, also about my experience, and even if it's not the hit that Bauby's has been (c'mon Oprah!!), I think that the writing of my experience is the thing that will finally set me free. It worked, if eventually only in death for Bauby.
Once a well-loved playboy and doting father, Bauby's descent into complete paralysis, and thus the depths of his mind, is tracked in this 112 minute visual dialogue of life after stroke.
Bauby is only 43 when stroke takes his freedom during a joy-ride with his son, and at the film's end, is only 10 days past publication of his memoir when pneumonia takes his life. The use of color, blurred images and jarred movements accurately depicts those first few days of hospital life post-stroke, and several times during the film I was moved to tears while remembering my own hospital bed awakening.
For Bauby-- a man intent on rewriting the Count of Monte Cristo-- the irony of admiration and invincibility are one and the same, as he becomes known as one of two cases of "locked-in syndrome." Able to communicate using only his left eye, he and a speech therapist devise an alphabetical system of reading/response for he and other to utilize in communication.
Although the cinematography is tunning and the visual representations of Bauby's new life are impressive, this film is remarkable becuase of the determination and dedication it shows during Bauby's most challenging times.
I know what it's like to go from high-living, invincible playboy (ok, chic chick) to bottom-of-the-barrel low, and I myself, know that I could not have done what Bauby did. the movie's tagline is "let your imagination set you free," and while I think that's lovely, I know that trapped in my own mind, in those first days, I was far from free or even able to imagine anything but death and my own pitiful existance. I left the theatre not quite in tears, but emotionall charged. I happen to be working on a book of my own, also about my experience, and even if it's not the hit that Bauby's has been (c'mon Oprah!!), I think that the writing of my experience is the thing that will finally set me free. It worked, if eventually only in death for Bauby.
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