Of Mice and Men.

I've been thinking a lot about death, and about kindness. About loss, and about our role in other peoples lives.

A few days ago, I lost a family member. We weren't super close, I didn't know him extremely well. He was my mom's cousin, older than me and in another country.

We spoke a few times a year, shared some laughs, but that was it.

He killed himself.

There is a shame associated with this, and people don't want to talk about it. They want to change the facts. But, as I've mentioned in previous posts:

They say “suicide is the coward’s choice.” I disagree. It is the “cornered’s” choice. It is the oppressed’s choice, the abused’s choice, the last choice. I use to believe it was a selfish choice, and now I believe it’s a selfless – albeit warped – choice. No one walks into the gallows unaccompanied.

Someone is always there, with the knife to their back.

He killed himself because the weight of who he wasn't was bearing down on him. His failures as perceived by others crept into the back of his mind.

Or maybe they were hammered in, and often, by the people he was most in contact with.

So I'm writing this for you, Phil, because you deserve to be remembered for who you were - not for what you lacked, and because I am not ashamed. 

Phil was a father. A Marine. He was a proud American - seriously, he really really loved the US - but loved his Japanese wife even more. So much, that he moved there to be with her, and raise their family. He was a husband.

An adoring, proud father.

He was a hard worker, and sometimes he drank a little too much. But I think he did that because he had a really big heart, and he internalized everything. It softened the blows.

Phil was the kind of guy who'd listen to you, empathize, cheer you up, share a song or two, and then check in on you the next day.

He genuinely cared.

He was an open book. Anything you wanted to know, he'd tell you.
He was a not just a storyteller, but a story itself.

So here comes the call to action, the part where you come in: evaluate yourself for a moment. What role are you playing in the lives of others?

Isn't it easier to be kind than to be judgmental and harsh?
Isn't it easier to recognize the hard work people are doing, instead of pointing out what they have yet to do?
Isn't it easier to forgive, and move forward?
And at the very least, what business is it of yours to interfere in the autonomous decisions of another?

So stop. Think.
Who are you judging?
Who are you criticizing?
Who are you trying to change?
If they haven't asked for this specifically, then just stop.

Be the kind person.
Be the supportive person.
Be the open ear.
Be the keeper of secrets.

See people for who they are, not for what you want them to be.
And be okay with that.

---

Que descanses, Phil.

Sad-urday Morning.

It's really interesting how death can put a relationship into perspective. When Jamie died, it became very obvious to me how much we communicated - facebook, phone. I hadn't ever noticed when it was happening. He became a permanent presence in my life when I was 15. I forgot what life was like without him - so when he drove his motorcycle into Heaven on his way to school, it was a huge shock.

It was then that I noticed - it was then that I remembered - what an important figure he had become in my life. 

But with my grandma - she'd always been there. There hadn't ever been a time where she didn't exist for me. I came into her life, not the other way around. My whole life is almost entirely built upon a foundation that she created for her family.  But when she passed (in August), it didn't hit me like a freight train the way that Jamie's death did. 

Instead, it's been a slow process. Slow. Painful. Jamie's death was overwhelming in a way that fried my brain for a solid year. It was such a shock to the system that it changed the way I function - probably forever.

My grandma's death feels more like I'm being starved. 

Can I call grandma and tell her about the crazy muffins I made this week? No.

I'm so excited to see grandma this October. No, you're not. She's dead.

I'm sick in the middle of the night, I'm going to text her because I know she's awake. Not this time.

I hate myself, I hate my body and I hate everything I do. Grandma knows what to say. Nope.

I ate a giant meal. I should probably let Grandma know about it. She thinks I never eat... Still Nope.

I want to sit in Grandma's closet and listen to all the music boxes play at once. Never, ever, again.

It's amazing how many times in a week I forget that she's gone. I was there. I kissed her goodbye. I cried with my cousins. I comforted and was comforted. 

But there is a part of me that seems to be inconsolable. Something that rejects the attempts at comfort and refuses to accept that she's no longer living. An abusive little part of my heart that wants me to regularly relive the loss of her.

I don't like knowing what a huge part of my life I lost. It's true - you never know what you've got until it's gone. Especially when you've had it around you your whole life. 

Mid-February Shouldn't Be So Scary

When I walk around cemeteries, I am always fascinated by the headstones. Some are modest, little plaques that say nothing more than a name and a date. Some are crazy large monuments. Others are strange symbolic figures that are comparable to abstract modern art. But, no matter what they look like, they are a very real signifier that beneath the stone - and my feet - lays a person who was once loved - is still loved - by many.

This plaque above will be on the back of Jamie's headstone.

His headstone. Did I just type that? It still feels unreal. I'm still waiting for him to send a text that says "JK everybody! Did you miss me?" I wouldn't even be mad. I had this sinking feeling in my chest as they closed the casket over him - would he be lonely? Was there enough space? Can I see him just a moment longer? When they put him in the ground, I had similar thoughts: would it be too cold for him? - It became very real. He was gone, and it was time to say goodbye. I just hate(d) thinking about him being under the ground when he belonged above the ground. With his wife. With his friends. Flying planes.

I let myself slip into denial from time to time. Maybe it's not healthy, but it's true. Sometimes, I just want to pretend he's still around. That I can send him that text. That he will still be taking my brother to lunch in the near future. That we will see him and the wife at conference and we will all play conference bingo together.

So, seeing the plaque brings me both joy and sorrow. Joy that we have all made it this far. Sorrow that we had to make it at all. It makes me sad that people may stand over his headstone, doing what I do so often when I walk through the cemetery... they will wonder what happened to this young man. Where are the people that love him? They will wonder at what his middle name was, and they will always be wrong because they won't know that it only ever was D. It makes me sad that people will pass by his headstone but not know him. They will not know his love for cherry dipped cones. They will not know his funny laugh. They will not know that he loved Firefly or Tomcat F-14s or F-18 Super Hornets. They will not know about how he proposed to his wife. They won't know about Lolita or his mission to South Korea or any of his funny sayings: Make all 100's! Remember who you are! Don't embarrass the family! Now - get out of my car!! They will not know that he achieved his dream and they will not know the pure love and joy this man embodied. His selflessness. His spontaneity. His steadfast faith in God.

Instead, they will simply know his name.

They will see his plaque. They will wonder - and then they will do what so many of us will struggle to do for the rest of our lives: they'll move on in a different direction.

I suppose that I'll have to visit him sometime. I know the story. I won't have to wonder. Not about this man. I will be able to stand at his headstone and know - remember.

And it is a beautiful plaque to be mounted aback a beautiful granite headstone that will appropriately mark the beautiful resting place of a truly beautiful human being who, to use the word one more time, brought a love of beautiful things to my life and the life of many others. So, this headstone brings me sorrow. But it also brings me joy. Sorrow that the world lost a truly righteous, honest, loving man and joy that, in this moment, I get to remember him...and Him...in such wonderful and powerful ways. Joy that I ever had such a friendship, and sorrow that it will be such a long time before we see each other again. Joy that the plaque brings a comfort, marks a milestone, signifies a wonderful life lived. Sorrow that comfort is needed, that milestones are being reached and that his wonderful live isn't still being lived.

So it is bittersweet. But it is beautiful. Just like he was.

If I Should Die Before I Wake.

Today has not been very productive.

I mean, not in the sense of getting any studying or unit planning done. I got a lot of cleaning done, and I painted for 2 hours. I dyed my hair.

I think I have a mental block because I have a few doctors appointments this week - one (tomorrow) at which I will be put under for a little while.

But I keep thinking what if I'm that person who has a complication? Do I want to spend the last hours of my life unit planning? I think not.

In the .0001% chance that I decide to hit up Jamie and the Heavenly Fiesta in the sky, I'd like to have had enjoyed my life the day of, and the day before.

Like I said. This way of thinking is not exactly conducive to academic productivity. Plus, I'm just being a little morbid. But what's life (or death) without a good chuckle?

Sometimes, you just need to talk about it.

Life is full of various traumatic events.

Being potty trained.
Learning to walk.
Falling off a bike.
Being bitten by a dog.
Getting stung by a bee.
Getting hit by a car.
Losing a friend.
Losing a best friend.
Losing a family member.
Being robbed.
Being assaulted.
Paying taxes...

etc...

The list is infinite. There are strange, weird, unexpected things that happen to us all the time that traumatize us on one level or another.

I need to talk about one. I've been in denial or shock or something for about a month now - and it needs to come out. I decided this last night, when I realized it was the 6th or 7th time I'd bawled myself to sleep over this event. I'm in need of a comfort of sorts, a hug, a "I'm so sorry you went through this" or a "is there anything you need?"

I suppose it's too late for those kinds of things. I'll just tell you what happened.

I drove from MN to UT on July 18th so that I could get home in time for my parents and brother to go on a trip. I was going to watch the kids and hang out with one of my best friends. I was on a freeway leaving Nebraska/just entering Wyoming. It was dark because it was night... it was really late, but I don't remember the exact time. There hadn't been anyone on the road for miles and miles and it didn't look like anyone was going to be joining me on my late-night expedition through the midwest. No one, save the fireflies. It was my first time ever seeing them with my own eyes, and I was definitely in awe.

I was driving fairly fast... 75 or so, when I saw a large semi up ahead. Because I am deathly afraid of semi trucks, I instantly slowed down. I looked down to change the radio, and when I looked up again the semi had managed to do some sort of acrobatic move and was now colliding with an RV that had been driving in the same lane.

Both went spinning uncontrollably, and then both tumbled off the road. The semi was swallowed by the darkness and the RV rolled and rolled... but not before launching the driver (or maybe the front seat passenger) out of the windshield. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The RV joined the semi in the abyss of what I can only assume were vast corn fields. The man, launched through the windshield, was now face-grinding the pavement. Meanwhile, I was pulling over as quickly as possible. I threw my car into park and ran full speed toward this now motionless entity laying on the pavement. I stood there, looking down at him, hoping he'd move. I looked around for others - no one. No other drivers. No other passengers. I called the police... although I think one of the vehicles had a first response system because they told me police were already on the way.

I knelt down toward the man, and gave him a shove so that I could see his face. I don't lie when I say there wasn't much left of a face at all, just a bloody mess and lots of crud. I couldn't tell if he was dead or alive, but either way I couldn't leave him. If he was alive, I couldn't let him suffer alone. If he was dying, or dead, I couldn't let him die alone - a bleeding mess on a freeway.

I sat/squatted down on the road next to him, rubbing his arm almost as if to comfort myself more than anything. I held him as best I could (he was heavy, so I mostly just cradled his arm) and waited until finally an officer arrived. He asked me what I knew (for contact info and the likes), and I told him everything I saw. He evaluated the man and looked at me with a very sad face. He told me to get in my car and go, that more help was close behind, that I didn't have to stay there any longer unless I wanted to. I feel like I looked at him for a very long time, although it was probably only a few seconds, and walked over to my car. I sat. I cried. I drove and cried.

---

Sometimes I feel like the world asks you to keep these things kept inside. "Don't burden others with your grief."

Sometimes, you can't grieve unless someone else helps ease the weight of the pain.

Sometimes, you just need to talk about it.

Will I find comfort in these lyrics?

Jack Johnson and Matt Costa
Lullaby

When you're so lonely lying in bed
Night's closed it's eyes but you can't rest your head
Everyone's sleeping all through the house
You wish you could dream but forgot to somehow
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Sing this lullaby to yourself
And if you are waiting, waiting for me
Know I'll be home soon darling I guarantee
I'll be home Sunday just in one week
Dry up your tears if you start to weep
And sing this lullaby to yourself
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Lullaby, I'm not nearby
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Don't you cry, no don't you cry
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Cause when I arrive dear it won't be that long
No it won't seem like anytime that I've been gone
It ain't the first time it won't be the last
Won't you remember these words to help the time pass?
So when you're so lonely lying in bed
Night's closed it's eyes but you can't rest your head
Everyone's sleeping all through the house
You wish you could dream but forgot to somehow
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Sing this lullaby to yourself
Sing this lullaby, sing this lullaby
Sing this lullaby to yourself

My words for the rest of you.

I wrote my letter to Jamie.
Now it's time that I try and share the greatness that he was (and will always be) with you.

Jamie D. Patel is one of the greatest men I have ever met. He loved unconditionally, he laughed whole-heartedly and lived every moment to the fullest. He was the big brother and friend I needed, especially in those turbulent adolescent years. He was a pillar to lean on.

I met Jamie on a beautiful summer day at Dewey Park at a church function. He was meandering around with the elders (one who has gone on to become one of my dearest friends) when I suddenly approached them in hopes of guessing their first names. I succeeded quickly with the two abnormally tall elders... but I struggled with Jamie's name :) I finally settled on Andy. He didn't like that. Upon him revealing his name to me... I decided he looked very much like a power ranger ought to - and decided I'd just call him that: "Power Ranger Patel." So I did, and he liked it :) And just like that...we were friends.

Jamie quickly became one of the most meaningful people in my life. He would drive all the way from Atsugi to Sagamihara just to chat when I was feeling down. He'd demand that I take his CD's and burn them so that I could have some good music :) He'd force me to watch Seinfeld at the most ungodly hour of the night so that he'd have someone to talk about it with. He'd watch at his little barack, and I'd watch it in my brothers room - and we'd IM about it :) Haha.

Jamie was an amazing example to me. He couldn't go to institute classes overseas, so he opted to take seminary with us seminary kids. After seminary every day, he'd drive me to school. Sometimes he'd even pick me up BEFORE seminary (which was a big deal cuz that means he was at my house at like... 5 am) when I had no one else to take me. Sometimes we'd just sit in his car and talk about things. He had to write me late-notes to school several times because we'd been chatting in the school parking lot 20 minutes into school :) As I would start to get out of the car he would say "Be good. Get all 100's. Remember who you are! Don't embarrass the family..... now get out of my car!!!!" It became such a common interaction between us that we'd say it in emails, texts, over the phone...facebook.

Jamie wrote me every week from his mission. Before he left, he gave me a plant (named George) and a guitar. I loved both of those things to their end. He inspired me to compose and perform my very first piece of music. In fact.. the song was for him! I've got it stashed somewhere... when I find it... I'll post it.

I remember when he finally got home... he had the worst flight home imaginable. Apparently he kept being hit in the arm by the stewardess's cart!

We did so many fun things together... and he did so many fun things with/for my family. I feel like I could write all the stories right now... and maybe eventually I will post them all.

It's hard for me to explain exactly what this world lost in Jamie's passing. He was a light that couldn't be dimmed. He was able to share that light with a beautiful and amazing woman named Jessie. I'm so happy he was able to spend the last moments of his time on this earth with someone as fantastic as she is.

Jamie D. Patel was my brother. The best brother that a girl could have been given.