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Posts tagged ‘death’

Ode to a Dying Computer

Once again, my computer is broken.

Oh the agony of that moment when we first realize our electronic devices are gone.

My computer coughed and refused to boot up.

I sat and waited and watched. I kept a steady vigil and spoke a prayer or two; there was nothing more I could do.

I took it to the doctor this morning, and unfortunately my computer will not recover without a transplant.

I feel like Marsha Brady when she made two dates for the school dance: “This is the WORST thing that’s ever happened to me!”

And like Marsha, this is clearly not the worst thing that has or ever will happen to me.

And yet…


How awfully I feel it.


love you…

My Aunt Virginia passed away a week ago today. We’ve lost three family members in less than a year, and it’s hard. We have our memories, but we would rather have the people. For me, when I think about each one of them, specific things come to mind.

With my Aunt Carine, I can see her motions. I can see her walking around the house, and sitting with one leg tucked beneath her, and the way she passed bowls of food at dinner. I can see the movements of her arms and hands. But mostly I hear her voice. She had a nice voice and a gentle way of speaking. I can see her sitting across the living room from me during Bible study, talking something out with me, explaining, examining. I so wish I could have all those words back and hear all those talks again. But she was someone who used your name a lot, and at least I can still hear her saying, “You know, Michelle…” I can still hear the way she said my name.

Have you ever noticed that some people have a special way of saying your name? Maybe it’s the tone of their voice or their inflection or their accent or simply that it’s the voice of someone you care about. Or maybe it’s just that some people fill up your name with so much stuff! With love and memories and compassion and humor and I don’t know what. But somehow they pack it all in there, into that one word, a word that not only belongs to you but somehow is you.

With my cousin Brandon, I see him playing guitar. Not talking, not looking up, just playing. I had a hard time getting him to talk to me; he’d say as few words as he could get away with and then close himself up with a little smile. I can picture that smile and his head tilted down and just a bit to the side. But his eyes are smiling up at me, telling me there are a multitude of things going on in his head that I’m just not gonna be privy to. I knew who he was with his family and friends, had witnessed the gregarious Brandon. But we weren’t close enough for him to be that person with me, and that’s okay.

That smile of Brandon’s always reminded me of my cousin Joey. Joey had that same kind of smile, and I always had the feeling that somehow he was teasing me behind it. Like he knew things about me that I didn’t know myself, and he was thinking, “you’ll figure it all out eventually.”

Now, with my Aunt Virginia, I hear her laugh. It was more of a chuckle, I guess, a quiet kind of laugh. I see her smiling and laughing a lot, and how her face would kind of open up when she laughed. And I haven’t put on a pair of earrings since I was about 13 without thinking of her. When she saw me putting them on by feel, she thought it was just so clever. She was laughing then, too. We were in the stairwell outside of my family’s apartment door. “You can do that without looking!?” She said she couldn’t do that without a mirror, and she laughed.

Now why should that little moment stick with me so long? I don’t know why, but it has. And I can hear her saying, “love you”. Whether we were leaving big family gatherings or little visits, she’d always say that.

“Love you.”

the Infinite Monkey speaks: unpolished

Random brilliance from across the blogosphere…


I wish I could say that your passing was as picture perfect as in Hollywood movies, where the dying is surrounded by the family and friends and then the last words of wisdom are passed on. But it wasn’t. It was dark and unpolished.

 – Elena


Letter To My Father

This Time I Won’t Blink

Last month my second cousin Brandon was killed in a motorcycle crash. He was 27 years old. I didn’t tell you guys about it because I just couldn’t find the words. I didn’t know him very well in the sense that I wasn’t intimate with the daily details of his life. You know how that is, as families grow it gets harder and harder to stay connected with everyone. But I knew who he was as a person, and I know what the world is now missing.

His mother, my cousin Monica, wrote a beautiful eulogy that she agreed to let me share with you. I have so many thoughts and feelings about what Monica says here, that once again I just can’t find the right words to express myself. So I’ll let her words speak for themselves.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

On December 1, 1985, his father, Bob, and I were lucky enough to have been blessed with the birth of a beautiful baby boy.  And when I say beautiful, I do mean beautiful. After already having a beautiful daughter (and once again, I do mean beautiful) I knew my life was now complete.  Boy, was I wrong, but I’ll tell you about that later.

As a parent you have so many things to do for a small child: feed and nurture them, teach them how to walk, drink from a cup, how to hold utensils, how to use the potty, how to play nice. Branden excelled at all of these things. Well, except for the potty thing…that took a little time.

You blink your eyes and then one day it is time for them to go to school. And then it is a whole new set of things to teach them. How to read, how to write, how to do math, science and history. How to do their homework (AND TURN IT IN ON TIME). Branden always struggled a bit with that one. They then start having friends away from your view, and yet another whole set of lessons need to be taught. How to be caring and loving. How to be respectful to others. How to be trusting of others. How to stand up for the underdog and be a good friend. (Jamie and Branden both excelled greatly at this). Much better than the homework thing. And then once again, you blink and then come new lessons to be taught. How to drive. How an 11:00 curfew really means 11:00. (Once again the curfew thing was  a struggle for both Jamie and Branden). How to be careful and responsible for your actions. To be considerate of other people’s feelings and own up to both your mistakes and your achievements. That was an easy enough lesson for both the kids.

Then comes the blink. Your children are now adults and want to be anywhere but home where all the rules and the parents are. They move out. I remember Doug and I both trying to figure out what to do after Branden decided to move out. We were so used to having he and his multitude of friends making so much noise playing music (you see band practice was always at our house). Well it took Doug and I about 3 short weeks to figure out… we could do whatever we wanted!

We were both so proud of Branden for buying a house at the age of 21. And even though Branden had moved out, we had the privilege of working with him every day. So we got to see him all the time. It was at that time Branden turned the tables on us. Being parents we still thought we had lessons to teach. And we still had a few but for the most part our teaching careers were over.

Now enter Branden the man. And guess what….he was the teacher. Only the lessons were different. Branden taught Doug and I both…the importance of “LIVING LIFE LARGE”, following your dreams until you find them, giving all to what you believe in, not to judge a book by its cover, to take life very slow and absorb all you can from it. And of course, “it is not about what the T-shirt says, it’s about the man behind it, and holes and piercings are a good thing.” I will live the rest of my life with these lessons in my heart and mind. Well, all except the holes and piercings one. I still struggle with that.

Now back to my life being complete… I now know what I thought about my life feeling totally complete after having Branden was wrong. My life was only completed after my two wonderful children had children of their own. I then had the privilege of watching them teach the all so many lessons to be taught. And much to my surprise (you see I was certain they had not been paying proper attention….they had). Branden and Jamie both turned out to be wonderful parents with wonderful and beautiful (yes, beautiful) children.

Regrets and sorrow, yes I have regrets and sorrow where Branden and Jamie are concerned. (Jamie, I will express mine with you later). I regret I wasn’t there to hold my son when he drew his last breath. I regret I didn’t see him for the man he was sooner (you see he was still my baby). I regret I didn’t encourage him to follow every dream he had (well most of them anyway). I still don’t think the tattoos, piercings and corn beef shop would have worked out. And I am sorry his life was taken too soon. I am sorry that he will not get to experience seeing his children grow up. I am certain he would have loved it.

“No parent should ever have to suffer the loss of their child”. Doug and I have heard that said too many times, but never truly understood in until now. We now know the kind of pain and loss my mom, Doug’s mom, James, Rosemary, Janet, Joe and Virginia, Mae and Bob have suffered. I hope none of you have to endure this kind of loss. It leaves a hole in your heart that can never be filled. A good friend of ours sent me a message last night that said this:

“Remember some days it’s a day at a time. Some days it’s a step at a time. And some days it’s a breath at a time. There will be days you will not want to get out of bed, but do…because he would have wanted you to.”

Thank you Gale for those words.

In closing I would like to say I know my son was truly happy. I am certain he knew how much he was loved by both Doug and I, and all of you. I know he is now being taken care of by his other parent, and they are playing guitars in heaven. Although I am certain they are having serious discussion over the music choices, and if my brother George gets involved who knows what direction it will go.

Rest easy my son, because you are with some of the greatest. Stay cradled in God’s arms. I promise to watch over and love the kids in your absence. I know we will be together again someday, and I promise I will let you finish teaching me…and this time I won’t blink.