A Letter to My Representative

Dear Representative,

I am a constituent in your district, and I write to express my support for a comprehensive approach to addressing and stemming the increase in gun violence in our country. 

Specifically, I ask you to vote in favor of:

• Restrictions on the sale and access to semi-automatic firearms, automatic firearms and high-capacity magazines of ammunition;
• An outright ban of the sale or purchase of body armor by non-military or non-law-enforcement individuals;
• Access to mental health services for those in need;
• Restrictions on access to violent video games and movies by children under the age of 18, either by requirement of presentation of a valid ID for purchase, or by working with the MPAA, ESRP, and other industry groups to revise rating standards;
• More comprehensive background checks for purchases of guns, regardless whether the purchase is from a retailer or a private individual;
• A nationwide system for tracking the movement of firearms from purchaser to purchaser;
• A lift on the protections afforded gun manufacturers for product liability lawsuits; and
• Additional enforcement authority for federal (and state) law enforcement officials to prosecute gun crimes, including trafficking of weapons.

In addition to being a constituent, I am the mother of a six year old child who is in first grade.  The massacre at Sandy Hook was incredibly distressing for me, to say the least.  As the news of what happened sunk in, many other things sunk in as well.  For instance, I realized that my son, who would most likely have stayed right by his teacher’s side, would likely have been murdered in cold blood by Adam Lanza if he’d been a student at Sandy Hook, as other children who were huddled by their teachers were.  I realized that in the two first grade classes at my son’s school there are about 30 children; had that shooting occurred in his school, a full 2/3 of the children would be gone today.  I realized that we can no longer assume that parents, who are overworked and overstressed and may not have the capacity or energy to tell their children “no” (or may not be aware), will monitor and effectively limit access to the games their children play or the movies they watch, or that the gaming and movie industry will do so voluntarily, either.  I realized that we can no longer assume that the mental health system will identify those in need and provide the necessary care; there is still too high of a cost (even in Ohio, where insurance coverage is reasonably accessible for mental health services, the administrative cost and burden is too high for providers to see a benefit in accepting insurance) and too much of a stigma attached to seeking therapy.  I realized that there is no logical reason for any person to have body armor unless they intend to do something which will get them shot at in return… I am relatively confident that deer do not carry guns, and therefore cannot fire back at hunters, so I question why body armor can be so readily purchased online or even in specialty stores or trade shows by non-military or non-law-enforcement individuals.  I realized that because of tragedies like this, there are proposals to turn our teachers – our teachers, who are underpaid as it is! – into armed militia-men, with the expectation that they not only calm our children, get them where they need to be according to the lockdown procedures and try to protect themselves from harm, but also engage in a “Dirty Harry” style shootout with someone who would undoubtedly be exponentially better armed than they are likely to be.  I realized that proposals to arm teachers or place armed guards at every door essentially turn our school campuses into mini-prisons.  And I realized that many objections to even reasonable restrictions on the sale or purchase of semi-automatic and automatic firearms, high capacity clips and body armor stem firstly from an increasingly fringe percent of our population who want to feel protected in the incredibly unlikely event that the government tries to “come get our guns”, and also from the gun industry, which has a vested interest in continuing to make billions of dollars on weapons that have no reasonable protection under the Second Amendment.  (I encourage you to research Antonin Scalia’s views on whether semi-automatic and automatic firearms or body armor are constitutionally protected, if you haven’t done so already.)  

Twenty first graders.  Six faculty and staff.  A mother.  And a very, very sick man.  GONE.  Let’s not forget the unthinkable horrors witnessed by the surviving children.  To see children being led outside with their hands over their eyes to shield themselves from seeing their classmates’ bloodied and brutally murdered bodies was, as the head of my son’s school put it, unhinging.  And the parents… the parents!  Can you imagine what it would have been like to have been one of the parents who rushed to the school, waiting to have their children brought to them safe and sound, only to be led into a back room to be informed that their child was one of the dead?  Do you really think that anyone – whether in your Congressional district or anywhere else in the country – should have to go through that when there are reasonable steps we can take to mitigate the risk that it would ever happen again?

Simply put, it is unacceptable that Sandy Hook happened, and it is equally unacceptable that the Sandy Hook families (and the Newtown community) are being forced to deal with such a profound loss.  It is unacceptable that we – as parents, as citizens, as constituents, as human beings – have witnessed this abhorrent crime, and that gun violence is so absurdly common in this day and age, and even accepted as a form of entertainment.  It is unacceptable to me as a parent that because of this act, I’ve had to explain (in very general terms, obviously) what happened at Sandy Hook to my first grader.  It is unacceptable that we have to check up with our children to make sure that they are doing lockdown drills, and that they understand how important it is that if something happens, they follow their teacher’s directions immediately and without question because it might be the difference between life and death.  And it is personally unacceptable that my son should be faced with his own puzzling questions, such as “Mommy, why didn’t the sick man get help so he wasn’t sick anymore?”, “Did he have an army?”, or “Why did he have a gun?”  Perhaps more painfully, it is unacceptable that he should be brainstorming solutions to the problem, including “Maybe they could just put cement up over the windows and doors in our school so the bad guys can’t get in… then we can all be safe.”

In other words, violence on this scale is unacceptable.

And more to the point, our government’s failure to respond to this national tragedy with comprehensive action would be wholly, unforgiveably unacceptable.

Therefore, I ask that you support and vote for any of the measures or objectives listed in the bullet points above, whether in sub-committee, committee or on the floor.  I ask that you not participate in any dilatory tactics which would prevent such measures for coming up for a vote at any level.  I ask that, if you vote against restrictions on the sale or purchase of semi-automatic firearms or automatic firearms, you provide a detailed explanation of your rationale, as well as disclose any funds received by you or any affiliated campaign from the NRA or groups associated with the NRA.  I call on you personally not to advocate, endorse or actually take a fringe or conspiracy theorist’s position on these critical issues, and as my representative to the Congress, I ask you to behave professionally, and to treat all members of Congress with full respect, whether you believe it is due or not. 

I intend to follow this issue very closely, and will absolutely hold each and every one of my representatives to the government, including you, accountable for their votes on this issue in the next election. 

Thank you for your time,

Kimberly

Just... HOW

December 14, 2012.
11 days before Christmas.
2 days before the end of Hanukkah.
20 children, ages 6 and 7.
6 teachers and administrators.
1 mother.


Gone.  Just... gone.


Was this always a possibility?  I suppose so... I suppose there was nothing before that would prevent a mad man from shooting his way into an elementary school and killing children as they tried to hide behind their teacher.  In fact, it may have been even easier before Columbine, before schools started to lock the doors and install cameras and security systems.  But really, did anyone actually think THIS was a possibility?  Did anyone else out there, despite all of the preparations, really think that this would happen?  Before Sandy Hook, did you ever once say to yourself "yes, well, today could be the day we've been expecting... today could be the day that a classroom full of first graders will be mercilessly shot."  Did you?  Because I didn't.

And yet, here it is.  Apparently, it was possible.  Apparently, we should have thought this could actually happen.

Nate is six years old and in first grade, and until Friday, I had not given more than a passing thought to the notion that he would be in mortal danger at school.  But had he been a student at Sandy Hook, there is a very good chance - indeed, greater than 50% - that he would have been killed.  Killed... but is "killed" even the right word for what was done here?  Maybe "murdered" is better... at least from a legal sense, there is a distinction to be made between a killing and a murder (though certainly, not to the victim's family).  But does "murder" even describe it?  The children were shot multiple times with a high caliber, semi-automatic weapon.  No, not ONE weapon.  Multiple weapons.  Massacred?  Exterminated?  Slaughtered?  What word do you use to describe what was wrought upon the children and their families on that day?  What word captures the terror that those children and teachers must have felt as they faced the man in body armor and two guns?  How do you fully capture the horror of being sprayed with your classmates' blood?  

And grief.  Does the word "grief" even remotely approach what the parents of the children who were slaughtered feel right now?  One news story reported that "the wails of the parents could be heard from outside the room."  Of course they could.  I suspect they still can.  What word adequately describes how you feel when you are told that your six year old has been slaughtered, 11 days before Christmas, 2 days before the end of Hanukkah, in his classroom where we have all - apparently foolishly - presumed he would be safe from such extraordinary harm?  Does the word "cored" hint at the torment?

How do you ascend from the particular level of hell where these parents have been heaved?  How do you bury your child?  How do you stand there while people express their condolences for your loss - the loss of your six or seven year old child!  How do you compose yourself while your child is lowered into the ground?  Forgive my language, but how in the FUCK do you do that?

Maybe they will simply just tell themselves - as so many others are telling them - that they will be okay again someday.  But the truth is that they will never ever be okay again, and they must know that.  Never.  They can't.  They simply can never be fully okay again, the way they were on Thursday, December 13.  Or maybe I simply couldn't.  Maybe the parents in Newtown have a reserve of strength that I am confident I do not.

And the teachers.  The TEACHERS!  The women (and men, I assume), who put their own lives ahead of the children in their classes.  The principal who, upon hearing the window being shot out, raced to confront the man with the guns.  The counselor who followed, hot on the principal's heels.  The teacher who literally shielded children from gunfire as she herself was shot over and over again, who hid half of her class in a closet and lied to the gunman about their whereabouts!  These teachers and administrators were living guardian angels who were simply outgunned.  They and their families cannot be thanked enough, cannot possibly receive enough love and gratitude for their sacrifice.  Again, words can never fully capture the admiration that we as a nation - and I as a parent - feel for what they did.  Words cannot express how hopeful I am that no teacher at Nate's school is ever compelled to do the same, but that if they are so compelled, they act with even half the level of valor as the Sandy Hook teachers and administrators did.

I simply cannot imagine the depth of pain that the parents and families of the victims feel right now, and no amount of writing helps me find words for what has happened.  I cannot bring myself to put words to what has been done here, because it should not have happened.  It should not have been a possibility, and it should never ever be a possibility again.  We should not have to tell our children about the sad, sick man who went into a school and shot people, including children.  We should not have to ask our own children's school administrators what security systems they have in place to slow down a gunman.  We should not have to hope that our children's teachers will serve as human shields in the classroom.  We should not have to have an answer to "why don't they just put concrete over the windows so that no one can get in?"

We should not.

And yet we do.

Because on Friday, December 14, 2012, a man wearing body armor went into a goddamned elementary school with two semi-automatic assault weapons, shot the principal and guidance counselor, then went into two fucking first grade classes and shot as many children as he could as many times as he could before the goddamn coward shot himself in the face.

HOW DO WE DO THIS?

Sandy Hook

It is 9:37 am and your daughter is dead.  You don’t know that yet, though, not at this point, but in years to come, you will obsess about the time, obsess about what you were doing at 9:37 am, obsess about where you were, where she was, the wild chasm between your experiences at that moment, and it will feel as though you should have known, should have acted, should have been able to act.  You will feel as though you could have stopped it.

But you couldn’t have.

There is nothing you could have done because the reality – the unchangeable reality – is that sometime earlier that morning, a man walked into her school with two guns.  To the media, the type of the guns will matter; they will say something about the man who shot and killed your daughter.  For a moment, you may think it matters.  You may think it matters why he did what he did, what happened in his life that made him go into her school with two guns.  But it doesn’t, and it never really will.  All that will ever really matter is that he walked into the school with two guns, walked into her classroom and opened fire.  All that will ever matter to you ever again is that he shot and killed your daughter.

You, of course, were not with her at that moment.  You were in a meeting, discussing project budget forecasts or headcounts or something else that is, ultimately, comparatively, inconsequential.  You might have seen a text message come in from a number you didn’t recognize and turned your phone face down in that meeting, not realizing that it was the mass-text-alert from the school advising parents that the school was on lock-down.  You will check your email and messages to try to piece together the timeline, figure out what slide you were on in the presentation at that very moment.  Did a news alert pop up on your screen, only for you to quickly close it, embarrassed that it interrupted your presentation – the presentation that you worked for days to put together?  Did you ignore the message that you could have saved her? 

You will ask yourself these questions over and over and over again.  You will assume everyone else is asking them as well.

You will imagine what it must have been like for her, that moment before she was shot, before she was killed.  You will see it in your dreams, and when you close your eyes during the day.  You will hear her screams even though you never really heard them, and don’t even really know if she did scream.  Your body will convulse as hers must have when you hear the gun shot in your head.  You will weep with your closest friends as you wonder aloud whether she saw him as he prepared to shoot her.  Did she have any idea what was going on as the gun was aimed at her?  Did she look him in the eye and give him a coy smile, like she would do when the neighbor boy would trail his toy gun on her from his yard?  Or maybe he shot her in the back.  Maybe the fucking coward shot your baby in the back, giving her no chance to plead for her life, no chance to run, no chance to escape.  Maybe he couldn’t stand to look her in the eye as he murdered her.  You will eventually find this out, whether he shot her in the face, in the chest, in the stomach, in the back, but at that moment, at 9:37 am, you have no idea.  You ignorantly believe she is in her music class like she is every other Friday, learning songs about cows or sheep or whatever children her age learn songs about.  You believe she is safe.  And you are wrong.

You will pore over these details in the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and even years to come.  You will lose control of your voice as you tell the story, when you dare to tell the story: there you were, in your meeting or getting your coffee, while the news was just beginning to trickle out that a gunman had entered her school.  You missed the news initially – the end of the quarter was coming up, you know, so you had things you needed to do, important work that others were counting on you to deliver.  She was in music class...  She so loved her music class, so at least at that moment, you knew she was happy.  He went into her classroom, drew his gun and began firing.  You could have done something, if only you’d been there, if only she had been in gym class instead, if only you had seen the message from the school.  You could have left earlier; you could have gotten to the staging area where the children were evacuated sooner; you could have found out your daughter was dead a whole hour before you actually did.  An hour.  A whole hour.  That single hour will ultimately define your life, will make you question whether you could have prevented it from happening, will make you wonder whether she was taken by this madman because you couldn’t get there more quickly.

You will cry yourself to sleep at night because, if only you had listened to her when she said she wanted to stay home from school that day, she would be alive.  Or if you had surprised her with breakfast at McDonald’s, she would be alive.  She loved McDonald’s – even the ones without the Play Places.  Maybe you didn’t really need to be at that meeting, or you could have called in from home.  If you’d stayed home that day, maybe she would have gone into school late or just taken a day at home on the sofa watching movies, and she would be alive.  If only.  If only.  If only.

If only that man had not walked into her school with two guns and opened fire on the children.

If only.

But that is not what happened. 

Instead, it is 9:37 am and your daughter is dead.

Reuniting, and it feels so... what?

I know it's hard to believe, given my incredibly youthful appearance and vibrant joie de vivre, but in a few weeks, I will attend my twenty year high school reunion.  No, that wasn't a typo.  Twenty years.  As in, one year more than nineteen, and one less than twenty one.  Five more than fifteen.  Twenty more than zero.  For those of you out there who are keeping track, this means that I may be slightly older than 25.  But only slightly.

The decision to go to this reunion wasn't an easy one for me.  For a variety of reasons, when I crossed that stage so many years ago at graduation, I promised myself I would walk away (when I was fully able to walk, that is) and not go back.  Kind of like that scene in Aladdin when Jasmine says "I ran away, and I am never going back," except I wasn't running away from a castle and I wasn't sitting on a rooftop with a monkey when I said it.  I was definitely wearing harem pants, though.  It was, after all, the 90s.

Anyway, despite this promise to my seventeen year old self, I decided that I would go.  I did decide, however, that I would not wear harem pants.  So that's progress, right?

To get people excited for the event, our reunion planning committee set up a Facebook page - because even we old people use the Facebooks these days!  Through this page, I've had the chance to reconnect with people a bit in advance, which in some respects takes the surprise out of the reunion but at least for me has gone a long way toward making me feel less nervous.  Thank goodness someone posted pictures from our yearbook (and no, I NEVER thought I would say that), because it has names underneath many of the pictures and has therefore been a godsend to help me figure out who is who!  (Confession to Shawn: I think we emailed a bit around the last reunion and I just kept going along with the discussion, even though I had no recollection of who you are.  I totally know now, not only thanks to being friends with you on FB, but especially now that I've seen that awesome picture of you with the Color Me Badd hair.)

Some interesting stories have come out as well; it seems like time not only heals all wounds, but tolls the statutes of limitations - perhaps not criminally or civilly, but certainly as to embarrassment!  People are outing each other's deepest, darkest secrets, including their long-unrequited crushes.  What I love about these discussions is that everyone is included this time.  In high school, we were all at separate tables in the cafeteria, in separate classes, involved in our own little microsystems, and although just about everyone in our class generally got along, there didn't appear to be a lot of cross-group interaction.  Here, each thread is like one big cafeteria table, with a lot of people ribbing each other and throwing each other under the bus.  It's like one big John Hughes-style house party, and everyone is invited!  And we are all so old!

So far, I haven't brought myself to confess any big deep secrets; I think the biggest disclosure I've made is that I had a crush on the Hazlerig brothers.  But let's be honest: what warm-blooded girl in our school didn't have a crush on Ben and/or Sam at some point?  And it's probably no surprise to anyone who knew me then that I generally liked my teachers.  On this blog, anyway, I've already confessed to a deep-seeded regret that I never pursued a career in the fine art of Vegas tub-sitting.  What more is there?

Oh, there is so much more, mes amis.  SO.  MUCH.  MORE.  Someone once told me that during our four years together in high school, I was a bit of an enigma.  After all, I didn't go to a lot of parties (maybe only a few our senior year), and I hung out with a pretty broad group of people so couldn't necessarily be completely defined by my clique.  This person remembered me mostly for being smart, nice and athletic.  [Yawn.]  In some respects, though, I'm glad this was the impression; I think I'd rather be remembered as something of a vanilla-flavoured-mystery than as a caricature of who I actually was, which was mostly someone who felt conspicuous, out of place, dorky, who didn't know where she fit in, who didn't know how to talk to boys other than what she learned in Seventeen magazine (which, in hindsight, I can confirm was largely inaccurate advice), and who mostly wanted to just get through the whole high school thing unscathed (ha!) and move on with my life.  But let's be honest... it wasn't like ANY of us knew who we actually were back then.  Real life wasn't what was happening in those halls; it's what came after.  High school was the prequel to the real scene.  High school set the stage for who we would eventually become, what we might eventually do, where we might want to go, and how we would turn out - it was the pilot episode to our lives with a "To Be Continued" screen at the end.  (This isn't just me waxing poetic; psychologically speaking, the teenage years are years of development, growth and experimentation, not of completion of self.  Just sayin'.)

So truly, there is so much more to tell... for all of us.  Some of it will be good.  Some of it will be bad.  Some of it will be hilariously embarrassing.  (I'm especially looking forward to hearing those parts!)  But all of it will have been built on the foundation that was laid in the 1980s and early 1990s back in the 'Hall.

See you in October, fellow Rams!

What the f-? (#istandup2cancer)

So I'm here watching Stand Up 2 Cancer, bawling my eyes out, and I think to myself "hey, self, you need to write."  No idea what I need to write, but here I am, typing away as though I know where it's going.

The vignettes with the kids are especially hard to watch.  Have you ever known a child who has been diagnosed with cancer?  I can't say that I have, although I feel certain that I was around them when my mom was teaching.  I definitely knew children who died too young: the first one I remember is Mikey, who was a student at my mom's school.  He died on the school bus.  I think he was maybe 5?  I was around the same age, and remember wondering, "what the f-?"  I mean, I didn't wonder that exactly, but I'm sure it was not all that far off.  I mean, little kids aren't supposed to die.  My nieces' friend shouldn't have died from leukemia.  Kids shouldn't have to say things like "I'm not afraid of passing away."  I knew all of these things even then when Mikey died, and I know it even better now.  Lord, how I know that now that I have a son of my own.  And just the thought of Nate being diagnosed with something potentially fatal... holy crap.  I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

These kids in the video vignettes are so brave.  So freaking brave.  Like, beyond belief.  And their parents!  Don't even get me started on their parents.  Grace.  Calm.  Serenity.  Peace.  I can only assume that they've already (I assume in private) gone through their drunk-off-their-ass-shouting-obscenities-from-the-mountaintop-hating-the-world phase.  Good to know you can come out of it.  I still can't imagine it. [More barf.  Seriously.  How do these people do it?  They clearly are medicated or go to therapy A LOT.]

Alice, my mother in law, died from cancer last year.  Not sure if you all knew that.  She was having trouble swallowing.  It wasn't anything big at first,  and you know, she was one of those super-polite Canadians who doesn't ever want to inconvenience anyone, so who knows how long it bugged her before she went to a doctor about it.  But if I remember correctly, she said it felt like there was something stuck in her throat.  Well, as it just so happens, there was.  A damn cancer was in her esophagus.  Damn.  Cancer.  Can I say it enough?  Damn you, cancer.  Damn you, damn you, damn you.  Damn you straight to hell.  You suck.  Big time.  HUGE.  There Alice was, just minding her own business, busy being one of the most wonderful people I've ever met in my life (and let me be clear, I have been fortunate enough to meet some amazing people in my life), and boom... cancer.  To repeat what I thought when I was a kid and Mikey died: what the f-?

So maybe that's where this post is going: to a big what the f-?  Maybe it's headed to a big no really, someone out there in the world please explain to me how this happens.  A series of questions, like: How in the world does a child get cancer?  Why do children have to be so damn brave?  Why do parents have to watch their children fight and fight and fight and then still die?  Why do wonderful people get diagnosed with horrible, virtually uncatchable, untreatable cancers?  Why do people have to make the decision whether to keep on treating, or whether to simply walk away to die on their own terms?  Can someone out there - someone with faith, someone who believes in God, someone who understands science, someone who understands it - please explain it to me?  And on a side note, why did Komen have to go and screw with Planned Parenthood, so that I and so many other women end up feeling so conflicted about supporting them?  Maybe that one isn't so much part of the bigger questions.  But it's there... at least for me.

While I wait for some answers, I will simply do what I can whenever I can to help.  You have a 5k?  I'll run in it.  My time will suck, but I will be there, and I will wear your t-shirt with pride.  You have a telethon on television?  I'll watch, and I'll donate.  You shakin' a can at the grocery store?  I'll find some money in my purse for you.  Because kids shouldn't have to be brave this way.  Grandmothers shouldn't have to draw the curtains closed on their lives this way.  Parents shouldn't have to cry this way.  And I don't want to throw up in my mouth any more.

I'll Be There

Kind.  Generous.  Talented.  Smart.  Beautiful.  Funny.  Joyous.

She was all these things.

Except for when she wasn't.  As it turns out, she was also sad.  And profoundly so.

Or so I assume, because last week, she ended her own life.

And yet, despite this perhaps little-known fact, there on her Facebook page were so many posts from so many friends and family expressing their extraordinary grief that she was gone, expressing that the world would miss her light, her laughter, her contributions, her presence.

Expressing shock that she died so young.

Expressing that they will miss her smile.

Expressing that she had brought so much to their lives, and they will miss having her there on a daily basis.

Expressing that heaven had received a beautiful angel before her time was truly up on earth.

But interspersed among them were comments encouraging support for those who suffer from depression and mental illness.  Comments about relief, and finally achieving peace.  Was it possible?  Had she really succumbed to the darkness that, whether we want to admit or not, has whispered to virtually everyone at some point or another?  I reached out to another old friend who confirmed my suspicions.  And suddenly, all of those posts took on a new meaning.

Kind.  Generous.  Talented.  Smart.  Beautiful.  Funny.  Joyous.  And so very, very sad.

Looking back at her posts and pictures, could I see the sadness?  Did she reach out for help?  Was there someone she could have called, someone who could have prevented it from happening?  Or was it a fait accompli?  She was, after all, a headstrong and determined woman.

I and so many others who knew her may never know the answer to this question, and no matter how desperate we are to apportion it, there is no place to lay the blame.  Not on her closest friends.  Not on her dearest family.  Nowhere.  Only she could have known, but it is possible that even she couldn't find the words to express what it would have taken to pull her from the precipice, and she may not have wanted anyone to intervene.  There are some who, when the darkness begins to close around them, feel a sense of relief when they finally make the decision to end their lives.  It is possible that she felt a sense of relief - a sense of the weight of the world she had been bearing finally being lifted off of her shoulders, or a sense of peace when she passed into the darkness of death.

It is possible.

It is also possible that she, like her pictures and posts and impressions of so many friends, was truly joyous and that this was a moment of impenetrable, disastrous vulnerability.

In either case, the result is the same.  She is gone.  And we are left to remember her for the kind, generous, talented, smart, beautiful, funny and joyous person she was in her lighter hours.  But in order to honour her life fully, we must also remember her as a complicated, wonderful human being who is perfect in her imperfection, profound in her despair. In the words of Jon McLaughlin, she was a beautiful disaster.  And I for one was glad to have known her.

So it is with a heavy but hopeful heart that I say to all of my friends, all over the world: If you ever feel the darkness closing in, if you ever feel a tugging suspicion that maybe, just maybe, it would be easier or more wise or better to just. let. go, call me.  Call me at any hour, on any day.  Pick up the phone, or send me an email, or fire off a smoke signal, but call me - or find someone, ANYONE to draw to your side.  If I can be there in person, I will be there - holding your hand, pushing the bottle away from your mouth, doing whatever it takes and whatever I can possibly do - to help you find your way back from the ledge.  And I will move heaven and earth to help you find help.  But you have to want it, and I need you to call me, because we cannot always readily see the pain and anxiety in each other's eyes, the scars in each other's souls, the burdens we each bear.  But I WILL BE THERE if you call me - even if you think you don't want me there.  Even if you really DON'T want me there.

Because whether you know it or not, whether you feel it or not, whether you want to believe it or not, you are loved, you are appreciated, and you are valued by at least one person in this world.

I'll be there.  JUST CALL ME.

And.... Scene

It is a story I've told time and time again.  For years, I was unable to get through it without completely falling apart; at some point, I could feign enough distance to spin the tale without spinning out of control.  In dreams and quiet moments during the day, it is the Lifetime Channel psycho-drama-tear-jerker that always seems to be on.  I don't need to watch the whole thing.  I already know the ending.  Or do I?

Open on a girl, distant and distracted in the back seat of a car.  The chatter from the front seat is miles removed from what she sees and hears; she is far away, wondering why she is there, wondering where exactly "there" is, wishing she had stayed home but feeling dimly privileged to have been invited out on this last Saturday of spring break.  She peers ahead and to her left; suddenly, her face flashes alarm.  Something is off.  She yells to the driver to stop but the car accelerates.  Her arms fly up to shield her face.

Impact.

Cut to black.

Nietzche wrote "what does not kill me, makes me stronger."  It's a wonderful ending to the movie, if you can write it that way.  But the loose ends don't always wrap up neatly in a bow at the end of an hour and a half, or even a day, a year, a decade or two decades.  What does not kill me, makes me stronger.  But "stronger" is a relative term.  And what about what does kill... even if only for a few seconds, or a few minutes?  What say you, Nietzche?

Voices above her are frantic, disorganized, panicked.  She opens her eyes, the ground coming into slow focus.  Why is she here?  What happened at that party?  Who are all of these people and why are they staring at her?  She lifts her head and finds a familiar face.  Relief.  She shifts her foot and realizes she is partially on grass, partially on concrete.  She has to get up.  She's embarrassing herself...

For years following the accident, I lived by the rule of carpe diem.  Sieze the day, for I never knew whether another would come.  I would appreciate each moment, savour every experience.  If the moment seemed dull, I would spice it up.  If I am to carpe the diem, it should be a diem worth carpe-ing.  If I am going to wake up on the concrete again, it will be for a reason far more interesting and entertaining than some silly car accident.  If I was going to face down the Reaper again, it was going to be with a smile on my face, and come hell or high water, it was going to be on my terms.

Pushing her hands to the ground, the girl tries to push herself up but crumbles  back to the ground as the strangers standing over her murmur.  Her chest feels like it's on fire.  Confusion and embarrassment give way to terror; she cannot get up.  She touches her face.  Blood.  She tries to straighten her leg, but when the top of her leg moves, her knee and foot remain planted like so much dead weight on the ground.  "Am I going to live?" she asks her friend.  The friend, who is shaken and injured herself, nods yes.  "Will I ever walk again?" 

Silence.

I promised myself that I would never forget the second chance I'd been given by the many doctors, friends and family who helped me.  When did I forget that promise?  When did the gift of survival become just another life lesson that had been learned, tested, then packed away like an old holiday decoration?  

The paramedics arrive and scurry to her side, carring a wooden stabilitizing board.  She begins to cry, because she believes the board means death.  She is shivering; shock has set in.  

Years later, Byron and I turned down a job on a sailing vessel called the Fantome.  With Hurricane Mitch bearing down on our island home of Grand Cayman a few months later, we shuttered the shop, consoled the guests, and bunkered down for what would turn out to be the second most powerful Caribbean hurricane since the 1800s.  Returning to work a few days later, we learned that the Fantome, after trying to outrun the storm, had been lost at sea along with her crew.  All that was ever found was a few life jackets and a portion of a staircase.  How many more reminders did I need that I was lucky to have survived?

"Don't cut my socks off.  They're my father's."

The movie replays itself every day.  (BTW:  World's Worst Netflix Queue EVER.)  Each time, I am torn apart and rebuilt. 

"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

My chest tightens.  My breath quickens.  My throat closes.

"We were finally able to reach your brother."

Over and over again, every single time, a small part of me dies. 

Prom.  Graduation.  Learning to walk again.  Riding a bike.  The first time back on the volleyball court. 

Inhale.

"You've healed remarkably well."

The chasm begins to close. 

She steps out into the sunlight, warmth radiating onto her face.  She closes her eyes and steels herself to move forward, one step at a time. 

Roll credits.

What does not kill me, makes me stronger... eventually.  What does not kill me, makes me me. 

Even twenty years later.

Carpe diem.