So Midwestern

I have spent the last 45 minutes attempting to find the beginning of this story.

I have spend the last 45 minutes trying to find where to start.

This weekend -- one of the worst in my 27 years -- will take more than 45 minutes of deliberation.

I will write about this weekend. But I am uncertain that words, simple language, can tell the story of this weekend.

There are snapshots that I will always remember. That will always haunt me. There are places that will never feel the same. And my family will never again be the family that it was a week ago.

When I imagined myself getting married, I imagined Aunt Marie writing the calligraphy on the invitations.

It is going to take a long time for me to let that thought go.

It is going to take me a long time to let her go.

Labels: bummers, family

I spoke at my grandma’s funeral.

I spoke on behalf of her grandchildren. I spoke about her life, not her death. I made people smile. It is one moment – couldn’t have lasted even five minutes – in my life that I’m truly proud of. I am not a public speaker. I wasn’t scared. I spoke at my grandma’s funeral because I felt that I needed to.

I want to speak at Aunt Marie’s funeral.

I haven’t offered.

I’m struggling with whether I want to (because it would be nice to do) or am compelled to (because I have something real and meaningful and appropriate to say).

I don’t think that I should do it – if I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t want to stand up there and make a meaningless gesture. I want it to be real. I want it to be genuine. I want it to be a fitting tribute to Aunt Marie.

I need to feel compelled.

I don’t know that I am compelled. I don’t know if I have that preverbal fire in my belly. I want to. But I’m afraid of forcing it.

I don’t know if I have anything to say.

That’s not true. I have things to say. I just don’t know if they’re the right things. I don’t know if I can put them together coherently.

I have ideas. I have pieces. I doubt my ability to quilt the pieces together. I want to write something beautiful. Something worthy of my Aunt Marie. I want something sweet, simple, short. Something perfectly her.

What I wrote for my grandma’s funeral I wrote late, late at night the day before her funeral. I had already offered.

Do I offer? Offer and take the chance that I won’t find the right words?

Do I not? Trust my doubt? Chance feeling guilty for not stepping up?

I can’t decide. I don’t know. The funeral won’t be like my grandma’s. It will be more religious – held at her church. Maybe it isn’t appropriate. Maybe I’ll be stepping on Anna and Emma’s toes.

This decision shouldn’t be so hard.

And I shouldn’t be making it. Because my aunt shouldn’t be dead.

She shouldn’t be dead.

Labels: bummers, family

I should be sleeping.

I'm at Mom and Dad's. I could have gone back to my apartment last night. But I'm pretty sure that it is better for Mom to have Meg and me here at the house.

My head is pounding.

My stomach is knotted.

And it is raining outside. Which seems appropriate.

Everything about last night was so surreal. When Meg called me, I could barely comprehend what she was telling me. I stood in my apartment. I just stood there. I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to go. I blogged. I paced. I called Lucy and Ashley and my cousin, Liz, because I didn't know what the hell else to do.

I made it back to Mom and Dad's. Collected Meg. Hugged the puppies. Drove to my aunt and uncle's house.

Mom met us outside of the house. I stood there, with my arms wrapped around my mom and my sister, listening to the sound of my tears mix with the sound of Meg's tears mix with the sound of Mom's tears. And that is when it started to feel real.

Except that it doesn't.

I saw her on Sunday. I. Saw. Her. On. Sunday. We ate cherry cobbler. I picked out my Christmas present. That book on her kitchen counter? I gave it to her to read. Not to leave behind when she died.

Emma is home from college. My uncle is home from hunting. Anna flies in from NYC tomorrow. My grandma seems so tiny. My grandpa seems broken. My dad is so tenderly sad. "I hate that she's alone tonight," he said, speaking of Aunt Marie's body.

My mom never tried to hide the reality. It was incredibly unlikely, with her diabetes, that Aunt Marie would live to an average old age. She told me that. More than once.

You may know. But you're never prepared. Never ready for the phone call telling you that your baby sister is dead.

Labels: bummers, family

Oh my God.

My Aunt Marie died today.

Oh my God.

I just saw her on Sunday. She said she was feeling better than she had. We went shopping. She was silly. Teasing my Grandma.

My uncle was out of town. Hunting.

My grandma tried to call. When Aunt Marie didn't answer, she drove over there. And she found her youngest child dead.

Fuck. This fucking sucks.

Labels: bummers, family

I'm going to see The Groomsman later this month.

There will be alcohol and dim lights. I have high hopes.

Like -- maybe there was a reason it didn't work out last time. Maybe I needed the summer to see how worthless pining over The Athlete is. And time to get a job. A grow up a little bit. And maybe The Groomsman needed time to stew in my aura of awesomeness. To kick himself for not making a move at the wedding.

I'm probably setting myself up for disappointment.

I saw him. A few weeks ago. It was so uneventful that I didn't even blog about it.

Here's what you should know about that night: Michigan football lost (this, unfortunately, should not shock you) and I looked darling.

And so, so little happened that I -- with my advanced degree in Analyzing Insignificant Details -- couldn't even muster up part of that evening to write about.

Still, I maintain high hopes.

This time I'll let myself out of my shell. This time I'll do everything right. This time it will work out how it was supposed to. This time we'll have a chance.

Chance.

A game of luck.

I'm putting all of this anticipation and preparation on probability.

And I'm buying myself a new outfit.

Labels: boys

For my birthday, Mom bought me the newest Post Secret book: Confessions on Life, Death, and God.

I devoured it.

In Confessions on Life, Death, and God, Frank Warren, the creator of the Post Secret project, wrote an essay recounting a conversation with a stranger.

The stranger told Frank of a seminar he attended. The seminar leader picked this stranger out of the crowd. He pulled him on stage, in front of the hundreds in attendance, and asked him to tell the group one thing about himself that nobody else in the room had in common with him.

He gave the room his birth date. Hands shot up. He was not the only person in the room born on July 3.

He gave the room other facts -- he takes tae kwon do, is writing a novel, the street he lives on -- for everything he revealed, there was someone else in the room who shared the trait.

He admitted that he was essentially homeless, living with his sister. A hand shot up in the room. "I'm living with my brother."

It became clear, standing on the stage, that there are no strangers.

That is what the Post Secret project feels like to Frank Warren.

That is what blogging feels like to me. Like a hundred hands in the air. Understanding for every joy and pain, triumph, humiliation and overreaction. Like I am never, ever alone.

Today marks my fifth year of blogging. I can honestly say that I don't know what I would do or who I would be without this blog.

And I can honestly say that, without readers, I never would have kept it up. Without readers, this blog never would have had a chance to make it five years.

Thanks, everyone. Thanks for reading once. Or every day. Thanks for commenting. Or not. Thanks for reading - even if it was only a sentence.

You've changed my life.

Labels: blogging

My parents, talking about buying/replacing furniture. I was in the next room.

Dad: "...you want to keep it so your little grandchildren can sleep on it in the future."

Mom: "...at this rate..."

Maybe I'm being a little sensitive, parents, but I feel as though conversations that revolve around my barren uterus should be whispered. For my sake. And for the sake of my rotting eggs.

Labels: family