Lady Norbert (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladynorbert) wrote2008-10-02 09:50 am
ladynorbert) wrote2008-10-02 09:50 am
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Two years ago
Two years ago today, my entire life got turned upside down.
Two years ago, I was summoned from my bed at four in the morning to the emergency room of the local hospital. I remember putting in my contact lenses because I wanted to see clearly; I remember putting on the "greatcoat" because it functions as my modern-day suit of armor and I wanted the protection it could offer my spirit. I remember the wooden tone of my mother's voice on the phone, how she refused to tell me what was wrong, how emphatic she was that Kevin drive.
Later, she would tell me she had no memory of speaking to me at all.
It felt like a long time to get to the hospital, even though I know it wasn't more than five minutes. I remember staring at the lights of the airport as we drove past. I remember not knowing what to tell the triage nurse when she asked why we were there, because I didn't actually know who we were there to see.
And I remember the look in my stepfather's eyes, and how he made sure he had a firm grip on me before he shouldered the burden of telling me that the best friend I'd ever had was gone.
"Fezzik, do you hear that sound? That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when Rugen slaughtered my father."
Two years ago, I finally understood that line.
My husband drove me home in the pale pre-dawn, and I wondered how simple things like sunrises could still be happening. How strangely unfair it seemed that they were allowed to continue.
Pastor asked us, later, how to describe him, how we would remember him.
"He was my hero," I said.
For many months afterward (and I know a lot of you will remember), nothing was right. Least of all me. It was only because of Kevin, and because of some of you, that I got through it with any of my sanity intact, and I'm still not sure how some of the friendships survived. It was hard to find a direction without my compass.
So now here I am, two years later. Still don't know what's going to become of me, really. I'm not who I should be and maybe I never will be that person. But I'm trying. After all, I have a pretty good example to follow.
Two years ago, I was summoned from my bed at four in the morning to the emergency room of the local hospital. I remember putting in my contact lenses because I wanted to see clearly; I remember putting on the "greatcoat" because it functions as my modern-day suit of armor and I wanted the protection it could offer my spirit. I remember the wooden tone of my mother's voice on the phone, how she refused to tell me what was wrong, how emphatic she was that Kevin drive.
Later, she would tell me she had no memory of speaking to me at all.
It felt like a long time to get to the hospital, even though I know it wasn't more than five minutes. I remember staring at the lights of the airport as we drove past. I remember not knowing what to tell the triage nurse when she asked why we were there, because I didn't actually know who we were there to see.
And I remember the look in my stepfather's eyes, and how he made sure he had a firm grip on me before he shouldered the burden of telling me that the best friend I'd ever had was gone.
"Fezzik, do you hear that sound? That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when Rugen slaughtered my father."
Two years ago, I finally understood that line.
My husband drove me home in the pale pre-dawn, and I wondered how simple things like sunrises could still be happening. How strangely unfair it seemed that they were allowed to continue.
Pastor asked us, later, how to describe him, how we would remember him.
"He was my hero," I said.
For many months afterward (and I know a lot of you will remember), nothing was right. Least of all me. It was only because of Kevin, and because of some of you, that I got through it with any of my sanity intact, and I'm still not sure how some of the friendships survived. It was hard to find a direction without my compass.
So now here I am, two years later. Still don't know what's going to become of me, really. I'm not who I should be and maybe I never will be that person. But I'm trying. After all, I have a pretty good example to follow.
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I think you are carrying on your Pop's tradition with flying colors, and he must be SO proud of you. You are as generous and caring, courageous, and resourceful as he must have been, I'm sure of it.
And you are a great, great friend. You make people BETTER.
That's a hell of an accomplishment, and proof--to me--that he is definitely still with you.
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*hug*