Monday, May 01, 2006The Unspeakable ThingIt may have been the best night of her life.She had just come home from the cast party of Grease, the middle school production she had danced and sang in. It was a big production, gloriously executed. The mood was exultant. She was giddy with happiness, wearing red lipstick from the party. She had just been accepted to a performing arts high school for next year. The best was still to come. The way I heard it was this: She came home and her mom and step-dad went out. She went to take a bath. In all the excitement she forgot to take her medication. She had a seizure in the tub. And drowned. She was 14. A classmate of my son's. There is no way to soften the horror of this story. No matter what part of it you look at -- the ways it could have been avoided, the horrible proximity of happiness and tragedy, the closeness to home, the feelings the parents must have had, the absolute finality of this young girl's life -- it just gets worse and worse. I learned about this as I was walking down to pick up Chris from school yesterday. I was exhausted from the book festival, woke up shaking and feverish, and called in sick. After sleeping all morning I figured I should force myself to move out of the house. So I leashed the dog and we went down to the middle school. En route, Chris called me and told me what had happened. The mood at the school was diminished, solemn. There was a memorial for her outside the back stage loading door. Chris was red-eyed and serious. We showed Sam to her best friend, who petted him with sadness and loss in her face, her eyes softening as she touched his fur. We then showed Sam to her younger brother, who was allowed a moment away from the reality as he also stroked the dog. Her brother had to go when his dad picked him up. I cannot imagine how any of the parents could have possibly gotten through yesterday, or today . . . or tomorrow. Walking home, Chris said "she'll never have a sweet 16 party." And we both cried on the street corner, wiping our eyes and looking away from each other as though it wasn't happening. Chris and I decided ice cream was in order. We walked up to Rite Aid and found the whole cast of Grease surrounding the ice cream counter. It is a universal truth: ice cream does help. The big group took their ice cream -- some girls eating straight out of the Haagen-Dazs pint carton -- to the park. When we walked by them they were sitting in a circle on the grass, playing some kind of singing game. If you didn't know they had just lost a vital one of their number, you'd think it was a summer camp gathering. And only if you knew the truth would you notice that their demeanor was softer today, their barbs withheld, the boundaries more fluid in grief. While Chris and I walked home I asked him a question. Knowing that life is full of risks, heightened for her because of her condition, was it right for her to do a show? Should she have kept herself safe and protected? Or do you allow risk to enter the picture and hope for the best? Chris said of course she was right to do the school play. Of course you risk it. Even knowing the odds. And I agree. But it's not the easy agreement on this type of discussion that I've had in the past. In this case someone actually died. The worst case scenario happened. Because of a hideous sequence of events, that could happen to anyone. Something like this makes us all change, forces perspective. When I got home I felt compelled to write some words to someone. I needed to say I cared. I needed to get out of the precious protection of aloofness. I needed to risk vulnerability in order to make sure my heart was heard. I wanted to make sure that this person knew that I was in a different place, that life is fragile. That taking any part of it for granted is bound to cause a twinge of pain somewhere down the line, when that thing is broken or lost or gone forever. I wanted to know, within my heart, that I had not taken this new friendship for granted. That it was recognized. Today he dumped me. Today he told me he did not want attachment. That he cannot connect. That this isn't going to be happening. I have cried more today than I did in all of 2004. (2005 was a big year for tears.) The randomness of death, the pain of the revealed heart, the way our dance slices at our entrails as we insist, insist on swaying to the music. The bitter coldness one must feel when turning away from proffered vulnerability. The truncation of a promising young life. The complexity. The rich blood of it all. I desperately want to weave a circle of safety and protection around everyone I love. I want this to go away for Chris and his classmates. I never wanted him to know what a broken heart feels like -- even knowing that as my son he was bound to open, reveal, get hurt. I wish I weren't so good at it myself. And yet this is the price of admission. He has now, first hand, seen how steep it is. Her life was way too short. And yet I agree with Chris. It is better to have the night of your life and forget your meds because of happiness, than it is to play it safe, keep it quiet, and never risk. Rather than staying in the audience and watching from the sidelines, she spent her time fully engaged, giving it her all. And when she went, she went with the applause still ringing in her ears. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 10:22 PM  
Comments: Kathy -- I don't even know this precious soul who lost her life way too early, and yet I'm sitting here in tears as I read your blog. I've always been of the believe that the greatest pain on earth is loss of child. Thank you for putting in words what is all too tremendously painful for many to experience. My heart goes out to you and Chris as well as this young girl's family. Love and Hugs.. LoriAnn # posted by  LoriAnn's Blog : 9:48 PM
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