I'm at a funeral....

I am at a funeral. It's my cousins but I did not know her that well. When I look around I see many strange faces. Even the faces of the people I know are strange. They are my blood, but the years between visits make things unfamiliar. My cousins name was Delane. She lived in the same town as me. I hadn’t seen her in many years. In December the doctors said she had cancer, and now she's dead.

My mom told me that she sat at her bedside in the hospital and cried. I feel sad for my mom. When I look around the church and I see other people cry I feel sad for them too. Ever since I was a kid it was hard for me to see people cry. I guess I should be crying too but I am not hurting like I should be. I loved my cousin but I didn't really know her.

It's not that I don't have heart, because I do. Everyone knows that I am the one who always cries. It's pathetic. I cry sometimes when I watch movies, even during scenes that I don't think the movies makers intended for people to cry. Sometimes I cry when I watch shows on tv. On my favorite show LOST I probably cried a couple dozen times.

I can usually hide it really well. I angle my face slightly away from whoever is watching with me. I make a fist with one hand, (usually the hand closest to the person) and bring it up to rest my face against, like I was tired or something. And sometimes, if it's a particularly sad scene (like when Sawyer and Juliette meet again at the end of LOST) I will make a coughing sound. That way if someone hears me sniffling, they'll think that I am coming down with a cold, instead of crying.

The sad part is that I knew the characters on the show LOST better than my own cousin. But I guess that’s what time does to relationships sometimes. Not that it's the fault of time, but rather the result of it, sometimes. I've heard that some people don't even speak to their own parents. They grow up and find a career and a family, and they have insurance payments and mortgages and dance lessons, and they get too wrapped up in their own lives to bother in the lives of other people. It's much easier to worry about yourself.

Or maybe it's just that some people are too hard headed. That’s especially true with men I think; too stubborn and too proud. In school I used to fight all the time, and my teachers would often say, “Mike, it takes a bigger man to walk away.” At the time I always thought they were just trying to trick me into not getting into trouble. Now though, I see that there is some truth behind those words. It does take something more, something bigger, to reach out to someone and say, “Just calling to say hi and see how you're doing,” or “Can I help you with something?” or just plain, “I love you.”... I know this because I want to do it all the time, but I am too hard headed.

I am on a stretcher...

I am on a stretcher being pushed through the narrow corridors of the much-too-brightly lit emergency room. My left arm draped over my face covering my eyes. Not from the light, but from my own embarrassment. When kids are embarrassed they cover their eyes, or hide behind someone, and that’s what I feel like, a little kid. It’s weird how men feel embarrassed and ashamed when we get hurt. It’s as if we’ve failed at something… As if we’ve been beaten.


It’s as if the castle walls that have stood for an age guarding our secret truths have been besieged. The mighty stone blocks fixed around us, protecting our child’s heart, cracked. And if someone is paying attention, if someone is looking close enough, they can see that you’re not so tough after all. They can peer through the fracture and see that little boy who cringes wide-eyed in fear in the dark of his bedroom when the adults yell and fight. They can see the teenage boy, smile etched on his face, aglow with the boundless hope that the cute girl at school will feel the same way about him as he does for her… They can see the sorrow on his face when he finds out she doesn’t… she never does.

I have my own room now. My doctor tells me I need an MRI, but my insurance won’t cover it. In the meantime it’s lots of drugs. My mom is there. She always takes care of me when I’m hurt. She loves me and that is comforting. The love moms have for their children is so strong that I think non-moms don’t really understand. My mom used to say to me, “Michael, do you know how much I love you?” And I would reply, “Yes, of course I do mom.” But I really didn’t have a clue. Mom’s love completely transcends understanding. It’s a force, stronger than the pyramids, more powerful than the atom, deeper than the deepest ocean abyss. Mom’s love is life itself.

The doctor sends me home, but instead I go to my grandmas. She will take care of me while I heal. I lay on the bed while my mom takes my shoes off and grandma prepares some lunch. I know I am blessed to have these women in my life, and I vow then that I would rather die a slow painfully agonizing death than to see either of these women spend one day in a nursing home, because people need to be with the people that they love.

It’s something I learned on New Years. After 4 days of non-stop drinking I awoke Sunday morning feeling like death incarnate. I literally felt like I was going to die. I lay alone on the couch. My heart beating so hard I can see my shirt rising and falling with the rhythm. My chest hurt, I couldn’t breathe. None of my family or friends were answering the phone. I began to cry. I stood up and walked down the hall and knocked on Luke’s door. “Luke” I said, “will you come sit with me please?” Luke came out into the living room and sat down with me, and it felt like the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. All of the sudden I felt like everything would be okay… Even If I died, right then and there, at least someone I loved would be there with me.





..To Be Continued…