Recently, I have been meeting a lot of new people. It happens when you start a new job or move to a new place - both of which have happened in my life this month. People, I've noticed, really like to dig deeply into one another's lives as soon as possible. I like to think it is because they want to get to know the "real you," but sometimes... sometimes I think it might have to do with the basic human need to know everything. We're naturally curious, which is a good thing. Sometimes, though, I wish people were less curious about my life. I am generally very reserved; I don't like sharing every facet of my life with strangers I meet. When I do share Serious Things, it is usually with the people I care about most.
Today, though, I have been in something of a pensive mood. I blame, perhaps, the fact I am teaching about authenticity in my honors English classes. My students are probing what makes an authentic identity and how we can see the boundaries of falsehood in our own lives. And it got me thinking about how much of a liar I really am.
You see, when people ask me if I have any siblings I lie. I tell them I am an only child. Which, for fifteen years, was true. My parents were never able to have any other children, and I spent most of my formative years solo. In many ways, being an only child was good for me. My imagination filled in the gaps left by a lack of friends, and I was never short on ways to keep myself busy as a child. I did not have to share my parents with anyone else, and they were able to help me navigate the treacherous waters of being disabled without shortchanging any of my siblings. I was even able to develop fantastic relationships with both of my parents, because I was able to spend so much time one-on-one with both of them. My parents were, for most of my life, my only real friends.
When I was fifteen, my parents adopted a little boy named Philip. He was ten, and he genuinely looked like an angel with his big dark eyes and soft blond hair. I was so excited. All my life, I had prayed and prayed to have a little brother or sister. I knew that I would take good care of them - that I'd be the perfect older sister. I promised God that I would protect them from bad mistakes, be their friend, and never pick fights with them - if only He'd let me have just one sibling of my own. It was, for many years, what I wished for every birthday when I blew out my candles.
But Philip was not the sibling my tender heart had dreamed of.
On the rare occasion I own up to having a brother, I preface it with, "I have a sibling, legally speaking, but I don't really claim him." Before any sort of association can even begin, I try to cut ties with him. It makes me uncomfortable to even think of him as my sibling. He might share my last name, but does that really make him my brother? You can see how I split hairs on the subject. I often follow up my distanced introduction with an explanation of how messed up Phillip (as he now spells his name) really is: "He has a laundry list of issues so long I can't even name them all. You know, schizophrenic, bipolar, fetal alcohol syndrome, sociopath..." Most people respond with genuine concern, and some even go far enough to proclaim that they understand my hesitance to claim him. After all, who would want a monster for a brother?
Whenever I read the New Testament, I struggle with all of the references to brothers. Matthew 5:22 is particularly aggravating: "But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire." It bothers me so much because ... I have spoken contemptuously of my brother, and I have very openly called him an idiot, fool, and a waste of space. In fact, one of my favorite rants (for a time) was that the entire world would be better off if my brother were dead. Sometimes I still go off on that rant.
Yep.
It has taken a lot of work to be able to even begin to come to terms with Phillip. My feelings about him didn't just appear, fully formed and unfounded, one night while I slept. He legitimately caused a lot of issues in our home. My best friends, my parents, suddenly weren't there for me when I needed them the most. I spent several years in an abusive relationship because I felt like my parents were too busy dealing with a psychotic son to need to be bothered with my "little" problems. Phillip also did everything he could do to destroy my parents' marriage: Every night he would try and turn them on each other. Our home literally became a battleground. I felt homeless. It got to the point where I lived each day thinking, "Today I'm probably going to die. And I don't know if anyone will notice." He tried to kill me on multiple occasions, we celebrated my sixteenth birthday him trying to beat my mother to death, and he still haunts my nightmares.
But.
I have come to realize that he is still my brother. His mistakes - his choices - will come back to haunt him some day. It may not be until he stands before the seat of God facing judgement at the end of time, but eventually Phillip will realize the damage he has done. But those mistakes do not make him any less my brother. The important thing I've learned is that ... I can love him as I love any son or daughter of God, but I do not have to let him into the inner sanctum of my heart. I let him in there once, and he ravaged the depths of my soul with the outpourings of his demons. But he is still my brother. I should not - cannot - hate him. If I do, I am no better than he is.
So, I have a brother. His name is Phillip. He's five years younger than me, and I love him (to a point). Right now he's trying to get a job and be a productive citizen, which is progress for him. He's got a lot of demons, and we've got a lot of bad blood between us. But, I hope some day he'll get his life figured out. I just don't talk about him because it hurts too much. He was supposed to be my ally, my friend, my little brother... but instead he was a nightmare made real. And I've never really bounced back from that disappointment. I hope, with all of my heart, that my children never experience what I have gone through. I hope that their siblings are everything I did not have, and I hope they cherish the relationships they have with one another.
If you have a sibling, be grateful for them. I know you may fight and have days where you just can't understand why they'd do something you think is so stupid, but ... they're still yours. When your parents die, whose shoulder are you going to cry on? When you have your first child, who comes to the blessing? When you feel alone or need help, who do you call - knowing they will answer? Ten cents says it's your siblings. I wish I had that.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Ichthyosis: Stupid They May Say
When I was younger, I did not really like to participate in sports. Running often left me overheated, football was a series of painful scrapes, and horseback riding rubbed the insides of my thighs raw. I had always dreamed of fencing - even with my physical limitations. There was something in the perceived elegance of sword fighting that I could not resist. And, let's be honest, being able to use a sword was just plain awesome. In junior high, I met a boy who was part of the local fencing club. He convinced me to drop past and see what a typical evening was like. I agreed to come past that Saturday, which just happened to be the day after the fifth Harry Potter book was released. So, I hauled myself, my best friend Kylie, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to the fencing club that Saturday morning. I fell even more in love with the sport than ever.
Eventually, my parents agreed to let me give fencing a try. When I showed up for my first lesson, the coach - a brilliant woman named Julie - took one look at me and frowned. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. I assured her that I would know if I was pushing myself too far and that I would be fine. I was lying through my teeth, of course, but I did not care. I had to give it a try. The first lesson was pretty basic: How to move like a fencer. Amy, one of the few women in the club, showed me the strange, squating stance used throughout the fencing world. I sank down into it, and she was confused. Rather than standing flat on my feet, I was perched up on the balls of me feet - more like a ballet dancer than a fencer. She ordered me to be flat-footed, but it turned out to be a hopeless struggle. My skin has always made it difficult for me to even walk flat-footed, so I will often just walk up on my toes. This phenomenon is relatively common among people with EHK, some even call it the velociraptor gait. My strange fencing stance earned a lot of comment from the other fencers, and I even earned the name "Jackrabbit" for the way I would bounce around on my toes. After the lesson, Julie fixed me with her eagle eye. "So, you want to come back?" she asked. Without hesitation, I told her I would be back the next week.
Fencing presented almost more challenges than I knew how to deal with. Heat became my number one enemy, since the thick kevlar armor all but roasted me alive. I quickly developed a system of soaking the back of my jacket's neck and carrying two bottles of gatoraid to each practice, which worked well enough. During the summer, I would even sneak an ice pack under my chest protector, just to keep me extra cool. If nothing else, I became very sneaky. Another challenge was the friction. When a fencer would hit me with the tip of their weapon, sometimes it would create enough friction that my skin would simply slough off. My skin does this instead of bruising, kind of as a deflective mechanism. More often than not, I wouldn't even notice how many hits had peeled off my skin until the end of the night when I took my jacket off. Sometimes, after a particularly brutal bout, my arms would be a series of cuts - sometimes even my legs and chest falling victim to the same treatment. Competitions proved even more exciting, though, since the fencers I came against were no aware of my skins peculiarities. During a team match, one fencer hit my arm with particular vigor (by accident). I shook it off and the match resumed. For some reason, the other fencer was incredibly distracted, and I easily won the match. When I went to unhook my weapon, though, I looked down at my arm. The entire sleeve was soaked with blood. My coach and teammates rushed over to me, asking if I was alright or needed a doctor. Carefully, I stripped off my jacket and looked at the five inch gash running up my arm. "It's fine," I said. "Just a scratch." Without looking back, I walked into the bathroom, washed off my arm and the jacket, and returned to the match. Every time I went up to fence that day, my opponents treated me like I was made of glass.
Ultimately, fencing was one of the best and worst decisions I made, growing up. When I finished my three year fencing career, I was in peak physical condition and could fit into size six clothing. I had loved the challenge of it, but ... after a time I had realized it was taking up too much of my life. Forty to sixty hours a week fencing was preventing me from working on my schoolwork like I needed to, especially since I was entering my final year of high school and wanted to get into college. And, realistically, it was taking a toll on my health. The fencing equipment would need frequent cleaning, otherwise I would catch a staph infection or some other illness. If someone came to the club sick, I was the first person to catch whatever they had.
Taking on sports when you have a disability really is a fantastic challenge. If you ever look at a sport and say "I wish I could do that" I would suggest trying it. You never know what might happen or whose mind you might change.
Eventually, my parents agreed to let me give fencing a try. When I showed up for my first lesson, the coach - a brilliant woman named Julie - took one look at me and frowned. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. I assured her that I would know if I was pushing myself too far and that I would be fine. I was lying through my teeth, of course, but I did not care. I had to give it a try. The first lesson was pretty basic: How to move like a fencer. Amy, one of the few women in the club, showed me the strange, squating stance used throughout the fencing world. I sank down into it, and she was confused. Rather than standing flat on my feet, I was perched up on the balls of me feet - more like a ballet dancer than a fencer. She ordered me to be flat-footed, but it turned out to be a hopeless struggle. My skin has always made it difficult for me to even walk flat-footed, so I will often just walk up on my toes. This phenomenon is relatively common among people with EHK, some even call it the velociraptor gait. My strange fencing stance earned a lot of comment from the other fencers, and I even earned the name "Jackrabbit" for the way I would bounce around on my toes. After the lesson, Julie fixed me with her eagle eye. "So, you want to come back?" she asked. Without hesitation, I told her I would be back the next week.
Fencing presented almost more challenges than I knew how to deal with. Heat became my number one enemy, since the thick kevlar armor all but roasted me alive. I quickly developed a system of soaking the back of my jacket's neck and carrying two bottles of gatoraid to each practice, which worked well enough. During the summer, I would even sneak an ice pack under my chest protector, just to keep me extra cool. If nothing else, I became very sneaky. Another challenge was the friction. When a fencer would hit me with the tip of their weapon, sometimes it would create enough friction that my skin would simply slough off. My skin does this instead of bruising, kind of as a deflective mechanism. More often than not, I wouldn't even notice how many hits had peeled off my skin until the end of the night when I took my jacket off. Sometimes, after a particularly brutal bout, my arms would be a series of cuts - sometimes even my legs and chest falling victim to the same treatment. Competitions proved even more exciting, though, since the fencers I came against were no aware of my skins peculiarities. During a team match, one fencer hit my arm with particular vigor (by accident). I shook it off and the match resumed. For some reason, the other fencer was incredibly distracted, and I easily won the match. When I went to unhook my weapon, though, I looked down at my arm. The entire sleeve was soaked with blood. My coach and teammates rushed over to me, asking if I was alright or needed a doctor. Carefully, I stripped off my jacket and looked at the five inch gash running up my arm. "It's fine," I said. "Just a scratch." Without looking back, I walked into the bathroom, washed off my arm and the jacket, and returned to the match. Every time I went up to fence that day, my opponents treated me like I was made of glass.
Ultimately, fencing was one of the best and worst decisions I made, growing up. When I finished my three year fencing career, I was in peak physical condition and could fit into size six clothing. I had loved the challenge of it, but ... after a time I had realized it was taking up too much of my life. Forty to sixty hours a week fencing was preventing me from working on my schoolwork like I needed to, especially since I was entering my final year of high school and wanted to get into college. And, realistically, it was taking a toll on my health. The fencing equipment would need frequent cleaning, otherwise I would catch a staph infection or some other illness. If someone came to the club sick, I was the first person to catch whatever they had.
Taking on sports when you have a disability really is a fantastic challenge. If you ever look at a sport and say "I wish I could do that" I would suggest trying it. You never know what might happen or whose mind you might change.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Ichthyosis: Oceanic Misadventures
Living with my skin disorder can be a bit exciting, particularly when I go on vacation. This past week, for instance, my dad and my friend Kylie went with me down to the Gulf of Mexico. I had never been, even though I've lived only four hours away from it for the past two years. The ocean has never been one of my favorite things (or any large body of water, for that matter), mainly because I have this talent for nearly drowning. For instance, when I was about ten I managed to get caught in an undertow when the water was only up to my knees. If someone were not standing right beside me at the time, I would've been sucked out to sea. Fun, right?
One of my biggest concerns when I travel, though, are the germs. After standing in the Gulf, for instance, one of the first things I wanted to do was wash off my legs. Not only was I unhappy about the sand getting into the crevices of my skin, but I was terrified that I was going to sick. I have caught illnesses from being in the water before, though it more often happens in places like pools or lakes. There were no water spigots on the beach, though, so I had to wait until I got home. The first thing I did when I got inside, though, was hop in the tub and wash off my legs. I think people don't realize how frightening water can be, but most of the worst illnesses I've caught have been waterborne. Scary stuff.
One of my biggest concerns when I travel, though, are the germs. After standing in the Gulf, for instance, one of the first things I wanted to do was wash off my legs. Not only was I unhappy about the sand getting into the crevices of my skin, but I was terrified that I was going to sick. I have caught illnesses from being in the water before, though it more often happens in places like pools or lakes. There were no water spigots on the beach, though, so I had to wait until I got home. The first thing I did when I got inside, though, was hop in the tub and wash off my legs. I think people don't realize how frightening water can be, but most of the worst illnesses I've caught have been waterborne. Scary stuff.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
The Missing Link
When people give me funny looks in the grocery store or whisper behind my back, I don't think much of it. Not anymore, at least. Growing up with a rare skin condition makes life, well, different. I would imagine few of you have had people take one look at you and declare, "You have no right to live." Sadly, I have had people do that to me. Not the best experience in the world, but not the worst either. I look at my skin as an opportunity rather than a curse, which has made it a lot easier to live with.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with me (or my skin), let me give you the "debriefing." I have a genetic condition called ichythosis. Or, rather, I have a form of it called epidermolytic hyperkeratosis. To give you an idea of what my skin looks like, here is a little video I made during undergrad introducing my skin.
This month is very exciting for me, because it is Ichthyosis Awareness Month. What this means is that people all around the world are going to celebrate and share their stories about living with ichthyosis. Awesome, right? I am going to try to get on board as much as I can. Unfortunately, due to graduation and moving 1800 miles this month, I won't be able to participate in the fundraisers and such going on around the country. But, I wanted to do what I could to help. So, each day I am going to try to write a blog post sharing an experience, however short, related to my skin disorder. For instance, tomorrow I am going to tell you about what it's like to teach with ichthyosis. I am going to try to do this all through May. Fingers crossed!
My story for today is going to be very short: The only time I got a sunburn. All my life, I have marveled at people who have turned various shades of red when left out in the sun for too long. From the lobsters to the blushers, I was fascinated that their skin changed color - that they could burn. I had never, in all my life, experienced anything remotely like it. My skin disorder makes it so I can't burn: it's too thick. One week, though, I spent almost all my waking hours outside. As usual, I did not use sunscreen - never have, since my skin doesn't allow uv rays to go deep enough to be a problem. At the very end of the week, I looked in the mirror and noted (with pleasure) that the very tip of my nose was a bright pink. I had burned! (Almost.) It was my very first sunburn, and I was proud of it. All that next week I showed people my burn, even as it faded away. I've still yet to burn again, and part of me is somewhat grateful for that. After all, sunburns sure look painful!
For those of you who are unfamiliar with me (or my skin), let me give you the "debriefing." I have a genetic condition called ichythosis. Or, rather, I have a form of it called epidermolytic hyperkeratosis. To give you an idea of what my skin looks like, here is a little video I made during undergrad introducing my skin.
This month is very exciting for me, because it is Ichthyosis Awareness Month. What this means is that people all around the world are going to celebrate and share their stories about living with ichthyosis. Awesome, right? I am going to try to get on board as much as I can. Unfortunately, due to graduation and moving 1800 miles this month, I won't be able to participate in the fundraisers and such going on around the country. But, I wanted to do what I could to help. So, each day I am going to try to write a blog post sharing an experience, however short, related to my skin disorder. For instance, tomorrow I am going to tell you about what it's like to teach with ichthyosis. I am going to try to do this all through May. Fingers crossed!
My story for today is going to be very short: The only time I got a sunburn. All my life, I have marveled at people who have turned various shades of red when left out in the sun for too long. From the lobsters to the blushers, I was fascinated that their skin changed color - that they could burn. I had never, in all my life, experienced anything remotely like it. My skin disorder makes it so I can't burn: it's too thick. One week, though, I spent almost all my waking hours outside. As usual, I did not use sunscreen - never have, since my skin doesn't allow uv rays to go deep enough to be a problem. At the very end of the week, I looked in the mirror and noted (with pleasure) that the very tip of my nose was a bright pink. I had burned! (Almost.) It was my very first sunburn, and I was proud of it. All that next week I showed people my burn, even as it faded away. I've still yet to burn again, and part of me is somewhat grateful for that. After all, sunburns sure look painful!
Friday, March 29, 2013
You Are My Sunshine
When I was a little girl, I remember going to my great grandmother's house. I would play among the rows and rows of irises - pretending I was a princess or a fairy or even the hero of my own story. Sometimes I would crawl through the hole in the fence and play under the pine trees in the neighbor's yard, and Dick Christofferson would frequently humor my proclamation that his trees were the perfect fort. Most of all, though, I remember my grandfather and my great grandfather.
My great grandfather, Merlin "Jay" Hunt was one of the most interesting men you could ever hope to meet. He traveled the world (taking his eight children and wife with him) and went on the most amazing adventures. I frequently tell my friends that Great Grandpa Hunt had to be the inspiration for Secondhand Lions, because Hub's story is so much like his. As a young man, Grandpa Hunt was known as "The Arab" while in Egypt. He had become so tanned while in the desert that he appeared to be more native than American. One day, dressed in the older style of uniform, he went into a city. The native soldiers saluted him, and one of the men my great grandfather was with jokingly said, "They think you're one of them." After that, the nickname of The Arab stuck. My great grandfather also helped design airplanes - some of which I have had the chance to see in person. He loved to tell stories about them and about flying. But those are not what I remember most about him. I remember going to visit him in Bountiful, spending the entire afternoon listening to him tell stories and listening to him play. Three of his most prized possessions were his guitars, which included one of the original thirteen electric guitars. Two songs were a given any time we came to see him: "The Big Rock Candy Mountains" and "You Are My Sunshine." In many ways, I think he liked "The Big Rock Candy Mountains" because it was both funny and a little wicked - much like him. He would sometimes pretend to forget the lyrics, just to make me sing along with him, and he'd always smile so big when I would join in.
"You Are My Sunshine," though, is ... really special to me. One Thanksgiving - the last time he came down to my grandmother's house for a holiday - Great Grandpa Hunt got all of the great grandkids, the grandkids, and his kids together. We sat in a big circle and sang "You Are My Sunshine" together. At that moment, I knew we would always be a family... that some day we would be able to sit like that again. After that, I went home and learned all of the other verses, just so I could sing it with Grandpa Hunt the next time I saw him. His condition got worse after that Thanksgiving, but I was able to see him again. We sat down together, and he played as long as he could for my dad and me - we'd gone to see Grandpa Hunt together. And Grandpa Hunt asked me to sing for him. So, I sang him all the verses of "You Are My Sunshine" while he played for me. He told me he was so proud of me, that he was so proud of my singing; I can't even think about that conversation without bawling. His hands quickly became tired, though, and he could not play all of his usual songs. But, we sat and talked for hours - mainly about his adventures and also about fantasy books. He even lent me Robin McKinley's The Blue Sword, because he and I shared similar tastes in books. I never got the chance to return the book to him, because he passed away before I got the chance. I lost him just after my first semester in college, and I was devastated. My great grandfather is my friend, and I can't wait to be able to sing with him again some day.
When my Grandpa Bruce became sick, I did not know how to handle the news. I'd lost people before in my life, but I had never faced watching them die. He tried to stay upbeat - frequently pretending to be less tired than he really was - and he hated to see me sad. Often, he and I would sit and just .. talk. I loved the sound of his voice - right down to his frequent interjection of "and that" between words (a subconscious tick). Just before I started college, he and my grandmother recorded messages for me on the digital recorder my mom bought me for lectures.... Messages I still have saved, because I can listen to it when I miss him. He was so proud of me for going on to college; Grandpa would always tell me that I was just so, so smart. He always believed that I was going to do amazing things and would always brag to anyone who'd listen about me. But ... more than my brain, Grandpa really loved my singing voice. Any chance he got, he would talk me into singing for him. He loved asking me to sing his favorite hymns, like "Because I Haven Been Given Much" and "God Be With You Til We Meet Again," and always asked me to record a cd for him. During my first semester of college, I finally had access to the right technology and recorded four songs for him, including one I had written for him and my father, which I called "Nephi's Psalm." Grandma told me he loved to play it (even though it wasn't nearly the quality I wanted it to be). I was glad I got it to him in time - I would have always regretted it, if I hadn't.
As his condition got worse, it was so hard to watch him fade away. There would be times where you would be talking to him and he would just forget who you were or he'd suddenly fall asleep. The last time I spoke to him before he was placed in the home, we were talking and he suddenly forgot himself. We were alone together - everyone else was out of the room - so I sang those two songs for him. I didn't know what else to do. As I was singing, our eyes met and it was my grandpa looking back at me. I started to cry, and I couldn't stop. He held out a hand to me, which shook, and I clung to it with all I had. I knew he was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. I was going to lose one of my best friends. But I knew without a doubt that he loved me with all of his heart. When he passed away that March, I was asked to sing at the funeral. Grandpa wanted me to sing his song for him, and I never could have refused that request. Singing that day, I could feel his love surround me, and I was filled with the deepest longing to go home. I was not sad that my grandfather was dead... I just missed him with all of my heart. I still miss him. He was not able to see me graduate from college, my kids (if I ever have any) won't meet him, and he'll never get to interrogate my future spouse. But, I know he and Grandpa Hunt are with me. And I know I will see them both again, so long as I make the right choices. When I sing, though, I feel that much closer to them. I know they're both listening.
So today, five years after the loss of both Grandpa Hunt and Grandpa Bone, I want to leave you with something special. This video includes the message my grandfather recorded for me and the version of his song I'd recorded for him before his death. Please forgive the poor quality - someday I hope to restore them both to something better.
I just want to add my testimony to my grandpa's: I know God lives, I know the church is true, and I know we all have the ability to be with our families for time and all eternity, if we live worthily. I want to live each day in such a way that I will be with my family again, so we can sit in a great big circle and sing together. It's a work in progress, but hope keeps me going. There are no words to express my gratitude for the Gospel of Jesus Christ - without it I would be lost. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
My great grandfather, Merlin "Jay" Hunt was one of the most interesting men you could ever hope to meet. He traveled the world (taking his eight children and wife with him) and went on the most amazing adventures. I frequently tell my friends that Great Grandpa Hunt had to be the inspiration for Secondhand Lions, because Hub's story is so much like his. As a young man, Grandpa Hunt was known as "The Arab" while in Egypt. He had become so tanned while in the desert that he appeared to be more native than American. One day, dressed in the older style of uniform, he went into a city. The native soldiers saluted him, and one of the men my great grandfather was with jokingly said, "They think you're one of them." After that, the nickname of The Arab stuck. My great grandfather also helped design airplanes - some of which I have had the chance to see in person. He loved to tell stories about them and about flying. But those are not what I remember most about him. I remember going to visit him in Bountiful, spending the entire afternoon listening to him tell stories and listening to him play. Three of his most prized possessions were his guitars, which included one of the original thirteen electric guitars. Two songs were a given any time we came to see him: "The Big Rock Candy Mountains" and "You Are My Sunshine." In many ways, I think he liked "The Big Rock Candy Mountains" because it was both funny and a little wicked - much like him. He would sometimes pretend to forget the lyrics, just to make me sing along with him, and he'd always smile so big when I would join in.
"You Are My Sunshine," though, is ... really special to me. One Thanksgiving - the last time he came down to my grandmother's house for a holiday - Great Grandpa Hunt got all of the great grandkids, the grandkids, and his kids together. We sat in a big circle and sang "You Are My Sunshine" together. At that moment, I knew we would always be a family... that some day we would be able to sit like that again. After that, I went home and learned all of the other verses, just so I could sing it with Grandpa Hunt the next time I saw him. His condition got worse after that Thanksgiving, but I was able to see him again. We sat down together, and he played as long as he could for my dad and me - we'd gone to see Grandpa Hunt together. And Grandpa Hunt asked me to sing for him. So, I sang him all the verses of "You Are My Sunshine" while he played for me. He told me he was so proud of me, that he was so proud of my singing; I can't even think about that conversation without bawling. His hands quickly became tired, though, and he could not play all of his usual songs. But, we sat and talked for hours - mainly about his adventures and also about fantasy books. He even lent me Robin McKinley's The Blue Sword, because he and I shared similar tastes in books. I never got the chance to return the book to him, because he passed away before I got the chance. I lost him just after my first semester in college, and I was devastated. My great grandfather is my friend, and I can't wait to be able to sing with him again some day.
When my Grandpa Bruce became sick, I did not know how to handle the news. I'd lost people before in my life, but I had never faced watching them die. He tried to stay upbeat - frequently pretending to be less tired than he really was - and he hated to see me sad. Often, he and I would sit and just .. talk. I loved the sound of his voice - right down to his frequent interjection of "and that" between words (a subconscious tick). Just before I started college, he and my grandmother recorded messages for me on the digital recorder my mom bought me for lectures.... Messages I still have saved, because I can listen to it when I miss him. He was so proud of me for going on to college; Grandpa would always tell me that I was just so, so smart. He always believed that I was going to do amazing things and would always brag to anyone who'd listen about me. But ... more than my brain, Grandpa really loved my singing voice. Any chance he got, he would talk me into singing for him. He loved asking me to sing his favorite hymns, like "Because I Haven Been Given Much" and "God Be With You Til We Meet Again," and always asked me to record a cd for him. During my first semester of college, I finally had access to the right technology and recorded four songs for him, including one I had written for him and my father, which I called "Nephi's Psalm." Grandma told me he loved to play it (even though it wasn't nearly the quality I wanted it to be). I was glad I got it to him in time - I would have always regretted it, if I hadn't.
As his condition got worse, it was so hard to watch him fade away. There would be times where you would be talking to him and he would just forget who you were or he'd suddenly fall asleep. The last time I spoke to him before he was placed in the home, we were talking and he suddenly forgot himself. We were alone together - everyone else was out of the room - so I sang those two songs for him. I didn't know what else to do. As I was singing, our eyes met and it was my grandpa looking back at me. I started to cry, and I couldn't stop. He held out a hand to me, which shook, and I clung to it with all I had. I knew he was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. I was going to lose one of my best friends. But I knew without a doubt that he loved me with all of his heart. When he passed away that March, I was asked to sing at the funeral. Grandpa wanted me to sing his song for him, and I never could have refused that request. Singing that day, I could feel his love surround me, and I was filled with the deepest longing to go home. I was not sad that my grandfather was dead... I just missed him with all of my heart. I still miss him. He was not able to see me graduate from college, my kids (if I ever have any) won't meet him, and he'll never get to interrogate my future spouse. But, I know he and Grandpa Hunt are with me. And I know I will see them both again, so long as I make the right choices. When I sing, though, I feel that much closer to them. I know they're both listening.
So today, five years after the loss of both Grandpa Hunt and Grandpa Bone, I want to leave you with something special. This video includes the message my grandfather recorded for me and the version of his song I'd recorded for him before his death. Please forgive the poor quality - someday I hope to restore them both to something better.
I just want to add my testimony to my grandpa's: I know God lives, I know the church is true, and I know we all have the ability to be with our families for time and all eternity, if we live worthily. I want to live each day in such a way that I will be with my family again, so we can sit in a great big circle and sing together. It's a work in progress, but hope keeps me going. There are no words to express my gratitude for the Gospel of Jesus Christ - without it I would be lost. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Do Unto Others
I have never been the sort of person to shy away from difficult topics. In fact, I am often one of the first people to jump into the discussion and offer my thoughts. Many times, I do this in order to make my position clear, to avoid being misunderstood. Life, in so many ways, is a series of mixed signals that eventually work out into sense; I prefer to get to the sense sooner rather than later. Today, though, I have been hesitant to express my feelings on the latest debate to tear its way across the country. I have friends on both sides of the conflict - people I respect and love. At the same time, though, I realize I have a duty to speak up. If I remain silent, I feel as though my stance could be misunderstood.
I am a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints, which you might better know as the Mormon church. The leadership of my church released the following statement concerning the Human Right's Campaign's petition and same sex marriage:
I sustain and support my church leaders. I sustain and support the teachings of the church. I do not support same sex marriage nor do I support extramarital sex. The Lord has dictated that marriage is between a man and a woman, and I agree with that. These beliefs, however, do not mean that I devalue my friends who chose the homosexual lifestyle. Many of my homosexual friends are wonderful people who lead good lives. I believe, though, that their choices place them in opposition with the dictates of our Heavenly Father. I feel the same way about my friends who drink, do drugs, or participate in heterosexual extramarital sex. Sin is sin. Hopefully my friends and family will be able to respect my opinion and understand that it comes from a place of deep reflection, consideration, and compassion. My beliefs do not mean that I love you any less - quite the other way around, actually.
I am a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints, which you might better know as the Mormon church. The leadership of my church released the following statement concerning the Human Right's Campaign's petition and same sex marriage:
I sustain and support my church leaders. I sustain and support the teachings of the church. I do not support same sex marriage nor do I support extramarital sex. The Lord has dictated that marriage is between a man and a woman, and I agree with that. These beliefs, however, do not mean that I devalue my friends who chose the homosexual lifestyle. Many of my homosexual friends are wonderful people who lead good lives. I believe, though, that their choices place them in opposition with the dictates of our Heavenly Father. I feel the same way about my friends who drink, do drugs, or participate in heterosexual extramarital sex. Sin is sin. Hopefully my friends and family will be able to respect my opinion and understand that it comes from a place of deep reflection, consideration, and compassion. My beliefs do not mean that I love you any less - quite the other way around, actually.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Baby Mine
My mother and I have had something of a tempestuous relationship - it happens when you have two strong Irish-Italian women in one household. As I have gotten older, though, I have come to treasure her more and more; she means the world to me. She is my friend and confidant, cheerleader and hero; mother and guide.
When I was born, the doctors had no idea what was wrong with me. I was rushed into the ICU, and I was placed in an incubator. My parents were unable to hold me; in fact, all they could really touch was the little space between my eyebrows. The nights my mother stayed in the hospital - recovering - were difficult for her, because all of the other new mothers were holding their babies. She could not even be in the room with me. My mother told me how difficult that was and how much she cried. I was their miracle baby, but the doctors were not certain I would even survive.
Because of that experience, my mother has a very large soft spot for the song "Baby Mine" from Dumbo. In fact, watching Dumbo is the first memory I have of my mom crying - it makes her bawl like a baby. As I've grown up, I have come to realize that "Baby Mine" was how my mom felt about me during our hospital stay. For the eleven days I was in the hospital, my mom could not hold me - just touch a little bit of me and pray I would survive. Dumbo's mom goes through something very similar, and it resonates with the pain and sadness my mother felt.
I love my mother very much, and I am so glad to be her baby. Even with the rough patches we have gone through, she is always the first person to comfort me and the first person to cheer me on (usually by shoving Dad out of the way to do so). I am so blessed to have my Mommy mine.
When I was born, the doctors had no idea what was wrong with me. I was rushed into the ICU, and I was placed in an incubator. My parents were unable to hold me; in fact, all they could really touch was the little space between my eyebrows. The nights my mother stayed in the hospital - recovering - were difficult for her, because all of the other new mothers were holding their babies. She could not even be in the room with me. My mother told me how difficult that was and how much she cried. I was their miracle baby, but the doctors were not certain I would even survive.
Because of that experience, my mother has a very large soft spot for the song "Baby Mine" from Dumbo. In fact, watching Dumbo is the first memory I have of my mom crying - it makes her bawl like a baby. As I've grown up, I have come to realize that "Baby Mine" was how my mom felt about me during our hospital stay. For the eleven days I was in the hospital, my mom could not hold me - just touch a little bit of me and pray I would survive. Dumbo's mom goes through something very similar, and it resonates with the pain and sadness my mother felt.
I love my mother very much, and I am so glad to be her baby. Even with the rough patches we have gone through, she is always the first person to comfort me and the first person to cheer me on (usually by shoving Dad out of the way to do so). I am so blessed to have my Mommy mine.
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