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ninanevermoreI am standing back from the Ferris Wheel, watching the Carney and the woman with her finger pointing in his face. She is shouting at him, more confrontational than anyone I have ever seen facing down Death.
"If you think I'm leaving without my baby, you're dead wrong," she shouts at him, seemingly unaware of the irony of her words, and then she lets loose with a string of epithets. She is screaming, crying, cursing, banging on his chest with her fists, until he takes her in his arms and whispers something to her. I've never seen him actually touch anyone like this before, or anyone fall against him and sob like she does. He holds her tightly, tenderly, whispering words I can't hear, stroking the back of her hair with the hand that is not holding his cigarette.
I stand back and watch as if frozen. I am stunned. Since Cameron's aneurysm in 1993 I have written his epitaph a thousand times in my head, waiting for that phone call from Tennessee; waiting to hear that, after all these years in limbo he was finally gone and we could grieve for him at last. I've steadied myself to be there for Leslie when she finally lost her son, to comfort her and help her through it.
"You're like my little sister, Nina," she's told me on so many occasions, "You don't know how much you mean to me. I love you so much."
I was prepared for Cameron's death. Leslie's death, however, has blindsided me.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
My cousin Aly sent me a message with a subject line that read: URGENT!!! Call me NOW! this morning. I didn't think a lot of it. That side of my family is prone to drama, but I called to see what was up.
"Randy called me," she said, "He suggested I might should call you after you get off work. So, do you want the bad news now, or do you want to wait until you get home tonight?"
"Might as well give it to me now," I said. The stall tactic annoyed me a little bit; I like it when people come out and say what they mean.
"Brace yourself," she said, as if one really can brace yourself for the kind of news she was about to deliver.
"Okay."
She took a deep breath. "Cameron's okay, but Leslie's gone."
I have been figuratively holding my breath for more than a decade and a half since Cameron's aneurysm, waiting to gently exhale when I finally got the news that his ordeal was over. Suddenly, that breath was knocked out of me as my mind tried to wrap itself around what I'd just heard. My find failed to wrap, though; Aly's words were just too small for the truth she was trying to convey.
"What?" I asked, thinking Gone? What do you mean by gone? Gone where?
"She had an aneurysm. Wren found her on the couch last night and couldn't wake her up, or something. She died on the way to the hospital."
Deja vu, I thought, This is what exactly what happened with Cameron. Stop, I've heard this story already. By now the tears were already running down my face, and the rest of what we discussed is a blur. A co-worker who I don't even know was able to catch the jist of the conversation; she fetched me a box of tissues and put her arm around my shoulders as I finished the call.
Hours later, my mind has still not taken it in. I never realized how much I loved Leslie until today.
I last spoke to her on Saturday. She'd been feeling poorly lately, with blinding headaches, sick to her stomach to the point that she could keep neither food or water down, and having violent mood swings so intense that they scared her. She'd also been so tired that she could barely get off of the couch, which wasn't like her at all; Leslie has always been a whirlpool of energy. She'd gone to a doctor who prescribed antidepressants and a sedative, and told her it was just stress. I told Leslie that "stress" was what they tell you when they can't figure out what is really wrong with you.
"Well, yeah, Nina, tell me something I don't know. I don't have the Internet, though, so I thought maybe you could look up what this might be whenever you get the chance. I'm not seeing that bitch again. I go in there and she insults me and puts me on Zoloft. Screw her. Anyway, let me know what you find out. I gotta let you go. I love you."
I told her to take care, and that I loved her, too.
This morning, after I got the news, I looked up the symptoms for an aneurysm. Lo and behold, hindsight really is the 20-20 vision everyone always told me it was. They include nausea, vomiting, headache, mood swings, and fatigue. She was already dying when I spoke to her.
Leslie is finally at peace, but I feel like screaming. I can only hope and pray that right now she is watching the DVD she wanted from Jesus, and enjoying every minute of it.
"If you think I'm leaving without my baby, you're dead wrong," she shouts at him, seemingly unaware of the irony of her words, and then she lets loose with a string of epithets. She is screaming, crying, cursing, banging on his chest with her fists, until he takes her in his arms and whispers something to her. I've never seen him actually touch anyone like this before, or anyone fall against him and sob like she does. He holds her tightly, tenderly, whispering words I can't hear, stroking the back of her hair with the hand that is not holding his cigarette.
I stand back and watch as if frozen. I am stunned. Since Cameron's aneurysm in 1993 I have written his epitaph a thousand times in my head, waiting for that phone call from Tennessee; waiting to hear that, after all these years in limbo he was finally gone and we could grieve for him at last. I've steadied myself to be there for Leslie when she finally lost her son, to comfort her and help her through it.
"You're like my little sister, Nina," she's told me on so many occasions, "You don't know how much you mean to me. I love you so much."
I was prepared for Cameron's death. Leslie's death, however, has blindsided me.
My cousin Aly sent me a message with a subject line that read: URGENT!!! Call me NOW! this morning. I didn't think a lot of it. That side of my family is prone to drama, but I called to see what was up.
"Randy called me," she said, "He suggested I might should call you after you get off work. So, do you want the bad news now, or do you want to wait until you get home tonight?"
"Might as well give it to me now," I said. The stall tactic annoyed me a little bit; I like it when people come out and say what they mean.
"Brace yourself," she said, as if one really can brace yourself for the kind of news she was about to deliver.
"Okay."
She took a deep breath. "Cameron's okay, but Leslie's gone."
I have been figuratively holding my breath for more than a decade and a half since Cameron's aneurysm, waiting to gently exhale when I finally got the news that his ordeal was over. Suddenly, that breath was knocked out of me as my mind tried to wrap itself around what I'd just heard. My find failed to wrap, though; Aly's words were just too small for the truth she was trying to convey.
"What?" I asked, thinking Gone? What do you mean by gone? Gone where?
"She had an aneurysm. Wren found her on the couch last night and couldn't wake her up, or something. She died on the way to the hospital."
Deja vu, I thought, This is what exactly what happened with Cameron. Stop, I've heard this story already. By now the tears were already running down my face, and the rest of what we discussed is a blur. A co-worker who I don't even know was able to catch the jist of the conversation; she fetched me a box of tissues and put her arm around my shoulders as I finished the call.
Hours later, my mind has still not taken it in. I never realized how much I loved Leslie until today.
I last spoke to her on Saturday. She'd been feeling poorly lately, with blinding headaches, sick to her stomach to the point that she could keep neither food or water down, and having violent mood swings so intense that they scared her. She'd also been so tired that she could barely get off of the couch, which wasn't like her at all; Leslie has always been a whirlpool of energy. She'd gone to a doctor who prescribed antidepressants and a sedative, and told her it was just stress. I told Leslie that "stress" was what they tell you when they can't figure out what is really wrong with you.
"Well, yeah, Nina, tell me something I don't know. I don't have the Internet, though, so I thought maybe you could look up what this might be whenever you get the chance. I'm not seeing that bitch again. I go in there and she insults me and puts me on Zoloft. Screw her. Anyway, let me know what you find out. I gotta let you go. I love you."
I told her to take care, and that I loved her, too.
This morning, after I got the news, I looked up the symptoms for an aneurysm. Lo and behold, hindsight really is the 20-20 vision everyone always told me it was. They include nausea, vomiting, headache, mood swings, and fatigue. She was already dying when I spoke to her.
Leslie is finally at peace, but I feel like screaming. I can only hope and pray that right now she is watching the DVD she wanted from Jesus, and enjoying every minute of it.
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no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:26 pm (UTC)You and yours are in our prayers.
has blindsided me.
Date: 2007-12-10 08:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:28 pm (UTC)It's very appropriate that she's the one the carney chose to hug. I think she was as close to him as you are, in her own way.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:41 pm (UTC)im so sorry
no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:52 pm (UTC)Big *hugs* from across the internet...even though we don't know each other, you're in my thoughts.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 10:12 pm (UTC)I'm VERY sorry...
Date: 2007-12-10 11:21 pm (UTC)Loss is SO hard, especially at the holidays.
I hope you have people around to hug you close when you need it, so you don't feel isolated and alone.
I don't know what to say.
Maria
no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 03:31 am (UTC)These kind of stories worry me, for my own sake and for people I know and love. It's frightening how many of those headaches can turn into something so dangerous.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 04:41 pm (UTC)Anyway, I'm terribly sorry. I know you loved her. I could tell by the posts you made about her.
*HUGS NINA EXTRA TIGHT* *sends healing, positive thoughts and prayers*
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 04:56 pm (UTC)Cameron is her son, and his condition is genetic. When his "brain exploded" (as Leslie often put it), the doctors said it was a congenital defect and that these things do run in families. Leslie was adopted, so her family medical history is unknown.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 06:22 pm (UTC)I figured so.
You know that's what scares me about being adopted. I have no idea what my family medical history is.
*MORE HUGS*
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 04:48 pm (UTC)This has me worried. My grandfather on my dad's side died of an aneurysm. My father died of brain cancer. What's left for my brain to die of?
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 06:26 pm (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-11 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-12 01:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-15 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 03:24 pm (UTC)wow...sending lots and lots of hugs.....
im sorry i didnt get to this sooner!
im at a loss for words... its crazy how sometimes we get so caught up in our closest friends and loved ones being there when we need them or being able to be there for them when they need us that we dont realize how much we rely on thier voice and words of anything until we dont have them anymore....
no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 03:51 pm (UTC)i still keep going to reach for the phone to make my phone calls
no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 04:02 pm (UTC)And then there is my address book. When I send my Christmas cards, I have an old-fashioned spiral bound address book with the names written in pencil so I can remove people at will and update their info when they move or get married. I got to Leslie's name, and the idea of erasing it was unbearable - I physically couldn't bring myself to do it. I wrote R.I.P. 12/10/2007 next to it, instead, and plan to leave her there at her last known address.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 06:50 pm (UTC)i have a few saved messages from my mom on my voice mail that ive saved... every 30 days, they expire and my voice mail prompts me to listen to the message again, and decide to save or delete it... i have messages i want to delete but i just save them all without listening to them because i cant tell ahead of time which ones are from her... the idea of hearing her voice again like that just has me so twisted in knots, i cant even bear to hear the messages.....
i guess its one of those things... how do you get used to someone not being there when youve already grown so accustomed to them being there, or just the idea of knowing that they are there if you need them....
i hope this gets better for you... im sorry to hear that youve lost someone so near and dear to your heart.. but as you said in your original post "Leslie is finally at peace".... but sometimes, knowing that, still isnt enough to calm the waters of pain....