1. There's a difference between genuinely caring about others and selfishly caring for others - and it's pretty clear to everyone else in the room.
2. As humans, we often underestimate our capacity for joy. Life can be fuller than what we settle for.
3. When you're humble, you don't know you're humble.
4. Sometimes friends can provide for our basic need for belonging better than our family can.
5. I can do hard things.
6. If I park my car in the street by the mailbox on a Friday night, by the time I wake up Saturday morning my dad will have washed it.
7. Cliche advice means nothing without personal experience.
8. Discipline and self-control are active steps towards holiness and intimacy with God.
9. Dwell not on "why did this happen" but on "what now can I do, in light of these circumstances"
10. Teachers and professors are almost always willing to encourage and foster my desire to go above and beyond, even if it means more work for them.
11. It's a bad idea to get your dad a dog for fathers' day without telling your mom first.
12. "gratitude attitude" is a good mantra. If you're focused on what you DO have it's hard to notice the things that are missing.
13. If you back up your car without looking, you might roll backwards down a hill... or hit a 1998 Honda Civic.
14. If you don't know what to do next, do SOMETHING. Move forward.
15. There's a difference between quitting a sports team in the middle of the season and deciding to not play again the following year. The former is inconsiderate to the team, the latter is a mature decision.
16. God is good; even when circumstances aren't.
17. The elderly make good mentors. and good best friends.
18. Sometimes other people are more articulate at voicing my thoughts than I am. Quotes, song lyrics, poems, etc.
19. You don't make many friends if you're mad all the time. And you don't get much done either.
20. Drink more water.
21. I still have a long way to go.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Choosing Positivity
As an architecture student, the week before final pinup is always crazy. Anything unrelated to the project I am working on falls out the back of my brain... homework assignments, meetings, lunch dates with friends. I forget where I put my car keys, I leave notebooks I need at my apartment, I unintentionally relate everything I say to architecture if I'm not careful. The worst part of final pinup weeks in the past, however, has been my whiney, complaining attitude and negativity. This week in the semester is always stressful; I always have more work to do than I have time for. Usually the stress leads to a tired, cranky, Karen.
Last Wednesday on my way to campus I texted one of my close friends who sits next to me in studio. "There will be no negativity out of my mouth today. No whining, no complaining, no less than nice words about anything. Please hold me accountable!"
From there, I chose positivity. Whenever I was about to complain about how the computer program wasn't doing what I wanted it to do, or the drawing I was working on got smudged, I would check myself and keep my mouth shut. When something I was doing went well, I would vocalize it to myself. I got more done on Wednesday alone than I usually get done in a week. Obviously the positivity was helping.
This morning is the start of day 6 of positivity... so far so good. I spent about 16 hours in studio this weekend and got SO much done it is ridiculous. The link between my outlook on the project and my productivity can't be ignored. I have realized this week that I am here in college, "living my dream", becoming trained in the profession I have wanted to be in my entire life, under some of the best professors in the country. I am working on designing buildings, creating spaces out of void, and to be anything less than grateful for the opportunity is ungrateful entitlement. I am choosing humble gratitude over entitlement this week.
Based on how much I have gotten done, I think "humble gratitude" is going to be my new way of looking at every studio project.
Last Wednesday on my way to campus I texted one of my close friends who sits next to me in studio. "There will be no negativity out of my mouth today. No whining, no complaining, no less than nice words about anything. Please hold me accountable!"
From there, I chose positivity. Whenever I was about to complain about how the computer program wasn't doing what I wanted it to do, or the drawing I was working on got smudged, I would check myself and keep my mouth shut. When something I was doing went well, I would vocalize it to myself. I got more done on Wednesday alone than I usually get done in a week. Obviously the positivity was helping.
This morning is the start of day 6 of positivity... so far so good. I spent about 16 hours in studio this weekend and got SO much done it is ridiculous. The link between my outlook on the project and my productivity can't be ignored. I have realized this week that I am here in college, "living my dream", becoming trained in the profession I have wanted to be in my entire life, under some of the best professors in the country. I am working on designing buildings, creating spaces out of void, and to be anything less than grateful for the opportunity is ungrateful entitlement. I am choosing humble gratitude over entitlement this week.
Based on how much I have gotten done, I think "humble gratitude" is going to be my new way of looking at every studio project.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
A Sunday Afternoon with the Stuarts
Turn at the Glade Road stoplight... continue on a mile and a half to where the trees part and the Tom's Creek Basin reveals itself - take a left on Linwood Lane. Make your way slowly down the road, bear right, and park just past the driveway along the trees - careful not to get the wheels stuck in the ditch.
I have driven this route a hundred times in the last year and a half - maybe two hundred times. Today is no different than any other day. I am here to see the Stuarts.
The garage door is open. It's almost always open. It has been over a year since the last time I rang the front doorbell - Bob says the front door is for guests, the garage entrance is for family. I make my way past the van, into the laundry room and he greets me as I open the door into the kitchen. Emily is asleep, taking her mid-morning nap. It's about noon and we'll have lunch soon, but first we spend a few minutes in the living room where Emily lies on the couch, sharing events of the past few days and deciding what sounds best for lunch. Emily decides she would like to sleep a little longer so Bob and I make our way to the kitchen.
"Why don't we have some sort of appetizer to hold us over until lunch?" he says. I suggest ice cream cake, leftover from Emily's 90th Birthday, and he agrees. "I swear, Karen, that we share the same genes. Ice cream cake is the perfect choice." We both have a sweet tooth. We must share genes. As usual, I end up in a spiritual conversation with Bob about whether or not God is reached through Christ alone or through any means. We disagree on that. We talk about church and state and the separation of the two. We agree on that. We heat up leftover beef brisket and rice and pour Emily's buttermilk into her mug. We wake Emily up again.
This time she is ready for lunch. First Bob and I help her use the restroom, then make our way to the kitchen. I make sure her oxygen cannula is properly set into her nostrils and put on her meal apron then push in her chair. We talk about the weather, my new boyfriend, their upcoming family trip to mountain lake. We talk about Emily's book and who she might like to give it to for Christmas. We talk about their other caretakers and how fortunate they feel to be so well taken care of. We talk about anxiety, the stress of having company, the pond out back that needs to be cleaned out and the recent election.
Eventually I excuse myself to get some work done - the original reason I came. I sit at the computer in Bob's study and type up the changes he made to his Citizens First proposal. I type up an e-mail he has written out in another word document. I print both in size 22 font, bold. They are ready for him when he finishes lunch. We discuss the changes and I send out the e-mail, attaching the proposal to it. On Tuesday morning we will go through the replies, consider the advice on changes to be made, and then finalize the proposal. Mary calls, Bob and Emily's daughter. Bob answers the phone in the study and then goes to the kitchen to give Emily the cordless phone. He returns to the study and the three together discuss the upcoming Mountain Lake weekend. I set the time on Bob's watch to daylight-savings time. I change the clock on his desk too.
When the work is done Bob and I join Emily again at the kitchen table. She is still slowly finishing her lunch, after almost 2 hours and a few 5-minute naps sitting up. Bob mentions some deep, theological topic on the origins of anxiety. Emily says, "Bob, I am not much in the mood for a philosophical discussion today. I can barely keep my eyes open." We laugh, and decide it is time for Emily to rest. Off comes the apron, out comes the chair. We make our way back to the living room and I kiss her on the forehead as she falls asleep again. I say goodbye to Bob with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "See you Tuesday!"
I have driven this route a hundred times in the last year and a half - maybe two hundred times. Today is no different than any other day. I am here to see the Stuarts.
The garage door is open. It's almost always open. It has been over a year since the last time I rang the front doorbell - Bob says the front door is for guests, the garage entrance is for family. I make my way past the van, into the laundry room and he greets me as I open the door into the kitchen. Emily is asleep, taking her mid-morning nap. It's about noon and we'll have lunch soon, but first we spend a few minutes in the living room where Emily lies on the couch, sharing events of the past few days and deciding what sounds best for lunch. Emily decides she would like to sleep a little longer so Bob and I make our way to the kitchen.
"Why don't we have some sort of appetizer to hold us over until lunch?" he says. I suggest ice cream cake, leftover from Emily's 90th Birthday, and he agrees. "I swear, Karen, that we share the same genes. Ice cream cake is the perfect choice." We both have a sweet tooth. We must share genes. As usual, I end up in a spiritual conversation with Bob about whether or not God is reached through Christ alone or through any means. We disagree on that. We talk about church and state and the separation of the two. We agree on that. We heat up leftover beef brisket and rice and pour Emily's buttermilk into her mug. We wake Emily up again.
This time she is ready for lunch. First Bob and I help her use the restroom, then make our way to the kitchen. I make sure her oxygen cannula is properly set into her nostrils and put on her meal apron then push in her chair. We talk about the weather, my new boyfriend, their upcoming family trip to mountain lake. We talk about Emily's book and who she might like to give it to for Christmas. We talk about their other caretakers and how fortunate they feel to be so well taken care of. We talk about anxiety, the stress of having company, the pond out back that needs to be cleaned out and the recent election.
Eventually I excuse myself to get some work done - the original reason I came. I sit at the computer in Bob's study and type up the changes he made to his Citizens First proposal. I type up an e-mail he has written out in another word document. I print both in size 22 font, bold. They are ready for him when he finishes lunch. We discuss the changes and I send out the e-mail, attaching the proposal to it. On Tuesday morning we will go through the replies, consider the advice on changes to be made, and then finalize the proposal. Mary calls, Bob and Emily's daughter. Bob answers the phone in the study and then goes to the kitchen to give Emily the cordless phone. He returns to the study and the three together discuss the upcoming Mountain Lake weekend. I set the time on Bob's watch to daylight-savings time. I change the clock on his desk too.
When the work is done Bob and I join Emily again at the kitchen table. She is still slowly finishing her lunch, after almost 2 hours and a few 5-minute naps sitting up. Bob mentions some deep, theological topic on the origins of anxiety. Emily says, "Bob, I am not much in the mood for a philosophical discussion today. I can barely keep my eyes open." We laugh, and decide it is time for Emily to rest. Off comes the apron, out comes the chair. We make our way back to the living room and I kiss her on the forehead as she falls asleep again. I say goodbye to Bob with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "See you Tuesday!"
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thoughts
I have been thinking lately about existence and memories and how bizarre it all is.
My brain is struggling to fathom death - human existence one moment and then the absence of a spiritual soul due to the failure of the physical body. The body is the container but in the end it is so insignificant - without the soul in it the person is gone. It is strange to me that the memories we have of people are so connected with their "container" - we picture ourselves with them at certain places, we are comforted by the sound of their voice, we recognize the smell of their shampoo when we hug them, we know the color of their eyes. Yet, the spirit and the soul, their inner being of who they really are... their thoughts and fears and jokes and the mind that makes the choices that make them who they are is what actually makes them our friends. That spirit has nothing to do with their facial features or their height or their mannerisms, and yet because we are visual beings those physical traits are how we are able to fathom and recognize the ephemeral qualities of their spirit.
It is also weird to me how both the physical and spiritual side of a person need to exist together for us to really feel like they are present with us. We can miss someone even if we are able to talk to them on the phone - their thoughts and hopes and fears are available to us and yet we miss them anyway - we miss being in physical contact in a way where we can really feel their presence. At the same time, when someone dies their body is still there - their nose turns up the same way and their hair is the same color, and yet their spirit is absent, and we miss them.
Who someone is to us is all based on how our senses "collect" and "archive" their characteristics. We recognize them based on how our brain has processed previous experiences with them. I've always wondered with colors if we all see the same thing when we think "green"... does your green look like my green? We both recognize the grass is green but in our brains do our eyes process the color the same? I think that about people too. I recognize the sound of your voice, so does Analise, and Jim, and Phil, and Courtney. But are we hearing the same voice or have our brains "collected" it differently? I don't know the answer I am just curious.
My brain is struggling to fathom death - human existence one moment and then the absence of a spiritual soul due to the failure of the physical body. The body is the container but in the end it is so insignificant - without the soul in it the person is gone. It is strange to me that the memories we have of people are so connected with their "container" - we picture ourselves with them at certain places, we are comforted by the sound of their voice, we recognize the smell of their shampoo when we hug them, we know the color of their eyes. Yet, the spirit and the soul, their inner being of who they really are... their thoughts and fears and jokes and the mind that makes the choices that make them who they are is what actually makes them our friends. That spirit has nothing to do with their facial features or their height or their mannerisms, and yet because we are visual beings those physical traits are how we are able to fathom and recognize the ephemeral qualities of their spirit.
It is also weird to me how both the physical and spiritual side of a person need to exist together for us to really feel like they are present with us. We can miss someone even if we are able to talk to them on the phone - their thoughts and hopes and fears are available to us and yet we miss them anyway - we miss being in physical contact in a way where we can really feel their presence. At the same time, when someone dies their body is still there - their nose turns up the same way and their hair is the same color, and yet their spirit is absent, and we miss them.
Who someone is to us is all based on how our senses "collect" and "archive" their characteristics. We recognize them based on how our brain has processed previous experiences with them. I've always wondered with colors if we all see the same thing when we think "green"... does your green look like my green? We both recognize the grass is green but in our brains do our eyes process the color the same? I think that about people too. I recognize the sound of your voice, so does Analise, and Jim, and Phil, and Courtney. But are we hearing the same voice or have our brains "collected" it differently? I don't know the answer I am just curious.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Brian's Legacy
Last week I lost a good friend, Brian Gomez. In August 2009, at age 19, he was diagnosed with Rhabdomyosarcoma, a childhood cancer that is particularly rare, especially in people over the age of 10. Last summer, it was in his sinuses and had already spread to his bone marrow - it was categorized as Stage IV. The diagnosis was that it was terminal but that treatment would give him more time. He underwent a year of painful and exhausting chemo and radiation to fight it. At the end of this summer he was feeling relatively well and went back to UVA for school. Within 2 weeks he fell (from a seizure) and the doctors determined that the progression of the cancer had spread to the lining of his brain. Less than a month later, he was gone.
I have been fighting a lot of regret in the last week. We were close in middle school ("boyfriend/girlfriend" actually) and spent hours on AIM chatting. Our lockers were next to each other (Glass and Gomez alphabetically) and he always walked to me to class. Sometimes we even held hands in PE. We went to different high schools but still had a lot of mutual friends and saw each other from time to time. I started dating my 3-year high school boyfriend around the same time he started dating his still-girlfriend (of about 5 years now) Morgan. Basically we both got busy and fell out of touch. It was still always good to see him I just didn't see him nearly as often. Last year I knew he was diagnosed, but didn't know how serious things were. Despite not knowing the details, I KNEW he had cancer, and yet I never reached out to him or let him know I was thinking about him. This week I am learning that there were a lot of people who were there for him in his last year and though I failed miserably, he passed away surrounded by a multitude of selfless love and commitment from his family and close friends. I hate that I wasn't one of those people.
At the funeral his good friend shared a little bit more about watching Brian's faith throughout cancer. How despite his suffering he looked forward to eternity and had peace in his fate. Our response to 'unfair' death tends to be "God, WHY is this happening? WHY Brian? WHY cancer? WHY now?" but when we ask "why" we get nowhere. The question we ought to ask is "WHAT NOW." "What now can I take from Brian's life and learn from?" "What now can I do to bring glory to God despite these trials and this suffering?" The "What now" question has been propelling me throughout this week to be bolder in taking steps to loving others better, to trusting God more, and to find gratitude even in sadness.
I believe we weren't designed for death and pain. At the beginning of humankind we were designed for communion with God and eternal life. At the fall of man, when Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, our souls became innately corrupt and captive to selfish desires, separating us from God. Not only did our souls and our spirits fall away from God's original creation, but our bodies fell victim as well - to decay and to entropy and to sickness and death and cancer. Fortunately we aren't "stuck" in this. Life in eternity is absent of the sadness and pain of death and through Jesus we have full access to this life.
Brian's legacy to me is more than the dozens of saved e-mails I have from 8th and 9th grade. It is more than thinking of him when I hear Metallica or Nirvana. It's more than the $10 locket he got me from Kohl's for Valentine's Day when we were 14. It is even more than the memories of getting in a fender bender as a passenger in his brand new Lancer the week after he got his license or visiting and partying with him in Charlottesville freshman year of college. His legacy to me came mostly in his death - in his graceful act of dying - surrendering his will and his soul with peace and trust. My heart is still attempting to fathom "What now" can I learn from that and how can I apply it?
I have been fighting a lot of regret in the last week. We were close in middle school ("boyfriend/girlfriend" actually) and spent hours on AIM chatting. Our lockers were next to each other (Glass and Gomez alphabetically) and he always walked to me to class. Sometimes we even held hands in PE. We went to different high schools but still had a lot of mutual friends and saw each other from time to time. I started dating my 3-year high school boyfriend around the same time he started dating his still-girlfriend (of about 5 years now) Morgan. Basically we both got busy and fell out of touch. It was still always good to see him I just didn't see him nearly as often. Last year I knew he was diagnosed, but didn't know how serious things were. Despite not knowing the details, I KNEW he had cancer, and yet I never reached out to him or let him know I was thinking about him. This week I am learning that there were a lot of people who were there for him in his last year and though I failed miserably, he passed away surrounded by a multitude of selfless love and commitment from his family and close friends. I hate that I wasn't one of those people.
At the funeral his good friend shared a little bit more about watching Brian's faith throughout cancer. How despite his suffering he looked forward to eternity and had peace in his fate. Our response to 'unfair' death tends to be "God, WHY is this happening? WHY Brian? WHY cancer? WHY now?" but when we ask "why" we get nowhere. The question we ought to ask is "WHAT NOW." "What now can I take from Brian's life and learn from?" "What now can I do to bring glory to God despite these trials and this suffering?" The "What now" question has been propelling me throughout this week to be bolder in taking steps to loving others better, to trusting God more, and to find gratitude even in sadness.
I believe we weren't designed for death and pain. At the beginning of humankind we were designed for communion with God and eternal life. At the fall of man, when Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, our souls became innately corrupt and captive to selfish desires, separating us from God. Not only did our souls and our spirits fall away from God's original creation, but our bodies fell victim as well - to decay and to entropy and to sickness and death and cancer. Fortunately we aren't "stuck" in this. Life in eternity is absent of the sadness and pain of death and through Jesus we have full access to this life.
Brian's legacy to me is more than the dozens of saved e-mails I have from 8th and 9th grade. It is more than thinking of him when I hear Metallica or Nirvana. It's more than the $10 locket he got me from Kohl's for Valentine's Day when we were 14. It is even more than the memories of getting in a fender bender as a passenger in his brand new Lancer the week after he got his license or visiting and partying with him in Charlottesville freshman year of college. His legacy to me came mostly in his death - in his graceful act of dying - surrendering his will and his soul with peace and trust. My heart is still attempting to fathom "What now" can I learn from that and how can I apply it?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Emily's Book
"Emily's Book" is officially finished. (I have been calling it that for the last 6 months) It should be coming in the mail tomorrow or Wednesday, when I will quickly read through the entire thing and fix typos than order another copy to be published just in time for her 90th birthday. I am beyond excited to give it to her. This post is just a summary of the process of creating the book and my thoughts on my feelings about being the one who had the honor to 'catch' these stories and preserve them.
I think it's safe to say that Emily Cottingham Stuart is one of my best friends. So often when we think of service involving the elderly we view them as so one-dimensional - never really taking the time to discover their unique personalities and souls. One thing Bob and Emily have taught me is that it is possibly for old age to be an enriching, full-of-life experience. Aging does not have to be a slow decay of passion; it can be a fun, exciting time for making plans and following dreams.
One of Emily's dreams has been to have her stories recorded. In March of this year, she was facing severe delusions and depression and felt a sense of urgency to have her memories captured in case she truly ran out of time. Within days, Bob made sure her hopes were fulfilled when he arranged for me to interview her. Together they wrote up an outline of their lives - where they moved, friends they made, citizens groups they were involved in, etc so that she wouldn't forget anything too important. I spent 4 hours over the course of 2 days sitting at their kitchen table storycatching. Everything was recorded onto cassette tapes which the Stuarts entrusted me with. Just having the words out left Emily relieved.
Despite my excitement at the beginning of the project, it didn't take long for me to dread the actual "typing of the stories." Emily spoke softly which made it difficult to transcribe without having to stop, rewind, and replay again and again to be completely accurate. 4 hours of cassette tape recordings probably took about 20 hours to actually transcribe - and I did most of those 20 hours in 10 -minute intervals or so. At some point during the technical side of things I lost the love for the stories.
In the last few weeks, I realized that if I was going to have the book published in time to be Emily's birthday gift (on November 2) I would have to send it out rather quickly. In a week I did lots of punctuation editing and formatting - but also at some point during the last week I fell back in love with her stories. I realized again that her stories were her life... seems so obvious but I lost that for a little while. Her memories are her perceptions of events that happened to her and being able to put her words onto paper gave me the opportunity to learn more not only about her past but about her view of the world, her way of interacting with others, and her values.
I feel so honored that she trusts me with her memories. She has invited me into such a special place in her life and I can. not. wait. for the day she turns 90 and I can give her stories back to her in a form that she can go on to share with her children and grandchildren - who can continue to pass along the stories to future generations.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Attempt at Storytelling
September 11, 2007
We reluctantly trudged what seemed like miles through Reagan National Airport to Terminal A. If you've ever been to Reagan National you know that the distance from the entrance of the airport to Terminal A feels like a trek to the other end of the world, even when you are not dreading reaching it. My brother had been home on leave for a week between his 3-month training in Mississippi and his next adventure: Iraq. There to see him off were my dad, my mom, Donnie's girlfriend Emily, and me. We sat at the airport bar and ate shoestring french fries while my mom attempted to fill the silence with random, useless information. "Did you hear about the schoolteacher in Alabama who was arrested for selling drugs?" "I saw an article yesterday about how there is a chance that eating pineapple causes cancer." "Yesterday Grandma called and said that her azaleas are finally blooming." Of the four of us, my mom most often deals with silence by filling it.
Eventually the inevitable could no longer be avoided. It was time for him to go. I didn't know what to feel. I had just started my senior year of high school and wasn't quite sure what to do considering I was losing my best friend for almost a year. Best case-scenario, he would be home on a short break in February and then home for good in May... we would talk online and on the phone as often as possible and things wouldn't be too different than when he was just at college. Worst case-scenario, he would take a place at Arlington with a headstone a few rows from my neighbor, Captain Brian Letendre, who gave up his life amidst the ugliness of war the year before. Brian hung in my mind the entire day I said goodbye to Donnie; praying my brother's fate would be different but also realizing it could have been the last moments I shared with him. I soaked each minute up - trying to memorize his face and his voice and his smell and the way he walked and his facial expressions and his mannerisms.
As he hugged me goodbye and I cried my eyes out, he showed no emotion. He has always dealt with nerves and apprehension with a few deep breaths and a forward gait. This day was no different. After what was probably about 5 minutes he turned and made his way to security. We stood watching as the airport guard checked his ID. We watched, staring dumbly as he removed his wallet and iPod from his pocket and placed them in the gray loose-object bin. He walked through the metal detector, gathered his things, and continued on his way. Our eyes followed him until he turned the corner and was gone.
Then the real tears started. I felt so exposed walking through the airport with a broken heart while the people around me were on their way to Disney World or a business trip or picking up their best friend for a week of fun or seeing their daughter off to Grandma's house. Sitting on the shuttle from the airport to the parking garage, a woman saw a sad man with three sad women and expressed sympathy to us - my mom told her, "my son just left for Iraq." All of a sudden the soldiers on the news and in the papers became my brother - the thousands of stories of military families became my family, my story. And I wanted nothing in the world more than to 'trade in' my story for someone else's.
We reluctantly trudged what seemed like miles through Reagan National Airport to Terminal A. If you've ever been to Reagan National you know that the distance from the entrance of the airport to Terminal A feels like a trek to the other end of the world, even when you are not dreading reaching it. My brother had been home on leave for a week between his 3-month training in Mississippi and his next adventure: Iraq. There to see him off were my dad, my mom, Donnie's girlfriend Emily, and me. We sat at the airport bar and ate shoestring french fries while my mom attempted to fill the silence with random, useless information. "Did you hear about the schoolteacher in Alabama who was arrested for selling drugs?" "I saw an article yesterday about how there is a chance that eating pineapple causes cancer." "Yesterday Grandma called and said that her azaleas are finally blooming." Of the four of us, my mom most often deals with silence by filling it.
Eventually the inevitable could no longer be avoided. It was time for him to go. I didn't know what to feel. I had just started my senior year of high school and wasn't quite sure what to do considering I was losing my best friend for almost a year. Best case-scenario, he would be home on a short break in February and then home for good in May... we would talk online and on the phone as often as possible and things wouldn't be too different than when he was just at college. Worst case-scenario, he would take a place at Arlington with a headstone a few rows from my neighbor, Captain Brian Letendre, who gave up his life amidst the ugliness of war the year before. Brian hung in my mind the entire day I said goodbye to Donnie; praying my brother's fate would be different but also realizing it could have been the last moments I shared with him. I soaked each minute up - trying to memorize his face and his voice and his smell and the way he walked and his facial expressions and his mannerisms.
As he hugged me goodbye and I cried my eyes out, he showed no emotion. He has always dealt with nerves and apprehension with a few deep breaths and a forward gait. This day was no different. After what was probably about 5 minutes he turned and made his way to security. We stood watching as the airport guard checked his ID. We watched, staring dumbly as he removed his wallet and iPod from his pocket and placed them in the gray loose-object bin. He walked through the metal detector, gathered his things, and continued on his way. Our eyes followed him until he turned the corner and was gone.
Then the real tears started. I felt so exposed walking through the airport with a broken heart while the people around me were on their way to Disney World or a business trip or picking up their best friend for a week of fun or seeing their daughter off to Grandma's house. Sitting on the shuttle from the airport to the parking garage, a woman saw a sad man with three sad women and expressed sympathy to us - my mom told her, "my son just left for Iraq." All of a sudden the soldiers on the news and in the papers became my brother - the thousands of stories of military families became my family, my story. And I wanted nothing in the world more than to 'trade in' my story for someone else's.
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