Loss

The Golden Door

Posted on by Lauren

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

– Emma Lazarus

My father is first generation American. 

Italian, born and bred. 

So, when I graduated high school I asked for proof. 

In other words, bring me to them. 

My relatives.  

We traveled first to Rome. 

A hotel, he’d booked online.

We’d spent exactly two nights ever together in a lifetime and suddenly, 

we were residing in a closet.

On to Naples, Pompeii and Calabria: the place of my grandfather’s birth. 

Rich with olive trees, oil and seven-layer fresh lasagna. 

Here, I bonded with my foreign relatives as I screamed “Aye! Aye! Aye!” on motorbike 

through winding streets, experiencing food like it was the first time.  

Eating “al fresca”, pretending I followed their animated conversation. 

Next, to Sicily where we knocked on many a neighbor door 

until we stood in the room my grandmother was born in 1898.  

I looked around and wondered, “how?”. 

And here I am.

Standing in my father’s hospital room wondering, “how?”

If there was ever a man to give to the tired, the poor, 

Those that needed to breathe and required refuge, 

He’s right here. 

Beside the golden door.

And here I am. 

Standing in my father’s hospital room wondering, “how?”.

A Life Well Lived

Posted on by Lauren

We were born 20 days apart with just 2 houses sitting between our own.  My dad taught him how to swim; his dad taught me how to ride a bike.  

We were always outside, waiting for the tell-tale whistle from his parents at dusk, letting us know it was time to come in for dinner and bed. 

In our early teens, he would climb the tree in front of my house, clamber up the roof and knock.  There was a landing just outside of my window and we would sit there, contemplating life until we were caught.  

His parents had been married just shy of 45 years when his mom succumbed to cancer this past September. 

The funeral was held in late October and just 5 days later, with the fragrance of the funeral flowers still permeating the living room, his dad passed away from sudden cardiac arrest, right into my friend’s arms.  It was two days before their 45th anniversary and we all collectively knew, he had died from a broken heart. 

My mother and I had wept during Mr. White’s eulogy for his wife.  He spoke of their first date- when Mrs. White had invited him to lie underneath a Christmas tree to watch the twinkling lights. 

Mr. White then compared those twinkling lights to the thousands upon thousands of prayers family and friends had sent up to God as cancer ravaged his beloved’s body.

And then, just like that, he was gone, too. 

My friend and I stood in the kitchen where he had administered CPR to his dad, just hours before and we hugged, screamed and sobbed.  At 39 years-old we still felt like children, never ever having been in his parents’ house without them there.  

Shocked and numb, I drove away, contemplating the loss. 

Mr. White’s eulogy had been full of love and awe for his wife and the life they had shared. 

And I wondered, 

“What is a well-lived life?”  

Have I lived one? 

Am I living one?

In this distracted day-in-age, it feels all too easy to lose sight of the most important part of life:

Our connection to others. 

And if that is the meaning of life, 

Then I’ve lived it well.  

Let us all lie under the Christmas tree and watch the twinkling lights. 

Never Forgotten

Posted on by Lauren

What about the ones who never were?

Who would they have been?

What if it feels like they were already here?

When we first learned of their existence.

Sure they never were born of this Earth, 

But for a time, they were alive.  

And for many, it will always be this way. 

Mourning the loss of what-if.  

Who would they have become?

Years pass, 

And yet, they are still there.  

Always with us. 

Never forgotten. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Love and Loss

Posted on by Lauren

“Unable are the loved to die.

For love is immortality.”

-Emily Dickinson

Looking around, questioning the validity of everything I sense.  What it must feel to walk on the moon. Like I’m floating out of this world.  Not really here, but watching from the outside in.  This is how it feels to live after loss.

And the more I realize I’m actually here, and she’s not, the more painful the reality becomes. Words like unfair.  Too soon. And Why plague my mind.

The phrase “Be Kind for everyone is fighting a hard battle.”  takes on a new meaning.

Suddenly, that asshole on the road is just another poor bastard doing the best he can.

And my child’s fit, is just that: a fit that will pass.

Love and Loss like spaghetti and meatballs, peanut butter and jelly- one not without the other.

And for a time, Kelly and Lauren.  Best friends forever.

Rest In Peace my sweet friend.  You are loved.

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Lemonade

Posted on by Lauren

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You know the saying, “When life hands you lemons . . . ”  It’s a saying that was branded into every fiber of my body at a very young age; a side effect of having a mother who traveled the country as a motivational speaker.  Growing up, no setback was too high for me to overcome.  “No one can make you feel a certain way.  You choose how you allow others to impact you.”

It’s great advice, most of the time.  But sometimes . .  sometimes. . . life hands you lemons and they are sour and bitter and no amount of sugar can turn them into lemonade.

As someone who has been raised to always find the silver linings, this realization doesn’t sit well with me.  I constantly search for the good in any crappy situation, even if it takes years to discover it.

But what do you do when you are rendered helpless in situations that are completely out of your control?  Cancer. Car accidents. Infidelity. Violent crimes. Natural disasters. Infertility. PTSD. Abandonment. Mean people. Death.

As much as you try to focus on all of the good that you have to be thankful for in your life, sometimes, a terrible situation is just that and there’s no pot of gold to be found.

It’s a tough pill to swallow- this notion that it’s not going to get better.  That it’s not going to work out the way you thought it would.  And that this bad thing is not going to politely go away so you can drink your lemonade and move on with your life.

Instead, it becomes one of “the things we carry”.  Unable to place it in a box and set it on the top shelf of our closet, it is with us wherever we go, like a meddlesome pebble caught in our shoe.

If we focused on it all of the time, we literally would be rendered helpless.  So we trudge onward, painfully recognizing it when something triggers a reminder.

I used to believe my mother, that nothing was beyond our capacity to overcome.  But now, I realize that some things are not made to be good.  Like the bad spot on a banana, you can eat around it, but it’s not going to make it go away.  A bad spot is a bad spot is a bad spot.

And it’s good and healthy to call it what it is as opposed to forcing yourself to drink lemonade when you fucking hate lemonade.

It’s a lemon. It’s sour. And bitter. And sad.  And we carry them wherever we go.

 

No Regrets

Posted on by Lauren

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It’s too painful to imagine, so usually, we don’t.  And yet, by the time it happens, we wish we had spent a little more time thinking about it because if so, perhaps we would have done things a little differently.

We would have slowed down.  We would have cherished the moments and days.  We wouldn’t have sweated the small stuff so much.

So why do we wait?

I had a surprising situation happen to me at a party last night.  Someone I never would have expected, told me they read my blog and love it.  It meant the world to me.  I don’t write for the money (I don’t make any) or for the praise.  I write to understand and I share so that someone else out there may feel that they aren’t alone.

But it dawned on me- what if this person had never told me they read my work?  What if I suddenly passed away, like a friend of mine did recently?  Would they have regretted not telling me that my words touched them?  Why do we live with these regrets?

Perhaps it is because we are, indeed, too busy.  There’s simply no way to do it all.  And it would be depressing to think about death all of the time.  But there are small things we can do.

One of which, is to frequently and emphatically tell people what they mean to us.  A phone call, a text, a written letter.  Just one person a week.

It felt amazing to be given a compliment and has inspired me to pay it forward.  To begin 2018 with praise and without regret.  That’s one resolution, I intend on keeping.  Cheers to that.  Cheers to you.  Keep reading.  I’ll keep writing. Happy, Happy New Year 🙂

 

Camille Vaughan Photography