It all started on the ferris wheel at Elitch Gardens in Denver, Colorado. My first mistake was going to the amusement park without David, oh fearless one who will ride whatever ride child wants to go on. My second mistake was merely hoping that Ellie, otherwise known as "legs", would be too short to ride most of the roller coasters without actually checking to see whether or not this was true.
As we are going up in the ferris wheel (over 100 feet tall), I am smiling for my son who has declared himself "afraid of heights". Same son, oldest son, has not - until recently - enjoyed the thrill of the roller coaster and this has led me to the promise that I will go on all rides that he chooses not to go on and that thrill-seeker son wants to go on.
Note that daughter would happily go on any of the whirling, twirling, dropping roller coasters with thrill-seeking brother. However, same brother chooses not to engage in a relationship with said sister. So, it's on me.
We go up; the panic settles in. I have visions of my the large, metal cage plummeting to the ground. I do not let go of the bars, inappropriately feeling safer if I have something to hold on to.
It can happen, I think. Everything eventually crumbles. Nothing lasts forever. Bridges collapse. Foundations crack. The things we once thought were unimaginable have seeped into reality. It can happen, and I can be the one. I know this because I have seen the impossible turn possible and if it can happen to "them", it can happen to me.
Too many friends whose children are battling or have battled cancer. Too many young parents who die before they see their children into adulthood or even to preschool graduation. Too many times, the impossible becomes reality when "that can never happen to me" taps you on the back when you least expect it and the horror left for TV shows or movies enters our lives.
So, I imagine what I will do when the slowly and slightly rocking cage comes loose and my children and I tumble toward the Earth. I finish the story with a miraculous survival and the world settling into "all is good" again.
When the man opens the cage to let us out, I let him know that I am too old to ride the ferris wheel and that I'm in big trouble since this is the first ride of the day.
I spent the rest of the day twirling and whirling and spinning upside down. Ellie was able to go on most of the rides, and Ilan braved the coasters with newfound enthusiasm. When neither of them could or would ride on the ride, I put on my grin and got in line with Aaron.
We shook, we spun, we hung upside down. I was dizzy, nauseated, and kept thinking "This is the last ride I can go on. I can't possibly do one more." I lured them away from spinning rides with the temptation of a slushy, and my day was over.
I survived the Hollywood and Vine, a ride that spins faster and faster like no other octopus ride I had been on before. I want the t-shirt!
June 29, 2013
June 4, 2013
I don't push delete
I knew it was coming. I was watching for it for days. Anticipated what it would feel like this year. Pushed it out of my mind until the day actually arrived.
And the day came - and almost passed. Until a phone call reminded me that it was May 28th. I'm surprised I didn't already know, that I wasn't on top of it. After all, the day is shared with my niece's birthday. We called her that morning to wish her a happy birthday.
It was a busy day - one of those days where it is one thing to the next - and there isn't time to breathe. But that's no excuse. I'm not sure it's a good thing I didn't think and dwell all day or if I'm more sorry that I didn't have a carved out piece of time to sit and think and dwell. I need some of that.
But children were tugging on my last bits of patience and, suddenly, it was late afternoon.
I was excited to see a voice mail message from a friend. I listened and my heart fell. That was the day. The day that Cindy left us.
This is how it happened four years ago. The same friend finally reached me late in the afternoon. I remember screaming - crying - needing to get through the phone and be with people who knew what a loss to the world this was.
And people feel like that every day. Afterwards, they walk down the street shocked that people are just going about their day as though the world was the same as it always was. It's not. And it never will be.
I called Peter (Cindy's husband), and I see your cell phone number above his. I used to call your number accidentally when I was calling Peter after you died. And he'd say in his thick Slovakian accent, "Lisa, do you know this is Cindy's phone?" This time, I called Peter's phone, and your voice is still on his message. It's still bubbly and happy and full of life. It still rings with the pure joy that you were.
It makes me happy for about a millisecond.
And then I think of your beautiful daughters, your husband, your family and your friends.
How lucky we were to know even if it was such a short time.
Truly blessed to know you and to call you mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend....
I don't delete you -
not from my cell phone,
not from my memory
And the day came - and almost passed. Until a phone call reminded me that it was May 28th. I'm surprised I didn't already know, that I wasn't on top of it. After all, the day is shared with my niece's birthday. We called her that morning to wish her a happy birthday.
It was a busy day - one of those days where it is one thing to the next - and there isn't time to breathe. But that's no excuse. I'm not sure it's a good thing I didn't think and dwell all day or if I'm more sorry that I didn't have a carved out piece of time to sit and think and dwell. I need some of that.
But children were tugging on my last bits of patience and, suddenly, it was late afternoon.
I was excited to see a voice mail message from a friend. I listened and my heart fell. That was the day. The day that Cindy left us.
This is how it happened four years ago. The same friend finally reached me late in the afternoon. I remember screaming - crying - needing to get through the phone and be with people who knew what a loss to the world this was.
And people feel like that every day. Afterwards, they walk down the street shocked that people are just going about their day as though the world was the same as it always was. It's not. And it never will be.
I called Peter (Cindy's husband), and I see your cell phone number above his. I used to call your number accidentally when I was calling Peter after you died. And he'd say in his thick Slovakian accent, "Lisa, do you know this is Cindy's phone?" This time, I called Peter's phone, and your voice is still on his message. It's still bubbly and happy and full of life. It still rings with the pure joy that you were.
It makes me happy for about a millisecond.
And then I think of your beautiful daughters, your husband, your family and your friends.
How lucky we were to know even if it was such a short time.
Truly blessed to know you and to call you mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend....
I don't delete you -
not from my cell phone,
not from my memory
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