This is a story about losing life too quickly. It's a story about cancer. It's a story about heartache. I promise though, even though it may not seem like it now, the ending will be satisfying.
My grandmother passed away almost eight years ago. I was [nearly] nineteen, freshly graduated from Truman High School, and ready to take on the world. I was due to head off to college in the Fall. Betty's death shattered my entire existence. I was forced to rush my orientation for funeral purposes [shout out to MU for handling that with ease and class!], and I spent solid weeks mourning the death of my best friend, who had been taken from all of us too soon. I went away to college that August, and spent the majority of my freshman year drinking more than I should to cope with the depression I was suffering from. I missed a lot of classes because there were days that I could not get out of bed. I felt like there was something wrong with me. How could I miss her this much? I spent the year pulling B's and C's in my classes; getting by. Then it hit me: she wouldn't be proud of this reaction.
I've spent the year since then doing everything in my power to make her proud. There are still days that there's nothing else that I can think about. I cried when I went wedding dress shopping - she was supposed to be there. She was supposed to meet and love Ben. She should have been at my college graduation [that I ended up making it to, with honors, so that she would be proud]. Mostly though, I know that even though missing her is hard, I was so incredibly fortunate to have her in my life for those 19 years. I was fortunate that she let me come spend the night with her so often. I was fortunate that she loved me the way she did, and supported my choices no matter how stupid they were. Loss is hard though, no matter how close you were to the person.
I played softball for about 10 years as a kid. Of those, two were played in high school on the "C" Team. I was never the best, I will admit, but I worked hard because I wanted to be there. One of the greatest things about playing softball was getting to practice under Steve Broughton. I never played Varsity for him after deciding to pursue color guard rather than ball, but for those two years I got to receive his pointers. That, and having him as a gym teacher while at Truman, led me to getting to know this man. A funny man, a father, a coach, a friend. All of these things were shown to be true when the Broughton's Brawlers alumni game was put on. Players from years of coaching came back to play to honor coach and help raise money to help him in his fight against this ugly disease.
Steve passed away on May 5, 2015 at 55 years old. There are not words to express the feeling of loss that I, as his former student and now an educator, feel. As weird as this sounds, how great is it that in the wake of his death, that so many feel loss? There were literally HUNDREDS of people at his wake. What a man he was to have impacted us all.
My dad said something yesterday that I thought was noteworthy. He said that he doesn't think about my gramma dying often, but when he goes to visit her grave, he thinks about for weeks after. I guess, I'm different because I want to think about it. I want to remember people who have impacted my life in positive ways. I want to celebrate great memories and new life. I want to celebrate the good things.
Our nephew was born on April 30th. Carl is one of the most perfect
little humans that exists, and I pray that he knows that life is
beautiful. I pray that he knows that even though parts of the story are
scary, and hard, and hurtful, that in the end, there is good. I pray
that he knows that while loss hurts, we must move forward and not be
jaded by the negatives. I pray he knows he is loved by many.
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