I never thought about going to my brother's calling hours and funeral before last week. I woke up this morning thinking about how long the next two days would be. How unbearable they would be. Picking up an 8x10 for his casket this morning only reinforced that.
But my cousin texted me and reminded me that "You will never be surrounded by this many people who love you and your family. You are not alone these next two days. There is no doubt they will suck but there will be just as much love in that room as there has been pain." She's right. One of the first long days we spent in the hospital waiting room, we found ourselves having trouble eating (not a problem that has ever occurred in our family). I tried to eat a banana for breakfast. I couldn't finish it. I gave it to my sister to finish. She couldn't finish it either. Finally, that same cousin who sent me the previous text took the last two bites.
It may take three of us to finish a banana, and it may take a village to get through the next day, but we will carry each other through it as we've been doing since this awful thing started.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Maybe a Protein Shake Would Help?
One of my favorite Jon stories happened one morning when I was sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. He came downstairs, shirtless, ready to continue his summer work out routine that he had started a week earlier.
"You always want to start out the day with a high-protein breakfast," he said, talking more to himself than to me. "And what's more high-protein than a protein shake?"
"Nice," I replied, and went back to eating and reading the newspaper.
"Let me show you what a REAL protein shake looks like." He started pulling random boxes and jars out of the pantry and refrigerator.
"First, protein powder. You know, for the protein. Milk. For the calcium. Peanut butter. For more protein. Ice cream to cool it down with some more calcium. Some eggs. Even more protein. And chocolate syrup." He paused. "Because it's delicious."
The blender was filled to the top. "And finally, to mix it. Highest setting. Let the protein begin."
When he started the blender, he looked right at me with his cheesy smile and started shaking it and chanting "Protein!" while it blended. He looked like he was a roid-raging bodybuilder. Unfortunately for him, the shaking caused the top of the blender to break and chocolate peanut butter protein shake sprayed all over his face and the rest of the kitchen.
He looked at me. "Oh good. There's still some left in the bottom..."
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Family
When I was teaching, a common beginning-of-the-year activity was to have the kids draw a picture and write about their families. I remember talking about it with more experienced teachers in planning who emphasized telling the kids to only include their IMMEDIATE family. If you didn't, they would include everyone they know- their parents, their aunts and uncles, the kid next door, the man they saw picking his nose on the bus...
I've known for a long time that I'm a part of the best family in the world. I would apologize to the other families I've spent time with, but every time I leave someone else's house or family function, I can't help but realize how awesome we are. I think about how genuinely caring my parents are, how funny my brother and sister are, how warm and welcoming my aunts and uncles and grandparents are (even if we sometimes act a little bit more inappropriately than we should).
After sitting in a hospital waiting room for six days, I've let go of that need to limit the definition of family to the ones sharing the same roof and last name. I still believe that I'm part of the best family of the world, but that family is not just the people I spend Christmas and Thanksgiving with. It's more than the people invited to weddings and graduation parties and family birthday parties. It encompasses a group of people that feels the triumphs and disappointments of my immediate family, a group that rushes to share in our joint happiness and hurt.
My family is the community that knows where we live and where we work. The people who went to elementary and middle and high school with us, who watched us compete from the stands and read about us in the newspaper. It's the students of my parents and the teachers of my siblings and me. It's the coaches and the teammates and the colleagues, the bank tellers and the grocery store workers and the bartenders. Our small town can seem like too much to bear, but at times like these it is a force of incredible support.
My family is the neighbors that watched us as we grew up. The kids who played Fox and the Hounds every night of the summer, who played in our playhouse and swam in our pool. It's the people who lent us money for the Hokey Pokey truck, the ones who pet Tuffy as they walked by. It's those who sat in our kitchen all hours of the night, who drank beer at "Lou's" and by our firepit. The ones who came by for our "town meetings."
My family is the friends who might as well be family, who have reached out over hundreds and thousands of miles to send their love and support. They are the ones who traded reward points for hotel rooms, who picked through our underwear drawers, who somehow made us laugh. They have sat with us in the waiting in silence, knowing that it may be just what we need.
My family is the teammates that played with Jon and Kristin and me. My college coach always told us that you have your friends, and then you have your teammates. Every e-mail ended with "Stay strong, stay together" and I have never seen that more true than the past few days. Strings of lacrosse players, volleyball players, and runners have sent thoughts, prayers, embarrassing pictures... everything you could think of. They remind me of the importance of friendship and camaraderie, the need for support and perseverance. Teammates do not care whether they competed with you or against you. An East High lacrosse player carried in the West High victory poster into Jon's hospital room. THAT's family.
As horrible as the past week has been, I've been carried by the strength of a thousand honorary sisters, brothers, aunts, and uncles. And I cannot thank you enough.
I've known for a long time that I'm a part of the best family in the world. I would apologize to the other families I've spent time with, but every time I leave someone else's house or family function, I can't help but realize how awesome we are. I think about how genuinely caring my parents are, how funny my brother and sister are, how warm and welcoming my aunts and uncles and grandparents are (even if we sometimes act a little bit more inappropriately than we should).
After sitting in a hospital waiting room for six days, I've let go of that need to limit the definition of family to the ones sharing the same roof and last name. I still believe that I'm part of the best family of the world, but that family is not just the people I spend Christmas and Thanksgiving with. It's more than the people invited to weddings and graduation parties and family birthday parties. It encompasses a group of people that feels the triumphs and disappointments of my immediate family, a group that rushes to share in our joint happiness and hurt.
My family is the community that knows where we live and where we work. The people who went to elementary and middle and high school with us, who watched us compete from the stands and read about us in the newspaper. It's the students of my parents and the teachers of my siblings and me. It's the coaches and the teammates and the colleagues, the bank tellers and the grocery store workers and the bartenders. Our small town can seem like too much to bear, but at times like these it is a force of incredible support.
My family is the neighbors that watched us as we grew up. The kids who played Fox and the Hounds every night of the summer, who played in our playhouse and swam in our pool. It's the people who lent us money for the Hokey Pokey truck, the ones who pet Tuffy as they walked by. It's those who sat in our kitchen all hours of the night, who drank beer at "Lou's" and by our firepit. The ones who came by for our "town meetings."
My family is the friends who might as well be family, who have reached out over hundreds and thousands of miles to send their love and support. They are the ones who traded reward points for hotel rooms, who picked through our underwear drawers, who somehow made us laugh. They have sat with us in the waiting in silence, knowing that it may be just what we need.
My family is the teammates that played with Jon and Kristin and me. My college coach always told us that you have your friends, and then you have your teammates. Every e-mail ended with "Stay strong, stay together" and I have never seen that more true than the past few days. Strings of lacrosse players, volleyball players, and runners have sent thoughts, prayers, embarrassing pictures... everything you could think of. They remind me of the importance of friendship and camaraderie, the need for support and perseverance. Teammates do not care whether they competed with you or against you. An East High lacrosse player carried in the West High victory poster into Jon's hospital room. THAT's family.
As horrible as the past week has been, I've been carried by the strength of a thousand honorary sisters, brothers, aunts, and uncles. And I cannot thank you enough.
Friday, October 14, 2011
An Open Letter
As many of you may know, my little brother Jonny was admitted to Strong Memorial Hospital on Wednesday morning with a traumatic brain injury. I came from Boston on Wednesday evening and have been here since then. My mom started a Caring Bridge website to update our friends and family on Jon's progress, which you can access here.
I want to start by thanking everyone who has come to Strong to see Jon and our family. The love and support we have gotten in the past two days is incredible. Thousands of people have visited Jon's website and hundreds have posted their thoughts and prayers. This has been an extremely challenging time for us and it is a comfort to have so many people behind us. It's as if our already large family has expanded exponentially. Yesterday, we took over most of the ICU waiting room and the Ronald McDonald House common area. There is enough food to feed an army and enough love to fill our hurting hearts. I literally have never seen so many chocolate chip cookies in one place in my life (although they're diminishing by the minute).
I've always done better in writing than I have in person, so I'm trying to say to Jon what I do not have the strength to say when I am with him. Although the doctors say that he can hear us, I also believe that he has limited internet access to my blog. Don't ask me how- I just know. This letter is to you.
---
Goobs,
I'll start with my most common adage during a close game- keep your composure. Composure is the calm and control we all have inside of us, something that you have filling you up to the brim. You have the composure, the strength, and the patience to make it through this difficult fight. Any composure you lack is coming from God, who can hear all the people praying for you and is giving you strength in spite of the time you fell asleep during Christmas midnight mass (it was so long ago, after all).
Know that we are all here for you, praying and pulling for you. Just like you have always been here for the rest of us, with a joke or a smile or a chicken wing pizza. We're returning the countless, selfless things that you have done for so many others, things that are appreciated more than you could ever know. I know you can hear the (bad) jokes we are making, see the smiles we make because we know you can hear them. I wish I could bring you a wang sub with extra blue cheese, wrapped up fresh from Aniello's.
More than anything, remember that you are a fighter. You thrive in close, important games and this is your closest and most important one yet (although your last East West game is up there). You will get through this. Because at the end of the day, we're just a bunch of regular people, hanging out with a National Champion. Continue fighting like the champion you are. I love you.
Love,
Sari
I want to start by thanking everyone who has come to Strong to see Jon and our family. The love and support we have gotten in the past two days is incredible. Thousands of people have visited Jon's website and hundreds have posted their thoughts and prayers. This has been an extremely challenging time for us and it is a comfort to have so many people behind us. It's as if our already large family has expanded exponentially. Yesterday, we took over most of the ICU waiting room and the Ronald McDonald House common area. There is enough food to feed an army and enough love to fill our hurting hearts. I literally have never seen so many chocolate chip cookies in one place in my life (although they're diminishing by the minute).
I've always done better in writing than I have in person, so I'm trying to say to Jon what I do not have the strength to say when I am with him. Although the doctors say that he can hear us, I also believe that he has limited internet access to my blog. Don't ask me how- I just know. This letter is to you.
---
Goobs,
I'll start with my most common adage during a close game- keep your composure. Composure is the calm and control we all have inside of us, something that you have filling you up to the brim. You have the composure, the strength, and the patience to make it through this difficult fight. Any composure you lack is coming from God, who can hear all the people praying for you and is giving you strength in spite of the time you fell asleep during Christmas midnight mass (it was so long ago, after all).
Know that we are all here for you, praying and pulling for you. Just like you have always been here for the rest of us, with a joke or a smile or a chicken wing pizza. We're returning the countless, selfless things that you have done for so many others, things that are appreciated more than you could ever know. I know you can hear the (bad) jokes we are making, see the smiles we make because we know you can hear them. I wish I could bring you a wang sub with extra blue cheese, wrapped up fresh from Aniello's.
More than anything, remember that you are a fighter. You thrive in close, important games and this is your closest and most important one yet (although your last East West game is up there). You will get through this. Because at the end of the day, we're just a bunch of regular people, hanging out with a National Champion. Continue fighting like the champion you are. I love you.
Love,
Sari
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