False Alarm.

So it's not Facebook official. But I'm not going to rewrite the previous post because it flows too nicely, and I think I make a valid point.

Here's to me not being such an emotionless robot:

I think it's a common understanding among most young people today that something isn't really official until it's Facebook official. Whether it be a change in relationship status, a new job, acceptance to the college of your choice, or whatever the case may be—it’s only real once Facebook knows. As backwards as that may be, I know it has something to do with our growing fascination with posting and publishing even the most inane things in our lives. I’ve fallen subject to it, too, so I get it.

But I’ve been keeping this super secret blog for months, so why go public now?

Well.

Last week, my mother hugged me.

The last time I felt my mother’s touch was June 16, 2003, just a few weeks before she died. And last week, it happened again, after praying and wishing more than anything for six and a half years for just for one more encapsulating hug from her. One of those hugs that only a mother can give. A giant bear hug that makes the entire rest of the world fall to pieces. A hug that shows you how truly loved you are. My mom gave THE BEST hugs. And I finally felt that feeling again.

It was the most amazing, inspiring, uplifting, magnificent, vivid and REAL dream I have ever had.

Let me start by saying that last week was rough. On top of silly personal and some not-so-big-deal work things, I had two car mishaps in one day and had to spend 3 hours waiting at NTB the night of The Dream. I got back to my apartment around 8:00, immediately downed some Nyquil (I was sick, too, on top of it all), and promptly went to bed.

I fell asleep quickly, and did not stir until I awoke the next morning.

I have dreamed about my mother frequently. I have felt her with me when I’m particularly sad. I have recalled her voice. But never like this… I’ve dreamed of situations with her that did happen, of situations that never happened, of situations that will never happen… The only way I can describe this particular dream would be if God gave us one more day together. It was understood that she was dead and that fact would not change once our day was over. We had the day. It was not discussed. It was just known. (Read “One Day More” by Mitch Albom if you haven’t, by the way)

We spent the day in Denison. Not at our house, just kind of…in Denison, somehow. She wanted to go to Watson’s for lunch, so we did, though we didn’t eat. She wanted to go to the cemetery to see Ben, but I told her it was too hard for me and that I couldn’t do it. So we didn’t. She didn’t tell me that everything would be okay. She didn’t tell me what Heaven was like. She didn’t tell me that she was happy now or not in pain anymore. She just told me she loved me. In her own voice. The voice I remember hearing so clearly every day for the first 16 years of my life.

I remember staring at her face, a face that I have not seen SO VIVIDLY since that horrible day in June 2003. Every tiny little detail was there. It was her. It was so real. It was real.

Then she laughed her perfect laugh.

And held me.

I was finally encased in her love again.

And it was perfect.

The next day, I woke up in the most amazing and perfect mood, which lasted throughout the entire day.

Thank you Mom (and God). I needed that more than I could ever describe.

So that’s why I’m taking this public. As trite as it sounds, I feel like maybe she wants me to do this. I’m finally at a point where I want to share my story (baby steps), and I want to hear yours, too. So many people close to me have lost loved ones, and I would love to offer this soapbox of sorts.

Coming soon: a post from my sister!

#13 The Beatles Sing-a-long at the Drafthouse

One of my favorite things to do in Austin is go to the Alamo Drafthouse. It isn't just a movie theater. It's an experience. It's food, drinks, midnight showings of Harry Potter and Twilight, singalongs, quote-alongs, dance-alongs. It is some of the best nights of my college life--spent singing at the top of my lungs to the Spice Girls at the Pop Princess Singalong or dancing on stage to Thriller at the Michael Jackson memorial singalong. It's sharing a pitcher of their famous sangria with best friends.

I've been going back to Austin a lot this summer, which I have jokingly referred to as my endless summer of unemployment. I plan to go back to Austin yet again in just a few days, so I've obviously been stalking the Drafthouse calendar for sometime now. Today I noticed that they are having a Beatles singalong, and I know that I must attend. Mom loved the Beatles (which I'm sure you've noticed by now with the Across the Universe and Abbey Road posts). I remember her telling me stories about her listening to the White Album and to "Why Don't We Do it in the Road" in her room as at 16 years old (and how much my grandma disapproved of the song).

Mom loved movies, too. I know she would love the Drafthouse. I never really thought about "going downtown" or anything like that with my mom, and maybe it wouldn't have been any fun at all, but when someone dies, you tend to imagine everything much more positively than realistically, and although I can't actually imagine dancing and singing with my mom in a drafthouse setting, I would like to think that maybe it would have been possible.

I hope it's a good singalong. I'm excited for it!

Unsolicited Advice.

Death is hard to talk about. It's scary, awkward and uncomfortable. I know. But, if someone close to you is dealing with losing someone, please, get over yourself. They will never remember how awkward it was. They will only remember that you were there.

I will never forget how appallingly I was treated by my friends after my mom died. I know we were only 16, but even teenagers should know common human decency. My sister, who was 22 at the time, had friends driving and flying in from all over the country, and I couldn't even get anyone in the same zip code to return my phone calls.

Thank you to the two friends who did attend my mom's funeral. It was too hard for me to talk to you, but I still remember it, and it meant a lot to me.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming soon.

For Ben.

Nine years later.














Note: this picture was taken my Freshman year in college for a Photography class I was taking. I don't exactly remember the assignment, but it was somehow appropriate. I also later used this picture, along with some other things, to gain entrance into the Texas Creative sequence. I know it's kind of dramatic, but I really love this picture.

#12 This...

I don't even know how to describe this. It is something so personal, so completely irreplaceable. My sister is the only person I've ever shared it's existence with, and I'm not even sure if she's seen it with her own eyes.

This was written in my day planner from 2003. I don't remember if I found it quickly after her death, or if years had passed, but regardless...

For as long as I can remember, my mom, sister and I have written each other little secret notes in the other's planner or notebook. We would snatch it up while the other was in a different room, flip to a random page, and write something, some little token of affection, or just a simple "so-and-so was here." Written in the space for July 11, 2003, the day she died, is a simple "I love you! Mom" in her gorgeous, unmistakable, familiar handwriting.

It freaked me out beyond words the first time I found it. I mean, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES? I actually threw the book across the room and refused to go near it for a while. It still sort of creeps me out, but my sister insists that it is beautiful. I have to agree that it is so remarkable, and because I feel as though I must save every thing she ever touched, I will never get rid of this little token.

#11 1001 Rules For My Unborn Son

Maybe I'm putting too much emphasis on online things, but blogging has changed so much since 2003, and my mom loved being online, so I tend to focus on that subject a lot. 1001 Rules For My Unborn Son gives me hope for future generations of men, and it makes me wonder if she would've had a conversation with me about characteristics that make a good man, how to tell the difference, and how I deserve to be treated.