The last six weeks of my life have been punctuated by awkward phone calls full of bad news, visits to one hospital after another, and sleepless nights on uncomfortable chairs in sterile rooms. Although my family has been historically pretty healthy, we’ve been dropping like flies lately. My current illness, a particularly persistent cold that’s been making me miserable for weeks, is the least of it.

There’s something very humbling about watching someone you love die. The last time I saw my uncle before I went to Maryland to help transfer him into hospice, he was competing in triathalons. Ten, maybe fifteen years later, he was under 100 lbs, in excruciating pain, and recognized me only every other time he was awake. It had been ages since we’d spoken, and it was more than a little surreal to be there at his bedside, talking him though panic attacks and helping him with everything to eating to changing the channel on the TV to urinating. The basic things of life become so important, and everything else is just parenthetical.

He’s been transferred back out of hospice into a long-term care facility now, and he has good days and bad days. He is dying, no doubt about that. And faster than you or I am, most likely. But when it will actually happen is completely up in the air. My guess is sooner rather than later, but what do I know — I didn’t think he would last this long.

I also didn’t think I’d be back in a hospital room again so soon. This time, I’m with my brother, who — thankfully — is not dying. He’s one of the lucky ones. Late last night he was in a car accident that left the driver and one passenger dead at the scene, and my brother and another passenger battered, bruised, but alive. If they hadn’t been wearing their seatbelts, A. and R. would have been thrown from the car and killed instantly like the other two.

Instead, A. and R. now will live their lives with the memory of last night, with the sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass etched into their memory in a cruel loop, the smell of scorched rubber burned into their nostrils, the sensation of rolling over and over with a narrow strip of webbing cutting into their chests as the only thing standing between them and oblivion impressed into their limbs. They will live with horror and fear and guilt and anger. They will live with sadness with a weight so great that it will be almost unbearable. But they will live.

A.’s sleep is punctuated by muscle jerks, caught breath, and frowning expressions that cross his swollen and stitched face. I can’t imagine what he is dreaming about right now, and I don’t want to. It would have been a blessing for him to have been knocked unconscious, but no — he remembers everything. I hope the pain medication is strong enough that he is sleeping dreamlessly, that I’m reading too much into the normal twitches and facial calisthenics that come with much-needed sleep. But I fear that he’s watching an encore of the accident over and over in his head.

How do you navigate your life after something like this happens? How do you manage it after it happens twice? Last month, less than 30 days ago, was the anniversary of our younger brother’s death. In the seven years after Jesse died, we all struggled. A. had finally found another brother, a family member of choice, to fill that role in his life, to be there for him, support him, have fun with him, all those things siblings do for one another. And now this brother is gone, too.

I don’t believe it is anyone’s “time” to die. We grieve because our hearts were made for eternity. Life is filled with abrupt endings, and knowing they’re coming doesn’t prepare us or lessen the blow. It’s not in our nature to know how to handle death. That’s why it’s so miserable.

There’s nothing natural about it. Only final.

I will forever remember 27 as the year I finally grew up — and not just because it was the last year I could legitimately describe myself as being in my “mid-twenties.”

When I was a kid, I looked forward to middle school because those 12- and 13-year-old girls just really seemed to have it together. In middle school, I thought high school would be when I would get a handle on things. Of course, I was clueless then, and eagerly awaited college, when I would be smart and sassy and clever and independent. And then in college, I looked forward to my early 20s, when I’d be out in the so-called real world. When that long-awaited reality rolled around, I longed for my 30s.

Last year, I finally got it: Always waiting for the next stage of my life made me miss the one I was in. In fact, I even blogged about the importance of appreciating “the now” in a post here in 2009. I’m not sure how it escaped me all these years, but there’s something exciting and romantic about figuring things out as you go. Instead of berating myself and growing frustrated when I realize I’ve screwed something up or don’t know what to do next, I’m enjoying the challenge of figuring out what to do next, and reflecting on how far I’ve come since the last time I found myself either stuck or doing damage control.

Ironically, being more aware and accepting of my own limitations made them significantly less limiting. The passion and joy with which I approach my life now has been, frankly, an adjustment. But it has been a wonderful one. I still struggle mightily with depression and anxiety, but they have become just two among many facts about me instead of failings that define me.

But there was a lot of focus on my failings in the last year, believe me. I realized at some point last spring that the life I was living was not the one I wanted to be living, and the person I was was not the person I wanted to be. It was surreal, this realizing that I didn’t particularly like myself, and strangely empowering.

With this month hosting not only my 28th birthday but also my 10-year high-school reunion, my mind is split between looking back and looking forward — for what I imagine are fairly obvious reasons. And I’m looking forward to processing this more right here.

Last night I watched Gone With the Wind for what I later realized was the first time in at least six and a half years. I discerned this fact while trying to analyze why I bawled through virtually the whole thing. For a movie I’ve seen at least a dozen times, that struck me as a strange reaction…until I realized that I hadn’t seen it since (a) my brother died and (b) I got married. Why would these two events, which happened more than six and nearly five years ago, respectively, have sparked such a response? Well, I’ll tell you.

Why being married reduced me to a quivering ball of sobs throughout Gone With the Wind

Although I’ve read GWTW probably 10 times or more and seen the film even more than than, I never truly appreciated the heartbreaking dynamic of Rhett and Scarlett’s relationship. They were each so afraid of being hurt by the other that they never really allowed themselves to love fully — and thus hurt one another over and over again. The two parts that really got me were when Scarlett told him she didn’t want to have any more children (and, thus, never to have sex with her husband again, as she made abundantly clear immediately after that annoucement) and the morning after he sweeps her up the stairs and ravages her.

In the first, she’s being a petulant child. But the moment that wrenched something deep inside me was just after Rhett regained his composure following that statement. He told her he’d go elsewhere to meet his needs, sloshed some whiskey into a glass, and flung the tumbler at a life-size portrait of Scarlett after taking only a sip, clearly beside himself. And she simply didn’t care. I’m not sure which was harder to watch: her lack of real reaction to his obvious pain, or the extent to which that proclamation, that the woman he loved no longer wanted to make love to him, shook him to his core. I burst into tears.

In the second, Scarlett awakes in the best mood we’ve seen her in, reveling in the memory of the passionate night that preceded. She’s positively joyous, and is delighted to see Rhett when he approaches her bed after Mammy takes away the breakfast tray. Her adoration reads clearly on her face, but he, presumably expecting the venom he’s become accustomed to receiving, remains stoic and announces that he’s leaving and taking their daughter with him. Rather than declare her love for him, Scarlett, whose face has fallen, decides to put up a wall and acts like she doesn’t care. It’s clear, though, how much Rhett’s departure devastated her when he returns and her face lights up. “Mammy said you’d come back,” she tells him. But she is again devastated when he announces that he’s returned only to drop off their daughter and will be leaving again immediately. That, compounded with her tumbling down the majestic stairs only moments later, left me sobbing for the duration of the movie.

Following Scarlett’s accident, Rhett is bereft with guilt and regret. He longs for Scarlett to call him to her bedside so he can apologize and make things right, but she never does because she fears he won’t come — and he won’t go without her calling for him because he feels she must hate him and would reject him yet again. This was, for me, the ultimate tragedy of the story. Two people, desperately in love with one another, lock themselves into a lifetime of hurt because they’re too afraid of being hurt by the other to reach out for the happiness they could both have. It isn’t until the end of the film that Scarlett finally realizes what a fool she has been, but by that time she has hurt Rhett so deeply that he can’t even begin to forgive her, and leaves. As he disappears into the fog despite her pleas, she staggers to the monumental staircase and collapses in tears.

Watching this whole scenario unfold, I found myself wondering, Have I ever pushed my husband away like that for fear of his rejecting or disappointing me? Has he ever done the same? I think that self-protective, but ultimately self-destructive, action happens in most relationships to some extent. And like Scarlett and Rhett, those doing it don’t truly realize the affect they’re having on their spouse, themselves, and the marriage. The thought that I could have ever done that to someone I love, or that I may in the future, was so utterly awful, regretful, and earth shattering that I couldn’t contain myself. And the further thought that people around me every day are doing this foolish, foolish thing instead of simply embracing the one they love made me even more emotional.

How personal loss dramatically changed my reaction to a film I’ve seen over and over

Once the danger has passed and Scarlett is on the road to recovery, their young daughter dies in a horseback riding accident. (Sorry if I’m ruining this for anyone, but seriously, the movie is 70 years old. Get with the program.) Rather than cling to one another in their grief, they break apart even further. Mammy recounts the fight that ensued, wherein Scarlett called him a murderer and demanded that Rhett give her back her baby “what you killed.” That was emotional enough, but the part that got me, that left me in near hysterics for a good 45 minutes after the film ended, was what happened next. Rhett locked himself in the nursery with Bonnie’s body, refusing to allow the funeral to take place. His reason? He wouldn’t let anyone bury his child under the ground because she was so afraid of the dark.

Despite my familiarity with both the text and the screen versions of the story, I had forgotten that line. If I’m being honest, I think I may have blocked it out. Hearing it last night flashed me back to an afternoon six years and four months ago as I sat beside my father on the couch in the living room of the house where I grew up. He was holding a small flashlight in one hand a two AA batteries in the other, and he looked absolutely lost. My brother’s body was to be buried the next day, and the funeral home had informed us earlier that morning that although we could certainly put whatever we wanted in the casket, we couldn’t include any batteries because they would eventually release their acid into the soil.

Hours later, my father deteriorated into a much smaller person than I have ever seen him, before or since. His more than six-foot frame looked whisper-thin as he slid the batteries out of the flashlight body into his calloused palm. “Without the batteries,” he rasped, voice breaking, “how will he be able to see? He’ll be all alone in the dark.” He nearly fell to the floor as his body convulsed with grief. I felt helpless, and couldn’t shake the thought not of the dark, but of the eventual breakdown of the casket that held my brother’s body, the sound of the dirt first trickling and then collapsing onto what remained of him as it all turned back into dust. Because if that wasn’t inevitable, then batteries wouldn’t matter — they’d be contained by the satin and wood with no way to get out into the ground.

Although it has faded over time, made its appearance less frequent, that image of my father broken on the couch has never truly left me. It returned to my mind with such force last night that it knocked the wind out of me. When I heard that line about Bonnie being afraid of the dark and then saw Rhett Butler crouching beside his daughter’s lifeless body in the nursery, silhouetted in the candlelight, my visceral response was so strong that I nearly vomited. Previously, I’d had no point of reference. Now, it’s all too personal. I cried just as hard last night as I did on learning of my brother’s death, and I cry again now as I type this, so hard I can barely see the screen.

__

I’m not sure I’ll ever watch Gone With the Wind again, nor pick the volume off my shelf. I genuinely don’t know if I will be able to handle it. But I’m glad I watched it last night, glad I let myself cry and process rather than what Scarlett was so famous for: putting it off until tomorrow and burying difficult and unpleasant emotions. That doesn’t mean, though, that I’d ever want to go through it again.

Contents Copyright © 2009 Kristen King, Inkthinker

(www.sass-pants.com) — I think it was God’s way of telling me that fast food really is bad for me. Okay, not really, but I won’t be swinging by the local McDonald’s for a snack again any time soon. When I stopped for a Big Mac Meal on Tuesday, I got in a car accident in the parking lot.

Let me describe the setup for you:

The building is fairly long and narrow, and perpendicular to the road. There is parking on all sides. If you’re facing the front, the drive-thru line starts on the right and exits on the left. The right side is one way toward the back of the building and the left side is one way toward the front of the building. When you exit the drive-thru, you can go straight out onto the road or you can drive through the one-way lane in front of the building, cross over the parking-lot entrance, and exit through the adjacent business’ parking lot. This is what I was trying to do on Tuesday.

I looked both ways, double-checked to make sure no one was pulling in from the road, and proceeded across the McDonald’s lot to exit next door since the drive-thru line was completely blocking the rear exit. And then, CRUNCH! The woman who was last in line for the drive-thru apparently got impatient and decided she wanted out. So, she backed up. Right into my car.

The woman was very apologetic and called her insurance company, StateFarm, and told them it was completely her fault, which I appreciated since it WAS. Like, seriously, who doesn’t look behind them before backing up? This chick, apparently! (She also hugged me and asked me not to let my husband hunt her down and killer her for what she did, which was decidedly strange.) But my car is still all dented and scratched up, and my back HURTS and it’s her fault for being a moron.

Imagine being T-boned. Now imagine that the car T-boning you is backing up at a low speed. That’s what happened. So while I didn’t feel injured at the accident site, about 2 hours later the pain started and climbed down to my tailbone and up to the base of my skull over the next 6 hours. And it’s still here, when I turn my head, sit still, move around, sigh, cough, yawn, chew, swallow, sneeze, go to the bathroom, push a dog off of me, reach for a drink, everything.

But back to the accident day. After spending a considerable amount of time talking with Scott from StateFarm and then Terry from StateFarm, they told me they’d be covering the accident and, assuming there is a verifiably accident-related injury, medical costs. Nice, since my deductible with GEICO is $500 and I don’t have that kind of cash just lying around. Also a relief to know on the very day the accident happened that it was going to be taken care of.

That decision came while I was driving to my doctor’s office. Happy happy! Until I got to the doctor’s office and discovered that he was closed. All week. And when I called to see if there was some kind of referral on their answering machine, I got a fax machine. Well, crap! Not so happy happy after all.

So then I drove to the urgent care center that had treated me for some kind of insane stomach bug like 3 years ago. A 2-hour wait. And I didn’t bring a book. And it was like 43 bazillion degrees in there. And sick people were coughing on me. And children were screaming. Cranky cranky.

After 3 hours (2 hours in the waiting room, 45 minutes in the exam room including about 30 seconds with the actual doctor, another 15 minutes in the waiting room awaiting prescriptions), I went to the pharmacy for painkillers and a c-collar, and then the hospital for x-rays. Another 2 hours later, I made it home.

I’m still waiting on x-ray results (because the holidays are a GREAT time to get injured, let me tell you!) and still in pain and don’t know if something is cracked or if it’s just muscular or what. Terrified to move in case something IS fractured because I don’t know what could happen if there’s a break that isn’t stabilized or otherwise treated.

The meds are helping some, but not as much as I would like. I can sit down for only about 30 minutes at a time before needing to walk around or lie down, which isn’t great when you spend your work day in front of a computer. And the lack of response from the doctor’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve my stress level, that is for sure. Oh, and did I mention that my dogs ate 10 lbs of flour last night? That was really fun to clean up with a sore back.

Contents Copyright © 2009 Kristen King

(www.sass-pants.com) — I guess all the nostalgia of rereading my middle school and high school journals has thrown my skin into some kind of tailspin or mega regression, because I have the worst pimple of my life on my chin right now. My husband regarded it with a mix of horror and awe, observing, “Wow, it actually changes your whole jawline.” Gee, thanks, honey. You sure know how to make a girl feel attractive.

I tweeted about it the other day, and was disappointed not to receive more sympathy. (One of my tweeple laughed at me. Rightfully so, but still! She did later mitigate her callousness with, “I think you’re hilarious for having that fun attitude about it. Those things aren’t fun, but they happen to the best of us. ”) I guess since I don’t actually have to leave the house to go to work and no one sees it other than Jesse, the dogs, and my friends in the congregation (who, you know, aren’t judging my skin lest their skin be judged), I don’t warrant much sympathy in this regard.

That, plus evidently I’m not the only woman outside puberty who’s dealing with this absurdity. How do I stave off both wrinkles and acne? It occurs to me that I blog about my skin kind of a lot. Well, maybe not a lot, but this isn’t the first time. On my old women’s health blog, I did a whole series on Acne Free (like Proactiv, but a lot cheaper and available at Costco), my results, and the rash it gave me, and even posted an awesome guest article about acne in adults.

Somehow, it doesn’t make me feel one bit better to know that there are tons of other 20somethings, 30somethings, and even 40 and 50somethings who are still cringing in front of the mirror. I was told I would grow out of it. They LIED. I want retribution. Or a miracle skin care product that will solve the problem. Really, I could go either way.

Contents Copyright © 2008 Kristen King

(www.sass-pants.com) — Who said being married is no fun?

Him: <looking at the bank statement> Did you make an online purchase from something called Wicked Temptations?

Me: Uh, no.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: You’re kidding, right? I think I’d remember buying something from a place called Wicked Temptations.

Him: Well, maybe it didn’t say Wicked Temptations when you bought it.

Me: <googling> Evidently WickedTemptations.com is sexy lingerie at discount prices.

Him: Oh! It’s for Dave*!

Me: You bought sexy discount lingerie for Dave?

Him: No, it’s for his wife for Christmas.

Me: You bought sexy discount lingerie for Dave’s wife?

As it turns out, Dave asked if he could use Jesse’s card to make the purchase so his wife wouldn’t see it on the credit card statement and it would be a surprise. It sure surprised me! It was about four hours ago, and I’m still giggling. “You bought sexy discount lingerie for Dave?” I was so confused.

*Not his real name.

Contents Copyright © 2008 Kristen King

(www.sass-pants.com) — I recently rediscovered a stash of childhood journals, which include some laugh-out-loud entries. Like this one.

Dear Journal,

I just got back from the Lake Tranquility 4th of July party. The fireworks were awesome!

I stayed afterward, until Daddy had finished cleaning up the display. C. and I hung out together, and she told me that T.A. (M.’s little bro) wants her to go out with him…and to prove it, he French kissed her! She’s going out with R. (don’t even ask), so she doesn’t know what to say.

Speaking of M., I saw him tonight, too. He was majorly drunk. I’m not sure how much of what he’d had, but it must have been a lot. Plus, he was smoking, and he even offered C. and me a cigarette!

I’m so worried about him. I know that we’re not close, but we’re still friendly. I mean, he has the potential to be anything or anyone, but he’s throwing it away for a can of beer and a temporary high.

I don’t know what to do! Should I call him to make sure he’s alright, or should I just forget about it?

Dazed and concerned,

Kristen

P.S. I’m single, lonely, and 14 (still never been kissed)!

Okay then! This one’s not too bad because at least I remember who all of these people are, unlike many, many entries I’ve read over the last few days. But “throwing it all away for a can of beer and a temporary high”??? I can’t say I disagree with the logic, but seriously, what 14-year-old talks like that? Apparently I did. Maybe it was all the dazedness and concern. Or maybe the loneliness or lack of kissing. Who knows…

Contents Copyright © 1996-2008 Kristen King

(www.sass-pants.com) — What seems like a lifetime ago, I wrote a post called “Why I Could Never Be Friends With Bridget Jones.” My comments, in part:

Bridget’s on the right track when she resolves to take better care of herself by cutting back on the ciggies and the booze, but the fact that she measures her happiness by whether [her boss] is more or less interested in getting into her knickers on any given day just grates on me. …Happiness isn’t about what the scale says or how many men are trying to seduce you. It’s about feeling good physically and emotionally.”

(You can read the whole post at Lively Women, the women’s health blog I hosted for almost 2 years for b5media, which is now hosted by Peggy Rowland.)

I’ve had this remarkable revelation though: Bridget Jones is everywoman. (It’s obviously not a revelation to the publishing industry, as that’s the basis of the chick lit genre, but whatever, we’re talking about me here.) I think the reason I couldn’t stand Bridget Jones is that she exemplifies everything I hate about myself:

• Overall insecurity
• Falling for the WRONG MEN (see cross-reference: every guy I dated or crushed on before my husband) for the WRONG REASONS
• Incessantly vowing to change but never following through

Except Bridget finally DID follow through. She told off her jerk of a boss. She got a job she liked. She lost the weight she was struggling with. She cut down (or quit? I can’t remember) on smoking. She ended up with the right guy. She actually WROTE in her journal just about every day for a year.

Aside from the British accent and the tobacco habit, I am Bridget Jones. Quirky, dorky, chronically committed to changing, but taking forever to actually do it. No wonder she drove me so crazy at first. Watching/reading Bridget Jones was like looking into a mirror. It just took me 2 years to figure it out.

So now that I’ve had this revelation, not only do I take back everything I said about poor Bridge, but I want to follow in her ultimately successful footsteps (until the sequel, which, at least in film form, was godawful).

And I’m serious about it. Get this: I actually did CRUNCHES. And I don’t mean the sound the chips make when you chew them. I mean stomach crunches. And I JOGGED. On a TREADMILL. Admittedly, the jogging part lasted about two minutes until I had to slow to a brisk walk lest I collapse and be thrown off the belt into the wall behind me. But it’s progress. And I intend to do it tomorrow, too. And the next day.

AND! I bought a notebook. (”Because you don’t already have eighty-four thousand notebooks, Kristen?” Quiet, you.) And I have written in it. I’m not committing to anything daily, but I am committing to physically recording thoughts in ink and on paper and contemplating them. This used to be routine for me, as evidenced by the more than a dozen notebooks and journals sitting on my shelf that chronicle my life from about age 10 to 17 or so, when journaling fizzled out. Not sure why I stopped, but it’s amazing to look back and relive conversations recorded in painstaking detail, and try to figure out bizarrely cryptic references that I’m sure made plenty of sense at the time. I miss that.

So, Bridget, I take it back. And I’m sorry for taking out my frustration with myself on you. Thanks for showing me the light through Oxygen, TBS, and the numerous other networks that replay you weekend after weekend after weekend. I needed that.

Contents © Copyright 2008 Kristen King

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(www.sass-pants.com) — Most days I’m fine. It’s been almost 6 years since my brother Jesse died. But tonight, I can’t get him out of my head. These nights, playing my guitar is what gets me through. Or maybe it makes it worse. I honestly haven’t decided yet. Yet. Like it just happened. But it’s been 2,071 days.

I try to play other songs on these nights, but my fingers keep drawing me back to the song I played at his funeral, on his guitar. We were 5 years apart in age, and we were finally getting to the point where we had stuff in common. I had picked up guitar (not well, I must admit) in high school and then he followed in my footsteps at about the same age. We jammed when I came home from college to visit. If you could call it jamming, I guess, and to be fair you probably couldn’t. But it was so much fun.

So when he died, and they asked if I wanted to say something at the funeral, I just knew that I needed to play his guitar since he would never be able to play it again. I picked “Family,” by Dar Williams, and my best friend, who bawled with me when I arrived in New Jersey from Virginia for the funeral, harmonized with me on the chorus.

I haven’t played my guitar much since then, or his. It’s really only these nights that it comes out anymore. I feel too sad. And playing the song I played at his funeral doesn’t really cheer me up, but it’s the only thing that feels appropriate, somehow. A major causal factor to my limited repertoire, I’m sure.

Other than that day before we drove to the cemetery and the occasional open mic at the bar where I worked during undergrad, I don’t really play in public. But tonight I’d really like to share this with you. So here I am, crazy hair, mistakes, and all.

Feed readers, view this video on Viddler.com.

Do you have a song that’s the only one you want to hear or play when you’re going through darkness? What is it?

Contents Copyright © 2008 Kristen King