I've been 'brain writing' this post since this past thursday.
Good Gracies, has it really been that long?
I usually just plop my tushie down on my chair and whatever comes forth, I go with.
taptaptapppppppppppppp-typing away.
Except this time.
I couldn't think of anything to "say."
I've been running a few things through the brain as what to chat about.
At first I was going to chat about this BLACK FRIDAY thing. I'm sure if I googled the term black Friday, I'd find out the history of this particular day, as well as the reasoning behind the name. My dear AZ cousin sent me an email on the day of Black Friday, questioning the very term, and getting some much needed giggles out of me, she made a great point,why not call it GREEN FRIDAY? But after processing this topic up in my teeny tiny head, and seeing that it's now Sunday, I feel as though I missed my chance to remove the veil of blackness. I will say this though, the name Black Friday makes me think of what happened to Jesus, a few days before Easter.
After I snubbed the black Friday topic in my mind, I thought, OH YES, I should write about that fatal car accident that occurred this past Monday night, four blocks down from my home, near the park that the boys and I frequently visit (frequently meaning ALL THE TIME, in the summer months). The accident happened on the street that runs perpendicular to the one that I live on. Two helicopters landed in this park last Monday to transport the two people involved in this horrific crash. I decided in my head that this would be what my post was about, mainly because it's been eating at me all week. But I couldn't understand why. I was going to write about how I slept through the sounds of the two helicopters landing nearby to attempt to save the two people involved in this accident. I was set to write about how it took the rescue crew over 30 minutes to remove the female driver from her car with the jaws of life, and the male driver of the other car, 15 minutes with the aid of those jaws as well.
Of how the the young mom, young is 51 years, died at the hospital minutes after arriving there by helicopter. Of how the husband grew concerned when his "child" called and said, "mom never came to pick me up from X's house," and how he happened to drive up on the accident site when his wife failed to answer his calls on her cell phone. Of how the husband, "just knew something was wrong."
I was ready to carry on about what "I think happened," and about how the other driver survived, the young male driver, until they gave the names of the victims involved in this crash.
I will never again look at that intersection the same way, and in a town like this, things like this just don't happen-fatal accidents on side streets for that matter. Fatal accidents in towns like this means that you know the families involved somehow. In this case, for me, the male driver is someone I remember as a happy 7 year old boy. A boy that I would babysit for, with my best friend from High school. The family that I would see every Sunday. The family well known, living near my home now, the father a life saving doctor, good members of our church, and within minutes, their lives will never be the same. I cannot even fathom what either families must be going through right now.
The cold reality of it blew through my body as I drove past that intersection this evening, on my way home from my parents house. I had this sudden cold run through my body, and I honestly felt as if, I don't know, like she was still out there, weeping her death. I felt as though this mom was still lingering. I'm sure my mind was just playing tricks with me, because I'm supposed to believe that when you die, if you believe, than you go straight to heaven. That's what I was raised to believe, so why that strange feeling? I hate even talking like this. I sound hypocritical to myself, to what I'm supposed to think, and it drives me crazy.
This thinking reminded me of what happened after my Grandpa died of lung cancer. For months after his death I would begin my bedtime routine with prayers being "spoken" directly to God. Somehow, these conversations always- "mentally vocal," one sided as I was always the talker and God the listener- ended up evolving, and suddenly I would be speaking to my Grandpa in my prayers. I could feel him, and I could see him as I lay in my bedroom with my eyes closed. I could smell how he used to smell when I'd hug him, warmth would overcome my body when I was mentally in his room. I felt like it was really him, his spirit, easing any type of issue I might have.
I had this intense sense of his surroundings..words-beautiful peace and such privilege and complete concurrence regardless of the anomaly-utter floating grace that was a powerful essence unknown to my normal physical characteristics like goosebumps and zizzles.
I began to look forward to bedtime when I would close my eyes and begin my prayers, waiting for it to trail to the path that led me to my Grandpa, that chain of events that happens when conversations go from one topic to another, and suddenly, "YEA!! I'm talking to my Grandpa!!" It grew to where I wanted to bypass the connector completely, and wanted nothing more than to find myself in that other room, where I would see me telling my grandpa about my day. About what everyone was up to in my family. I spoke to my grandpa for months after his death. You'd think this was all quite childish, and childlike, perhaps, but I can tell you that I was in high school at this time.
I can't remember when I stopped speaking to him,my Grandpa, when the prayers stopped going to the other room, the room he was in, but eventually they did stop. My bedtime prayer ritual going back to normal. Normal meaning that usually when I'd close my eyes and began my night time prayers, (or to some, thinking out loud up in the brain) sleep would always take over. I returned to my pattern of bedtime thoughts/prayers evolving to dreamland. I returned to only seeing him in my dreams on occasion.
Years later, I tried to speak to him about my day one night during my prayers, but I didn't make it there. Sleep took over as usual and I didn't try again.
I do recall trying to get to the other room again, years later, January 14Th 2003, and not being able to. It was after my other Grandpa had died. His death reminded me of the peaceful anticipation I had with my other Grandpa, the thinking out loud in the spiritual room. The day in January of 2003 is another story for another time, but after his death, like a child playing hide and seek with their respected one, I attempted to allow my prayers to lead me to the room he was in.
I was never led to the other room in conversations. His soul to me, must have moved on. Both of my grandfathers souls. The one that I attempted to reconnect with, the one that I used to "speak to" in prayers (now I sound like Dion Warwick and the psychic friends network, clearly not the point I'm trying to make here) knew that he didn't need to "stick around" like he did when he first had died. He knew he didn't need to "come back." But again, it confuses me because even though I believe what I was taught to believe from my faith, I can't help but feel as though while sounding hypocritical, that maybe sometimes when certain people pass, they do stick around.
Their souls I mean.
It doesn't really matter what I think after all, because I don't have the answers. Not until death will I understand where a soul truly is, but the point of this ramble is that this feeling that I felt in my bones, in my heart, was that this woman was still there-her spirit- and she wasn't ready to let go. My heart cries for them.....
The fresh bouquets of flowers, the memorials already at a corner of this four way stop. The chilling reminders as the cold blew snow balls of sleet on my windshield, that life can be taken whenever, however, and at anytime. For some when least expected. A reminder to be grateful to those that are in our lives. Sadly for this family, the reminder came four days before thanksgiving and they are now left with reflecting memories of their time with their loved one.
Dreadfully painful.
Welcome TO Crustybeef~
Apologies for being such a downer, I just needed to get this out of my system. And writing this has shown me why this accident has been gnawing at me. Why? Because I haven't prayed like that, with the hopes of going into the "other room," for quite sometime now. Rest assured I will, and I am grateful that I have been given that reminder, and more time with the ones that I love, until death takes over, and the healing/mourning process starts over again.
P.S. This is the FIRST time I've ever told anyone about "the other room."-from what I recall. In this much detail, I should say.
