(I've been thinking about this for a while. Thinking about whether or not I should write about my childhood/life. Then whether or not I should write about it in my blog. It's one thing to write about my life in a journal. It's another if I write about it for the world to see. We all have stories of life to share that can help one another - good and bad.
I've also been thinking about how this could bring about complete healing from my past. I often appreciate people's authenticity, honesty and openness and how it must give them some kind of freedom from their struggles - past or present. I know it has for me.)
Let's visit my 5 or 6 year old self and start from there. I felt like a victim for a long time, well into my young 20s. I think it's ok for a child to behave as such but only for so long. There must be healing and closing a chapter on life and moving forward. Please keep in mind I am remembering these memories from a young age and interpreting it as such - now that I am older, a little wiser and more mature, I interpret it to mean something much greater and cohesive and purposeful.
Little Bela was a tom boy who loved to play outside, invent games, laugh, beat up boys and then use the excuse "I'm a girl so you can't hit me," be an annoying little sister, tell on people, and pretend to be sleeping so my puppa would pick me up and tuck me into bed all the while my sister glaring at me and telling him "she's not asleep." Those were some good memories. The years between 0-9 were some good, innocent, childhood memories (and some not so great - it wasn't perfect) that I cherish and hold fast to because my childhood ended abruptly.
Tragedy happened and my sister and I grew up very quickly at the tender ages of 10 and 15. My father died at the young age of 51 from a massive heart attack. The story: he went on a walk with his brother to our small town lake. He told my uncle he was tired and needed to sit down. They sat on a bench on the lake and he rested his head on his shoulder. My uncle thought he fell asleep and when he nudged him he realized my father wasn't sleeping. (We revisit that bench at the lake sometimes).
He was unconscious for a long time for a man who had had a heart attack, 15-30 minutes maybe, with no intervention. So he had anoxic brain injury, kept alive via ventilators. At the age of 10 and 15 we became adults. More responsibility was placed on my sister since she was older.
I remember going into Shands (where I eventually ended up working as an RN) and seeing his body lying lifeless on the hospital bed, talking to him hoping he could hear my voice, holding his hand. Looking at the tubes attached to his body. I remember the smells - like a hospital, can't quite describe it but just that it was unfamiliar and not pleasant. I didn't understand that this was it for him. There was hope in me that he would wake up and whisper my name, "Belu, I'm ok. I'm here."
I remember my mummi couldn't process what had happened so the support of strong family members came to our side. He was kept on the ventilator and other life-sustaining drugs/methods so family could fly in and say their final goodbyes. I remember sitting at THE TABLE. The Table was where my sister, mom and I sat along with a couple of doctors and a few of our family members and we sat around and talked about the future. The future being, "to pull the plug or not pull the plug." The doctors were sensitive to my questions, "can he still hear me when I talk? Can I say goodbye?" With sensitivity and knowing I was a young child looking for the answer "yes," they said, "yes." At such young ages we were deciding the fate of our puppa (with the help of family). I went to his bedside, caressed his forehead, talked with him and told him how much I had loved him, said my goodbye, and found out early morning the next day he died.
A shock wave. More like, unbelief. It was surreal. Was he really...dead? Maybe he left the hospital and was actually part of a secret mission and all of it was pretend? He was going to come back even if it took years.
Thoughts from a 10yo. I definitely had those thoughts well into my teen years.
The funeral. So many people came. I don't really remember that day too well. There are two vivid memories I have: pulling the lever up with my sister to have his body burned and turned into ashes - officially saying goodbye forever - and sitting in my cousin's car and asking "when I get married, who will walk me down the aisle?" (That question has since been answered ;)).
There is a picture of us and our family members who came down sitting around in the living room. All of our expressions...blank. Mostly staring. Not really looking anywhere.
Questions: Family: how are we going to move forward? who will take care of them?
Child: how am I going to go back to school? What will I tell my friends? Will I be able to
go on the trip to Washington D.C.?
Details I don't remember too well.
What happened after isn't so great. Memories not so wonderful. My mummi lost someone she loved and depended on tremendously. Her mind and body could not handle the mental trauma so her functioning came to an all time low. We went to stay with family for a few months (probably the most difficult memories that caused a lot of anger and bitterness to well up within me because it was something that no child should go through after losing a parent which have, thankfully, been forgiven and mended). Different family members stayed with us for months. Each helping us significantly in their own ways like when my sister told me that our uncle really helped her out by guiding her through our parents' finances and how to handle it all.
Then it kind of died down from there. If you have been through a loss you know what I mean. A lot of support in the beginning and then it trails off either little by little or all of a sudden. Which just means getting back to life. Moving forward.
Trying to close that chapter and begin the next one.
