The Balance of Life
By: AnnaBeth Fish
We walked through the hospital together without speaking. I held my dad’s hand, feeling younger than the eighteen years I was, but at the same time, the immensity of the situation flooded me, and I knew I could no longer be the young girl I wanted to be. My older brother, Dan, lagged a few paces behind my dad and me. Dan’s long hair hung loosely around his face, and his black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of his favorite band Breaking Benjamin, was perfectly in tune with our bleak moods. Slowly, we made our way through the bustle of the hospital to elevator H. Elevator H really only went to two floors, the maternity unit, floor five, and the Intensive Care Unit, floor four. The furthest ends of the spectrum--a floor where life begins, and a floor where many, many lives come to an end.
Our feet dragged as we got off the elevator and walked down the cold, sterile corridor. We were tired; none of us got much sleep that night. In twelve hours, the entirety of our lives had mutated. The walk down the hallway was at the same time endless and all too short. We reached the dreaded door and waited. It was 9:58. As the seconds ticked by, none of us spoke to each other or to the other small huddles of people who stood nearby. The sun shone through the large windows, the rays of light dancing and causing the tears on my face to gleam like diamonds. The vivaciousness of the sun could not combat my despair.
Tension choked the air, choked all of us. 10:00. A nurse opened the door; visiting hours had begun. I closed my eyes and reminded myself to breathe as I followed my brother and dad into the intensive care unit. I ignored the others around me. Normally, I would want to know their stories, I would want to help them. But on that day, I could barely help myself and my family, let alone carry the burden of someone else’s sorrow. My dad, his fair, almost delicate features contorted with alarm, anxiety, and anger as he led our procession, taking long, purposeful strides toward bed seven. Dan marched behind him obediently, like a soldier headed for war, with grace and courage on the outside, fear and turmoil on the inside. I followed behind, silently telling myself that I could do this, I could handle this. As I reached the foot of the bed, I stopped and stared. I was afraid to move any closer.
On the bed lay the framework of a human, reduced to merely being a vessel that contained all the elements of a living creature. The lungs still drawing in oxygen and forcing out carbon dioxide. The heart still beating, pumping blood throughout the body. Under the alabaster skin, all the vital organs still functioning, still performing their jobs. Like Frankenstein’s Modern Prometheus, it was “alive!”, at least in the most basic sense of the word.
“Hi Mom,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. All around me, quiet chaos swarmed. Nurses moved between patients, checking IVs, taking vitals and scribbling notes. The intercom of the hospital sounded every now and then, muted, muffled, austere and unforgiving. Beside the bed, monitors beeped in steady, consoling rhythms as lines squiggled soothingly across the screen. The smell of disinfectant seared my nostrils; the stench of human excrement was the only scent powerful enough to rise above the disinfectant. In front of me, lay the body of my mother. The soft hiss of the ventilator forced a comforting rise and fall of her chest. All around me, people, including my mom, hovered between life and death.
“You can move closer dear. Go ahead, touch her hand, she might be able to tell that you’re here,” the nurse urged me quietly. Bile and stomach acid surged from the depths of my stomach, lingering bitterly in my throat and mouth. How I wanted to run, to escape, but my legs carried my unwilling body forward, as if controlled by unseen strings manipulated by a cruel, uncaring puppeteer.
Someone, somewhere, for some inexplicable reason, had put me in this situation. Angrily, I began cursing fate for thrusting me out of my comfort zone into this pit of anguish. Surrounded by people, I felt more alone than I ever thought possible.
I was suddenly overwhelmed. Every person lying in the beds around me were fighting for his or her life. Death was near, lurking in every crevice and shadow, behind every curtain and under every bed, silent and persistent. I stumbled backwards, and started to hyperventilate. Cool hands touched my arms and pulled me away from the bed, out of the feverish fervor of the ICU and into the icy hallway. I slumped to the floor, hands on my face, head on my knees. Again, the cool hands were there, rubbing my back in a soothing way, just like my mom always did. The tears came harder, faster, more furiously.
Eventually the tears began to recede and I looked at the person who had rescued me. It was my mom’s doctor, and for a second, our eyes connected. My eyes, red-rimmed and full of fear and sadness, hers filled with compassion, assurance and knowledge. Without saying a word, she handed me a tissue and smiled with warmth and poise. Dr. Prahalad had been our family physician for years. Her tan, creased face was dotted with freckles and her cocoa brown eyes seemed to take up her whole face. Staring into her eyes I saw truth. I knew she did not know what was going to happen but I also saw great faith. She gently tucked my hair behind my ear then offered a hand to help me stand up.
“She’s still your mother. She’s still there, she’ll be back soon. Look past the tubes and machines and you’ll see her. You have to be strong for your father and brother. They need you as much as you need them. And your mom needs all of you more than you can imagine.”
Her words seared my mind. Like a spoiled child, I had been pouting because I felt alone. Ashamed, I remembered that my brother, my dad and everyone else who loved my mom were also in the same position. This wasn’t just my mom; she was my brother’s mom, a wife, a niece, a friend and so much more.
I took the first step back towards the door to the ICU. For a second, I faltered. The doctor quietly put her hand on my elbow, gently urging me to continue. She and I walked back into the ICU together, back to bed seven. My brother and my dad looked at me, noticing for the first time that I had left. They sent questioning looks my way. Before I could begin to speak, the doctor answered for me.
“We needed a little bit of fresh air.”
She continued to talk, updating us on mom’s condition. I tuned her out and turned my gaze to the hospital bed. Everywhere I looked, there were tubes, machines, bags and monitors. Suddenly the bile rose again and I began to waver. I closed my eyes and in my mind I heard my mom reading our favorite book, (“Mama, Do You Love Me?” Barbara LaVallee) “I’ll love you until the umiak flies into the darkness, till the stars turn to fish in the sky and the puffins howl at the moon.” The gentle imagined whisper of my mom’s voice reminded me of the all the love in her heart. This was a woman who helped everyone; from being the one my friends could ask for advice, to nameless vagrant pleading for food on the side of the highway that cold winter afternoon so long ago in Jackson, Mississippi.
As the words echoed in my head, I opened my eyes again and instead of seeing the broken shell of a human, I saw my mom. I saw her chest rise and fall as she breathed, and heard her heart beat. I reached out and touched her hand. Warm. Relief flooded my system. I knew she was alive, the monitors indicted as much. Somewhere in my mind, I had doubts. The gentle warmth was proof that somewhere deep inside, my mom was hiding. She was somewhere in that shell, waiting to come back.
I began to cry again, but instead of tears of sadness and fear, tears of wistful joy streamed down my face. Never again would I take people for granted. In that moment, I learned the value of human life. My childhood played through my mind. The boring afternoons at home, spent waiting for excitement, the adventures at the zoo, where my youthful curiosity flourished, the tears I cried, the laughs we shared. Every step of the way, there was my mom...my confidante, my champion, my sentry, the one person who never let me surrender or gave up on me.
As the montage of memories played through my mind, for the first time in a long, long time, I began to pray. In my mind, I made a bargain with God. I promised that if he would give me my mom back, I would never, ever take her, or anyone else for granted. There was nothing more I could do. There was nothing else the doctors, the nurses or the medicine could do. It became a waiting game.
The days that followed were not easy. I learned who I could lean on (or in some cases, collapse on.) I tumbled from my pedestal and lost my “better than thou” attitude. I began to see that people who I had long discounted in my mind were the people I should have been befriending. The people who I thought were my friends quickly stepped back from the tragedy that had suddenly entered my life. The people that stepped forward surprised me. My real friends, both new and old, are the ones who I will never be able to repay for their kindness.
I groaned and struggled to separate reality from dream, trying to distinguish what that blaring noise coming from my night stand was. “Make it stop, please make it stop,” I thought as I turned on the lamp and scowled at my phone that was cheerfully singing, “And I think to myself…what a wonderful world…”
“Hi Mom. Yeah, I know, I should be up by now…”
Today, my mom is happy and healthy. She’s still behind me, always supporting me, whether she approves of my decisions or not. I almost lost my mom. I made a deal with God that if he gave my mom back to me, that I would never take her (or anyone else) for granted again. That was almost two years ago. Not a day passes that I don’t think about the ICU. Not a day passes that I don’t remind myself about how lucky I am to have her as a mom, as a friend, as a guide through life.
“I’ll be ready to go by the time you guys get here to pick me up. I’ll remember to bring that paper to show you, I promise. By the way Mom, I love you.”
Friday, March 13, 2009
Do you like sentences?
Do you like sentences?
By: AnnaBeth Fish
This semester, my creative non-fiction writing professor has taught me things about writing (including that I should never use the word “things” because there’s almost always a better word, so I guess I should say he has taught me lessons about writing) that no other professor or teacher have ever taught me.
Instead of making us read a textbook about style and description and setting, he shares with us examples from all kinds of books that he thinks demonstrate what we need to know about important elements of writing. He gives great constructive criticism, and though he is pretty conservative with straight out praise, if you read between the lines of what he says, you can catch the real compliments that he is throwing your way.
The first day of class, he told us that if it were up to him, the class would be pass-fail. Because everything in the real world of writing is pass or fail—it either gets published, or it doesn’t. He’s not your typical professor. He’s a writer and an editor straight through. He’s gruff, and to the point and has no time for false praise. He’s not afraid to tell you what doesn’t sound good but also he’s not afraid to let you know (in his own weird way) what he really likes.
Earlier this week in class, he told us a story that he had read about a student who along the way had asked some professor if s/he thought he could be a writer. Supposedly, the professor replied, “I don’t know. Do you like sentences?” (After doing some research I found out that this anecdote comes from Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life.)
Will-Weber (my professor) explained that what she meant by that, is if you really want to be a writer, you have to really be dedicated. You have to like the little parts; you have to get rid of the “gremlins” in your writing. (Gremlins are what Will-Weber calls typos and misspellings.) So, I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week, trying to decide if I like sentences. Then it suddenly hit me as I was organizing a folder. I printed out over 10 copies of one paper, asked numerous people to read it, to edit it. I took every copy with suggestions and worked it. I had two people edit AFTER the final grade had already been given. I want to take my writing to that very next level, I want it to win contests and appear in publications everywhere. But even more than winning and getting published, I want people to get something from my writing. And I’m willing to edit and play with and reconstruct everything down to the last sentence and word to get to that level. No piece of writing is every perfect; it can always be played with and every time you do so, maybe you take a step forward, maybe you take a step back. Regardless, every minute you dedicate to a piece, moves your writing in one direction or another.
Yes, Professor Will-Weber, I do like sentences.
By: AnnaBeth Fish
This semester, my creative non-fiction writing professor has taught me things about writing (including that I should never use the word “things” because there’s almost always a better word, so I guess I should say he has taught me lessons about writing) that no other professor or teacher have ever taught me.
Instead of making us read a textbook about style and description and setting, he shares with us examples from all kinds of books that he thinks demonstrate what we need to know about important elements of writing. He gives great constructive criticism, and though he is pretty conservative with straight out praise, if you read between the lines of what he says, you can catch the real compliments that he is throwing your way.
The first day of class, he told us that if it were up to him, the class would be pass-fail. Because everything in the real world of writing is pass or fail—it either gets published, or it doesn’t. He’s not your typical professor. He’s a writer and an editor straight through. He’s gruff, and to the point and has no time for false praise. He’s not afraid to tell you what doesn’t sound good but also he’s not afraid to let you know (in his own weird way) what he really likes.
Earlier this week in class, he told us a story that he had read about a student who along the way had asked some professor if s/he thought he could be a writer. Supposedly, the professor replied, “I don’t know. Do you like sentences?” (After doing some research I found out that this anecdote comes from Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life.)
Will-Weber (my professor) explained that what she meant by that, is if you really want to be a writer, you have to really be dedicated. You have to like the little parts; you have to get rid of the “gremlins” in your writing. (Gremlins are what Will-Weber calls typos and misspellings.) So, I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week, trying to decide if I like sentences. Then it suddenly hit me as I was organizing a folder. I printed out over 10 copies of one paper, asked numerous people to read it, to edit it. I took every copy with suggestions and worked it. I had two people edit AFTER the final grade had already been given. I want to take my writing to that very next level, I want it to win contests and appear in publications everywhere. But even more than winning and getting published, I want people to get something from my writing. And I’m willing to edit and play with and reconstruct everything down to the last sentence and word to get to that level. No piece of writing is every perfect; it can always be played with and every time you do so, maybe you take a step forward, maybe you take a step back. Regardless, every minute you dedicate to a piece, moves your writing in one direction or another.
Yes, Professor Will-Weber, I do like sentences.
I know, I know, I know.
I know it has been a while since I updated this blog. I've been doing a lot of writing, but most of it has been revisions or small pieces like a daily journal for a class. I'm going to put up a compilation piece with bits and pieces from the daily journal assignments soon. Also, look for a freewriting post about writing in general that I plan to put up today or tomorrow.
If you have any feedback, please let me know! I'd love to hear it!
Final note: I'm also going to post the "final" copy of the piece called The Balance of Life. A version of it will appear in the spring edition of the Manuscript (Moravian College Literary Magazine) and the "final" version that I'm reposting on here is the version that I submitted to a writing contest here at Moravian. (For any long time fans of my writing, you may remember that I got an Honorable Mention in that contest for "Best Essay Written for Writing 100.)
Anyway, enjoy.
If you have any feedback, please let me know! I'd love to hear it!
Final note: I'm also going to post the "final" copy of the piece called The Balance of Life. A version of it will appear in the spring edition of the Manuscript (Moravian College Literary Magazine) and the "final" version that I'm reposting on here is the version that I submitted to a writing contest here at Moravian. (For any long time fans of my writing, you may remember that I got an Honorable Mention in that contest for "Best Essay Written for Writing 100.)
Anyway, enjoy.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Running of the Bulls
A fictional account of Running with the Bulls in Spain
Running of the Bulls
Fear cut through my stupor as the bull bore down on me. This was not a good way to honor Abuelo! Adrenaline pumped through my body. Every muscle and nerve fine-tuned and ready to respond to the slightest cue. Never had I felt so alive! The cobblestones beneath my feet were slippery and even the treads on the soles of my expensive Nike shoes could not grab hold of the street. No traction, I was a goner! I dug down deep, remembering my diligent training for track and knew that Coach Stein would have my head for this one. All I had to do was keep one step ahead!
As I rounded the corner, sunlight blinded me. Relief! The sun had dried the cobblestones here! My feet found purchase and I was able to pick up speed. That natural runner’s high, the best feeling in the world, restored my sapped stamina. I was on top of the world! Nothing could stop me now. Not wind, or snow or…bulls. Shit.
Suddenly the roaring of hoof beats against the worn stone increased tenfold, penetrating and reverberating in the canals of my ears, nearly shattering my ear drums upon contact. Shit. I felt hot breath on legs and knew he was behind me. El Toro. My restored reserve of stamina plummeted sharply. Every breath hurt as the red belt I had around my waist fluttered in a teasing trail behind me. My limbs felt like sledgehammers with lead handles. I willed my legs to carry me onward, faster, further. His breath was like the breath of the devil himself on my body.
I gasped for air, pushing myself as hard as I could. My muscles ached, my feet protested. I felt like I had been I had been running for miles. Behind me I heard the cries of the fallen, the cheers of the spectators and the wail of ambulance sirens. Just ahead I saw a doorway to my right. I glanced behind me and saw the malicious glint in the eyes of El Toro.
I stretched out my arms like Milorad Cavic, reaching for the sturdy brick, a welcoming safe haven. Knowing that relief was just three paces ahead I coasted. Little did I know that this bull happened to be the Michael Phelps of los toros.
Pain scorched my veins as he caught me. His horns like sharpened, polished steel pierced my skin. I was small and insubstantial to him. This was it, the end! I struggled to fling myself to the ground in front of him. My grandfather’s voice rang in my ears. “If he catches you, drop. His anger will abate. It is better to be trampled live then to be gored to death.” Tons of flesh and hooves stampeded all around me, missing me by millimeters. I was seconds from death. My life flashed through my mind. The cries of my unborn children flooded my ears. Images of my grandmother shaking her head, my mother crying, my fiancé mourning my death inundated my frantic mortal thoughts. This was the end.
I heard birds singing. The bulls and the other runners moved past. As dramatic as a flash of lightening, el encierro1 started and ended. I was left, broken and defeated. My face felt like it was ground into the cobblestones. Pain radiated my body and I knew I was still alive. Feet pattered on the ground, the screeching whine of stretcher wheels clattered and echoed, bouncing off the walls of the rustic, red tiled building that lined the narrow street of Pamplona.
“Hablo español?” a harried-looking petite Spanish EMT asked as she gently rolled me onto my side.
“Mas or menos.” I murmured. I tried to tell her that I belonged here. I was not some stupid American tourist. Pamplona was as much my town as it was hers. I noticed her name tag. Pilar. Maybe she knew my cousin! Again, I tried to tell her my story, but all that came out of my mouth was a groan. Pain radiated from my side, I felt bruised, beaten.
“Señor, rest. We are here to help. Ven aqui!” she yelled to someone in the distant. I stopped resisting, allowing myself to collapse back onto the ground. I felt like my insides were spilling onto the street. Surely I was dying.
You couldn’t tell by looking at me, but, this was in my heritage. My grandfather grew up in Pamplona, this was his home. He immigrated to the United States when he was in his late twenties, seeking a better life for his wife and young son, my father. Abuelo Fermín died just a few months ago after a valiant fight. In the end, when the cancer riddled his body, causing monstrous pain, he fondly remembered his boyhood in Pamplona. I promised him that I would take a pilgrimage to Pamplona with his ashes and lay him to rest in his homeland.
As I began doing my research for my trip, I learned that the running of the bulls would occur while I was in España to bring him home. I remembered his stories of the machismo and bravado involved in the running of the bulls, los sanfermines se celebran de San Fermín. San Fermín, his patron saint. What better way to remember his life than to encierro?
“¡Señor, señor! Como se siente? ¡Ayi, no hablo español! Sir, how do you feel? What hurts?”
“Lo siento senorita. My Spanish isn’t what it should be. I, uh, think he got my back.” She didn’t respond to my apology, instead calling to another EMT who brought a stretcher over. I was loaded onto the stretcher and taken to the ambulance.
The EMTs stopped asking me questions, probably assuming I couldn’t understand them. I could understand, just not answer. Pilar swabbed my arm; I tensed for the sting of the needle I knew was about my follow. Amidst the other pain, the IV lost its sharpness. I lay on my stomach and could feel the other EMT pressing against the wound, presumably to stop the bleeding.
“No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte2,” the other EMT remarked to Pilar. After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at a hospital. As they wheeled me in, I saw a nun. Ah, a Catholic hospital. Yes, they would take care of me. I was Catholic! And, if they had just bothered to ask, they’d know I was Spanish too.
I was transferred to the capable hands of a nurse who looked to be about my mother’s age. After receiving some stitches and painkillers, I was allowed to call my gran tía, my grandfather’s sister.
“Antonio!” she cried upon arrival. “¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!3” She continued on in Spanish, her tone frantic and anxious, her accent lilting and musical. Pain clouded my mind; I could not understand. Feeling like a failure, I shook my head. Seeing my despair, her daughter, my aunt, Victoria stepped forward.
“She’s saying that we tried to find you but we lost you,” Victoria paused, looking at her mother who was now clucking soothingly and softly stroking my face just like my mother would. “She says Fermín would be proud of you.”
Relief coursed through my body. Mission accomplished. A fitting tribute to an unsung hero. I knew I would never forget today, just as I would never forget mi abuelo and all the wisdom he had shared with me.
1: Encierro- The Spanish term used to describe the running of the bulls.
2: No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte- “It is not bad. He is very lucky.”
3. ¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!- “We tried to find you but we could not!”
Running of the Bulls
Fear cut through my stupor as the bull bore down on me. This was not a good way to honor Abuelo! Adrenaline pumped through my body. Every muscle and nerve fine-tuned and ready to respond to the slightest cue. Never had I felt so alive! The cobblestones beneath my feet were slippery and even the treads on the soles of my expensive Nike shoes could not grab hold of the street. No traction, I was a goner! I dug down deep, remembering my diligent training for track and knew that Coach Stein would have my head for this one. All I had to do was keep one step ahead!
As I rounded the corner, sunlight blinded me. Relief! The sun had dried the cobblestones here! My feet found purchase and I was able to pick up speed. That natural runner’s high, the best feeling in the world, restored my sapped stamina. I was on top of the world! Nothing could stop me now. Not wind, or snow or…bulls. Shit.
Suddenly the roaring of hoof beats against the worn stone increased tenfold, penetrating and reverberating in the canals of my ears, nearly shattering my ear drums upon contact. Shit. I felt hot breath on legs and knew he was behind me. El Toro. My restored reserve of stamina plummeted sharply. Every breath hurt as the red belt I had around my waist fluttered in a teasing trail behind me. My limbs felt like sledgehammers with lead handles. I willed my legs to carry me onward, faster, further. His breath was like the breath of the devil himself on my body.
I gasped for air, pushing myself as hard as I could. My muscles ached, my feet protested. I felt like I had been I had been running for miles. Behind me I heard the cries of the fallen, the cheers of the spectators and the wail of ambulance sirens. Just ahead I saw a doorway to my right. I glanced behind me and saw the malicious glint in the eyes of El Toro.
I stretched out my arms like Milorad Cavic, reaching for the sturdy brick, a welcoming safe haven. Knowing that relief was just three paces ahead I coasted. Little did I know that this bull happened to be the Michael Phelps of los toros.
Pain scorched my veins as he caught me. His horns like sharpened, polished steel pierced my skin. I was small and insubstantial to him. This was it, the end! I struggled to fling myself to the ground in front of him. My grandfather’s voice rang in my ears. “If he catches you, drop. His anger will abate. It is better to be trampled live then to be gored to death.” Tons of flesh and hooves stampeded all around me, missing me by millimeters. I was seconds from death. My life flashed through my mind. The cries of my unborn children flooded my ears. Images of my grandmother shaking her head, my mother crying, my fiancé mourning my death inundated my frantic mortal thoughts. This was the end.
I heard birds singing. The bulls and the other runners moved past. As dramatic as a flash of lightening, el encierro1 started and ended. I was left, broken and defeated. My face felt like it was ground into the cobblestones. Pain radiated my body and I knew I was still alive. Feet pattered on the ground, the screeching whine of stretcher wheels clattered and echoed, bouncing off the walls of the rustic, red tiled building that lined the narrow street of Pamplona.
“Hablo español?” a harried-looking petite Spanish EMT asked as she gently rolled me onto my side.
“Mas or menos.” I murmured. I tried to tell her that I belonged here. I was not some stupid American tourist. Pamplona was as much my town as it was hers. I noticed her name tag. Pilar. Maybe she knew my cousin! Again, I tried to tell her my story, but all that came out of my mouth was a groan. Pain radiated from my side, I felt bruised, beaten.
“Señor, rest. We are here to help. Ven aqui!” she yelled to someone in the distant. I stopped resisting, allowing myself to collapse back onto the ground. I felt like my insides were spilling onto the street. Surely I was dying.
You couldn’t tell by looking at me, but, this was in my heritage. My grandfather grew up in Pamplona, this was his home. He immigrated to the United States when he was in his late twenties, seeking a better life for his wife and young son, my father. Abuelo Fermín died just a few months ago after a valiant fight. In the end, when the cancer riddled his body, causing monstrous pain, he fondly remembered his boyhood in Pamplona. I promised him that I would take a pilgrimage to Pamplona with his ashes and lay him to rest in his homeland.
As I began doing my research for my trip, I learned that the running of the bulls would occur while I was in España to bring him home. I remembered his stories of the machismo and bravado involved in the running of the bulls, los sanfermines se celebran de San Fermín. San Fermín, his patron saint. What better way to remember his life than to encierro?
“¡Señor, señor! Como se siente? ¡Ayi, no hablo español! Sir, how do you feel? What hurts?”
“Lo siento senorita. My Spanish isn’t what it should be. I, uh, think he got my back.” She didn’t respond to my apology, instead calling to another EMT who brought a stretcher over. I was loaded onto the stretcher and taken to the ambulance.
The EMTs stopped asking me questions, probably assuming I couldn’t understand them. I could understand, just not answer. Pilar swabbed my arm; I tensed for the sting of the needle I knew was about my follow. Amidst the other pain, the IV lost its sharpness. I lay on my stomach and could feel the other EMT pressing against the wound, presumably to stop the bleeding.
“No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte2,” the other EMT remarked to Pilar. After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at a hospital. As they wheeled me in, I saw a nun. Ah, a Catholic hospital. Yes, they would take care of me. I was Catholic! And, if they had just bothered to ask, they’d know I was Spanish too.
I was transferred to the capable hands of a nurse who looked to be about my mother’s age. After receiving some stitches and painkillers, I was allowed to call my gran tía, my grandfather’s sister.
“Antonio!” she cried upon arrival. “¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!3” She continued on in Spanish, her tone frantic and anxious, her accent lilting and musical. Pain clouded my mind; I could not understand. Feeling like a failure, I shook my head. Seeing my despair, her daughter, my aunt, Victoria stepped forward.
“She’s saying that we tried to find you but we lost you,” Victoria paused, looking at her mother who was now clucking soothingly and softly stroking my face just like my mother would. “She says Fermín would be proud of you.”
Relief coursed through my body. Mission accomplished. A fitting tribute to an unsung hero. I knew I would never forget today, just as I would never forget mi abuelo and all the wisdom he had shared with me.
1: Encierro- The Spanish term used to describe the running of the bulls.
2: No es mal. Tiene mucho suerte- “It is not bad. He is very lucky.”
3. ¡Nosotros le buscamos pero no le podríamos encontrar!- “We tried to find you but we could not!”
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Balance of Life
The Balance of Life
We walked through the hospital together without speaking. I held my dad’s hand, feeling younger than the eighteen years I was, but at the same time, the immensity of the situation flooded me, and I knew I could no longer be the young girl I wanted to be. My brother, Dan, walked a few paces behind my dad and me. Slowly, we made our way through the bustle of the hospital to elevator H. Elevator H really only went to two floors, the maternity unit, floor five, and the Intensive Care Unit, floor four. As far as hospitals go, pretty much the furthest ends of the spectrum, a floor where life begins, and a floor where many, many lives come to an end. We were going to the fourth floor.
Our feet dragged as we got off the elevator and walked down the cold, sterile corridor. We were tired; none of us got much sleep last night. In twelve hours, our entire lives had changed. The walk down the hallway was at the same time endless and all too short. We reached the dreaded door and waited. It was 9:58. As the seconds ticked by, none of us spoke to each other or to the other small huddles of people who stood nearby. The sun shone through the large windows. Tension choked the air, choked all of us. 10:00. A nurse opened the door; visiting hours had begun.
I followed my brother and dad into the intensive care unit as docile as a lamb. I ignored the others around me. Normally, I would want to know their stories, I would want to help them. But on that day, I could barely help myself and my family, let alone carry the burden of someone else’s sorrow. My dad led our procession, taking long, purposeful strides toward bed seven. Dan followed him obediently, like a soldier headed for war, with grace and courage on the outside, fear and turmoil on the inside. I lagged behind, silently telling myself that I could do this, I could handle this. As I reached the foot of the bed, I stopped and stared. I was afraid to move any closer.
On the bed lay the shell of a human, reduced to merely being a vessel that contained all the elements of a living creature. The lungs still drawing in oxygen and forcing out carbon dioxide. The heart still beating, pumping blood throughout the body. Under the skin, all the vital organs were still functioning, still performing their jobs.
“Hi Mom,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. All around me, quiet chaos swarmed. Nurses moved between patients, checking IVs, taking vitals and making notes. The intercom of the hospital sounded every now and then. Beside the bed, monitors beeped in steady, comforting rhythms as lines squiggled across the screen. The smell of disinfectant seared my nostrils; the stench of human excrement was the only scent powerful enough to rise above the disinfectant. In front of me, lay the shell of my mother. The soft hiss of the ventilator forced a comforting rise and fall of her chest. All around me, people, including my mom, hovered between life and death.
“You can move closer dear. Go ahead, touch her hand, she might be able to tell that you’re here,” the nurse urged me quietly. Bile and stomach acid surged from the depths of my stomach, lingering bitterly in my throat and mouth. How I wanted to run, to escape, but my legs carried my unwilling body forward, as if controlled by unseen strings manipulated by a cruel, uncaring puppeteer.
All of the sudden, I was overwhelmed. Every person lying in the beds around me were fighting for his or her life. Death was near, it was in every crevice and shadow, waiting to pounce and take forever. I stumbled backwards, and started to hyperventilate. Cool hands touched my arms and pulled me away from the bed, out of the overwhelming warmth of the ICU and into the icy hallway. I slumped to the floor, hands on my face, head on my knees. Again, the cool hands were there, rubbing my back in a soothing way, just like my mom always did. The tears came harder, faster, more furiously.
Eventually the tears began to recede and I looked at the person who had rescued me. It was my mom’s doctor, and for a second, our eyes connected. My eyes, red-rimmed and full of fear and sadness, hers filled with compassion, assurance and knowledge. Without saying a word, she handed me a tissue and offered a hand to help me stand up. It was then that I knew everything would be ok. Somewhere, in the depths of her cocoa brown eyes, I received some peace of mind.
“She’s still your mother. She’s still there, she’ll be back soon. Look past the tubes and machines and you’ll see her. You have to be strong for your father and brother. They need you as much as you need them.”
I took the first step back towards the door to the ICU. For a second, I faltered. The doctor quietly put her hand on my elbow, gently urging me to continue. She and I walked back into the ICU, back to bed seven. My brother and my dad looked at me, noticing for the first time that I had left. They sent questioning looks my way. Before I could begin to speak, the doctor answered for me.
“We needed a little bit of fresh air.”
She continued to talk, updating us on mom’s condition. I tuned her out and turned my gaze to the hospital bed. Everywhere I looked, there were tubes, machines, bags and monitors. Suddenly the bile rose again and I began to waver. I closed my eyes and in my mind I heard my mom reading our favorite book, (“Mama, Do You Love Me?” Barbara LaVallee) “I’ll love you until the umiak flies into the darkness, till the stars turn to fish in the sky and the puffins howl at the moon.”
I opened my eyes again and instead of seeing the broken shell of a human, I saw my mom. I saw her chest rise and fall as she breathed, and heard her heart beat inside of her chest. I reached out and touched her hand. Warm. Relief flooded my system. I knew she was alive, the monitors indicted as much. Somewhere in my mind, I had doubts. The gentle warmth was proof that somewhere deep inside, my mom was hiding. She was somewhere in that shell, waiting to come back.
I began to cry again, but instead of tears of sadness and fear, tears of wistful joy streamed down my face. Never again would I take people for granted. In that moment, I learned the value of human life. My childhood played through my mind. The boring afternoons at home, the adventures at the zoo, the tears I cried, the laughs we shared. Every step of the way, there was my mom. My confidante, my champion, my sentry, the one person who never let me surrender or gave up on me.
As the montage of memories played through my mind, for the first time in a long, long time, I began to pray. In my mind, I made a bargain with God. I promised that if he would give me my mom back, I would never, ever take her, or anyone else for granted. There was nothing more I could do. There was nothing else the doctors, the nurses or the medicine could do. It became a waiting game.
The following days were not easy. I learned who I could lean on (or in some cases, collapse on.) I tumbled from my pedestal and lost my “better than thou” attitude. I began to see that people who I had long discounted in my mind were the people I should have been befriending. The people who I thought were my friends quickly stepped back from the tragedy that had suddenly entered my life. The people that stepped forward surprised me. Those are the people I will forever be grateful for.
Today, my mom is happy and healthy. She’s still behind me, always supporting me, whether she approves of my decisions or not. I almost lost my mom. I made a deal with God that if he gave my mom back to me, that I would never take her (or anyone else) for granted again. That was almost two years ago. Not a day passes that I don’t think about the ICU. Not a day passes that I don’t remind myself about how lucky I am to have her as a mom, as a friend, as a guide through life.
We walked through the hospital together without speaking. I held my dad’s hand, feeling younger than the eighteen years I was, but at the same time, the immensity of the situation flooded me, and I knew I could no longer be the young girl I wanted to be. My brother, Dan, walked a few paces behind my dad and me. Slowly, we made our way through the bustle of the hospital to elevator H. Elevator H really only went to two floors, the maternity unit, floor five, and the Intensive Care Unit, floor four. As far as hospitals go, pretty much the furthest ends of the spectrum, a floor where life begins, and a floor where many, many lives come to an end. We were going to the fourth floor.
Our feet dragged as we got off the elevator and walked down the cold, sterile corridor. We were tired; none of us got much sleep last night. In twelve hours, our entire lives had changed. The walk down the hallway was at the same time endless and all too short. We reached the dreaded door and waited. It was 9:58. As the seconds ticked by, none of us spoke to each other or to the other small huddles of people who stood nearby. The sun shone through the large windows. Tension choked the air, choked all of us. 10:00. A nurse opened the door; visiting hours had begun.
I followed my brother and dad into the intensive care unit as docile as a lamb. I ignored the others around me. Normally, I would want to know their stories, I would want to help them. But on that day, I could barely help myself and my family, let alone carry the burden of someone else’s sorrow. My dad led our procession, taking long, purposeful strides toward bed seven. Dan followed him obediently, like a soldier headed for war, with grace and courage on the outside, fear and turmoil on the inside. I lagged behind, silently telling myself that I could do this, I could handle this. As I reached the foot of the bed, I stopped and stared. I was afraid to move any closer.
On the bed lay the shell of a human, reduced to merely being a vessel that contained all the elements of a living creature. The lungs still drawing in oxygen and forcing out carbon dioxide. The heart still beating, pumping blood throughout the body. Under the skin, all the vital organs were still functioning, still performing their jobs.
“Hi Mom,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. All around me, quiet chaos swarmed. Nurses moved between patients, checking IVs, taking vitals and making notes. The intercom of the hospital sounded every now and then. Beside the bed, monitors beeped in steady, comforting rhythms as lines squiggled across the screen. The smell of disinfectant seared my nostrils; the stench of human excrement was the only scent powerful enough to rise above the disinfectant. In front of me, lay the shell of my mother. The soft hiss of the ventilator forced a comforting rise and fall of her chest. All around me, people, including my mom, hovered between life and death.
“You can move closer dear. Go ahead, touch her hand, she might be able to tell that you’re here,” the nurse urged me quietly. Bile and stomach acid surged from the depths of my stomach, lingering bitterly in my throat and mouth. How I wanted to run, to escape, but my legs carried my unwilling body forward, as if controlled by unseen strings manipulated by a cruel, uncaring puppeteer.
All of the sudden, I was overwhelmed. Every person lying in the beds around me were fighting for his or her life. Death was near, it was in every crevice and shadow, waiting to pounce and take forever. I stumbled backwards, and started to hyperventilate. Cool hands touched my arms and pulled me away from the bed, out of the overwhelming warmth of the ICU and into the icy hallway. I slumped to the floor, hands on my face, head on my knees. Again, the cool hands were there, rubbing my back in a soothing way, just like my mom always did. The tears came harder, faster, more furiously.
Eventually the tears began to recede and I looked at the person who had rescued me. It was my mom’s doctor, and for a second, our eyes connected. My eyes, red-rimmed and full of fear and sadness, hers filled with compassion, assurance and knowledge. Without saying a word, she handed me a tissue and offered a hand to help me stand up. It was then that I knew everything would be ok. Somewhere, in the depths of her cocoa brown eyes, I received some peace of mind.
“She’s still your mother. She’s still there, she’ll be back soon. Look past the tubes and machines and you’ll see her. You have to be strong for your father and brother. They need you as much as you need them.”
I took the first step back towards the door to the ICU. For a second, I faltered. The doctor quietly put her hand on my elbow, gently urging me to continue. She and I walked back into the ICU, back to bed seven. My brother and my dad looked at me, noticing for the first time that I had left. They sent questioning looks my way. Before I could begin to speak, the doctor answered for me.
“We needed a little bit of fresh air.”
She continued to talk, updating us on mom’s condition. I tuned her out and turned my gaze to the hospital bed. Everywhere I looked, there were tubes, machines, bags and monitors. Suddenly the bile rose again and I began to waver. I closed my eyes and in my mind I heard my mom reading our favorite book, (“Mama, Do You Love Me?” Barbara LaVallee) “I’ll love you until the umiak flies into the darkness, till the stars turn to fish in the sky and the puffins howl at the moon.”
I opened my eyes again and instead of seeing the broken shell of a human, I saw my mom. I saw her chest rise and fall as she breathed, and heard her heart beat inside of her chest. I reached out and touched her hand. Warm. Relief flooded my system. I knew she was alive, the monitors indicted as much. Somewhere in my mind, I had doubts. The gentle warmth was proof that somewhere deep inside, my mom was hiding. She was somewhere in that shell, waiting to come back.
I began to cry again, but instead of tears of sadness and fear, tears of wistful joy streamed down my face. Never again would I take people for granted. In that moment, I learned the value of human life. My childhood played through my mind. The boring afternoons at home, the adventures at the zoo, the tears I cried, the laughs we shared. Every step of the way, there was my mom. My confidante, my champion, my sentry, the one person who never let me surrender or gave up on me.
As the montage of memories played through my mind, for the first time in a long, long time, I began to pray. In my mind, I made a bargain with God. I promised that if he would give me my mom back, I would never, ever take her, or anyone else for granted. There was nothing more I could do. There was nothing else the doctors, the nurses or the medicine could do. It became a waiting game.
The following days were not easy. I learned who I could lean on (or in some cases, collapse on.) I tumbled from my pedestal and lost my “better than thou” attitude. I began to see that people who I had long discounted in my mind were the people I should have been befriending. The people who I thought were my friends quickly stepped back from the tragedy that had suddenly entered my life. The people that stepped forward surprised me. Those are the people I will forever be grateful for.
Today, my mom is happy and healthy. She’s still behind me, always supporting me, whether she approves of my decisions or not. I almost lost my mom. I made a deal with God that if he gave my mom back to me, that I would never take her (or anyone else) for granted again. That was almost two years ago. Not a day passes that I don’t think about the ICU. Not a day passes that I don’t remind myself about how lucky I am to have her as a mom, as a friend, as a guide through life.
Friday, January 23, 2009
War and Me
War and Me
A Personal Essay by: AnnaBeth M. Fish
I had to write this for my Experience of Literature class. It focuses on the Literature of War.
In some ways, I have been around war my entire life, whether I was aware of it or not. I was born on December 7th, 1988, forty-seven years after “the date that will live in infamy” (FDR.) As a result, I always knew what the date meant, although I admittedly did not fully understand it until I was older.
Another reason I have been around and influenced by war my entire life is that my dad was in the United States Air Force when I was born. At the time, he was a young lieutenant. The day I was born, my dad was scheduled to give a very important brief. As the story goes, the brief was apparently not going to go well because everyone knew that the officer he was supposed to brief was not going to like what he would hear. My dad was very worried about missing this briefing, so he, according to my mom, made her sit facing away from a clock so she couldn’t “fake” her contractions. Well, in the end, my dad missed his briefing and I was born. Supposedly, the officer he was supposed to brief only had one question: “Is it a boy or a girl?”
That cute little anecdote leads into my childhood of moving from base to base as an Air Force brat. I remember being young and seeing my daddy in uniform. I don’t think I ever really understood what made his job so different from others, partially because most of the people I went to school with were AF brats. As I’ve gotten older, I understand more and more. With that understanding has come a lot more respect for my dad, and for the uncountable number of others who have also put on uniforms and served our country.
I was in seventh grade on September 11th, 2001. I remember the day pretty clearly. It was sunny and nice outside, warm. By lunch time, gossip was running rampant. Some of the rumors I heard ranged from everything from there were bombings, to an airplane crash. Finally, the school realized that they needed to tell everyone what was going on and we were all called into the auditorium where we watched the coverage of the carnage. I remember being confused, and not really understanding what was going on. My mom came to the school and picked up my brother and me. My dad came home from work early, and together, we went to church and then later listened to President Bush’s address to the nation. I think that may be one of the days where I grew up from being a child to an adult. Violence changes you. The impact of war is tremendous. I know it is bigger than I understand even today. But I know on that day, I realized for the first time that the United States is not perfect, and it is not a safe haven. We are just as vulnerable to violence as any other nation. It was a terrifying realization.
Today, I have many friends who are deployed or have been deployed. Every time I see a story of more casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan, fear steeps into my stomach. I say a quick prayer, naming all of my friends by name, and then adding a general prayer for all soldiers. The fear sits heavy in my stomach until I hear the all-clear. Sometimes I am lucky, and I can talk to my friends on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t hear from them for days or weeks. During that time I often try to comfort myself by reminding myself that bad news travels faster than good, that if something bad had happened, chances are I would have heard about it already.
The deployment is only half the battle for my friends. I have lost one friend permanently to the after affects of the war. He killed himself when he heard that he was going to get deployed again. He simply could not even handle the thought of going back to Iraq. Some wounds can’t be seen. Those may be the most dangerous. I have one friend, Aaron, who has been deployed three times. Every day I pray that he will never be deployed again, but I know the damage has been already done. Aaron can’t sleep most nights without sleeping pills. Even with the pills, sometimes he still can’t sleep, and when he can, his dreams are nightmares, plagued by the brutality he has seen. Aaron once was a quiet, sweet person. Sometimes he still is, but frequently, all I see now is the hardened, calloused Aaron who has violent thoughts and tendencies. He will never be the same again. It’s hard for me to know that. It is even harder for him. Aaron is not the only one. There are thousands of Aarons all over the United States, all over the world.
I have a friend named John. John graduated from high school a year before me. The summer before my senior year, right after John’s graduation, we, along with a few others, went on a mission trip. We went to Moss Point, MS, where we did Hurricane Katrina relief work. While we were in MS, John received his sign on bonus from the United States Army. On our last day of work, John wrote a check to the family we helped, telling them he wanted them to have it. We returned home on a Monday night. Three days later, John went to basic training.
The next year, fall of 2007, as I was packing to go to college, John was packing too. He was packing to go to Afghanistan. Over the next few months, John posted blog updates online for all of his anxious friends and family members. Sometimes, there were funny pictures. One picture in particular made me laugh when I saw it. That laugh had mixed emotions though. It was a picture of John holding some sort of missile. For a morale booster he and his buddies used to write “dedications” on the missiles. On one he wrote “To the Al-Qaida, from the Church of the Epiphany Youth group. Only God judges, but it’s our job to arrange your meeting.” I was shocked. This was not the John I knew. The John I knew gave a family he barely knew $2,000 so they would have a better life. This John seemed to be hardened, cruel and violent. I know that John always was and always will be a good man. I also know that that is his job. It is his job to arrange the meetings.
John was wounded in action in October, about a week before he was scheduled to come home. He is still recuperating, though he is now home instead of at Walter Reed Medical Center. He will be alright. But there are plenty of Johns who are not.
Those are the main ways war has affected me. I could probably keep writing for pages and pages about war and its affects on me, on my friends, on my family. I could write about my dad and his experience with the veteran health care system. I could write about my family heritage. I am a direct descendent of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. I could write about my visit to Arlington National Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I could write about my two cousins who are Marines. Some stories are too long for one single personal essay. War and its interactions with my life is one of those stories.
A Personal Essay by: AnnaBeth M. Fish
I had to write this for my Experience of Literature class. It focuses on the Literature of War.
In some ways, I have been around war my entire life, whether I was aware of it or not. I was born on December 7th, 1988, forty-seven years after “the date that will live in infamy” (FDR.) As a result, I always knew what the date meant, although I admittedly did not fully understand it until I was older.
Another reason I have been around and influenced by war my entire life is that my dad was in the United States Air Force when I was born. At the time, he was a young lieutenant. The day I was born, my dad was scheduled to give a very important brief. As the story goes, the brief was apparently not going to go well because everyone knew that the officer he was supposed to brief was not going to like what he would hear. My dad was very worried about missing this briefing, so he, according to my mom, made her sit facing away from a clock so she couldn’t “fake” her contractions. Well, in the end, my dad missed his briefing and I was born. Supposedly, the officer he was supposed to brief only had one question: “Is it a boy or a girl?”
That cute little anecdote leads into my childhood of moving from base to base as an Air Force brat. I remember being young and seeing my daddy in uniform. I don’t think I ever really understood what made his job so different from others, partially because most of the people I went to school with were AF brats. As I’ve gotten older, I understand more and more. With that understanding has come a lot more respect for my dad, and for the uncountable number of others who have also put on uniforms and served our country.
I was in seventh grade on September 11th, 2001. I remember the day pretty clearly. It was sunny and nice outside, warm. By lunch time, gossip was running rampant. Some of the rumors I heard ranged from everything from there were bombings, to an airplane crash. Finally, the school realized that they needed to tell everyone what was going on and we were all called into the auditorium where we watched the coverage of the carnage. I remember being confused, and not really understanding what was going on. My mom came to the school and picked up my brother and me. My dad came home from work early, and together, we went to church and then later listened to President Bush’s address to the nation. I think that may be one of the days where I grew up from being a child to an adult. Violence changes you. The impact of war is tremendous. I know it is bigger than I understand even today. But I know on that day, I realized for the first time that the United States is not perfect, and it is not a safe haven. We are just as vulnerable to violence as any other nation. It was a terrifying realization.
Today, I have many friends who are deployed or have been deployed. Every time I see a story of more casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan, fear steeps into my stomach. I say a quick prayer, naming all of my friends by name, and then adding a general prayer for all soldiers. The fear sits heavy in my stomach until I hear the all-clear. Sometimes I am lucky, and I can talk to my friends on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t hear from them for days or weeks. During that time I often try to comfort myself by reminding myself that bad news travels faster than good, that if something bad had happened, chances are I would have heard about it already.
The deployment is only half the battle for my friends. I have lost one friend permanently to the after affects of the war. He killed himself when he heard that he was going to get deployed again. He simply could not even handle the thought of going back to Iraq. Some wounds can’t be seen. Those may be the most dangerous. I have one friend, Aaron, who has been deployed three times. Every day I pray that he will never be deployed again, but I know the damage has been already done. Aaron can’t sleep most nights without sleeping pills. Even with the pills, sometimes he still can’t sleep, and when he can, his dreams are nightmares, plagued by the brutality he has seen. Aaron once was a quiet, sweet person. Sometimes he still is, but frequently, all I see now is the hardened, calloused Aaron who has violent thoughts and tendencies. He will never be the same again. It’s hard for me to know that. It is even harder for him. Aaron is not the only one. There are thousands of Aarons all over the United States, all over the world.
I have a friend named John. John graduated from high school a year before me. The summer before my senior year, right after John’s graduation, we, along with a few others, went on a mission trip. We went to Moss Point, MS, where we did Hurricane Katrina relief work. While we were in MS, John received his sign on bonus from the United States Army. On our last day of work, John wrote a check to the family we helped, telling them he wanted them to have it. We returned home on a Monday night. Three days later, John went to basic training.
The next year, fall of 2007, as I was packing to go to college, John was packing too. He was packing to go to Afghanistan. Over the next few months, John posted blog updates online for all of his anxious friends and family members. Sometimes, there were funny pictures. One picture in particular made me laugh when I saw it. That laugh had mixed emotions though. It was a picture of John holding some sort of missile. For a morale booster he and his buddies used to write “dedications” on the missiles. On one he wrote “To the Al-Qaida, from the Church of the Epiphany Youth group. Only God judges, but it’s our job to arrange your meeting.” I was shocked. This was not the John I knew. The John I knew gave a family he barely knew $2,000 so they would have a better life. This John seemed to be hardened, cruel and violent. I know that John always was and always will be a good man. I also know that that is his job. It is his job to arrange the meetings.
John was wounded in action in October, about a week before he was scheduled to come home. He is still recuperating, though he is now home instead of at Walter Reed Medical Center. He will be alright. But there are plenty of Johns who are not.
Those are the main ways war has affected me. I could probably keep writing for pages and pages about war and its affects on me, on my friends, on my family. I could write about my dad and his experience with the veteran health care system. I could write about my family heritage. I am a direct descendent of a signer of the Declaration of Independence. I could write about my visit to Arlington National Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I could write about my two cousins who are Marines. Some stories are too long for one single personal essay. War and its interactions with my life is one of those stories.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Bertolt Brecht Quote
This was an assignment for my Creative Non-Fiction writing class. Basically, had to take the Brecht quote, say whether we agree or not, explain why we feel that way and draw example(s) from history/present to back up our position. Here's what I wrote.
“War is like love; it will always find a way.” –Bertolt Brecht
War and love. Opposites, or so most think. I think war and love are closer and more intertwined than anyone will ever know. So intertwined, that perhaps one can’t be there without the other. What is war? According to the Oxford English Dictionary, war is “hostile contention by means of armed forces, carried on between nations, states, or rulers, or between parties in the same nation or state.” What is love? Love is also a conflict, a paradox in a way. Love is feelings that can’t be explained. Attraction, desire, need. What causes war? Attraction, desire, need. True, the attractions, desires and needs are different in both cases, but it’s the same principle. In war, opponents are attracted by power, by possessions (money, land, fame.) In love, we are attracted to a person for a reason, whether it is looks, personality or any number of things. Attraction causes desire, perhaps even a feel or need or wanting. Either way, both love and war are motivated by the same things.
Sir Isaac Newton stated in his Laws of Motions that “To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” So is with love and war. Human beings are volatile by nature. We have minds, we think. We have hearts, we feel. We are unique, we are individual. No two human beings are exactly the same; no two human beings have the same thoughts and feelings about everything. When humans interact, there can be many outcomes. Two of the most common though, are love and hate, unity and conflict. Left unchecked, these can have devastating affects. Inevitably, as history as shown, one always leads to the other, over and over, an unending cycle.
What does one think about when one hears the name Helen of Troy? The Trojan War of course; a classic example of love causing war…and war being ended by love. The Trojan War was started when Paris and Helen ran off together. Helen happened to be the wife of the King of Sparta, Menelaus. He didn’t take too kindly to Paris stealing his woman, so he set out for revenge. He wanted not only to defeat Troy and seek revenge on Paris but also Helen. According to legend, when Menelaus got to Helen and was about to kill her, but she dropped her robe and he instantly remembered all he felt for her. He could not kill her; love ended a war.
War and love have always been deeply involved together throughout history. Helen and Menelaus are just one example. There are an uncountable number of others. The cast of characters is different, the storyline may vary, but the end result is always the same. Sometimes the order is reversed, love then war. Sometimes the “war” is minor, a quarrel between lovers and lasts but a few minutes. Sometimes it is the love that is minor, an infatuation that blows by on a summer breeze. Sometimes it is the war that is seemingly perpetual and others, it is the love that seems to be immortal. Whatever the combination may, it is always present, sometimes silent and undetectable, other times exposed and unveiled for all to see. War and love, bound together for eternity by human emotion and action.
“War is like love; it will always find a way.” –Bertolt Brecht
War and love. Opposites, or so most think. I think war and love are closer and more intertwined than anyone will ever know. So intertwined, that perhaps one can’t be there without the other. What is war? According to the Oxford English Dictionary, war is “hostile contention by means of armed forces, carried on between nations, states, or rulers, or between parties in the same nation or state.” What is love? Love is also a conflict, a paradox in a way. Love is feelings that can’t be explained. Attraction, desire, need. What causes war? Attraction, desire, need. True, the attractions, desires and needs are different in both cases, but it’s the same principle. In war, opponents are attracted by power, by possessions (money, land, fame.) In love, we are attracted to a person for a reason, whether it is looks, personality or any number of things. Attraction causes desire, perhaps even a feel or need or wanting. Either way, both love and war are motivated by the same things.
Sir Isaac Newton stated in his Laws of Motions that “To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” So is with love and war. Human beings are volatile by nature. We have minds, we think. We have hearts, we feel. We are unique, we are individual. No two human beings are exactly the same; no two human beings have the same thoughts and feelings about everything. When humans interact, there can be many outcomes. Two of the most common though, are love and hate, unity and conflict. Left unchecked, these can have devastating affects. Inevitably, as history as shown, one always leads to the other, over and over, an unending cycle.
What does one think about when one hears the name Helen of Troy? The Trojan War of course; a classic example of love causing war…and war being ended by love. The Trojan War was started when Paris and Helen ran off together. Helen happened to be the wife of the King of Sparta, Menelaus. He didn’t take too kindly to Paris stealing his woman, so he set out for revenge. He wanted not only to defeat Troy and seek revenge on Paris but also Helen. According to legend, when Menelaus got to Helen and was about to kill her, but she dropped her robe and he instantly remembered all he felt for her. He could not kill her; love ended a war.
War and love have always been deeply involved together throughout history. Helen and Menelaus are just one example. There are an uncountable number of others. The cast of characters is different, the storyline may vary, but the end result is always the same. Sometimes the order is reversed, love then war. Sometimes the “war” is minor, a quarrel between lovers and lasts but a few minutes. Sometimes it is the love that is minor, an infatuation that blows by on a summer breeze. Sometimes it is the war that is seemingly perpetual and others, it is the love that seems to be immortal. Whatever the combination may, it is always present, sometimes silent and undetectable, other times exposed and unveiled for all to see. War and love, bound together for eternity by human emotion and action.
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