Reactions to Death, Part 4

I was 13 when my grandmother died of heart failure (my dad's mom). I've lived more of my life without her in it, than I have with her...but I still remember her very well, and get sad when I think about it too much. Grandma's are the type of people that deserve more than a few paragraphs of description, and my reaction to her death was obviously very painful. So instead, here are some totally random things regarding my grandma, Molly:

-She would never tell anyone her age, or what year she was born in for that matter. I didn't find out until after she died.

-She had the coolest apartment across the street from the NBC studios. It was a little one bedroom that she lived in my entire life. I still remember the stairs leading up to it, and even which step was a little wobbly, so that you had to be careful as you climbed the stairs.

Her apartment was the quintessential grandmother's apartment, in my mind. She had beautiful, old furniture, pretty perfume bottles on her dresser in the bedroom...the kind that had a little rubber handle that you would squeeze to spritz the perfume, and a tiny little kitchen where I don't think I ever saw her cook. I vaguely remember something about her being a terrible cook, although I could be mistaken. I just remember catered breakfasts of lox, cod, and bagels.

-She always had a bowl of those lovely, chalky dinner mints out on the counter. The kind that melt like butter on your tongue. She'd also always have a plastic container of dried fruits, which I'd only eat because it came with this cool little fork, shaped like a pitchfork.

-She worked at a bakery stand in the Fairfax Farmers Market until she died. We'd always go visit her there when we were in town, and she'd hand us some kind of wonderfully huge cookie over the counter. I still visit that stand every time I go to the farmers market, and I contemplate asking the old man who works there if he remembers my grandmother.

-She had bright blond/white hair, and a long and pretty Russian nose. She was beautiful.

-For a week after she died, I scoured the obituaries in the LA Times, determined to cut hers out. It felt wrong not to. When I finally found it, I read it over and over. I still have that tiny strip of paper, 15 years later.

-When she died, my dad let us take one or two things from her apartment that reminded us of her, before all her furniture and belongings were given away. I took her decorative gold tree that would sit in the middle of the kitchen table on a Lazy Susan, which my sister and I would take turns swiveling around, so that the sun would catch on the golden leaves. I've brought it with me every time I moved, just as I'll bring it with me this weekend when I move into my new apartment. It's definitely on the top of my "what would you grab if your house was on fire" list.

the tree, on the left side of my dresser

Reactions To Death, Part III

I've tried to write this post about Megan Toughill three times, and it never comes out right. We were close friends throughout high school, but hadn't spoken at all since graduation. I found out about her death when, after googling her name, I came upon her big sister's website and that had a memorial to Megan.

I suppose it's because I'm a Gemini, or because I'm hyper aware of my surroundings at all times, or because I used to be so critical of myself that I would notice every little thing about others, but I remember so many insignificant details about Megan. Her black cheerleader skirt that she would wear with knee socks, converse, and a pink top with a print of that stupid cat with wearing a collar that was so popular in the late 90's. That time she chipped her tooth while trying to take a hit off my sister's glass bong. Sitting in the back seat of Brian Johnson's turquoise, beat-up Toyota on one of many record-buying trips to Vinyl Solution in Huntington Beach, smoking cigarettes and singing along to Circle Jerks and Descendents. All the skate-punks being madly in love with her, and her flippancy towards them. How much I envied her confidence. Her tyrant father. How often she'd say "dude".

She died when she was thrown out of her car onto the freeway while she was driving home, drunk, after a party. I know some of the details because, coincidentally, a friend of a friend was driving behind her, and pulled over to try to help her. He came home with her blood all over his clothes.

I have these fantasies of running into people I used to know and catching up with them...laughing about our pasts together...marveling at how much we've changed. She was always one of those people that I was confident I would have such an encounter with.

Reactions To Death, Part II

It was painfully early on a Saturday morning. It was to be my second day of a three day class designed to decrease the chances of causing bodily harm to oneself while riding a motorcycle (or in my case, a scooter). Despite the frigid, early morning air, I was excited. The night before, we had sat in a classroom and poured over material, learning traffic laws and basic riding techniques. Today, though, we were to actually straddle a motorcycle, and although we'd merely be riding in slow, deliberate circles, I had never been on a actual motorcycle, so I was excited.

I shouldn't have checked my voicemail, it's that simple. Had I waited until the end of the class, I could have spent the day in ignorant bliss, learning the art of motorcycle riding. But as I put my purse in the safety of my trunk, I noticed the red light on my cell phone flashing, alerting me to a message. A phone call that early could have only meant something bad had happened, I knew that. I didn't recognized the phone number, a 714 area code. I also didn't recognize the voice on the recording at first as I hadn't heard it in over five years. It was Mike Pratt, the older brother to Chris, who was my first "real" boyfriend...the most important boyfriend I had had so far.

Mike sounded exhausted, both physically and mentally. He relayed the message I'm sure he had left on at least a dozen other people's voicemail that morning, "I'm sorry to say that Chris died in a car accident. His memorial is on Sunday, if you'd like to come." I snapped my phone shut and stared at it. I looked around at the people tugging helmets over their heads, covering up their bedhead. They all seemed so excited, just as I had been not one minute before...before this sudden change had shifted my life.

I got in my car and headed home, hoping to stave off the tears until I got there. Chris wasn't my first boyfriend to die in a car accident, but for some reason this felt different. My relationship with Chris was my first point of reference for what a good relationship was in my book. We were best friends, we did everything together and were so connected to each other that it scared me sometimes. It occurred to me on my drive home, just as I was cresting Laurel Canyon, that now I'd have to finish each memory I had of him, each story I told of our relationship, with "...and now he's dead." That's why I wasn't able to hold back the tears as I drove.

Reactions To Death, Part I

I was in fourth grade the first time I found out someone I knew had died. He was a boy in my class named David Rapp and he died in the hospital shortly after being diagnosed with leukemia. It was quick and obviously unexpected. David was my very first crush. Back before I learned how to control my daydreams, how to tune them out and focus, I daydreamed about David while I should have been paying attention in class.

When I say I loved him, I don't mean it in terms of how I love now, I mean it in terms of a self conscience 9 year-old, which I think in a way makes it stronger than how I love now. Add to this the fact that David never had the chance to get older and prove to be an asshole and a jock (as my subsequent adolescent crushes did), and he'll always hold a special place in my heart. Those daydreams and fantasies of our future together...well considering he didn't have a future, I guess they're real on some level of consciousness.

When I found out he was dead, I laughed. I was standing at the top of the staircase in our dated, suburban townhouse, and my sister yelled the news to me from the bottom of the staircase. It was a quick burst of a laugh, more of a "ha!" than anything...but I'll never forget my reaction, nor will I ever stop feeling badly for it. I think I laughed from the surreality of it all...it was my induction into the adult world, a world where horrible things happen, and stopping these things are out of our hands. My reaction was to laugh, and it has been pretty much ever since.