Our weekend holiday plans came to a crashing halt yesterday when we received word of the death of one of Madison's high school classmates, a friend. News traveled swiftly in this era of technology. No more breaking it to your children gently, sitting them down, patting their hands and easing into it. Madison got the news during her lunch break from work when she is able to look at her phone. Missed calls galore. Unusual so she returned them. Her boss sent her home as she was unable to continue to work. She went home thinking I would be here to make it alright. I wasn't there. Having worked that morning, I was running errands and was on my way home when Madison called to give me the news.
Bam! That moment, that little moment when bad news is told, and your mind runs rampant. The information traveling swiftly through your brain along the circuit approaching the signs labeled denial, stop, and wrong, but blowing through the signs instead of stopping, and suddenly your body catches up with what your brain is trying to say. Shock. It comes on quickly and can stop you cold or send you running madly. It's the reason why schools now include in their information packet the part about not texting or calling your student with bad news.
Madison's friend died following complications of a surgery. Awake one moment talking to family and friends and dead the next moment, quickly and without warning. I listened to my daughter, heard her shock, her tears, and all I wanted was to make my car go faster so that I could pull her into my arms. I wanted to comfort her, but I also wanted to feel her, touch her, know that she was alive and okay. Parents tend to do that after hearing horrible news. I had just had that very discussion not two hours earlier with my boss at work who had told me the story of her first day back to work after having a baby, how it was the same day as a national tragedy, and how all she wanted was her baby. She quit her job the next day. Life was too short.
Death of someone our age, someone we knew, is a game changer. My first experience with that was a kid who lived in my neighborhood. He was the brother of one of my classmates, and he died suddenly with no warning. I was a freshman in college and he was still in high school. I had had minimal interaction with him, but the time where I had spent the most with him defined our relationship, and his death rocked my world. All of my college poetry from then is about his death. I questioned the reasoning. I questioned faith. I remember walking campus in a daze thinking how he would never again see the beauty of the grass, the flowers, the sky. It was the first time it really hit me that I could die too.
Madison's high school IB class of 42 students is close. They've stayed in touch via social media as they've moved on to college, but there haven't been any meet ups as a group. Madison has stayed in touch with a couple of her close friends, but getting together and socializing hasn't been easy because of life. There is work, different school break schedules, family obligations, and school. The class has talked about getting together, but, but, but. Now they will come together at a funeral. That reality has sobered quite a few, scared others, and set guilt for many. As it does to all of us.
It's a game changer. Death. Madison hung close to us yesterday, telling us she loved us. Tom brought home a big bouquet of flowers and a card for "his girls" that told us how much our smiles brightened his life. I kept kissing both girls, grabbing them for long hugs, or just touching them as they passed me by. Darcy tried to rework our planned visit to our friends' house because ironically it has been so long since we have spent time with them.
In a few weeks we will return to our normal lives. It isn't that we forget. It's just that this is life, and it goes on. Albeit with a piece missing.
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