Blog #1: These last few months

I cannot express how thrilled I am to be returning to Southern. I wonder if my old life will pick up where I left it, back at Southern. Maybe, maybe not. A lot has changed since then. Nine months of being home, with all that happened (i.e. feeding America, art class, community college, working, the hair cut incident, Elias’ unexpected death and the funeral and all the stuff that is attached to tragedy, and youth events that are constantly unfurling themselves), well, it changes you.

I would never have willingly chosen to remain at home for so long, yet God has a way of deciding things for you, without your knowledge or consent. However, I cannot help but see that had I been at Southern this semester, I would have most certainly missed out on many individual experiences that would be so insignificant if simply told to me as a story. If I had missed Elias’ last few weeks, his unforseen death, his solemn burial, and how close it brought the rest of us to each other in our broken heartedness, I would have been doubly devastated. Our hearts have gone through such a roller coaster, and there are things that happened that I could not even fully relate to other people. You would have had to have been there to understand.

My roommate called me the day after Elias died, and I tried to tell her what had happened in a mature way. But I utterly failed, and broke down over the phone. There were times when I had to put the phone down and walk away from it, I was sobbing so uncontrollably. Then, when I could breathe, I would pick it up and continue. But it was a difficult task. And it was difficult for her, as well. Bri, who has never had a real-life tragedy, hardly knew what to say. Who would? I knew that she felt my pain, but not in the way that broke her heart like it did mine. What do you say when your friend breaks down over the phone to you about someone you never knew? After a while, there was nothing more one could say. So, we got off the phone.

After, I dreamed of Elias, a few times here and there. And, unfailingly, when we were altogether, he would be brought up. And even if he was mentioned in a positive way that made us laugh in rememberance, always a silence would fall over us. The strength of fresh and painful memories would wash over us and send us spiraling into our own minds, each person reliving some part of the horror of the past few weeks. Literally, we would forget each other, standing in a circle, and whatever we had been talking about before.

For me, all I would see is his face the last time I saw him, pressed against the pillow in the ICU wing of the hospital; where you were only supposed to be if you were old and have lived a long, full life. Teenagers were not supposed to be in that wing. It’s against the rules of living.

Elias’ eyes were closed, but they fluttered every now and then, like he was dreaming. I liked to think that he was dreaming of good things that made his heart fly. Maybe God was speaking to him. Maybe he was thinking about his mom, who’s unshakeable faith strengthened us all. Anything but the blackness that death brings. I prayed to God that he somehow knew that we were there with him, loving him, crying for him.

His breaths were deep and sporadic, and it frightened me when the machine forced his lungs to open and breathe deeply. His hair was long, overlooked after weeks in the hospital. It had been almost a month. Can you imagine how awful that would be, to spend your last four weeks of life in a hard hospital bed with no one able to understand why your body is failing you, and nothing to do but hope and wait while your given shots and medications and tests and lotions to rub over your body because there was nothing else to do?

Elias got his letter of acceptance into the air force with a four year
scholarship, the friday after he died. If it was my choice, during his last few weeks, I would have put him in a plane, and let him fly it around for two days straight. He would be allowed to go wherever he wanted. Then, I would give him the ability to fly all on his own, without the help of technology or aerodynamics. He would be like a bird, or batman, and he could do whatever he wanted. That’s all he wanted to do, really. Just fly. But death is not so kind as to allow you to choose how you spend your last few moments. It has a plan of its own, which is always much harder.

A white blanket was pulled up to his chin. We shuffled into the tiny room. There was only the machine, and the bed that cradled Elias. Holding hands, the twelve of us tried to sing to him a song about heaven and God and how great things will be someday. Katie kept us on tune, but we could barely keep up with it for how hard we sobbed into each other’s shoulders. We tried to hold out and be strong while his dad spoke to us about God and life. But all I could pay attention to was the way he kept stroking Elias’ black hair. He was so strong, not crying at all. But you could see the pain locked in his eyes, heard it seeping out through his words. Then Maggie, our youth pastor, prayed, and she sobbed in the middle of it, and we waited, weeping, until she could draw up enough breath to finish.

And then our time was up.

Let me say that I have never been upset or disappointed with God that Elias was taken in such a way. My pain was more undirected, disseminating over everything without an appropriate finger to point to anything in particular. I could not blame God and still feel justified. These things just happen. I get that. I understand that through these trials we learn many things, and grow stronger. It creates our character, builds our wisdom. And no matter what happens, I know that all things are for a divine purpose. I also believe that there is something after this life, like heaven. I have hope that someday things will be better. Yet, I cannot pray the same way like I did before. I’m not sure why. Even that is a stretch in description. I can hardly pray at all anymore. It’s difficult to get the words out. I feel fake when I do. And it seems to tap into this emotional fountain that I am trying to get past. Elias is attached to so many heart strings that I cannot think of him without thinking of the things associated with him.

Big blue trucks, black hair, Mexican food, the Spanish language, striped shirts, skinny shoes, baseball hats, running, those mysterious eyes, the beach, volleyball, the night, stars, lakes, violins, ice cream, itchy grass, Sidekick cell phones, batman, laughter, hope, hospitals, heartache, God.

You see, God reminded me of pain. It’s horrible to say that, I know. But you cannot ignore the truth. They say that the truth will set you free. But I feel even more chained by feeling the way that I do. And again, so many questions arise that I feel overwhelmed by the face of them all. Elias’ death is still too much, even two months later. I’m hoping to confront this estrangement someday, when the time is right. But something tells me that much more is yet to come, and I do know that all things happen when the timing is perfect.

After Maggie's prayer, I came to the side of the bed, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, but accidentally kissed the tube that was stuck in his mouth instead. Then, overwhelmed, I fell on someone, I think it was Katie, and we carried each other out, sobbing into our hands.

All of these feelings and memories, so strong, would overtake us in a matter of moments. My heart would sink into a deep, dark place and my whole body would slump over as if a heavy weight had been placed onto my shoulders.

And then one person would begin to cry, small, very soft tears. And then another, the closest, would wrap an arm around them and comfort them with the knowledge of equally shared pain. No words were exchanged. Silence was automatic and preferred. But it would only last for a small time. The time of loud, heavy sobs was passed, and we all knew it. The time of disbelief and total shock was over. And now all that was left for us was the silent paralysis of acceptance and absolute sorrow, left in the wake of such tragedy and devastation. Many of us had never experienced death first hand, and it tore us apart.

I truly believe that we healed each other. We were the balm of comfort and hope that was needed to walk away from such a debilitating occurrence. More than our parents, siblings, pastors, or really anyone, we knew what each person was feeling, and could correspond with such a deep hurt. It was as if we spoke the same language while everyone else was locked out of who we were as a group. Elias was ours, one of us, a part of us. We were like one body, and we all felt the loss of him as if part of ourselves had been permanently lost. It was awful.

I would never wish it for anyone, ever. Not even a personal enemy. Because even enemies have loved ones. And when you lose a loved one, especially in such a bizarre and swift way like Elias was taken, it really sucks the life out of you.

Death has a way of teaching you a lot. Or at least it makes you start to question things that had always seemed stable. It shakes you up, so you feel lost, and totally confused. Where there was once consistency, it is replaced with vulnerability and fear. There are millions of questions that I could ask, where before I didn’t even consider them necessary.

But maybe sometimes, it’s best to remain silent. We all mourned in our own different ways, despite the equality of our sadness. One girl, Sarah, expressed her sorrow through music, and created the most beautiful song about life and loss in a matter of a few days. I swear, you would love it if you heard it. It catches the soft spots in your heart and pulls all those touchy little strings that make you think and cry and feel understood all at once.

But I suppose death is just something you have to chew and swallow.

When we found out that Elias had been taken off the machines, we were altogether. We had gone from the hospital room to the youth room, and had a small collection of pictures and videos we were looking through to find traces of Elias still with us. Maggie came in with a child on her hip, and another pulling on her jeans and told us straight out that he was gone.

The room became deathly quiet, and we looked at each other with such solemnity that was utterly unfelt before. In my eyes, we seemed to grow older in that space of empty seconds.

Like a line of dominoes, some crumple while others are still standing. And the ones who are standing, catch, and then fall too.

We fell into each other’s arms and wept and caught each other’s tears on our arms and faces and jackets. Such pain is completely indescribable.

I later stepped out of the room and called one of the girls from our group, who was away at college. She had missed it, missed the last moments of the life of our fellow soulmate. That’s what our group is; soulmates.

Together, we wept over the phone, unable to speak English.

Somehow, once I hung up, we all shifted into the stairway outside of the room, and placed ourselves all over it, so that each person could reach up or down to another and draw comfort from wherever they were. Together, we mourned the loss of our own. I cannot describe to you what all happened on that staircase. It is too personal. But I can say that I can never look at it in the same way again. It has the aspect of great sorrow attached to it now. Just one more thing that takes me back to Elias.

I began to see Elias everywhere. In the car in front of me at the stoplight, walking on the street, in my dreams. I formed a strange attachment to a kid who sat in front of me in my philosophy class. His name was Aline, and he reminded me entirely too much of Elias. He was tall, Mexican, athletically built, had black hair and light skin, all attribute of Elias. Also, he tended to wear mainly red and blue colors, and specialized in San Diego baseball caps, exactly like Elias.

When Aline wasn’t there, I felt empty, incomplete. I never spoke to him, but I drew so much comfort from his presence. I fell in love with his shoulders, and the back of his head. I depended on them. I imagined he was another form of Elias that was sent to console me. In doing my own psychological analysis, I knew that I was attaching myself to a figure like Elias, because I couldn’t accept his death as a reality. I have no idea what happened to Aline. I never saw him again after that class. But I will always think of him with love as natural medication to my sorrow.

The burial was quick and stinging, like ripping off a band aid. I didn’t cry, though. I thought I was strong enough to be dry eyed. I had spent the last week and a half in black spirits, eating little, and staying up quite late in the nights to document the past events, and to recollect myself. I felt lost.

If one of us, the strongest, could be taken, what was liable to happen next?

So, Elias was buried in a sky blue coffin. I laid four red sunflowers on his coffin, and a letter that I had written to him that morning. It was for closure, but secretly I believed that Elias would someday read that letter. Sometimes, a large imagination, no matter how ridiculous, is a tremendous solace.

I stood behind his parents, and I liked to think that I was one of them, mourning for a brother, not just a friend. I felt that my dry eyes would be helpful for those who felt the excruciating loss more than we did. I never spoke of it to them; I am not sure they even knew I was there.

I felt better after the burial. I felt that now we could embark on the long healing process, where before we had been lobbying in a purgatory of death and funeral. Holding our breath, we continued to mourn for longer than was customary. Yet the circumstances of the death seemed to demand it.

Then came the memorial service, which was the most packed our church has ever been. Decked in black, or his favorite blue, we squeezed into the crowded pews. I didn’t cry (I seemed to have been moving into a state of untouchability-from pain or sorrow or attempted comforting by others) until I was on the stage, singing. This is very difficult: to sing and cry at once. Your voice has nothing to push against to come out. It sort of reaches all the way down to your toenails and gathers the small wisps of strength you have left. And then it rolls out your open mouth, in a gush of noise that is uncontrollable and strange. It was incredibly hard to keep on tune, when all you instinctively wanted to do was wail and sob indistinguishably.

After that, it was a range of hills to recovery. It still is. I still dream of Elias. And when he is brought up in conversation, silence embraces us and our hearts feel heavy and cold. But we have rallied. It is only when we are together as a group, or at church, or when I am alone at night that I think of Elias and truly feel that deep pain once more. Other times, I say his name and graze past the feelings that gather subconsciously without pain. It’s all a matter of how much effort is put into remembering.

I suppose it's like Miley Cyrus says, it’s all about the climb.