Which is why, it's midnight, and I'm awake. (If you know me you know this is surprising.) I've been in bed every night this week by 7 thanks to that new job and some PM Tylenol (that's what happens when you work in pediatrics and tiny humans sneeze right in your cornea). But here we are, I'm tossing and turning, because I read the obituary of a guy I graduated high school with today, and I just can't process it.
A guy who, if my math is right, wasn't even 26 yet. Wasn't even old enough he had to be on his own insurance. His 'survived by' list the longest part. Which, we all know, is just a list of people who never thought they'd have to say goodbye to a son, brother, and a friend.
I write to process my thoughts... but even then, they don't make any sense.
Next September will be the ten year anniversary of the day my class lost one of our own for the first time - as juniors in high school, one day we went to school and things were normal, and the next day, it was like we aged ten years. Even our teachers, the know-all authority figure, cried at the front of the room as they decided that we would skip algebra or government that day and watch a movie, color, and just be together. We attended a memorial service and sported green ribbons around school - everyone seemed just a little bit older than you should at 16 - because we learned quickly that life is short and death doesn't spare you just because you're young. Members of my class (at 16) put together a memorial page for the yearbook, spoke at her service, and generally, did things that no 16 year old should have to do. My class (I think, I'm giving them credit for this) coined the term 'Together We Can" and it has been the mantra of no less than 15 student deaths or tragedies in the last ten years - most of which, now, have no connection to my high school class, but rather, has been carried on by those who have come after us who have dealt with it time and time again. It really wasn't the way things were supposed to be - but together, we can.
It will have been 8 years in May since the awful, awful day where we lost our homecoming queen to an act that most of us today still struggle to understand - an act that had months, and even years of repercussions that just aren't easy to understand or deal with. I had the opportunity to help write the memorial article for the yearbook and put together the page, which was definitely not in the description for a yearbook editor. I was good friends with Brenna and we had planned to be roommates at K-State. I watched my best guy friends serve as pallbearer's in a funeral for one of their own. It wasn't the way things were supposed to be. There's nothing that bonds 200 18 year olds more than sitting together at their high school graduation, and 9 days later putting on the same dress or tie to attend the funeral of their homecoming queen.
After Brenna died, our homecoming king, Taylor, wrote one of the kindest posts about her - it's still saved in the scrapbooks we made for Brenna's parents so they could read all the kind words. The picture he posted showed the true joy that both of them experienced during that football game - a moment in time that is meaningless for most, but is now captured in the hearts of the 274 remaining members of my class.. forever.
And today, before our ten year reunion has even been planned... I read Taylor's obituary.
After all my high school class has been through together, you'd actually think this would be easy to process. You'd think you get kinda used to it after awhile. Maybe it's not less sad, but maybe it makes more sense.
It doesn't.
It wasn't the way things were supposed to be.
26 is not supposed to be the age where you catch up with classmates at funerals, or the age that you've contributed to obituaries. It's not supposed to be the age of reconnecting with classmates on facebook as your all realize that life actually, really, won't last forever. You're not supposed to feel connected through social media, phone calls, and texts with those you haven't seen in years because you are, once again, reminded how short life is. It is supposed to be the age of new jobs, relationships, families, and settling into the life you've been and are working for - but if there's one thing my class never did, it was 'the way it was supposed to be'.
I have become the unofficial counselor to my friends in these situations - a role that I treasure and do joyfully because I love to help people, and love on them in any way I can - it 'fills my bucket'. I don't know if my advice is any good, but countless times I've received phone calls from friends dealing with death for the first time because the initial shock of it is tough to process - they ask a million questions or sometimes they sit there and cry and I do my best to listen and remember what I needed at that exact time. It almost always boils down to "This isn't the way things were supposed to be, and I'm just going to be with you, and it's just going to suck"
I just finished school in August, and since the middle of August, I've settled into my first job. Being in school so long probably played a part in this, but man, I love it so stinking much. I love everything about it. I really REALLY love not having homework. I'm sure part of my joy to be at work has something to do with just that - it's new. But I like to think there's something else. I promised myself after the last court date of Brenna's in 2013 that I would spend the rest of my life trying to put good back into the world, because someone had taken so much of it away from me. And it's not just someone's intentional actions - it's that random, every day, happenings of life that take those we love way too soon.
Like tonight, where I'm tossing and turning at midnight. This isn't the way things were supposed to be.
For every game of tag down the hallway, for every time I see a 'first' with a patient, and for every time a parent is pleased with their child's progress, I will not celebrate less - not because I'm new, but because I can't imagine doing anything less - because I know what it feels like to know that someone will never get to celebrate some of life's biggest moments, simply because they didn't make it there.
When I was growing up I was best friends with the two boys that lived down the street from me. We rode the bus together, beat Mario Kart together, and they taught me the correct way to throw a football. We went sledding, built forts, played kick the can. We played crack the egg on the trampoline. We've since gone our separate ways physically, but I still get phone calls and text messages from them on my birthday, we catch up for a drink when we're home, and, unfortunately, we've been each other's first (or one of the first) phone calls when life didn't go the way we thought it would. I talked to Keaton on the phone tonight and it felt like nothing had ever changed - but the topic of our conversation told me that so, so much had.
The older I get, the more I realize I probably won't ever be able to process death. No matter how expected, how relieving from a painful sickness, or how old, it's the most unnatural thing on this whole, entire earth, and it never gets any stinking easier.
[If I'm smart enough to figure out how], I linked a post from one of my classmates that was written that I think sums it up well. May we grieve together, but take what we will, and make it what we can. May you spend your time putting the good back into the world for those who no longer can.
Taylor Medlin
