Seeing my brother smile was a gift. It's not that he was a particularly unhappy person, but his true smile was sort of a rarity. I swear that smile lit up, when he was laughing or playing with his dogs. He never smiled in pictures. This made him look like a rather grumpy person, but he had a heart as big as he was. He was the kind of person who only smiled when he really meant it; there were no plastic, painted-on smiles. That's why my brother's smile was so special. He only gave it to you if he really meant it.
Just like his displays of affection toward his family. If he called you a turd, it definitely meant you gave his life meaning. "I love you" wasn't spoken everyday. There was the occasional bear hug, but his love was mostly apparent in other ways. It was the way he ruffled my hair when he passed me or made fun of me that I knew he cared. He always had a picture of me and Rachel in his house, on a cabinet or wall. According to some of his close friends, he talked about us quite a bit. He always had a "mess with my little sisters and I'll mess with you" mentality about my friends, especially guy friends. He called me Mocha, and my sister Macchiato. That was the greatest term of endearment to ever be directed to me. Every time I visited him in the hospital, I told him I loved him. No matter how many times a day that was, I said it. Even if I knew he couldn't hear me, I said it. Sometimes he'd be conscious and he'd nod. Once, he tried to respond. He struggled to form the three words with his tongue and lips. No sound would come out of his mouth, so he had to settle for the silent exclamation. I always held his hand when he would lay in that hospital bed. When I'd finally let go, his hand, though strapped to the bed for safety, would squirm in attempts to reestablish his grip in mine.
I loved him dearly, and I knew he loved me.
I was thinking about that smile of his, how it was rare. How it was something to be treasured.
I was generally a happy person, and I could zap on a smile at any given moment, no matter what emotions where lurking beneath the surface. How often, really, was that smile fake and superficial? How often did it really have meaning, really hold value? That was a question to which I had no answer. The frequent and rather annoying sympathy I got from everybody was often accompanied by a phrase of optimism like, "keep smiling," or "hold your head up high." But what did smiling matter if it wasn't genuine? Why should I hold my head up high when on the inside my heart was a shambled, broken mess? And more importantly, when would I finally start smiling from the heart once again?
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Ahh, summer...
With summer heat comes much fun: pool parties, movie nights, staying up late, being lazy. I was definitletly expexting a fun-filled three months of volleyball practice in the morning, sunbathing and swimming in the afternoon, and hanging out with friends the rest of the time. Plus the four volleyball camps I signed up for, I was bound to have a summer to remember. Right?
Wrong. Sure, this summer has been memorable so far, but not in a good, "let's relive these nights over and over" kind of way. Why, you ask?
Because my fun was abrubtly put to a halt on June 23, 2009. Or a couple days after, actually.
My parents are the kind of people who try to build four cute little walls around me whenever anything remotely bad happens. They hide everything. They'll kick me out of the house for an evening, if necessary, in order to continue Mission Shelter the Kids From All Worldly Problems.
Which is why I wasn't surprised when the discontinuation of my summer fun happened two days after it really should have. My parents needed a couple days to make some arrangements, figure out how to break the news, blah blah blah.
My bowl of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream suddenly turned sour when I heard the five words my dad said on Thursday, June 25.
"Girls, we need to talk."
Oh man, oh man, I thought. "We need to talk" is never good news.
"Remember how sick Tony was when he was in Pueblo? Well, we think he was that sick when he went home. We're afraid your brother had an attack and died on Tuesday."
From that very moment on, my world was shaken, not stirred, and rolled upside down. The Earth stopped spinning on its axis. The birds stopped chirping (it was already dark outside, but you get the point) and Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream was never quite the same.
The next morning, I was forced to board the Car to Hell, destination: Anderson, California. The two and a half days of driving through Wyoming, Nevada, and Utah were mostly spent with my Zune blasting KJ-52 or asleep. It was a miserable drive for the five of us seated in my mom's Honda. Through the whole trip, actually, I felt as though I was trapped within the boundries on confinement.
We spent the majority of the time in California cooped up in the cozy two-bed, two-bath house my brother lived in with his landlord, Sandi. Being in the very house--the very room even, the kitchen--where Tony died added even more to the depressing mood, the tension, the overall blehh-ness of the trip. The first night we got there, we started looking through his belongings, mainly his photos, cards, letters, and documents. This, of course, brought on some reminiscing and story-telling. I was very grateful for the pictures I found of me and Tony, and I instantly cherished them. For the rest of our stay in California, we did some more of this, but add in laundry, cleaning, and sorting. I would go into more detail of the week, but I'll spare you. I was extremely depressed and apathetic the entire time, and you would not have fun reading about it.
By Thursday, July 3, my mom, my sisters, and I were convinced there was no more we could help with. The rest was to be handled by my dad. So on Friday morning we set off for home. My memory of those two days of driving is quite blurry and mixed up; I felt pretty out of it. We arrived home on Independence Day. Funny, because I was finally at home, which felt pretty free.
I wish I could say this experience molded me into a better person or inspired me to do something awesome, but I'm afraid none of that occurred. I'm still learning how to cope with the loss of one of my favorite men in the world. It's definitely a day-by-day process, and I'm getting a little more back to myself everyday.
RIP Anthony Paul Gratton
May 5, 1974 - June 23, 2009
The man whose heart was bigger than he was. The man who always protected me. The man who taught me to live my life to the fullest, to love without limits, to cherish everyday. The man who was the biggest Raiders fan I know. The man who always teased me, always gave me big bear hugs, always was my big brother. I miss him so much.
Wrong. Sure, this summer has been memorable so far, but not in a good, "let's relive these nights over and over" kind of way. Why, you ask?
Because my fun was abrubtly put to a halt on June 23, 2009. Or a couple days after, actually.
My parents are the kind of people who try to build four cute little walls around me whenever anything remotely bad happens. They hide everything. They'll kick me out of the house for an evening, if necessary, in order to continue Mission Shelter the Kids From All Worldly Problems.
Which is why I wasn't surprised when the discontinuation of my summer fun happened two days after it really should have. My parents needed a couple days to make some arrangements, figure out how to break the news, blah blah blah.
My bowl of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream suddenly turned sour when I heard the five words my dad said on Thursday, June 25.
"Girls, we need to talk."
Oh man, oh man, I thought. "We need to talk" is never good news.
"Remember how sick Tony was when he was in Pueblo? Well, we think he was that sick when he went home. We're afraid your brother had an attack and died on Tuesday."
From that very moment on, my world was shaken, not stirred, and rolled upside down. The Earth stopped spinning on its axis. The birds stopped chirping (it was already dark outside, but you get the point) and Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream was never quite the same.
The next morning, I was forced to board the Car to Hell, destination: Anderson, California. The two and a half days of driving through Wyoming, Nevada, and Utah were mostly spent with my Zune blasting KJ-52 or asleep. It was a miserable drive for the five of us seated in my mom's Honda. Through the whole trip, actually, I felt as though I was trapped within the boundries on confinement.
We spent the majority of the time in California cooped up in the cozy two-bed, two-bath house my brother lived in with his landlord, Sandi. Being in the very house--the very room even, the kitchen--where Tony died added even more to the depressing mood, the tension, the overall blehh-ness of the trip. The first night we got there, we started looking through his belongings, mainly his photos, cards, letters, and documents. This, of course, brought on some reminiscing and story-telling. I was very grateful for the pictures I found of me and Tony, and I instantly cherished them. For the rest of our stay in California, we did some more of this, but add in laundry, cleaning, and sorting. I would go into more detail of the week, but I'll spare you. I was extremely depressed and apathetic the entire time, and you would not have fun reading about it.
By Thursday, July 3, my mom, my sisters, and I were convinced there was no more we could help with. The rest was to be handled by my dad. So on Friday morning we set off for home. My memory of those two days of driving is quite blurry and mixed up; I felt pretty out of it. We arrived home on Independence Day. Funny, because I was finally at home, which felt pretty free.
I wish I could say this experience molded me into a better person or inspired me to do something awesome, but I'm afraid none of that occurred. I'm still learning how to cope with the loss of one of my favorite men in the world. It's definitely a day-by-day process, and I'm getting a little more back to myself everyday.
RIP Anthony Paul Gratton
May 5, 1974 - June 23, 2009
The man whose heart was bigger than he was. The man who always protected me. The man who taught me to live my life to the fullest, to love without limits, to cherish everyday. The man who was the biggest Raiders fan I know. The man who always teased me, always gave me big bear hugs, always was my big brother. I miss him so much.
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