From a Different Lens

If only I knew then what I know now.

Last week while I was on break, I had the sudden urge to purge my room of unnecessary clutter. (Coffee may have had something to do with this spontaneous inspiration). My room is very clean, and I have always kept it that way. It's just cluttered. Between being away at college and going abroad last spring, I've taken on a bit of a nomadic lifestyle. I never feel like I'm totally settled in my Cape bedroom as far as my stuff is concerned, because summer hardly seems long enough for a complete revamping of decor or a rearranging of furniture. Physically, my room has hardly changed since I was in high school. There are several hints of the passing time though. Old collages have been replaced with black and white postcards from Paris, London, Rome, Krakow, Vienna, and other European cities. My Precious Moments cross from my baptism that used to hang next to my door is no longer there (it broke while I was in Italy. I was bummed about that). But there are some constants too, like the turquoise butterfly sculpture hanging on my high wall, its wings outstretched as if to guard me while I sleep.

I pondered these evolutions as I started on my desk. I was throwing away an old receipt when I found a light blue DVD in one of the cubbies on my desktop. It had nothing written on it. Curious, I brought it to my laptop and put it on....I never finished going through my room that day.

The DVD captured moments from my high school graduation. My family takes a lot of pictures but rarely captures anything on film, so I was trying to remember where this footage came from. Then it all came back to me - my uncle, my dad's brother, had taken it and made a copy for us. He gave it to me after my dad had passed away.

Technology is beautiful in this way. Beautiful because it captures moments that we are not necessarily aware of at the time. While I was lining up with the rest of my class in the school gym, donning my cap and gown and yellow cords, I had no idea that my dad was playing a practical joke on my aunt, his baby sister. The DVD captured it all. There they were, my large family, sitting down before the ceremony and taking up more than a few folding chairs. Then there's Dad's voice: "Watch this." He has a twinkle in his eye. (Someone once told me that I have "expressive" eyes. I wasn't sure what that meant at the time. Now I'm wondering if they come from him). He is laughing to himself, eyeing my aunt who is coming down the row of chairs. But I'll never know what the joke was or how it turned out, because the footage had cut before all was revealed.

I had no idea of these antics when I stood in the school gym, excited butterflies in my stomach. It wouldn't have ever even occurred to me at the time to think about what my family was doing outside without me on June 6th, 2009...

But I also didn't know that my dad would be dead in a year.

As I watch the footage, my mind is calculating dates. Fifteen months between my graduation and his death. Was the tumor already formed? Were his cells violently attacking each other as he laughed into the camera?

When you suffer a major loss, you become extremely attached to old mementos and reminders of your deceased loved one. I was devastated when the footage stopped after about twenty minutes. Like a drug addict, I found myself wanting more. More footage, more jokes, more anything. You want your fix, the high of seeing a side to your loved one that you haven't seen before, moments previously captured. I found myself hanging on to every word, every movement. And to think, I had him 24/7 before.

My grandma was also featured on tape. Back at our house following the ceremony, the camera finds her in the chaos of my friends and family. She is talking about handsome military guys she met at my cousin's graduation from Annapolis Naval Academy. She jokes that I have to go down to Maryland so that she can set me up with one.

Grandma too would die of cancer the next year. This would be the last time I would see her alive.

Who knew that my high school graduation would be so important? At the time, it seemed significant because I was at the top of my class and making the transition to college. Although that was all part of it, it was important because I was nearing the end. Nearing the end of my life on earth with two cherished members of my family.

I was innocent. Gloriously oblivious.

We all were.

If only I knew then what I know now. 

Today, I know better. In my younger years, I didn't know that the boy I worked with in the summers, the boy with the most beautiful smile, would die in a dirt bike accident at sixteen. I didn't know that I would lose my dad while I was still a teenager.

But how can we know these things?

We can't.

I think this is exactly why I can be very anxious about change. Previously, change meant death. To me, change means a grieving family. It means hopelessly trying to adjust to a world that is moving so quickly. It means feeling stagnant when friends and acquaintances seem to be moving forward with their lives in a glorious bubble of naivete.

I wish I could say I have all the answers now. I don't.

But I do live differently.

Sometimes I think that we all truly believe that if we can only grow up and get ourselves together, we will be immune to life's trials and tribulations. But that is not the case. Life doesn't work that way. I thought that going to college would be my only major transition during young adulthood. How wrong I was. We are not even remotely aware of our futures, our own futures or those of people we love the most. Just like we aren't aware of what's going on behind the scenes. Or from someone else's perspective. In this case, my uncle's.

When I work with grieving children at CZC, forgetting is a common concern. Some of the children were very young when they lost a parent, too young to remember him or her. They bring pictures and their surviving parents' stories. Stories and pictures. That's all they have left - other people's stories and accounts of the man or woman who brought the child into the world.

And that is exactly what this DVD footage represents for me. It presents a new perspective, a memory that I can now hold close to my heart. And when we put our perspectives together, they form the images of lives lived. Courageous battles fought. A loving grandmother. A fearless dad.

I've vowed to start paying attention. My mind is constantly capturing mental photographs. I have taken to writing down meaningful conversations I have with others and the poignant wisdom that comes my way. I want to have these memories.  Because now I know.

I see from a different lens.