WWRD

Today at 2:24 PM

I will be really glad to see 2014 go. It's been a year that has brought about the most change in my life. It's had it's positive aspects and it's been absolutely brutal. I've suffered major loss while trying to achieve many things. The harsh parts are pretty obvious but I've decided not to lose my brother without finding a lesson in it for myself. I have to take this and make it push me harder instead of letting it push me down to the depths of anguish so deep I'll never recover. I have always been a look before you leap kind of girl. I've made snap decisions in the past but over minor things like hair dye and rearranging furniture. The big things are thought out to the point of exhaustion and I've made sure to suck every last ounce of joy out of it. I've held myself back for fear of making myself look like a fool for raising my hand to offer up my "talents". In my mind I assume it'll be met with, "Who does this broad think she is?". When we first started taking clients at school, it was obvious most of the girls were interested more in the makeup than facials. Facials are a necessary part of the curriculum so you tow the line. It's pretty rare that a client comes in for makeup but it's always an exciting buzz behind the scenes. Some are already well-established artists and don't need the hands-on experience because they're already solid in their skills. I'm not necessarily one of these people. I would stand back, start to step up to the plate, and then find myself backing away. There are several jobs I let slip through my fingers because I was afraid. Afraid of what? Failure; of being watched and scrutinized. All makeup clients are taken in the forefront of the salon where clients and other students are free to walk by and observe. Every time I'm working on someone (even in the back) and I can feel someone watching me over my shoulder, my pulse speeds up and my hands begin to shake. Not something you want happening during a liquid eyeliner application. No, no, no.

I worked on someone the night before Ryan passed. She was a friendly woman who gave me carte blanche to give her glamour. She was wearing black and going to a dimly lit place for a small cocktail affair. She was comfortable with a dark eye and had worn heavy makeup in the past. Asking is crucial because my version of slightly heavy may be considered Vegas showgirl to her. There was a little girl running around while her mom got her hair done. She made several trips by to observe my situation. I had freshly dyed pink hair and was elbow deep in a charcoal smoky eye.  The lady had a very deep-set eye and I was struggling to blend the line. I remember repeating in my head, "You did not come all the way from Flippin, Arkansas to flake out and mess up this eye. Get it together!" Then my classic go-to, "WWRD?" (what would Ryan do?). I continued to watch this little girl dance around in my peripherals but she certainly wasn't my focus. 

 

Knowing when to quite and stop retouching is another thing I need to work on. I'll pick until I've made it worse, not better. I'm usually one lifted lash away from a bathroom meltdown. If I see a flaw, it's all I'll see; not the good contour work, not the not the good blending. I'll just see those few flaws that make me feel like she will later wear a sign that reads, "Misty was my makeup artist, come closer and see where she failed". 

I finally wrapped up and the lady seemed to like her makeup. She tipped me very well and went on her way. I stayed behind to clean up my mess and the little girl was on her way out with her mom. Kids, who don't know not to point or talk about people in a low tone said, "Mom, I like her hair. I want to do makeup!" I smiled to myself knowing she thought I was cool. I know this because I was once like her. There was a girl back home that was in her early 20s when I was little. Her name was Kim Wilkins. She was everything I ever wanted to be; she was beautiful, blonde, tan, athletic, drove a mustang, and dated what, I thought, was the most handsome guy in town. I wanted to be her when I grew up. She was my first real girl crush. I would watch her in awe when she would play sports but I wonder now, did my idol ever have doubts? Did she ever question her abilities or go home and rip herself apart after I'd just sat in bleachers thinking she was the coolest thing since sliced bread? I would've never imagined her doing that because I thought she was the bees knees. If that little girl could've heard the thoughts in my head, tearing myself to shreds while doing that makeup, would she have still thought I was cool or just pathetic? I'm glad she couldn't hear my thoughts and I'm ashamed of myself for having them and I'm not going to do it anymore.

Lately I've become somewhat of a "yes woman". I don't avoid things anymore due to feeling unqualified, afraid, or out of place. It starts with "Misty you want to……?" and it's met with a "YES". Life is too short and I will not miss experiences or opportunities because of self-doubt. I could be gone tomorrow and there are things I will have missed out on over limits I've created in my own mind. These limits aren't real. I've imprisoned myself and shame on me. I'm going to dive in and live my life to the fullest. I will go hard professionally and I will slow down and savor those precious moments with my family just a little bit more. I will find the balance. I will be confident but hold on to my humble. I do not need reassurance to conquer and I refuse to be my own worst enemy. WWRD? Funny, when I've heard his voice a few times during my sleep, one of them sounded an awful lot like him telling me to get my ass out of bed and pull myself together after I'd spent a few days in bed. I know it sounds silly but sometimes when I'm working on something, I look down at my arm and think, "Guide my arm foxy". I feel like I metaphorically took off my chains. What's the worst that can happen? I've experienced the worst that can happen and you aren't given the option to throw in the towel. When people say, "I don't know how you are doing it." There isn't a choice. No one came and said would you like to take the next 5 years off? Life goes on and those around you aren't going to stop and wait for you. While I'm in bed, someone else took my gig. I have to regroup and rebuild and I have to make him proud. If that requires taking who he was and applying it to myself to feel like I'm continuing his legacy then that's what I'll do. Mom and I have several things in the works that we will be presented as they reach a certain point. Mom has changed but as odd as it sounds, in a good way. I'm proud of her. Neither one of us will ever be the same people we were. In a weird way, we've only improved. Our struggle reads in everything we do now; it is present in our faces, eyes, and decisions. Sometimes being slapped with a gut-wrenching loss evolves into the most freeing experience of your life. We're going on vacation soon because we need one and we aren't worried about money, work, or opinions. We'll make Ryan proud and I will never hold back ever again.

What He Meant To Me

Today at 10:13 AM

Jason says that I have to purge. He says I have to write it all down and get it out of me. He said that I've written my blog about the loss of my brother but now I have to write what Ryan meant to me. Jason says I've been tough to deal with lately and for that, I'm sorry. I get lost inside myself and my fuse, which was short already, has been cut in half. I'll be the first to admit that I'm irrational and I pity anyone who's had to deal with me, namely Jason. In trying to talk me down out of the rafters, he said something that really hit home. He said, "Misty, he was my brother, too. I lost him, too." In that moment, I felt like an asshole. He was absolutely right and I'm sorry. Watching my son lose his cool when we walked into the funeral home, made me realize I had hogged the agony for myself. Jason said he's been surprised that I haven't written much. I've had no strength. It's all I can do to get through my daily routine, let alone be funny or witty. He said, "Write or you have to go to counseling". So here's a lighter one… What Ryan meant to me, what he taught me, and the funny stories that have no purpose -- they're just damn funny.

Ryan and I have always been close. I was enamored of Ryan from birth. He was my big brother and I thought he hung the moon. Mom said he would carry me around and never hold my head so it would just be flopping around. He never did learn how to hold a baby's head. He held my kids like aliens, each and everyone of them. I digress… I followed him everywhere he went. I know he got sick of me, 'cause well, he told me he did. I slept with him until he all put physically picked me up and put into my pink frilly bed down that hall. I don't think I ever forgave him for booting me out. We would lay in bed at night to the sound of our big box fan and tell each other stories to make each other laugh. I laughed so hard once I puked all over Ryan's helium Snoopy balloon he'd gotten for his birthday. We got in big trouble that night. We would play the game where you draw a picture on each other's back and try to guess what was being drawn or written. I'd wear him down and he'd let me go back in and sleep with him every now and then. I'd wait till it was late and his resistance was down because we'd stayed up watching "Twin Peaks" or "Unsolved Mysteries" to ask. I think sometimes he was secretly creeped out, too.

I don't think it's any big secret we were poor and mom had to work tons of jobs just to keep us afloat. Ryan took care of me; he fed me, he made sure I did my chores, he cleaned up my puke, monitored my outfits, taught me right from wrong, and shielded me from mean boys. You can't begin to count the number of glasses of sweet tea and chimichanga heat-'em-up meals he put in front of me. I once had a friend remark after being around Ryan and I together, for the first time, that they'd never seen anyone be able to make me "mind" except Ryan. Ryan was like a father figure to me and yes, he could put me in check like no one else on this earth. His opinion mattered and disappointing him crushed me. Don't get me wrong, we were kids at one time and tore the house down while mom was away. We broke things, we raised hell, and had a blast. Here's a list of funny stories that are prime examples of Ryan and I as kids.

Let's start with the favorite: The hair in the vacuum cleaner story…

Ryan was the golden child. He was more responsible and least likely to garner mom a bad phone call from the school. Me? Not so much. I was rambunctious, loud, wild, lawless, and least likely to have completed our many chores before mom got home. Ryan called me the "O.G. Bad Girl". Mom drove a little blue escort and the bottom of her car would drag the top of the deeply-dipped driveway on her way into the carport. When you heard that sound, time was up. If your chores weren't completed, well, it was your ass. I'd hear that sound and scramble. Ryan would sit cooly and calmly with a smirk on his face knowing he'd already done his.  Asking for his assistance at this point would simply be met with a, "Tough noogies, kid." One day in particular I was avoiding chores, as per usual. I was splayed out on the floor with my t.v. tray, engrossed in a riveting episode of "Fraggle Rock". Ryan was vacuuming and dared to ask me to get up off the floor so he could vacuum where I was laying. I said no and without warning, Ryan rolled the vacuum over my hair and sucked it up, clean to the scalp. I think this was a rare instance he immediately felt bad. I had to wait like that till mom got home and I had to be cut loose. Ryan didn't get in trouble much. Mostly, me. This time, I think mom asked him what would posses him to do such a thing. If I remember correctly he called me a turd and I think mom probably quietly agreed. I was no walk in the park, I admit it. I know this story made the rounds among his friends because they've mentioned it to me laughing in my adult years and saying, "Now, tell me your version of the vacuum story". Clearly, he didn't feel badly enough for the story to lose it's humor. It's a classic.

The time I blacked his eye with a lemon…

Most of our fights centered around chores. Ryan was doing laundry and yelling at me that I hadn't done my fair share of the work. Mom was making real lemonade and had lemons all over the counter near her cutting board. Ryan was standing in front of the washer and he'd been having a go at me for a pretty good while. He was just yelling at me and yelling at me and I finally snapped, grabbed one of those lemons, turned around, and chucked it clear across the kitchen and through to the laundry room. That lemon couldn't have clocked him square in the eye again if I was a trained, lemon-chucking professional. It was a money shot. He had a shirt in his hands which he immediately dropped and grabbed his eye. My mom runs to Ryan and asked what would posses me to do such a thing. If memory serves, Ryan told her I was turd and she probably quietly agreed. I was around later when a friend of his asked him where he got the shiner. He side-eyed me and said, "Oh ya know… My sister beaned me with a lemon". I think I was told I was a turd but it was still a nice shot.

The time Ryan's pyro phase got out of control and he blamed me and got away with it…

Like all little boys, Ryan developed an unhealthy obsession with fire. He frequently lit small pieces of paper and let them burn down in dad's ashtray by his recliner and he would watch in awe as it would burn down to ashy remnants. A particular occasion Ryan had burned a bunch of matches and various other things and left them at the opening to the basement below the house. Mom found them and went to Ryan first. He looked her dead in the face and blamed me. I took my licks like a champ and went to my monkey swing to sniffle and think bad thoughts about mom AND Ryan. Ryan came out of the house and approached me slowly. He had the nerve to pat my head and say, "I'm sorry, sis. I just didn't want to get in trouble." I said, "Oh like YOU would EVER get in trouble!" Then I told him he was a turd and went back to swinging.

Mom, Ryan, and I were like our own little gang. At the end of the day, we had each other. It was rare but we are family and disagreements arise. When one was mad at the other, sides would get taken. Mom and Ryan once made me so mad about something but I was really young and couldn't spell yet. I remember I felt like they were ganging up on me and the madder I got, the funnier they thought it was. I was fuming. I went to my little pink, frilly room with the white whicker furniture and slammed the door. I filled Easter baskets with all the things that mattered -- my Miss Piggy and my Cabbage Patch Kids. Who needs clothes when you're a rebel? I'll be like Annie -- dirty and street smart. I wrote a note about my plans to leave and stuck it on the outside of my door. That'll show 'em! I could hear mom and Ryan standing outside my door laughing at what I'd written. I was LIVID!!!! Apparently, what I thought I had written wasn't so beautifully conveyed. It went something like… "I hate me mudder. I hate me brudder. Lick navy." I'm not sure what I was trying to get across but it didn't compute. They laughed and laughed.

………………………..Turds.

The last physical brawl…

Ryan and I grew into what I would consider classy adults but deep down we were both scrappy. We were no stranger to physical fights with each other. Ryan didn't take it easy on me because I was a girl when things got heated. He would come at me like a boy and it was sink or swim. I could always hold my own with Ryan right up until his freshman year in college. I was dating a boy Ryan couldn't stand. I was going through a bad boy stage and Ryan highly disapproved. He was home from college for the weekend and a fight broke out about the boyfriend. Ryan came at me and we started wrestling around in the living room. Mom, being no stranger to this, just moved things around us and stepped up to the upper level away from the sunken living room and let us duke it out. I remember her standing there, arms folded, dish towel in hand, disgusted look on face. There was just no other way for her to handle it. I wouldn't have recommended getting in the middle of it. We were heathens. I ripped Ryan's shirt clean off his body. Not over his head, through his body. I ripped it clean in half across his back. We landed on the coffee table, breaking it. As Ryan began getting the better of me, I remember thinking, "God, he's really grown into a man!" I had the strong desire to raise the white flag and scream, "TIME OUT!" I think mom finally broke it up and sent us to separate ends of the house to cool off. I later came to Ryan crying, told him I was sorry, we hugged, and knew no fight between us was ever the last word. 

When Ryan started college, we went through a weird period of trying to adjust to him leaving our little town and believe me, he left skid marks getting out of there. Our area growing up wasn't accepting and extremely judgmental. I didn't blame him a bit for wanting out. I wished he had taken me with him. He swears he remembers his coming out story to me. I don't remember it that well because it wasn't an issue. He claims I was digging in my closet, (yes in the closet), for something and he said, "Hey Mist, I'm going to the store and by the way -- I'm gay." He said I leaned out of the closet and said, "Get me a coke and DUH". Despite being different from what's considered normal in our small little town, Ryan was already somewhat of a legend. His talent was too much to ignore even by the most conservative standards. He took the local school plays and turned them into award-winning dramas. He wasn't always understood where we grew up but he was still fascinating to everyone because he was an effing star. His talents and good looks made everyone keenly aware he was someone, going somewhere whether you understood him or not. As he aged and spread his wings, the world began to notice even more what a special gift he was. It was proven to me that I wasn't just a little sister with a biased perspective of how awesome her big brother was. The world saw it, too, and I had to share my rock star with the world. A part of me always resented it just a little bit. He wasn't mine, alone. I had to share him. Though, being Ryan's little sister wasn't always easy. In fact, my name was, "You're Ryan's little sister, aren't you?", for most of my adolescence. My whole life I struggled to be as funny, quick-witted, talented, and as smart as Ryan. But alas, there can only be one Ryan and believe me, the world knew it. I would whine to him about my legacy of not being him, but he would joke that I was the Janet to his Michael. I would joke back that I was more like the Ashlee to his Jessica. 

Ryan was a fierce protector of me and it never wavered even as we aged. There was an incident on an outing in Dallas where a guy touched me inappropriately and Ryan went ape. There was a masculine side there and it wasn't shy to make an appearance. You couldn't touch me when my brother was there. I felt safe with him. He would never let anyone hurt me. We fought each other's battles many times. When Ryan was treated like crap from jocks in school, I would wonder how hard it would be to kick a teenage boy's ass while i was in grade school. I thought I could take 'em and tried a few times. Mom said when I got my first shots as a kid that I took it like a champ but Ryan cried. Ryan and I shared a connection that we hurt more for the other's pain. He hurt, I hurt and vice versa.

Ryan continued to grow, as did our relationship. We developed a beautiful friendship but he always parented me. I would not be who I am without Ryan; not even a little bit. Our bond was unbreakable and we relied on each other through everything. We NEVER told one another how to live the other's life. We listened, we supported, and lived by the philosophy that if you're happy, I'm happy. My job was to pick him up when he fell and applaud his triumphs. I was so proud of him in everything he did. I sat in awe, like everyone else at every performance. I would sit with him on FaceTime while he beat his face, showed me new outfits, and went over routines. I had to watch via video when I couldn't be there but I was there in spirit for everything. I would stay up to help him find audio snippets for his acts. He'd never use anything I suggested but whateves. I once thought an excerpt from "Soap Dish" I'd collected had pleased him but no cigar. Ryan could never do anything or be anyone I wasn't proud of. He could never disappoint me and I would never not love every part of him. He is a part of me and I was lucky to be his little sister.

Ryan gave me life skills that have served me to the fullest in my 34 years. He taught me to always walk with my head held high. He taught me to never suffer a fool. He taught me to get ahead by being smarter, quicker, and to make them too intimidated to even think about firing the first shot. Be fearless. Be independent. Be fierce and never apologize for being just a little bit too much. Be tough and never let 'em see you sweat. Suck it up and power through. He taught me to never compromise my beliefs or who I am to pacify others. Always fight for what I believe in and stand up for those I love. Life your life as you see fit -- opinions will vary. Let 'em talk and make them eat their hearts out. 

I can never do this blog justice on what Ryan meant to me. He meant everything. He was everything wrapped into one complicated, beautiful, talented, artistic soul. His pretty, flirty eyes, wicked grin, enviable and limitless talents were something the world has lost. He was good at everything he did and that was a lot. He was a son, a brother, a friend, an uncle, a comedian, an actor, a performer, a vocalist, a musician -- he was everything. The world will miss out on who he was and who he was going to be. I didn't lose him, alone. Everyone who knew him will suffer for a long time. This loss is beyond words to everyone. The world lost its sparkle. Its darker, its less funny, it has less spirit. I still hear his voice and his laughter. I still feel his energy. I hope wherever he is, he is at peace and performing on a big stage somewhere making them eat it. I will cling to the memories and laugh at our inside jokes. I will never doubt if he knew how much I loved him. He absolutely knew. Ryan's plate was never empty if mine was full. What was mine was his and he knew that. Our last words were "I love you" and I'm so grateful for that. I love you a bushel and peck and hug around the neck, Rynoceros.  Always and forever. Until we meet again I will carry your memory. I will never let it go. So to the question, "You're Ryan's little sister, aren't you?", I proudly say YES. Yes I am.

Our New Hell

 

In the days since my brother's tragic passing, there have been things we've had to deal with that people wouldn't believe. It's as though the grief for the loss of your loved one is temporarily put on hold while you deal with trivial red tape consisting of family drama, funeral/burial details, and the hoards of people that seep out of the woodwork. Most of these people are there for comfort and support but not all. Before I was the person experiencing this type of horrific loss that all people dread, I always assumed that those in my current position were met with nothing but respect and kindness from people who are doing their best to comprehend and empathize. It never occurred to me ask them for detailed accounts of the horrific stories they probably had to tell years down the road; after it was appropriate to ask. I guess it never occurred to me to ask because it wasn't me. Therein, lies our problem. You see, I've been guilty of this way of thinking, myself. I've always heard it said that those around a person struggling with a loss give their grief an unspoken time limit. The world will mourn with you for a few weeks and then people begin to drop off one by one and no longer wish to be mired down with your unrelenting tale of woo. You're a bummer, a downer, and nobody wants to get down and roll around with you in it for as long as you intend to. I can't really say that I blame them. I do my best to suck it up, put on a normal face, and get back to my daily duties as always. I ache inside, tears stream out that I wipe away, and hope no one saw. I'm angry and I'd like an apology from the world I know will never come. I'm disgusted at those who haven't been there for me and those who've only served to make the devastation worse. 

It was Friday September 5th at 3:30 in the morning. My phone was plugged in on my nightstand and I got 2 back-to-back calls from Ryan's cell phone. The first call I was asleep and thought I was dreaming. When it rang again, it became clear it was late and there was probably a problem. I had no idea how hard my world was about to come crashing down. It was a friend of Ryan's who was at the hospital. I listened as his voice cracked and I could tell something was really wrong as he explained he was with Ryan at the hospital. Because he was not family they wouldn't tell him anything. Ryan had been brought in by ambulance vomiting up blood. I had to call the hospital and explain that I was his sister and all his family lived in different states and they were going to have to break policy and tell me what was going on over the phone. The male nurse was blunt and explained Ryan was in critical care on a ventilator and it didn't look good. He had upper GI bleeding and he was bleeding out faster than they could put it in. His blood pressure had crashed so they couldn't get him stable enough to go in to perform surgery. I will hear these words for the rest of my life, "I'm going to be honest with you, ma'am. It's not good and he could pass." I remember my arms and legs turning to ice. I couldn't feel my body. I had to call my mother but my fingers wouldn't work. How do I do this? How do I tell her what I just heard that not even I, myself, can comprehend? 

 

Mom and I began scrambling to make arrangements to get to L.A. Our cousin Wayne, who also lives in L.A., went to be with Ryan until we got there. Wayne kept us updated from the hospital and I could tell by Wayne's voice it wasn't good. He was being strong but I knew what he was trying to tell me. I knew I would never see Ryan alive again. I'm glad for shock. Our body sends us into shock to be able to deny everything going on around us for a reason. If it weren't for shock, I never would have been able to get on that plane. I desperately needed to get a sooner flight and my plan was to make a plea to the woman at the counter. Jason tried to explain for me that we had special circumstances and really needed an earlier flight. They weren't helpful and I was in no state to fight. I walked away and they called me back on the intercom. I approached her again and she said, "Now, explain what's going on again…." I didn't think, I just said, "My brother is dying and I need to get there now". As the words left my mouth, I felt my soul leave my body. She gave me that look of pity, I've gotten very accustomed to. All it means to me now is "I'm glad I'm not you." She bumped up my flight. Getting on that plane, I knew the news awaiting me once I touched down.

The flight to L.A. is a blur. There were loud women next to me laughing the whole time. They didn't notice me but I'll remember them forever. I wondered how many people have I passed that may have been feeling what I was feeling that I had no idea about. Did I casually walk by laughing and talking without a care in the world? Maybe I'm part of someone else's annoying blurred memories on the worst day of their life. My thoughts rambled and I kept thinking about Ryan laying there and wondering if he was still breathing. Wondering if my brother was gone and I was in the air so no one would tell me. Wondering if my life was already ruined and people were waiting to hit me with it once I was on the ground. I landed and started the journey straight to the hospital. I knew mom was already there. She hadn't called and I knew what her silence meant. I was about 10 minutes away when the call came in. It was over. He was gone. I remember a sound like an animal came out of me. It came out of my gut and I thought I was going to be sick. Then shock kicked back in.

I arrived at the hospital and Wayne met me out front. I was issued my bracelet and we went up to the CICU. We got off the elevator and took a right and there were double doors. I stopped in my tracks and had no intentions of going any further. Wayne went to get mom for me and I paced in the hallway until she got there. I saw my mom and fell into her arms like I was a child. My mother is strong but she was in shock and I knew she wasn't fully present either. She asked if I wanted to see him and I said no. I chose not to remember him that way. I know what he looks like. I didn't want that image burned into my memory forever. Mom had to go back into the room and I slid down the wall and laid in the floor of the hospital corridor letting everything fall out. People passed and looked at me and looked away quickly so as to not feel guilty for observing the worse moment of my life. Immediately there were people in my face and they just sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher -- "WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH". It felt like a person in particular was overstepping their bounds and talking to me about my brother as though I didn't know him. It was far too soon to be such an outlandish presence. All I could think was "Who the hell are you?" Nothing was real and my fog was dense. I wanted to be left there on that floor. You think about sick things. I didn't want to see him but I wanted to go grab him and leave with him screaming that they've made a mistake. If I don't accept it, it isn't true. I felt that if he heard my voice, he'd wake up. If he just heard how much I couldn't live without him, he'd rally. Something would change. He'd never do this to me. He'd never leave me to fight this world without him. I wanted to crawl into that bed and die with him.

I stood as low talking went on and went in whatever direction I was ushered. I clung to my mom as we left the hospital. There was nothing more to be done here. We went directly to Wayne's house where mom and I sat on the couch staring into space like zombies. There was no life in us, it had just been stolen. Everything we've ever known had been altered. Ryan had just been ripped from us without fair warning. We went to bed and slept maybe 2 hours. We would wake up intermittently to talk, cry, and argue. The next few days are a haze. We had to go to Ryan's apartment the next day to go through his things. His room smelled like him. I touched things as though I was touching him. His shirts, his shoes, his sunglasses still not he nightstand. On the nightstand was imodium. I thought, "Really, Ryan?" I knew things weren't there but nothing was registering. Mom, in usual form, cleaned his kitchen -- that's her way and how she coped. She hadn't processed anything yet. She wiped the counter and his hair was in her hands. I know she probably wanted to shove it in her pocket. You want to keep everything. Every little shred of them that's left. His guitars had his fingerprints on them, (still do). We picked out what he was to be buried in. I made that call. His burgundy Gucci shirt, slacks, and his favorite pair of ugly boots. We packed what we could carry and what could be shipped and went on to the hopsital. We had to get our little wrist bands put on as we did the night before. I don't really remember doing it that first night. We had to discuss transporting him to Arkansas and the details are just revolting. It's like talking about luggage or freight. They refer to him as "the body" without the slightest bit of guilt. Mom signed papers and handled it, I don't know how. I stared into the hall and wondered if he ever knew he'd been there. I hope he didn't know a damn thing.

We made all the arrangements we could locally and went home to wait and sit in our newfound hell. It would take a week and half to get Ryan home. The funeral commenced and faces upon faces would pass, say kind words, and hug us. I was outside my body. I was somewhere else at whatever party even Ryan himself would rather be attending. I sat as Ryan's videos played and as both sides of my family awkwardly tried to be in the same room for the first time in an eternity. I sat between my parents for the first time since I was a baby. They never spoke a word to one another. I watched my dad look like a wounded little boy with shaky hands. I watched my husband, son, and cousins carry Ryan to his final resting place. I held my son as he sobbed and got his first taste of life's ultimate cruelty. I kissed Ryan's casket and told him I loved him. I had to walk off my family's farm and had leave him there. There is no eloquent ending to this. Me walking away was by no means the end of my hell. The hard part had just begun and every day it gets harder, not better. My mom and I feel as though we should be quarantined by ourselves to wallow around in our misery without judgment or advice. We died, too. I would like to reserve the right to bow out for a while. To not participate in things for a while. If there's such a place where I could do that, I'd love to hear about it. We tread water as the world asks, "Are you over it yet?" The answer is no. Not even close. Everyone else begins to avoid you because as my mom says, they think "Here she comes again with her sad face". Our sadness is to the bone and shows no signs of easing.