"...it's a bright white light that blinds people's vision,
and runs over them, scratching, clawing, with ragged nails...
and if I screamed, it would be a primal sound,
a ripping from my soul
of echos and tears and...relief?..."
Excerpt from a poem I wrote in college, when our friend Stacy passed (non-Hodgkins lymphoma). Interesting how I put into words something then, that I didn't even really experience until almost-4 years ago...until you experience a truly "close" death, everything else is a fake.
I want to play Linkin Park's Catalyst on my iPod until my ears bleed. Instead I let it shuffle and attempt to concentrate on work. My heart has a fragile crust. The breeze on my face at lunchtime moved me to tears. I'm thinking of blowing off the Y, only because in my current emotional state, I'm liable to seriously overdo it, which is not something I want to do to myself. There's a new yoga DVD at home that needs my attention instead, and I'm thinking about buying the latest issue of Tricycle and meditating tonight.
It was a pulmonary embolism. The randomness of that diagnosis doesn't quite satisfy my tangibility craving. I want to attend the memorial, but I'm really not sure how I'll do. If I do go, I'll take my own car and stay near the back, where I can escape easily. It could be a small mob scene; her students had a dedication page up on Facebook within hours of hearing. She was loved.