first sammi installment

Rain streamed down the windows and flung itself away as the ill-fated car tore through the streets. Black velvet sky wrapped around white picket fenced houses where young children were safely tucked away in bed – all except for one. The celestial lights had vacated the heavens, leaving only two headlights flailing in space, yearning for a resting place – for peace. Lightening sliced through the darkness and with that single crack of thunder a whole world fell to pieces.

She screamed from the backseat, with piercing wisdom and grief – like somehow she already knew her father had made one of the biggest mistakes of his life, like she knew this man who was single-handedly supposed to be watching out for her was incapable of looking out for himself. Tears filled her big, brown eyes as she looked to her only parent for comfort. Her father’s unsteady hands loosely held the wheel as he turned around to face her – one last penetrating look before both lives lost all recognition of their past.

The car swerved. The tires hit the curb. The sky swirled around them; and with a breath of hesitation, it crashed into the ground.

That was the night that changed everything; choices were made by two people, tearing the fabric of an existence I thought was mine, and sending a little girl on the most bittersweet ride she would ever know. True it was only for a year – but in one moment we both saw fallibility in those we once found flawless. And in one moment we were tragically linked by the very heartstrings we felt tearing away.

This is a story that spans three generations; it tests the strength of family and the very quality that courses through our veins. It is also a story of discovery and hope, and of finding out what truly matters and holding onto it for dear life.
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From: Kathy Grinold
To: tbina7@hotmail.com
Subject: Deb
Date: Fri, 25 Apr 2003 13:33:41

Hi Tiner,

I’m very sorry to have to tell you like this, but Deb died yesterday (the 24th) at 6:15pm. She finally got to Columbia/Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan on Tuesday, but she just kept going downhill. Wednesday night Kevin drove home to get a change of clothes and to sleep in a bed for a change, and got a call Thursday morning that she was deteriorating. He drove back down, but by the time he got there she was on life support, but there was no brain activity. So he had her removed from the machines and she died yesterday evening.

One of the last things she said to me was to tell you not to worry about not being here and to enjoy the rest of your trip. I know that will be difficult for you now, but that’s really all you can do. Of course, the prayers are still helpful, that she find her way in the next world, and feel loved and comforted… and you can do that from wherever you are.

Kevin is doing as well as can be expected, in fact is experiencing some sense of relief. She is no longer struggling and in pain. The ordeal really took a toll on him. Sammi doesn’t really understand much. I don’t know exactly what he has told her. I spent time with her yesterday afternoon and she didn’t know what was going on. We left it to Kevin to explain.

I’m sending you a big, big hug and can’t wait to see you to do it in person. We love you Tiner. Keep smiling and keep sending your best thoughts!

Love and hugs,
Mama
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There I was, on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – having just finished an Acting final where I’d played Krishna from the Mahabharata – reading and rereading that letter from my mother. I stopped seeing the words; they were just a blur. And I couldn’t find any air in my lungs. There I was, on a trip circumnavigating the globe, gallivanting around, while my aunt had lain dying in a hospital. And my baby cousin had been robbed of her mother at age five.

Have you ever seen a cat run full speed into a glass door? Well, that’s how I felt. All I wanted from the world in that moment was to be there. But I couldn’t. Running out onto the deck, I gasped at the sea air, chest heaving, and I slammed myself into the railing that held me prisoner.

Suddenly my body weight was too heavy and, slipping to the deck, my tears burned my flesh before adding themselves shamelessly to the ocean below.
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In memoriam ~
As I sit here to write this, it should be about 9pm on April 26th back at home. For me, it’s lunchtime and we are currently sailing through Alaskan waters. I can see the gorgeous volcanic mountain range of the Aleutian Islands from my porthole as we steadily approach our 2nd to last port of call. Technically I’m in the US. So, technically, I’ve sailed around the world. The pressures are already beginning: to put a name on my feelings, to label my experiences, to pick a favorite place. But how can I begin to do those things when I’m currently struggling to find a place for myself in this world I’ve just been traveling through?

Today I’m discovering the impossibility of that task; today when I consider the importance of Mother.

Since I left in January, there have been so many changes. Changes in myself, the global community, and the lives of the people I love and hold closest to my heart. This ship is a bubble-world, a little microcosm of home. The SS Universe has been our Great White Mother to whom we run when things get tough or when we just need to curl up in a ball and hide from reality. She’s also provided blissful separation for us, her passengers and children. But while I’ve been becoming acquainted with Mother Earth and her various places and peoples, my own motherland has been forever altered.

In the absence from my former life, a war has begun, a deadly virus has been loosed on the world, and my aunt has passed away. Each of these things have affected me in ways that could never be expected or fully explained. I’m ten days away from being home. Being that close, but not being there during this time when I should be with my family … the helplessness is overwhelming. Last night while standing on deck, with dawn approaching, looking out at the ocean and off into eternity I thought, “If I could jump ship and swim to shore, I’d do it in an instant, just to be there.” Something my mother said to me in her email – the email – resonated in my mind, “One of the last things she said to me was to tell you not to worry about not being here and to enjoy the rest of your trip. I know that will be difficult for you now, but that’s really all you can do.” My mother, my mama, the one who is sending me a big, big hug and can’t wait to do it in person. I can’t imagine not having that. But Sammi won’t. My baby cousin has just lost her Mother.

Debbi would always call the house and say, “Hey, it’s your favorite aunt!” and then would proceed to give me a hard time about any and everything she could. Our sarcastic interchanges were code for how much we cared for each other and enjoyed each other’s company. After Sam was born and as I grew older, I began to feel like Deb was more of a friend than an aunt. She would sometimes break down to me and say, “I’m so tired of being sick.” She wanted so badly to be healthy and able to do all the things she wanted to do. I found myself trying to find the words to comfort her, the same words that just don’t seem to matter now.

When I was ready to leave for Semester at Sea, she started to cry and told me she didn’t like that I would be out in the ocean somewhere on the other side of the globe instead of a couple hours north in New Hampshire. Was she trying to tell me her time was running out? Was she trying to say goodbye? Last night, when I got the news of her death, did she make me hold off on checking my email until after my final performance was over? Was she trying to protect me until I would be able to take the time to grieve? I think so. Deb was always so fascinated with the existence of angels and I believe she is now among them.

Though I know her suffering has finally ended, I still feel powerless. What can I do? I’m a bird in a cage, wanting to break free. I’m a missing puzzle piece wanting so much to finish the pattern that is my family. I’m constantly sending my love, my prayers, my meditations – I can only hope that is enough, because it is really all I can do. I can’t be there to hug my uncle and look into his eyes, because the words I’d be searching for just wouldn’t suffice. I can’t be there to hold my little munchkin; I can’t take her outside to blow bubbles and watch them float into the wind … an attempt to ease her pain, her confusion, her blissful naivety. I won’t be there to see Deb’s face one last time. I won’t be able to throw a blossom symbolizing my love into the grave, to say goodbye and to begin the healing process along with everyone else. These are the things I’d hoped for when the emails, the sickeningly impersonal emails that have been the only thing connecting me to these events, started looking bad.

How selfish I’ve been in wanting to travel, move around, spend a few years here and a few years there – all of the things that take me away from the people I love. Am I really as independent as I thought? Am I really capable of moving that far away from home again, for that long? Do I want to remove myself from the lives and happenings of my motherland? Can I deal with this feeling again, the feeling of seemingly not caring enough to be there, or of letting my loved ones down in some way?

I suppose, through it all, various forms of Mother will always be there; whether in biological, figurative, associative, or even angelic form. Mother is not a thing that can die. It’s more than just a person. It’s the purest form of love and support. Although the home I’m returning to in ten days can never be the same place I left 3 months ago, the universal Mother-spirit will remain the same. I will get my big, big hug from my mom. And someday when Sammi wants that same big, big hug from her mother, I hope I can be there to tell her that’s it’s always there in some form. You just need to ask. Mother can never leave you.

RIP Debrah O’Briant ~Peace and Love Forever.
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My dad read this aloud at the funeral. I wanted some representation of me there even if it was physically impossible at the time. At a later family gathering, I griped to one of my cousins, as a whiny child impersonating a broken record, “I wish I could have been there.” He looked me square in the face for one of the longer moments I’ve sat through and said, “Tina, you were more there than any of us.”