Untypically in Love: Clean Slate

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

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Chapter Twenty-Three
Clean Slate

I was ready to start everything over. A new year, a new life.

After a lot of prayer, and encouragement from my mother through a dream one night, I was certain - I was going to be baptised. Most of my friends were not pleased, but our paths had been separating for a while now. Priorities had changed, and other people were influencing lives. I hadn't spoken to Megaera for what felt like months. My family didn't seem to care much one way or another about my new religion, aside from my older sister of course. This decision was my own. This new life was going to be lived by only me after all.

A lot of people from the ward came. Mostly people I knew, but others had come to welcome me. Despite making several friends in the Church, I wasn't close with many of the girls. I was close to Matt, so in turn, I knew the boys better. The boys in fact had planned to take us out following my baptism. Toilet papering houses - a right of passage for any Mormon youth. It wasn't only allowed, but encouraged by most of the adults, so long as no real damage was inflicted by the use of eggs or paint. It was just toilet paper after all.

I immediately asked my fellow Church goers to avoid my house. My family would not be so amused.

I rushed home from work, having picked up a part time job at a local Chinese restaurant. The place was busier than ever, being a Friday, but I had informed my manager than I could only stay until five o'clock because I had somewhere else to be that was more important. They agreed and let me go home early. I ran the whole way back to my house where I showered and dug through my closet looking for something appropriate to wear.

I still lacked a lot of church clothes. Three long flower printed skirts and two dresses, one of which was long and black and had only been worn once, at my Grandmothers funeral. I snagged one of the skirts from the hanger, nearly breaking it in the process, leaving a wrecking yard behind me as I struggled to prepare as quickly as possible.

I had wanted to curl my hair, but was told it would be pointless seeing that it was going to get wet. To prepare for this night, one of the girls from my seminary class taught me how to french braid my own hair.

"You're still coming right?" I asked Kristine as I packed a hair brush and an extra hair tie in my purse, just in case.

"Yeah, we'll be there at seven." She agreed just as the car horn from Matt's parents van honked from the driveway.

When we arrived at the Church I had a few meetings left. Missionaries and leaders spoke with me to make sure I was indeed ready for the decision I had made. I knew I was ready. I had been ready for months. It took the death of a loved one to remind me the importance of how what we do on earth really matters.

As I walked past the closed doors in the cultural hall, I could hear the music playing. I was lead to the bathroom to change into a baptismal outfit. I looked down at my white clothes and immediately began to panic. I was reminded of the summer parties at Megaera's house where the boys would splash us from the pool in hopes of starting a wet t-shirt contest. I double checked the fabric, holding it up to the light as I tried to see how see-through the material was. Matt's mother assured me that I would be fine.

A door opened and I was lead down into the water, which thankfully was luke warm despite it being January. I turned my head and looked out to the large group of friends, family, and strangers that had gathered to welcome me into the fold. My nerves were getting the best of me. I couldn't stop wondering what they were thinking. Did they even really want me there? Had they come because it was just expected?

And then I saw Matt, sitting in the front row beside his family. My family.

And he smiled at me.

A prayer was spoken, and I took a deep breath. The bishop tipped me back and I slipped beneath the water. I wanted to remember this moment. I wanted to concentrate. I wanted to feel my new clean slate. I wanted to literally, physically feel the sins wash away from me as I was granted a fresh start at life.

I was lifted back up out of the water and I smiled joyfully. That is, until my foot slipped and I fell back into the baptismal font with a large splash. We later joked that God said, "You know what? Let's dunk her twice, just to be sure."

The following Sunday I stood in front of the whole congregation as the Bishop introduced me as the newest member of the ward.

"All those who can welcome Jia," He said with a smile. "Please do so with the uplifted hand."

And every hand rose.

I was a part of something.

After a typical Sunday Church service followed by a typical Sunday dinner with Matt's family, I returned home, happier than I had been since before my Grandmother died over two months earlier. The days that followed were just as happy. I was getting along with my family. I was doing well in Church and school. And I was looking forward to the Winter Ball just two weeks away. Kristine was a freshman at my high school now, and we'd both planned to go shopping the following afternoon when we got out of school.

And then I thought about Megaera. Megaera who had been my best friend for a whole year before all these changes in our lives took place. I knew she would be going to the Winter Ball as well, and a part of me wanted to call her and see if she wanted to go shopping with Kristine and I. But it was late. Too late to call.

When I woke the following morning to get ready for early morning seminary, I went about things as normal. I picked out my clothes, I shoved my homework into my backpack, and I turned on the television as I sat on my bed and braided my hair.

Something on the screen caught my attention.

" . . . . the names of the victims have not been released."

I turned the volume up as a familiar vision appeared on the news. An area of town I knew very well. On the screen footage was shown of a car wreck. Comments like 'suspected of being under the influence', and words such as 'alcohol,' and 'drugs' were thrown around.

" . . . . crossed the intersection and drove head on into the car, killing a fifteen year old Rio Rancho High School student . . ."

No names were given. No clues to the identity of a girl my age, killed the night before.

>>> Chapter Twenty-Four

HUGE

It's been a while since I've blogged about weight loss. Mostly because I haven't had any. I went through the Flab to Fab 8 week competition, and I came out FAB on the other end of it . . . plus two extra pounds of Jia-goodness.

Being over weight half of my life, I've never had good self esteem. During my teen years I honestly think the only time I ever felt good about myself was when I had a brand new boyfriend, and sometimes even then I felt terrible. I was never the pretty girl - or at least I thought. I always had skinnier friends than me, so I assumed I was obese and ugly . . . and those feelings made me think that the two were mutually exclusive. You could not be fat and pretty. It didn't work like that.

I've grown since then and thankfully I believe the media is trying to help. There are very beautiful big boned actresses out there, but with all the weight loss shows (and believe me, I'm an addict too), people aren't understanding that it shouldn't be about weight and image. It should be about health. 

I know people who are bigger than me and rock sexy like no ones business! They can pull a pin up pose faster than Tyra Banks, and look better doing it! They love themselves.

I know people who are bigger than me and they are healthy. Genetics do play an important part.

I know people who are skinnier than me, and hate their bodies.

I know people who are skinnier than me, and they have serious health problems.

It's not about weight. It's about health.

And that includes a healthy self esteem.

TV isn't good about that.

So there's this new show on ABC Family called "Huge". It stars Nikki Blonsky from Hairspray fame and is about overweight kids at a fat camp. I'll admit, I never went to fat camp. Mostly because looking back now, I wasn't overweight. I was curvy and voluptuous, but because the rest of my circle of friends weren't, I assumed I was filled with lard.

The show immediately dives into the stigmas of both being over weight, and losing the weight. Campers begin their summer by posing for a before shot in bathing suits. In protest, our main character does a strip tease as she removes her clothing.

My favourite line of the show is when the campers go to their cabins and begin unloading their suitcases. Their counselor does the typical, "Give me anything that you have that's edible." And goes through the list. Candy, food, gum, etc.

Counselor: What's that?
Amber: A toothpick.
Counselor: Is it flavored?
Will: It's wood. It's wood flavored.
Counselor: Oh, well I guess that's alright.

One thing I immediately loved about the show was that it showed that all fat is not created equal. Even when you separate the overweight from the rest of society, cliques are created, the pyramid of popular is reassembled, and still, the skinny (even among the big) comes out on top.

It breaks my heart though. One of the characters, known as the skinniest girl at camp (who is so beautiful and doesn't need to lose weight), says she has been dieting since she was ten. I have a lot of hope for this show. It seems to be in the middle. Not anti-overweight, but still pro health. In the first episode alone it's showing the problems surrounding teenagers and weight. It's not about health for them. Ever. It's always about image. And 90% of those images are wrong!

Much like the fat camp cinema of old, there is food being snuck in, and like a drug deal, cash is exchanged for goods making a slight mockery of sugar addiction, but at the same time, subtly revealing the lengths a person will go to to sate said addiction.

One of the campers mentions something that did hit home. He talks about how he always knew that he was fat, but there was this kid at his school that was known for being the fat kid, and he always said, "At least I'm not him." Until one day, they stood in front of the mirror at the same time and he realised that he's not just as fat as the other kid, but he might be even bigger. I'm ashamed to admit that I've done this. I've walked the mall and said, "Well at least I don't look like her." Only to wonder if I really do. I think Biggest Loser really helped open my eyes to that. Seeing people up on that scale, showing their weight and their nearly bare bodies. I'd say, "At least I don't look like her," until her weight comes up and she weighs less than I do.

Do I look like that? It makes you think.

So the show is tackling important issues like health, self image, and even going so far as to touch on eating disorders. I think it has potential. But here are my concerns. 'Secret Life of the American Teenager' had potential. 'Secret Life' is an ABC show about a girl who gets pregnant. The show began talking about sex and teenagers and each episode ended with the cast talking about abstinence, protection and talking about sex with parents. But now? The show is just another teen drama. Nearly all of the characters (even the formerly abstinent onces) have had sex, are having sex, or are promoting sex. There has been not one, but at least three pregnancies in the show, and issues are no longer being tackled. Ratings must be down so they seem to be upping the drama. The point of the show has been completely lost.

I hope 'Huge' doesn't follow in those same steps.

So on a not so completely unrelated note . . . I'm wondering if I should start blogging about my own individual weight loss / health finding / self esteem building . . . . journey . . . thing. Should I blog it here, or do y'all think I should start a new blog specific for it?

Let me know in the comments please.

I'm a Social Whore

The last few weeks I've taken up a new horrible hobby. Blog Hops. They're these awesome things where you go to a few blogs once a week and link up. Then you click as many links as you can and boost up the ego of other bloggers. Cause really, what blogger doesn't want their egos boosted?

(Note: The word "egos" totally makes me think of Eggo Waffles, and now I'm totally hungry)

Anyways, Blog Hops have become a terrible addiction for me. Online social parties where you whore yourself out in exchange for affection. It's the online equivalent to one of those druggie sex parties (I'm told) except instead of getting an STD, I'm making true and lifelong friends! Yay!

So for these Blog Hop visitors, new followers and fellow ego whores . . . welcome!

I'll take this time to introduce myself.

I'm Untypically Jia, and I'm so lazy that I'll probably just copy this whole intro message for when I make this same post for all the blog hoppers next week. Here are a few tid bits that you should know about me:

• I'm a Red Head!
• I Pledge to Never Drink and Drive
• I am often Bare Foot
• I Name All my Appliances
• I'm Often Totally Offensive

Now I know this post isn't as interesting for the rest of you readers who aren't newbies, but don't worry, each week I'll include something for you as well. Like this...

Oh Yeah, Baby . . . 

(This picture brought to you by Baby Oil)

You're Welcome.

Here are the Blog Hops that I'm participating in this week:

Tuesday Tag a Long, Follow Me Back Tuesday, Trailing Tuesdays, Twitter Hop Tuesday, Friday-Follow, New Friend Fridays, Blog Hope Friday, Social Parade, Friendly Friday, Friendly Friday Follow, and Follow Back Friday

There Can Be Only One

Matt related a conversation he had the other day with a co-worker...


Matt: So what kind of car do you drive?

Co-Worker: A Highlander.

Matt: Is it the only one?

Co-Worker:  . . . . What?

Matt: Cause you know there can be only one.

Co-Worker: I don't understand.

Matt: That's okay, I was born in the 80's and apparently you've completely forgotten them.

There's No Anxiety in Neverland

When you're fighting depression and anxiety related illness, everyday can change in the blink of an eye. You can go to bed one night, thinking happy thoughts, and wake up the next morning, terrified for your feet to touch the ground.

I've begun to notice that with my particular brand of anxiety and depression, it's like this perpetual teenage land that you just cannot escape. You've very obviously lost the ability to run and play as a child would, imagine the things a child could, and believe in things only a child can believe in. But you are not yet an adult. Everyday moments in adult life are a struggle. Keeping house, holding a job, paying bills and planning for a future.

Children are not supposed to feel anxiety.

Adults are supposed to know how to overcome it.

As a child your worries are most often very limited. Your food is provided for, your shelter, your plans. You know that every day you go to school. Everyday you will eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, and it will magically appear in front of you. The house is always kept as though fairies come out while you're gone and pick up everything you've left behind. You have little worry about health, because you, in a natural state, rarely feel pain. And when you do, there is always someone who, with a kiss, can make it go away. There is always somewhere to go to hide from the nightmares, and when you are alone, you're never really alone because there are worlds upon worlds of creatures to play with and lands to explore, usually all within the confines of your backyard.

As an adult your worries are most often very limited. Your food is provided for, your shelter your plans. You provide it. You know that every day you go to work. Everyday you will eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, and it will appear in front of you, as long as you're the one putting it there. The house is always kept as long as you pick up anything you leave behind. You have little worry about health, because you have insurance, despite the pain of aging. And when you are in pain, there is always someone who, with a pill, can make it go away. There is no need to hide from nightmares, you are too busy. And when you are alone, you're never really alone because you have too many creatures to take care of, and lands to clean up after, usually all within the confines of your living room.

But the perpetual teenager struggles. We're not often taught how to handle the transition from Neverland to the future. We fear the responsibility, and often, in attempting to cling to the happiness of childhood, we make mistakes that follow us as we grow. We're stuck in a world where magic no longer exists, and responsibility has yet to properly develop.

This is what depression feels like to me sometimes.

I long for the day when the struggle to grow up will not be so difficult . . .
But I miss the fairies.

 There's No Anxiety in Neverland

(June 2010 - Jessica "Untypically Jia" Woodruff)

Halfway up a hill I go

Middle ground is empty, low

Who was the child I used to be?

Where is the woman that I should see?

Sinking deep into the land

Between a future and Neverland

Looking back on happy smiles

And tears were shed overcoming trials

Who am I now to become?

Can I move or fall, succumb?

Growing up, I bear the brand

Between a future and Neverland

Long ago I was a child

Unkempt hair, running wild

Dirty bare feet, picking raspberries

When did I stop believing in fairies?

Wish I could find a place to stand

Between a future and Neverland

How I'd love to sit and pick flowers

Play with mermaids, fight pirates for hours

Half of my soul wants to jump, run and play

The other half just wants the bills to get paid

Expectations are hard to withstand

Between a future and Neverland

To This, I Pledge

The Department of Transportation has asked American bloggers to spotlight the critical importance of staying sober behind the wheel this Independence Day. You all know how important this subject is to me.

Stay Sober. Stay Alive.

Our Freedom was not fought for so we can break the law.

I Can Do That!

Does anyone else have "I Can Do That" syndrome?


I do.

"I Can Do That" syndrome, is when you look at someone else doing something and think that without any of the training that they've obviously had, you can easily do it too, perhaps even better than they are. This becomes very difficult when finding activities to entertain ourselves, like you know . . . watching tv.

In the past, my "I Can Do That" symptoms have included:

• Being a Professional Organizer
• Selling Anything
• Being a Cartoonist
• Losing Weight
• Running a Book Club
• Having a Perfectly Clean House
• Waking Up Early

One of our friends has "I Can Do That" syndrome, but he actually goes out and attempts to do these things with a pretty decent amount of effort. In the last few years he has attempted film making, acting, been certified as a stunt man, been a Wrestler and now he's doing stand up comedy.

It's completely contagious and attending any of his events if like licking someone who has the flu.

I think ICDT syndrome is one of the reasons my blog has never been able to find a niche.

I need to find something I'm actually good at and turn my ICDT syndrome into a "I Probably Shouldn't Do That, Because It'll Cost Money, and I Totally Lack the Attention Span to Properly Learn and Execute This" - syndrome.

What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, 

"I Can Do That" to?

PS: This random thought has been brought to you by Untypically Jia and Pepsi - which is currently missing from the house. So don't forget to drink your Pepsi, kids, cause if you don't, it obviously causes a complete brain collapse.

When Do the Rest of Us Get Our Own Kindly Asian Man?

I'm going to tell you a secret.

I hate going to the movies. It might have something to do with the fact that I'm cheap I prefer to spend my time watching Extreme Makeover Home Edition learning things that will be beneficial to my life and like feeding the homeless and stuff. Either way, it's a rare situation where I enjoy going to the movie theatre instead of being dragged kicking and screaming wondering why it's necessary to see Spider-Man at a midnight showing. Isn't Spider-Man going to be there in the morning?

I digress.

On occasion, I will look over to my sweet husband and say the words, "Let's catch a movie." At which point half of his brain prepares for whatever new chick flick has inspired me to dish out the thousands of dollars it takes to buy tickets and a third of a bucket of popcorn. The other half of his brain is wondering if I've had some sort of stroke and he might be able to convince me to watch whatever new zombiesuperherocomicbookandoralien movie was released most recently.

A few months ago I saw a trailer



And I remember saying something like, "Will Smith's kid in a Jackie Chan movie. Stupid." Cause if I'm anything, it's open minded.

And then the words "The Karate Kid" flashed on the screen and the 80's child within me started screaming

with glee remembering a time when I once had enough balance to do a cartwheel and that would certainly qualify me to learn karate.

It didn't take long to talk Matt into going.

Can I just say that, for me, the movie was beyond awesome. I loved it. Jaden Smith is actually a really amazing actor. Like remember when Dakota Fanning was little and everyone ooed and awed over her? It's kinda like that. Only without a strange teen rebellion involving lesbian make out sessions with Bella from Twilight. So far.

Jaden Smith has such similar mannerisms to his Dad that when you watch the movie, you're thinking, "This is just like watching Will Smith except I'm not secretly wondering if there's a nude scene later on." It's very freeing.

Another secret? I like the new Karate Kid more than the old ones. Why? Because this one seems a little more realistic. The kid actually trained and learned kung fu for the movie.

I remember being a kid and watching the original and thinking to myself that Ralph Macchio always looked like he was constipated when he was fighting. And he whined and complained in every single movie. He learned karate, nothing else. All after school special moments in the original movies were forgotten by the sequels and the stupid kid was off doing something else which would somehow endanger himself, his girlfriend, his family or his teacher . . . and would certainly bring great dishonor to his family.


This movie. Totally worth the 4 tons of gold we had to fork over in order to buy our tickets.

I only had two problems with the entire movie.

1. During the credits they played this really cute song that was so catchy and I was singing it myself until I found out that it was sung by Justin Bieber. Okay, I'm still singing it. But mark my words, this kid will be dressing like a whore just like Hannah Montana soon enough.

2. Like all movies of this nature, I left the theatre wondering where in my life I had missed my opportunity to have a kindly asian maintenance man teach me self discipline and how "not" to fight. If I had some old guy to teach me kung fu, I would now be able to climb the stairs without collapsing into a puddle of sweat at the top. I'd also probably be doing laundry or something else that I'm totally procrastinating. Cause kung fu teaches you self discipline and how not to be totally lazy.

Thanks a lot Jackie Chan. You're setting a whole new generation up to be disappointed when they find out that their maintenance men are old, fat white guys.

Challenge Accepted!

A gauntlet was thrown the other day.

Several of my readers made the suggestion that my dear husband, Matt, do a guest post or a guest vlog here.

The challenge was accepted.

But the terms? Undecided.

Me: So what're you going to blog or vlog about?

Matt: Monkey can't dance until you tell Monkey what to dance about.

Translation?

You decide. So throw out your wild, stupid, and possibly insulting ideas as to what this occasionally offensive (albeit sexy) man is going to rant and rave about, or even do on camera.

Matt's only requirement is that he can't do anything that would get him in trouble with his mother - who reads this blog.

So leave your suggestions in the comments below, y'all.

Those Who Didn't Have to Be

*Originally Posted June 2009

Today is a holiday which means every blog on the block is posting about Fathers Day. With someone who didn't have much in the way of male role-models growing up, Father's Day is a little confusing. I've never really celebrated it much to be honest.

My Dad and I don't have the closest relationship. In fact, we haven't spoken in years. Who knows if that will change.

In the meantime . . .


I have other father figures in my life today.

This is my uncle, and when I was ten years old, he was the only father I had. Separated from his own children from a previous marriage, it was certainly not his decision or plan to have his wife's orphaned niece move into the bedroom that should have belonged to his daughter.

To say that we didn't get a long when I was young, would be quite an understatement. I had been let down by men, so I refused to reach out. There were moments in time that I remember very vividly though. Spending school nights on the couch watching Wrestling every Monday and Thursday, cheering beside him and feeling like "one of the boys".

We get along very well now, and he's become an inspiration to me having turned his health around recently, losing plenty of weight and taking charge of his life.

As a teenager I had very little in the way of fathers. I didn't have the blessing that many other Mormon kids had: priesthood. So when Andy came home fresh of a mission, he was who I sought out for advice, spiritual guidance and blessings.

Andy is Matt's brother, but filled a role in my life that should have belonged to a Dad. Andy also has children, and has showed by example how a father leads his family, treats his wife, and loves his children.

Even during the times when we were teenagers and Matt and I would break-up (for a few weeks), Dad never turned me away. I was never his 'son's girlfriend'. I was 'daughter' nearly from day one. Shared laughter, father's blessings, and the often occasional borrowed $20 for a tank of gas was done through him. He showed me hard work. He showed me how to sleep in church and make it look like praying (LOL), and certainly how to poke fun at myself.


Then there's this man  . . .

The man who let my four year old niece dance on his feet at our wedding.

The man who can have a tickle fight with a 2 year old that lasts over an hour.

The man who can talk to a 3 year old on the phone for more than 20 minutes without getting bored.

The man who sneaks candy, soda, and everything else that parents don't allow.

The man who buys noise making toys, because to kids, those are the best kind.

The man who will one day be called "Daddy" in our house.

The father of my future children.

Happy Father's Day to You All!

June 19th, 1986

June 19th, 1986 was supposed to be a good day.

Lisa Crew had a hair appointment with her sister and afterward she was going to take her two year old daughter over to a friends house to have dinner. Perhaps later into the night they'd all go out to the local amusement park and spend the night riding the rides and eating bad park food.

The youngest of eight children, Lisa had turned twenty-one the year before but had already been living the life of an adult for several years. When she was eighteen years old, Lisa and her high school sweetheart found themselves with a surprise baby on the way. Born a month premature in the spring of eighty-four, the newlyweds did their best to create a family. But sometimes the happily ever after doesn't come out right the first time. By the time their baby was two years old, the couple were divorced.

Lisa wasn't going to let anything stand in her way though. She was already in college studying to become a elementary school teacher. She was a young single mother. She was unstoppable.

Always positive, Lisa had the energy of a ten year old. 4'11 and weighing no more than 110 pounds, she was working on becoming a female body builder. Stories of the events in her life would be passed on for years to come. The time she broke into her ex-boyfriends house by sneaking through his cat door. She once took on an abusive boyfriend of her sisters. He - being over six feet tall and weighing over 200 lbs - was arrested in her stead. The cops didn't believe that a feisty little redhead under five feet tall had beat him senseless.

June 19th, 1986

After leaving their home, Lisa and her daughter headed out in their tiny red car. Doug Smith - a drug addict - was driving at the same time, under an extreme amount of alcohol and cocaine in his system. When the cars collided, Lisa's daughter was tossed from her car seat under the dashboard where both of the two year old's legs and pelvic bone were broken. Lisa - crushed by the weight of the steering wheel - reached across the dashboard to shield her daughters eyes from falling glass.

No one knew whether Lisa died in the car, the helicopter that lifted her into the sky, or at the hospital where she was rushed into the emergency room. All they knew was that June 19th, 1986 a family lost a daughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt. A man lost the love of his life and any chance at reconciliation. Friends lost a light in the darkness.

 And a two year old little girl was left without her mother.

The world was now less perfect. 

Lisa's friends and family were called one at a time and given news that would change their lives, test their faith and ultimately they were left in a state of shock and horrific confusion.

Lisa's ex-husband had been called at a friends house and given the message second hand, "Your wife is dead and your baby's in the hospital."

Lisa's funeral was held days later, and her two year old little girl wasn't even able to attend. Strapped into a body cast after surgeries to mend her shattered body, all she knew was that her Mom wasn't there anymore.

 Doug Smith was charged with vehicular homicide, driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs, intent to use and possession of drugs and drug paraphernalia.

A murderer was sentenced to only five years in prison.

When released in 1991, Doug Smith was arrested again for vehicular homicide, this time killing an entire family. After receiving another mild sentence for his crimes, he took his own life in prison.

No remorse for the lives he had taken, or for the mother he had stolen from a child.

I know all of this, because my mother - Lisa Margaret Sanders Crew - was murdered June 19th, 1986 by a drunk and drugged driver. And twenty five years later, so many people still don't seem to care. They drink, they use drugs, and then they drive. A large percentage of the ones who do get caught, ultimately get away with it.

Former Miss America, Jennifer Berry said, "The fact remains that drunk driving is 100 percent preventable, yet it continues as a plague of human behavior that we as a society continue to tolerate."

I've outlived my mother by five years, as I recently turned 26. Every year the week of June 19th, I honor my mother. I give myself a moment to cry, to be angry. All other days I remember, and I am thankful that my life was spared.

Pains in my body still plague me from my once broken bones. Other health problems caused by the collision continue to rise as the years move on, though the emotional scars are more apparent. And though I was raised by a wonderful Grandmother, and loving aunts, nothing replaces a Mother in a child's life.

Nothing.

Don't drink and drive.

I've been asked in previous years to pass on this message on a larger scale. Please take a moment to spread the message with me. Feel free to take a button below and post it on your blog or website, pass along the story (and link back here) and sign your name to pledge not to drink and drive!

<a href="http://www.untypicallyjia.com/p/you-could-save-life.html"> <center><img src="http://i44.photobucket.com/albums/f32/untypicallyjia/Family/mom2-2.jpg"/></center></a>

Please Pledge to Never Drive Under the Influence

----------

Dear Readers: I get emails and comments often about my mother and your words are so kind and loving. And while your words mean the world to me, they would mean more if they continued beyond my corner of the world. Please spread the message. Add this link to Facebook, blog about it, post the button on your sidebars and tweet the following message:

"Please RT @untypicallyjia  Remember #LisaCrew - Don't Drink and Drive http://tinyurl.com/3g8yo46"

English: FAIL

Matt: Did you tell the guy who took the order that you wanted it that way?

Me: No, the guy I spoke with didn't speak very well English.

Matt: Didn't speak . . . very . . . well . . . English?

Me: *expletive deleted*  Why do I keep doing this?

Matt: Do you speak very well English?

Me: Shut up.

Untypically in Love: A New Start

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

---------------------

Chapter Twenty-Two
A New Start

The devastation left behind after my Grandmothers death took it's toll on the entire household. I often wonder how things would have changed had she survived. Would those final years of living at home turned out better? Easier? Less . . . empty?
For the most part, everything went on like normal. Paula and Fred still had to go to work every day. Kristine and I still had to go to school. Something was missing now. Some piece of my soul that didn't bring joy to my life like it had before. Something inside of me was dead.

I didn't know how to mourn properly. I wanted to reach out and depend on others, but I felt almost completely alone in my grief. Everyone else in the family had their own anger and sadness to deal with, and I had already separated myself from my friends at school by what were supposed to be positive changes I was making. In an act of desperation for a parent figure, I reached out to someone I shouldn't have.

I called my father.

There was a reason he hadn't been around for much of my life. He and my mother had been high school sweethearts. Old love letters confirmed that while my birth may have been an unplanned pregnancy, it was certainly not unwanted. They'd write back and forth to one another, calling each other "babe". Talking of names for their future children and how their love was going to last forever.

But even the best of starts doesn't always end happily ever after.

I wasn't even two years old when my parents divorced. Custody was given to my Grandmother. Once a month I would visit my Dad and he'd lavish me with affection and presents. Until I was eleven and I received a phone call telling me that he'd been arrested.

Then the stories came, like a broken dam, flooding memories of my childhood with unwanted truth. Two years later, when he was released, we tried to build our relationship again, but I was growing up. Desperate for connection I reached out to him, and due to misunderstandings, outside influences and the scars of a father-daughter relationship not strong enough to withstand the storms, the call ended badly.

In the darkness I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

And I depended on Matt, a lot.

He filled in the missing piece of me. When I couldn't rely on myself, I relied on him. When I no longer had friends to cry with, he was the shoulder I cried on. When I had lost my own family, his had taken me in. His mother and I developed a relationship that was very close. She took me out to lunch and we would make scrapbooks together. We had dinner together, as a family, at their home every Sunday after Church. Matt's father even began poking fun at me, an initiation of sorts (that still hasn't let up).

I became overly sensitive toward others. The security that was broken down when my Grandmother died was being replaced by an emotional wall with no entrance or windows, and I was leaving all the building to Matt. We began fighting. Stupid little arguments that people usually wait until marriage to have. We weren't spending enough time together. He played too many video games. He wasn't being serious. Why wasn't he telling me what was on his mind? Why would he say something like that if he didn't mean something else? Bits and pieces of crazy hormones leaked into my head compelling me to argue until my last dying breath.

I was pushing him away.

Christmas break was a time to repair without the distractions of school and our peers. When New Years Eve rolled around, we both committed to making things work, despite not knowing what the problem was to begin with.

Paula and Fred were going to Vegas for New Years, as they often did. Kristine had decided to stay with a friend and I was content to be home alone. But it was 1999 and Y2K was a worry that some people were taking seriously.

"What do you mean home alone!?" Matt's mother asked me when I informed her of my plans for New Years.

"It's okay. They go to Vegas a few times a year. I'm totally used to it."

"Well not this year." She shook her head. "Who knows if what they say about Y2K will actually happen. What if there's a disaster? No, you'll stay with us at least for New Years Eve."

"Really?" Matt responded with a grin.

"Don't get excited. She'll stay in the den." She narrowed her eyes. "Wipe that grin off you're face or you'll be sleeping outside."

So we attended the New Years Eve dance that the Church held for the teenagers. We still technically weren't supposed to be dating, so several minutes before midnight, Matt somehow convinced his mother that it would be terrible to NOT kiss when the ball dropped. It was tradition after all, and after the year I had, I deserved to start 2000 off on a good memory. Sympathy won in the end.

"C'mere," He said and grabbed my hand, pulling me in for one last slow dance to 'Nothing Else Matters', before the DJ began playing the typical 'Party Like it's 1999'. Then, the countdown began.  

"Next Year is going to be great." He insisted. "I promise."

10 . . .

"Couldn't be any worse than this year." I frowned.

9 . . . 

"You met me this year," He pointed out.

8 . . .

"Technically I met you last year. Last December in fact." I smirked.

7 . . . 

"Well Happy Anniversary," He grinned.

6 . . .

"I'm sorry about everything," I sighed. "I'm such a mess. You deserve better."

5 . . .

"Nothing to be sorry for. I love you."

4 . . . 

"I love you too."

3 . . .

"Happy New Year." He grinned at me.

2 . . .

"Happy New Year."

1 . . .

>>> Chapter Twenty-Three

I'm Not Allowed to Touch Myself Anymore

Due to laziness problems with insurance, it's been a few years since we've been to the doctors. It takes a lot to get us there, for varying reasons.

The reason I dislike going to the doctors is because I over did it when it came to Eastern medicine. I worked for three years as a Healthy Living Editor for a website and that included hours of research on the latest health trends, scares and politics. I can't stand the politics. The fact that there are so many doctors who prescribe pills before taking tests or trying healthier options. The fact that once it took a doctor less than four minutes to pull out his prescription pad when all we were needing was a doctors note for a work absence. The fact that doctors are often over booked with patients and only given a limited amount of time to work. And the fact that insurance just isn't good enough by my standards.

The reason Matt dislikes going to the doctors is because he hates needles.

But we got there last week. It was time. Like the changing of the tides and seasons, there are some things you just can't change. The fact that I have OCD and Matt is a bit of a hypochondriac will eventually get us to a doctors office.

Somehow, we found one that is the balance between the world of extremes. She did not prescribe medication within the first few minutes. She did not tell us that we had to become vegans. She informed us on healthy ways we can exercise without injuring ourselves, certain things we can cut out of our diet, and stuff that may not be good for us, but is not necessary to leave out all together.

I may have momentarily fallen in love with her.

But our specific brand of crazy did not escape her.
She's smart.
And has ears and eyes.

Me: My breasts ache all the time.
Dr: Well sometimes there are women who just have sore breasts. We'll look into some things when we do your lab work though.
Me: Okay, but I just worry, cause sore breasts shouldn't be a normal thing.
Dr: Well, are you doing self breast exams?
Me: Oh absolutely!
Dr: Okay, well have you found anything abnormal before?
Me: Well that depends. Yesterday this one hurt more than the other, so I dug around and tried to feel as deep as I could, and I thought I found something, but I think it was a bone.
Dr: You "dug" until you reached your bones?
Me: Yeah, but the day before it didn't hurt as bad. But then the day before that, this one . . .
Dr: Wait . . . how often do you do a self breast exam?
Me: Once . . . maybe twice a day.
Dr: . . . . . .
Me: Maybe I'm not doing it right?
Dr: Well, I think I know why they've been sore.
Me: Did I rupture something!?
Dr: No, I just gave you a breast exam, and everything is normal. But . . . this is very important. Do not touch your breasts for another month.
Me: Do not touch my breasts for another month.
Dr: Right. A whole month.
Me: . . . . Could you reiterate that to my husband?


PS: For those who don't yet know how, here are some tips on performing your own self breast exam. Just don't do it daily.

Untypically in Love: My Heart Will Go On

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

---------------------

Chapter Twenty-One
My Heart Will Go On

We stayed up all morning. Tradition. When someone in the family dies, the family copes first by crying and then by laughing. We need distractions. We need to remember good moments. Funny moments. We take moments to embarrass one another, reveal secrets about ourselves and each other in order to take our mind off of things. Oh the secrets that have been revealed.
We talked about Grandma and all the silly things she did. We talked about her cooking. How angry she would get when we'd drag her on the big rides at Universal Studios and Disneyland. We talked about the one time we tricked her into going on a white water rafting ride, three times in a row. We talked about how she could never watch a Walter Mathau movie without laughing so hard she'd barely make it to the restroom. We talked about how she would steal salt and pepper shakers from restaurants and would always bring her 'big' purse to the buffets.

We talked. And talked.

In the kitchen I sat with my older sister, my cousins and their spouses.

In the dining room sat the aunts and uncles.

Two generations.

The third generation, most infants, slept in the front bedroom.

By the time the sun rose, we stopped laughing. It wasn't funny anymore. There weren't enough stories to keep us smiling. We had to go make final arrangements now. We had to see her.

Paula, Debbie, Tiffany and I were the ones to walk in the room where Grandma was. Where her body was. Paula cried as she approached her, brushing her fingers through her hair. That same hair that every six months she would perm for her. Debbie kept her pain silent. She was like me. She had to be strong for everyone else. Tiffany crumbled in a chair beside the bed.

I didn't make it that far.

I don't remember my knees giving out. But the sudden realization that she was in fact, truly gone, overwhelmed me, and I crashed to the floor. I screamed in anger, fury. Not at God for taking her, but at myself for not treating her better. Anger at anyone who ever looked at her strangely because she walked with a limp, because her smile was crooked, or because she spoke jibberish. I sent my fist into the wall beside me. Debbie had to drag me out of the room. The two of us came to terms over what we felt.

We had to be strong for everyone else.

"I'll use June," I said. "Every year in June, I give myself time to be sad and angry over Mom's death." I told her. "I can do it then for Grandma too." I said, promising not to attack anyone in the house when we got home.

"My knees hurt," I moaned looking down at the bruises already beginning to form.

"Ya think?" Debbie laughed and hugged me close to her.

Only two days passed before we were all in Utah, familiar sights. The funeral home that took care of Mom and Kathy now took care of Grandma. But people weren't as shocked as they had been when my Mom died. She was only twenty-one. They weren't as angry as they were when Kathy died. Her death was suspicious. No, we had been prepared for this. Terribly prepared.

The funeral home offered to record the funeral on tape. If you listen to it now, you can hear the massive amount of people that showed up. People I didn't even know. Old friends, long distant relatives I hadn't seen in over ten years. Even in death she united people. I would have to work hard to live up to her legacy.

On the tape you can hear Debbie's Pastor from Church talk about stories we told him the night before. You can hear Paula give the eulogy of Grandma's life. Too few words for the type of impact she left on the world. She left behind a husband, 6 children, 18 grandchildren, 12 great grandchildren and counting. She followed two daughters, her parents and her first husband in death.

She would miss the births of at least 2 more grandchildren, 10 more great grandchildren, and 4 great-great grandchildren in only ten years that followed her death. And she would miss 6 weddings including that of the granddaughter who loved her the most.

On the tape you can hear my cousin Christine's husband playing his guitar, and my Grandmother's sister Irene singing a song.

You can hear a loud thud in the middle of a talk, when Mitzi's son banged his head on the pew and then began screaming. You can hear the bits of quieted sympathetic laughter that followed.

You can hear me singing . . .singing her favourite song.








"I love you Grandma," I said through tears, finally breaking at the end of the song. "And you'll always be in my heart."

Tiffany gave a closing prayer, crying the whole time. Later she confessed that she was terrified that she would get so emotional that she'd accidentally bless the food in her prayer when there was no food to bless.

We arrived at the cemetery and I stepped out onto familiar ground. Ground that I spent many days of my childhood sitting upon. A large rock overlooks the headstones of our family members. I used to sit on that stone when I was a little girl, watching as my Grandmother and aunt would place flowers on my mothers grave. Then it would be my turn, and I would go and sit beside her headstone.

"You can talk to her, you know." They would tell me.

But I talked to her all the time. I didn't need to be here to do it.

The large casket rested in between two other headstones. One belonging to my aunt Kathy, and the other to my Mom.

A memory, I will never forget.

When we got back home to New Mexico, I moved into Grandma's old room. Paula didn't throw any of her things out, but we changed it rather swiftly. Our own way of moving on. Avoiding the pain. The second I could sit down and think straight, I picked up the phone and called Matt.

"Come over."

He barely made it up the driveway before I launched myself into his arms. He held me tightly, afraid I could break at any moment. Matt had never dealt with death like I had. He knew my past. Knew everything I had been through, but to see it first hand was something different.

And he could see it.

A piece of me was gone.

"Are you okay?" He asked me, still not letting go.

"Promise me we'll be together forever." I begged him. I couldn't lose anyone else ever again. My heart wouldn't survive it.

"I promise."

>>> Chapter Twenty-Two

Honk if You Have Road Rage!

While "Road Rage" isn't the official term, there is truly something special about riding in a car with my husband. Matt's not the kind of guy that will flip you off in traffic. Because that won't go anywhere. Because that's not a story he can tell his friends later. And it's not something that the other passengers in the car can really appreciate.

What Matt does while driving is what a comedian does on stage when they're looking for the "shock" effect in a joke. The kind of laugh where you laugh because you can't believe what just happened.

Here are a few examples:

• Matt likes to wink at truckers. This used to bother me a lot until I saw him do it for the first time. The reaction on a big mean looking redneck trucker is worth more than gold. 

• Matt likes to shout things at random pedestrians (who according to him, DO NOT have the right of way - unless he at the time, IS the pedestrian). 

• Matt likes to bark at families who are taking walks together.

• If you ride too close to our bumper, Matt will slow down to at least ten miles below the speed limit.

• Matt like to instruct drivers as to how many people they will eventually kill, should they continue driving on whatever drugs caused them to cut him off.

• Matt likes to shout cat calls (like screaming, "Hey baby!") out the passenger window and then look away, leaving whichever passenger taking the blame (usually Josh).

• Matt likes to brag. Case in point, today . . .

Earlier in the day, Matt changed our car insurance policy to something much better than we previously had. Other drivers needed to know this information.

When a driver cut across the street into the medium as we were driving . . .

Matt: I'll T-Bone you, bitch! I've got insurance!

Me: You being more responsible sometimes worries me.

Jia's Word FAIL

For as often as I set myself up for moments like this I'm going to have to turn it into a regular feature here on the blog. What would you call a weekly feature where Jia doesn't know how to pronounce words or uses words improperly?

Matt calls it hilarious.

Yesterday we were relaxing at home watching TV while our six year old (Pug) Willow was chasing our six months old (Cat) Priya around the living room. We always get nervous when this happens because Priya still has claws (and isn't afraid to use them) and Willow only has one working eye as it is. I have a deep scar across my wrist from the first time we tried to introduce Priya to Willow. Priya did not appreciate her new sisters enthusiasm, and decided the only way to repay me for adopting her, was an attempted murder framed as a suicide.

But then yesterday I noticed something strange. Willow would chase Priya to her inevitable hiding spot under the couch where she can't be caught, and then as Willow turned back around, Priya would chase after Willow. They were playing! The body language of my cat began to change and I could almost see what she was thinking!

Me: You know what? I think Priya actually goates Willow into chasing her.

Matt: Just a second. She's what's her?

Me: *uneasy pause* Goates?

Matt: How do you spell that?

Me: . . . . G . . .

Matt: Go on.

Me: . . . . O . . .

Matt: Mhm.

Of course at this time I realise that it must not be spelled the way I'm thinking of it in my head. So in order to avoid looking stupid, I change my game play mid word.

Me: *triumphantly* TES!

Matt: Really?

Me: . . . . ATES?

Matt: So you think that Priya "Goates" Willow into chasing her?

Me: Yes?

Matt: *mocking* In your mind, when you say she "goates" her, do you imagine our cat turning into a goat and ramming Willow with it's head?

Me: Shut up.

Matt: *laughing* The word you're looking for is "Goad". I love you.

Me: *expletive deleted*

Untypically in Love: Promises

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

---------------------

Chapter Twenty
Promises

Time was of the essence. Phone calls were made and soon, almost our entire family had gathered to New Mexico. Some took the very next flight out of Utah. Others drove hours praying they arrived in time. In time to say goodbye.
The hospital moved Grandma to her own room. Her recovery room, I had thought.

The family poured in, flooding the entire wing of the hospital. Overflowing two separate waiting rooms. Paula and I were sent home to shower and sleep. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to exist. Not without her.

My body had been running full speed for too long and that night, I crashed. I woke up early in the morning to half of my cousins sleeping on sofas in the living room, the other half in the kitchen talking about the good memories they had of Grandma.

Paula called Matt for me. She knew I needed him. Matt's mother gave him permission to skip school and go with me to the hospital. We stepped off of the elevator and I held his hand tightly, the only strength I had left in my body. He was going to be my strength now.

We walked into the room where the family gathered around her bed. It would be the first time Matt would meet them all. But that was not my concern now. I wanted to see if she was still alive. I peeked around the corner and she smiled at me. I rushed toward her, wrapping my arms around her. She looked alive and well, despite the IV and machines buzzing nearby. She smiled and hugged me close and then she looked over my shoulder and spotted Matt.

Almost as instantly as she had held me close to her, she pushed me away and reached up, grabbing Matt's hand within her own. She smiled brightly, gratefully, and brought his hand to her lips where she kissed it several times and then held it to her cheek affectionately.

Some assumed she had just lost it for a second. After all, we went to Universal Studios once and as a Clark Gable look alike sat down beside her and she turned into a school girl, blushing and flirting as though he were the real thing. Did she not know who Matt was now?

Others joked, saying that she had tossed me aside because she had seen Matt and just loved him more.

But I knew the real reason. I could see it in her eyes. This woman had gone through hell and back for me since I was born. When her own child died, she didn't give herself time to grieve. She stepped up, took me home and raised me as her own. And now, she was going to die and I was going to be lost without her.

But Matt was there.

Matt would save me.

She knew it. And she loved him for it.

The following night, she was in pain and slept a lot. The family left her alone to rest and we wandered the hospital, most of us trying to help in some way or another. Some were off getting food for the rest. Others were contacting relatives that couldn't make it, updating them on the situation. As for me, I had collapsed in a small waiting room that contained only a small couch where I slept on, and two chairs sitting side by side, opposite the sofa.

I opened my eyes and looked at the chairs that appeared - to the natural eye - completely empty.

But I knew better.

I knew that familiar feeling. The feeling that once brought me comfort. Mom.

"I don't need to be coddled," I insisted, looking away. Then I heard a noise. A soft purr, like a kitten. I glared my eyes at the other chair. Kathy used to do that when I was a little girl. She said I was her little kitten and she would purr at me and pet my hair whenever I was sad.

I didn't know if I truly believed in God then. But I did believe in angels.

And right then, I hated them.

I knew why they were there.

"You won't take her." I growled and stood up, leaving the room. I wasn't followed.

Like a zombie, I moved into the larger waiting room where the rest of the family sat around a large table, writing things down on pieces of paper and discussing things like money, dates, flights, and plots.

"I'll take care of everything," Paula said sadly. "You can all just pay me back later."

"I have room at my house," Tiffany said as tears streaked her face. If there was ever anyone who was more emotional than myself, it was my older sister. She cradled her daughter in her arms, rocking her back and forth, depending on the infant to keep her calm. "Some of you can stay with me."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"We're just talking, making plans," my aunt Debbie said.

The room fell silent as they watched my reaction.

It took several moments for it all to register.

"You're planning her funeral?" I asked, standing back up, shocked and disgusted with the lot of them. They couldn't be serious. They were supposed to be making plans for her recovery. Talking to doctors. Fixing this. Fixing her.

"Jessi, we have to be realistic," someone said, holding back tears.

"She's not even dead yet!" I screamed and then ran out of the room, needing to get away from every last one of them. They were traitors to me. They'd given up.

I made it to the elevators before I just dried up. I moved, no longer possessed by any spirit of life. I was gone, done, defeated. Everything had been taken away from me. I had nothing left to give. I had cried all the way through my sadness and I was keeping anger closely at bay on the other side. I walked slowly, no longer feeling the blood flow in my limbs.

My older sister approached me from behind and wrapped her arms around me. "Come on," she cried. "I'll take you home."

The next morning everyone went down to the cafeteria for breakfast and I stayed with Grandma on my own. She opened her eyes and began to talk to me. Despite being unable to speak coherently, she had a way of getting her point across. As if my some miracle of God, I understood every word, repeating things back to her just to be certain. It was mercy. Given to me for the briefest of moments so I could understand the message she needed to give me before she was gone.


"I love you, Jessi." She told me.


"I love you too. But you're going to be fine. Don't listen to anyone else but me." I insisted.


"No," She shook her head. "I'm tired. I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this."


I refused to look at her.


"Promise me," She squeezed my hand. "Promise me that you'll keep God in your life. You need to keep going to Church. It's what's best for you."


"I promise."


"And you have to take care of the family. It's your job now."


"I promise." I paused. "It's not fair. You can't expect me to make promises when you broke yours. You were supposed to see me graduate and be there when I got married."


"I'll be there," She smiled. "And you marry that boy."

I looked up, startled by her emphasis. "Matt?" I asked her.


She nodded quickly, urgently. "He's good for you. He'll take care of you. You marry him."


I laughed. "Well, if you insist."


And then she chuckled softly, and kissed my hand.


That night, I slept on the couch, having given up my bed to someone else. I kept my promise to Grandma, and I prayed that night. I accepted what was going to happen. But I had conditions. "Don't let her suffer." I begged God.

My eyes opened and I glanced at the digital clock on the television. 2:30 am. There was a familiar smell around me. I recognized it as one of Grandma's perfumes that she used to wear anytime my Grandfather would come and visit us. It was her favourite. It made her feel pretty. The smell was comforting.

But not as comforting as what happened next. I felt arms wrap around me, and I breathed the scent in. It was her. It was my Grandmother. One hand cupped my chin as she kissed my cheek, the other stroked my hair. Both hands. Perfect, working, healthy hands.

And then she was gone.

I remained awake, worried that if I fell back asleep I'd forget what happened. I would convince myself that it was all a dream. But it wasn't. I was wide awake. I knew what I felt. And I thanked God for it. For one last moment.

Minutes passed and shortly after three in the morning the phone rang. My cousin Mitzi answered it, taking it into the other room.

"Okay," She sniffed. "Thank you." And then she hung it up.

One by one, each cousin, aunt and uncle was woken. They all whispered to one another, so softly that I couldn't make out what they were saying until Mitzi finally sighed, "I'll tell her."

She approached the couch and knelt down in front of me, nudging my arm as she didn't know I was already awake. "Jessi?" She called my name.

"She's gone." I said softly.

"Yeah," She nodded and pulled me close as we both began to cry.

>>> Chapter Twenty-One

Why I Shouldn't Have Conversations When I'm Tired Reason #437

If you're easily offended, I'd come back tomorrow . . .

I was reading a web-comic last night where two characters kept using the term "douche" to insult one another. I should have known better than to read it aloud to Matt.

Me (reading aloud): And then he says, "Wait, what's a douche?" And the other one goes, "It's like vaginal mouthwash."

Now here's a note that is especially helpful. 

I pronounced it: vag-EYE-nal. 

Not vaginal like a normal person. 

Vag-EYE-nal.

Me (continuing): And the other one says, "Huh. Cool." That's pretty funny.

Matt: Wait. Did you just say "vag-Eye-nal"?

Me: . . . . No?

Matt: You actually OWN one of them and you can't even pronounce it correctly.

Want a Pimp?

Allow me to whore out your awesome blogs!

MMB reminded me that I was not showing proper love to my readers as well as those that I simply just love, respect, admire, and stalk.

So I now have a blogroll that you can check out. If you want me to add you to the blogroll, just leave a comment with your link and I will gladly whore you out. That goes for anyone from a random passerby, lurkers, and the rest of you nut jobs that come by daily to boost up my big red ego.

Untypically in Love: The Sound of a Heart Breaking

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

---------------------

Chapter Nineteen
The Sound of a Heart Breaking

I burst through Grandma's bedroom door and she was on her knees crying, her good arm reaching around, holding her back in the same place as before. I couldn't imagine why her back hurt so bad. Had she fallen the day before? Maybe slipped in the shower?
I rushed to her side, adrenaline pumping through my body like I'd never before felt.

"Come on," I insisted. "Let's get you back into bed." I didn't want her to sleep now though. Now I knew this was different. This was an emergency. But I wanted her to at least be comfortable.

She hunched over, gasping as she still reached for her back.

And then it hit me. It wasn't the muscles in her back that were hurting. It was what was hidden deep beneath the muscles. The pain was coming from her heart.

"Kristine!" I screamed. "Call 911!"

Kristine darted down the hallway to wake up my uncle Fred, Paula having already left for work. Fred ran for the phone. Kristine looked too terrified to speak.

I helped Grandma up to her feet and she turned and smiled at me, pain still in her eyes as she clenched her teeth. Then, as if by some miracle she calmed down, relaxed and breathed a short sigh of what seemed to be momentary relief. I exhaled, almost ready to tell Fred not to worry about the ambulance. That she was okay now. But then her eyes rolled back into her head and her legs buckled to the floor.

She might have broken something, but I was close enough that I caught her midway. I screamed, "Grandma!" as I gently rested her head on the floor. Shouting loud enough hoping to wake her. She didn't move. "Grandma! No, no, no, no, no..." I gently tapped her face. "Wake up, wake up, wake up."

Her eyes opened for a split second, and I was given hope. But then, just like before, she faded away from me.

"Mom!!" I screamed.

No sign of life. I didn't think to check if she was breathing. I didn't check her pulse. I didn't know how. I was only fifteen years old. All I knew was that the closest thing I ever had to a real mother had possibly died in my arms. Died and I might have prevented it had I not shooed her back to bed hours earlier.

I couldn't hear anything. I couldn't hear Fred in the other room calling 911, telling them to hurry. I couldn't hear Kristine crying in the corner, gripping her hands around the door frame to keep them from shaking. The silence in my head was deafening.

I could feel the tears coming. Ready to burst through.

"Not yet." I said stubbornly. I pulled my hand back and slapped her across the face as hard as I could.

Her eyes opened immediately and she gasped one large breath.

"Grandma!?" I shrieked. She reached up, trying to hold onto me, but she was losing consciousness again - and fast.

"Stay here," I begged her. "Please, you have to stay." The tears finally came just as the paramedics crashed into the room and surrounded me. One helped me to stand and gently pushed me toward my sister, who dragged me out of the hallway in order to give them room to move.

When we arrived at the hospital, Paula was already there. Doctors danced around us as if we were inanimate objects in the room. Grandma regained consciousness, but whatever had happened had certainly taken something with it when it left. I sat by her side, her hand clenched tightly in my own. I was determined to keep her there with me, no matter what it took.

I wished Matt was there. I couldn't be strong forever, and when I eventually crumbled, I didn't think that anyone else could put me back together.

Paula took charge with the doctors, tossing out every bit of Grandma's medical history that she knew. Heart attack over ten years ago. Triple bypass, stroke, hernia, blood clots. She included all fifteen or so prescriptions she was currently taking. Pain killers, sleep aids, blood thinners.. the list went on.

"Aortic aneurysm." The young doctor diagnosed her. One of her medications had caused a problem. A medication that she shouldn't have been taking in the first place. She was supposed to have taken something else. Someone had made a mistake. Some pharmacy rep read a bottle incorrectly, and what was supposed to help her, ended up making everything worse.

"How can you fix it?" I asked, half unconscious.

"It's complicated. There's been a rupture." He said. Grandma's heart was leaking. That was all I heard. The natural plan would be surgery to repair it. But with the mixture of medications she had been on, blood thinners in particular, such action gave her very little chance of survival.

"How long?" I heard my aunt ask.

I didn't hear the answer, but Paula broke into Fred's arms and she made a sound I never want to hear again. The sound of a heart breaking. Of a piece of a soul dying. It was the sound of despair and emptiness.

"You can't go yet," Paula insisted as she walked back into the room, shutting the door behind her, leaving just the three of us there.

"Yeah, you once told me that you weren't gonna die until Debbie (my other living aunt) found happiness, Tiffany (my older sister) had babies, and I got married." I reminded her.

But Debbie had found happiness after she became a reborn Christian three years earlier.
And Tiffany had her first baby girl the summer before last.

Grandma turned and smiled at me, apologetically.

She wasn't going to be there when I got married. And she knew it.

>>> Chapter Twenty