Just when I thought the schedule couldn’t get any busier, it did. We’ve only got one week of classes left before exams. Yes, panic has officially set in. However, it’s a "calm panic" and it’s just enough of a panic to keep me edgy until exams are over. If used properly, it can be a good thing–much like a hedge trimmer. Use it for hedges, great; use it for tree branches positioned over your head, not great.
This week we have had a break from classes, which has been great; I am definitely not complaining. I scheduled specific tasks to complete each day, and also scheduled a brief trip home to see family and friends for the Thanksgiving holiday. When presented the luxury of a break from classes, my gut reaction was that I couldn’t afford to spend two days traveling home when I needed to spend that valuable time preparing for final exams, which sounds so logical when you whip it around in your head; but it sounds so shallow when you try to explain it to your mom! And, now that the trip home is history, and I’m back in Lynchburg with only the company of books, flash cards, notes, and outlines, I realize how much I do miss the simple joy of family and friends.
Driving back up the mountain today I also realized that all of this must maintain its own perspective. Law school is important, but it still only controls a portion of my life. It is a priority; but, when compared to family, it doesn’t even register. It is a dream. It is important to me. But it has its place. How can I be certain? How do I know? Because of a phone call.
I was awakened by the phone at 11:30 p.m. Caller ID said it was my mom. Since my mother rarely stays up past 9:00 p.m., I intuitively knew the news was not good. "We are at the hospital," she said. My son had been in a wreck. He was conscious, but bleeding terribly from the head. He was also complaining of shoulder and leg pain; at the present, he was on his way to x-ray.
Before she even finished these sentences, my mind was racing. I was already calculating how long it would take me to get there. I was planning the ATM stop on the way and thinking about which suitcase to use. On the contrary, I did not think about exams. I did not think about the research paper due on Monday nor did I care about updating my property outline before leaving town.
The hardest thing I had to do for the next hour was wait. I had to wait in the dark while they waited for test results. Even while I was in labor giving birth to that child, time did not creep as slowly as it did that night–18 years later–when I waited to hear what might be broken, whether he would be admitted or released or transferred, and what to do next.
I walked with the phone in my hand--helpless and irritated. The news that finally came was good. I got to hear his voice (which was even better) and know that he was okay. He would be sore and require some follow up, but he would be whole again. All of these events transpired on the eve of Thanksgiving 2006. When I arrived at my mom’s house, I saw the remains of his truck. It was hard to believe that anyone could have survived in that vehicle, especially the driver. He did survive, though, and he was seated at the table next to me.
I was very quiet during dinner. Once again I had been reminded of the frailty of life. But, it wasn’t a lesson in someone else’s life that I had taken note of; no, it was a lesson in my own. I do not know how I will ever react should I have to bury a child. I am almost certain that I will not handle it well (which is a gross understatement). I do not even like to think about it; it is a dreadful thought that no parent wants to ever entertain.
As I looked around the dinner table, I thought about my mother-in-law, who died tragically and unexpectedly in 1994 in a car accident two weeks before Christmas. Across the table from me was my step-sister, who’s husband died only a year ago in a car accident. Seated near me was Aunt Sally, whose son (and my best friend), William, died in a car accident in 1982 at the age of 20 and was buried on my 20th birthday. As if that weren’t tragic enough, she lost her only grandchild/grandson in 2005 in a motorcycle accident, and is helping to raise the children he left behind.
I remembered speaking once at a small law firm event. I was making a presentation to the six or eight paralegals in the firm at a lunch CLE about professionalism. The day before the event, my contact from the office called to finalize the plans, and I vividly recall her telling me about one of the ladies who may be in attendance. The lady had lost her daughter in a car accident a few weeks earlier. The daughter was a senior in high school, driving to school like any other morning when the unthinkable happened, only weeks away from graduation. Now, instead of a diploma and graduation party, she had a funeral and tombstone. My contact said, "She may be here or she may not, but I wanted you to know because she is grieving and quite sullen, and I didn’t want you to take it personally." The lady did attend, and I just remember thinking, "How does she have the wherewithal to roll out of bed in the morning and put one foot in front of the other? Anything above and beyond that is absolutely heroic."
I am nothing short of amazed that these survivors can go through the routine of Thanksgiving (and other holidays). If yesterday’s accident had taken my son, I just do not know if I could go on with life as usual, ponging from one season, holiday, or birthday to the next. It must be possible, because so many people do it. Or, maybe it’s just because we don’t hear about those who give up, check out on life, or crawl under the proverbial rock.
What morbid thoughts to be having at Thanksgiving dinner, huh? Yes, I know. However, the irony of it all is that they made me even more thankful for this moment and this day that we all get to share together when we have the opportunity to reach out to each other, touch someone's hand or tap someone on the shoulder, and whisper "I love you." The stark reality–of which I have been reminded–is that there is no guarantee that we’ll have the same opportunity tomorrow.
This week we have had a break from classes, which has been great; I am definitely not complaining. I scheduled specific tasks to complete each day, and also scheduled a brief trip home to see family and friends for the Thanksgiving holiday. When presented the luxury of a break from classes, my gut reaction was that I couldn’t afford to spend two days traveling home when I needed to spend that valuable time preparing for final exams, which sounds so logical when you whip it around in your head; but it sounds so shallow when you try to explain it to your mom! And, now that the trip home is history, and I’m back in Lynchburg with only the company of books, flash cards, notes, and outlines, I realize how much I do miss the simple joy of family and friends.
Driving back up the mountain today I also realized that all of this must maintain its own perspective. Law school is important, but it still only controls a portion of my life. It is a priority; but, when compared to family, it doesn’t even register. It is a dream. It is important to me. But it has its place. How can I be certain? How do I know? Because of a phone call.
I was awakened by the phone at 11:30 p.m. Caller ID said it was my mom. Since my mother rarely stays up past 9:00 p.m., I intuitively knew the news was not good. "We are at the hospital," she said. My son had been in a wreck. He was conscious, but bleeding terribly from the head. He was also complaining of shoulder and leg pain; at the present, he was on his way to x-ray.
Before she even finished these sentences, my mind was racing. I was already calculating how long it would take me to get there. I was planning the ATM stop on the way and thinking about which suitcase to use. On the contrary, I did not think about exams. I did not think about the research paper due on Monday nor did I care about updating my property outline before leaving town.
The hardest thing I had to do for the next hour was wait. I had to wait in the dark while they waited for test results. Even while I was in labor giving birth to that child, time did not creep as slowly as it did that night–18 years later–when I waited to hear what might be broken, whether he would be admitted or released or transferred, and what to do next.
I walked with the phone in my hand--helpless and irritated. The news that finally came was good. I got to hear his voice (which was even better) and know that he was okay. He would be sore and require some follow up, but he would be whole again. All of these events transpired on the eve of Thanksgiving 2006. When I arrived at my mom’s house, I saw the remains of his truck. It was hard to believe that anyone could have survived in that vehicle, especially the driver. He did survive, though, and he was seated at the table next to me.
I was very quiet during dinner. Once again I had been reminded of the frailty of life. But, it wasn’t a lesson in someone else’s life that I had taken note of; no, it was a lesson in my own. I do not know how I will ever react should I have to bury a child. I am almost certain that I will not handle it well (which is a gross understatement). I do not even like to think about it; it is a dreadful thought that no parent wants to ever entertain.
As I looked around the dinner table, I thought about my mother-in-law, who died tragically and unexpectedly in 1994 in a car accident two weeks before Christmas. Across the table from me was my step-sister, who’s husband died only a year ago in a car accident. Seated near me was Aunt Sally, whose son (and my best friend), William, died in a car accident in 1982 at the age of 20 and was buried on my 20th birthday. As if that weren’t tragic enough, she lost her only grandchild/grandson in 2005 in a motorcycle accident, and is helping to raise the children he left behind.
I remembered speaking once at a small law firm event. I was making a presentation to the six or eight paralegals in the firm at a lunch CLE about professionalism. The day before the event, my contact from the office called to finalize the plans, and I vividly recall her telling me about one of the ladies who may be in attendance. The lady had lost her daughter in a car accident a few weeks earlier. The daughter was a senior in high school, driving to school like any other morning when the unthinkable happened, only weeks away from graduation. Now, instead of a diploma and graduation party, she had a funeral and tombstone. My contact said, "She may be here or she may not, but I wanted you to know because she is grieving and quite sullen, and I didn’t want you to take it personally." The lady did attend, and I just remember thinking, "How does she have the wherewithal to roll out of bed in the morning and put one foot in front of the other? Anything above and beyond that is absolutely heroic."
I am nothing short of amazed that these survivors can go through the routine of Thanksgiving (and other holidays). If yesterday’s accident had taken my son, I just do not know if I could go on with life as usual, ponging from one season, holiday, or birthday to the next. It must be possible, because so many people do it. Or, maybe it’s just because we don’t hear about those who give up, check out on life, or crawl under the proverbial rock.
What morbid thoughts to be having at Thanksgiving dinner, huh? Yes, I know. However, the irony of it all is that they made me even more thankful for this moment and this day that we all get to share together when we have the opportunity to reach out to each other, touch someone's hand or tap someone on the shoulder, and whisper "I love you." The stark reality–of which I have been reminded–is that there is no guarantee that we’ll have the same opportunity tomorrow.
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