When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)
Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.
There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.
It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."
I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.
I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.
In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.
I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.
As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.
At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.
Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.
That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.
"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."
The audience oohs.
"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."
"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."
And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)
Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."
At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.
"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."
"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."
"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."
In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.
I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.
The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)
I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."
Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.
"The one?" she said. "The one what?"
"The one you'll marry?"
"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."
"Really? Thirty?" I said.
"Oh yeah. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."
"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."
"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."
We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.
In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.
Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.
March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age.
I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones you never suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.
So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.
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