"So what, you just don't like food?"
This is how my
boss responded when I confided that I was seeking treatment for an
eating disorder and would need some time off work.
"You
know, I just don't get the eating disorder thing. I'd eat anything you
put in front of me. They say you live longer if you're skinny anyway."
Really? REALLY??
Despite the fact that talking about it nearly brings me to tears every
time, and that I had to work up my bravery all morning to tell you this,
THIS is how you reply??
It's 2014. Aren't people more
aware of the seriousness of mental illness? I've been a big supporter of
Bell's "Let's Talk" Day, and Eating Disorder Awareness Week in the past
few years, but I've never really stopped to think about what it meant to "raise awareness". I just kind of thought, this day in age, it
wasn't even an issue of people be unaware. People had to know how real and how debilitating mental illness can be. But apparently not. My boss is a prime example of how ignorant (and rude) people can still be.
Mental
illness, namely eating disorder in my case, is not to be taken
lightly. Just to put it in perspective, anorexia nearly killed me ten years
ago. At twelve years old, I had dropped down to a disgustingly low weight. My body had deteriorated so badly, and my heartrate was so low,
that I was immediately admitted into hospital and hooked up to a
half-dozen machines.
After a three month hospital stay,
I was healthy enough to go back to "normal" life, but now, even ten
years later, I'm not truly healthy. The hospital stay made my body healthy(er), but my mind stayed as crazy as ever. Almost every single day since then
has been a struggle; every calorie that enters my body has been a tiny
battle. I'm constantly aware of what I eat, and how or if it might
affect my weight.
After ten years of stress and anxiety
over something as basic as food, you know what? I'm sick of it. I'm
sick of letting anorexia and its evil little voice in my head control
every day of my life.
I've talked to my parents and
close friends, and I've been to several professionals already. I'm in
the process of getting enrolled in an out-patient therapy program. I'm
taking steps to make myself healthy, mentally and physically. It's not
going to be easy, and to be honest, I'm terrified, but I know it's a HUGELY positive thing in my life.
So,
when I went to my boss to try and explain the situation, at the very
least I was hoping he'd be happy to hear that I was doing something to
improve my health. I never expected to be trivialized, as if the
struggle my life has been for the past decade was no big deal, a joke.
The
more I reflected on the conversation, the more annoyed I got. Here I
am, making one of the scariest decisions of my life, and you act as if I
should just be able to get over it? Now, on top of the appointments, doctors, therapy, and stress, I have to deal with the skepticism and judgment of my boss?
And I know now that he's
not the only person around who is so oblivious. After meeting with other girls at group therapy, I've heard how they all have people in their lives who just don't get it. Contrary to what these people believe, it's not a matter of just getting over it, just eating a piece of cake.
I'm not sure my purpose in writing this is. To raise awareness? Maybe. If people read this and choose to learn more about eating disorders, or anything other type of mental illness, great. I think it's more in the hopes of ending such rudeness in people's ignorance. Even if you don't understand the struggle of someone else, or if it seems like a silly issue to you, please understand that to them it is a big deal. Please, please don't make them feel like their problems don't matter.
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Friday, 13 June 2014
Tuesday, 20 May 2014
Intro to Recovery
I really, really hate myself for it, but my first thought was along the lines of "Good. I'm one of the skinniest girls here."
I had my first orientation meeting with the recovery group today. Just like after my solo meeting last week, I left feeling discouraged. I go to the Centre feeling so motivated and so ready to change my life, and I leave feeling defeated, or like I've come to the wrong place.
I'm not like those other sick girls though, I eat all the time. I just need someone to talk to; I don't need to see a dietitian; I can just talk through some stuff with a psychologist and then I'll probably just be all recovered! Even while I'm thinking these things I know they're not fully true, but these are the "facts" my brain chooses to cling to.
I want to get better, and then I don't. Mostly, I'm terrified. I was diagnosed with an eating disorder at age twelve, and had unhealthy food/body issues for god knows how long before that. At age twenty-one, I really can't remember ever having a life that wasn't governed by Ed's rules. Recovery would mean a whole new standard of "normal", and I really don't know if I'm ready for that, or ever will be. I don't know if I want to give up that feeling of control.
In theory, recovery sounds great. I'd love to be able to not worry about what I eat or how I look or how much I weigh. I'd love to relax and not be so uptight and worried all the time. I'd love to be able to mindlessly eat a bag of chips, and then not feel sickened with guilt afterwards. But right now, all of those things equate to the same thing in my head: fat.
I keep hearing about these girls who manage to beat their eating disorders, and live normal, healthy lives, and they still look amazing. And I know their stories are meant to inspire me and convince me that recovery is possible, yet I keep writing myself off as a lost cause. Mighta worked for them, but this is just the way I am. This is how my life is, and it's probably not going to change. And I hate these thoughts, I hate myself for having these thoughts. I want to believe that I can do this, that life after recovery will be so much better.
But right now it's a huge struggle.
Help??
I had my first orientation meeting with the recovery group today. Just like after my solo meeting last week, I left feeling discouraged. I go to the Centre feeling so motivated and so ready to change my life, and I leave feeling defeated, or like I've come to the wrong place.
I'm not like those other sick girls though, I eat all the time. I just need someone to talk to; I don't need to see a dietitian; I can just talk through some stuff with a psychologist and then I'll probably just be all recovered! Even while I'm thinking these things I know they're not fully true, but these are the "facts" my brain chooses to cling to.
I want to get better, and then I don't. Mostly, I'm terrified. I was diagnosed with an eating disorder at age twelve, and had unhealthy food/body issues for god knows how long before that. At age twenty-one, I really can't remember ever having a life that wasn't governed by Ed's rules. Recovery would mean a whole new standard of "normal", and I really don't know if I'm ready for that, or ever will be. I don't know if I want to give up that feeling of control.
In theory, recovery sounds great. I'd love to be able to not worry about what I eat or how I look or how much I weigh. I'd love to relax and not be so uptight and worried all the time. I'd love to be able to mindlessly eat a bag of chips, and then not feel sickened with guilt afterwards. But right now, all of those things equate to the same thing in my head: fat.
I keep hearing about these girls who manage to beat their eating disorders, and live normal, healthy lives, and they still look amazing. And I know their stories are meant to inspire me and convince me that recovery is possible, yet I keep writing myself off as a lost cause. Mighta worked for them, but this is just the way I am. This is how my life is, and it's probably not going to change. And I hate these thoughts, I hate myself for having these thoughts. I want to believe that I can do this, that life after recovery will be so much better.
But right now it's a huge struggle.
Help??
Thursday, 24 April 2014
The Unaware Asshole: Raising Mental Health Awareness
"So what, you just don't like food?"
This is how my boss responded when I confided that I was seeking treatment for an eating disorder and would need some time off work.
"You know, I just don't get the eating disorder thing. I'd eat anything you put in front of me. They say you live longer if you're skinny anyway."
Really? REALLY?? Despite the fact that talking about it nearly brings me to tears every time, and that I had to work up my bravery all morning to tell you this, THIS is how you reply??
It's 2014. Aren't people more aware of the seriousness of mental illness? I've been a big supporter of Bell's "Let's Talk" Day, and Eating Disorder Awareness Week in the past few years, but I've never really stopped to think about how necessary it might be to raise awareness. I thought, this day in age, awareness wasn't even an issue; people had to know how real and how debilitating mental illness can be. But apparently not. My boss is a prime example of how ignorant (and rude) people can still be.
Mental illness, eating disorders especially in this case, are not to be taken lightly. To put it in perspective, anorexia nearly killed me ten years ago. My body had deteriorated so badly, and my heartrate was so low, that I was immediately admitted into hospital and hooked up to a half-dozen machines.
After a three month hospital stay, I was healthy enough to go back to "normal" life, but now, even ten years later, I'm not truly healthy. Almost every single day since then has been a struggle; every calorie that enters my body has been a tiny battle. I'm constantly aware of what I eat, and how or if it might affect my weight.
After ten years of stress and anxiety over something as basic as food, you know what? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of letting anorexia and its evil little voice in my head control every day of my life.
I've talked to my parents and close friends, and I've been to several professionals already. I'm in the process of getting enrolled in an out-patient therapy program. I'm taking steps to make myself healthy, mentally and physically. It's not going to be easy, and to be honest, I'm terrified, but I know it's a HUGELY positive thing in my life.
So, when I went to my boss to try and explain the situation, at the very least I was hoping he'd be happy to hear that I was doing something to improve my health. I never expected to be trivialized, as if the struggle my life has been for the past decade was no big deal, a joke.
The more I reflected on the conversation, the more annoyed I got. Here I am, making one of the scariest decisions of my life, and you act as if I should just be able to get over it?
And I'm sure he's not the only person around who is so oblivious. So I write this hoping that even one person will read it, and become a bit more aware of the issue. Please don't be one of those assholes who says hurtful things simply because they don't know any better. Inform yourself, even if it's just from this article. And if you don't want to take it upon yourself to learn, don't. But please, don't ever ever make someone feel as if their problems don't matter, whether it be mental illness or something else.
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
This is how my boss responded when I confided that I was seeking treatment for an eating disorder and would need some time off work.
"You know, I just don't get the eating disorder thing. I'd eat anything you put in front of me. They say you live longer if you're skinny anyway."
Really? REALLY?? Despite the fact that talking about it nearly brings me to tears every time, and that I had to work up my bravery all morning to tell you this, THIS is how you reply??
It's 2014. Aren't people more aware of the seriousness of mental illness? I've been a big supporter of Bell's "Let's Talk" Day, and Eating Disorder Awareness Week in the past few years, but I've never really stopped to think about how necessary it might be to raise awareness. I thought, this day in age, awareness wasn't even an issue; people had to know how real and how debilitating mental illness can be. But apparently not. My boss is a prime example of how ignorant (and rude) people can still be.
Mental illness, eating disorders especially in this case, are not to be taken lightly. To put it in perspective, anorexia nearly killed me ten years ago. My body had deteriorated so badly, and my heartrate was so low, that I was immediately admitted into hospital and hooked up to a half-dozen machines.
After a three month hospital stay, I was healthy enough to go back to "normal" life, but now, even ten years later, I'm not truly healthy. Almost every single day since then has been a struggle; every calorie that enters my body has been a tiny battle. I'm constantly aware of what I eat, and how or if it might affect my weight.
After ten years of stress and anxiety over something as basic as food, you know what? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of letting anorexia and its evil little voice in my head control every day of my life.
I've talked to my parents and close friends, and I've been to several professionals already. I'm in the process of getting enrolled in an out-patient therapy program. I'm taking steps to make myself healthy, mentally and physically. It's not going to be easy, and to be honest, I'm terrified, but I know it's a HUGELY positive thing in my life.
So, when I went to my boss to try and explain the situation, at the very least I was hoping he'd be happy to hear that I was doing something to improve my health. I never expected to be trivialized, as if the struggle my life has been for the past decade was no big deal, a joke.
The more I reflected on the conversation, the more annoyed I got. Here I am, making one of the scariest decisions of my life, and you act as if I should just be able to get over it?
And I'm sure he's not the only person around who is so oblivious. So I write this hoping that even one person will read it, and become a bit more aware of the issue. Please don't be one of those assholes who says hurtful things simply because they don't know any better. Inform yourself, even if it's just from this article. And if you don't want to take it upon yourself to learn, don't. But please, don't ever ever make someone feel as if their problems don't matter, whether it be mental illness or something else.
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Thursday, 27 March 2014
Please Don't Talk About My Body
Please don't comment on my body.
You'll probably forget what you said, within maybe even five minutes. But your words stay with me, looping through my mind, for days or weeks afterward. Your flippant remark sticks with me, burrowing into my brain and twisting its meaning until it becomes something else entirely, and I'm left stressed, depressed, and uncomfortable. I know other people's words shouldn't affect me so strongly. I know it is my body, 100% M-I-N-E, and the only opinion of it that should matter is my own. But that doesn't stop your opinion from causing me grief, long after you've forgotten it.
It doesn't matter whether its a compliment, a worry, or simply a statement; the fact that you noticed something about my body enough to comment makes me uncomfortable. I'm suddenly uber-aware of whichever body area you just mentioned, and I can't help but obsess over it.
"Must be nice to be so tiny, shopping must be so easy for you!" "My god, do you even eat?" "I'm so jealous, you don't even have to worry about your weight!"
Okay. I get it. I'm skinny. I'm well aware of that fact, but really, thanks for bringing it up, again. I'm also aware (whether you are or not) that I didn't always have this body, and I didn't get it from a healthy lifestyle. I've been fighting off demons in the forms of an eating disorder since age twelve; this little body has nothing to do with being blessed with a fast metabolism.
For the most part, I have things under control. I eat a healthy diet, and I maintain a healthy (if somewhat low) weight. A lot of days, I could even say I like my body. But every single time you say something about how tiny I am, it starts a stream of anxious, obsessive, unhealthy thoughts.
Have I lost weight again? Am I too tiny? Did these pants always fit like this??
On worse days, my thoughts after such a comment are equally toxic, in a different way. Good. If I'm skinny enough for her to notice and say something, I'm still small enough. I have to keep it that way.
In day-to-day, normal, healthy life, these demons stay quiet, hidden in the back alleys of my mind. But when you carelessly mention my weight, they rage and roar and repeat in my head and drive me crazy.
Even if I didn't have eating disorder issues to deal with, I think I'd be uncomfortable with people talking about my weight. My body is mine to worry about, and yours is your own issue. They really shouldn't cross over into each other's territory. What's it matter to you what size my jeans are? What it matter to anyone what size ANYONE's jeans are, besides their own?
There are SO MANY other things you could find to compliment, question, or even criticize me about. Please, choose one of the infinite other options next time.
You'll probably forget what you said, within maybe even five minutes. But your words stay with me, looping through my mind, for days or weeks afterward. Your flippant remark sticks with me, burrowing into my brain and twisting its meaning until it becomes something else entirely, and I'm left stressed, depressed, and uncomfortable. I know other people's words shouldn't affect me so strongly. I know it is my body, 100% M-I-N-E, and the only opinion of it that should matter is my own. But that doesn't stop your opinion from causing me grief, long after you've forgotten it.
It doesn't matter whether its a compliment, a worry, or simply a statement; the fact that you noticed something about my body enough to comment makes me uncomfortable. I'm suddenly uber-aware of whichever body area you just mentioned, and I can't help but obsess over it.
"Must be nice to be so tiny, shopping must be so easy for you!" "My god, do you even eat?" "I'm so jealous, you don't even have to worry about your weight!"
Okay. I get it. I'm skinny. I'm well aware of that fact, but really, thanks for bringing it up, again. I'm also aware (whether you are or not) that I didn't always have this body, and I didn't get it from a healthy lifestyle. I've been fighting off demons in the forms of an eating disorder since age twelve; this little body has nothing to do with being blessed with a fast metabolism.
For the most part, I have things under control. I eat a healthy diet, and I maintain a healthy (if somewhat low) weight. A lot of days, I could even say I like my body. But every single time you say something about how tiny I am, it starts a stream of anxious, obsessive, unhealthy thoughts.
Have I lost weight again? Am I too tiny? Did these pants always fit like this??
On worse days, my thoughts after such a comment are equally toxic, in a different way. Good. If I'm skinny enough for her to notice and say something, I'm still small enough. I have to keep it that way.
In day-to-day, normal, healthy life, these demons stay quiet, hidden in the back alleys of my mind. But when you carelessly mention my weight, they rage and roar and repeat in my head and drive me crazy.
Even if I didn't have eating disorder issues to deal with, I think I'd be uncomfortable with people talking about my weight. My body is mine to worry about, and yours is your own issue. They really shouldn't cross over into each other's territory. What's it matter to you what size my jeans are? What it matter to anyone what size ANYONE's jeans are, besides their own?
There are SO MANY other things you could find to compliment, question, or even criticize me about. Please, choose one of the infinite other options next time.
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
Words From a Sad Single Girl
I miss having a boyfriend.
I miss inside jokes and tickle fights and silly nicknames. I miss goodnight phone calls and hugs that feel safe and falling asleep being the little spoon. I miss cute date nights, and I miss having someone I can waste away my weekends with.
I shouldn't be so needy; I should be strong and independent and happy on my own. But I'm not, I'm lonely. Yes, I have amazing friends, who I am so grateful for. But it's not the same, at all. I've never been one to form super-close bonds with friends. Even my closest friends don't know the inner workings of my brain; I've always saved that part of me for relationships. The better, happier, more interesting version of me is always reserved for a boyfriend, as awful and ant-feminist as that sounds. My mom has even commented before, I'm a happier, nicer person when I'm in a relationship.
I feel like Charlotte Yorke, perplexed and asking, "I've been dating since I was fifteen; where is he?!". At twenty-one I know I'm probably too young to worry about not having met "the one" yet, but I can't help but feel a bit frustrated. I would LOVE to meet the one at this age. Honestly, I cannot wait to meet the man I'll spend the rest of my life with; the sooner we get to start our love story, the better.
Even if I'm not meant to meet the love of my life for another few years, I'd be more than happy with a temporary stand in. Just someone to spend time with, make me laugh, and make each other happy.
I miss inside jokes and tickle fights and silly nicknames. I miss goodnight phone calls and hugs that feel safe and falling asleep being the little spoon. I miss cute date nights, and I miss having someone I can waste away my weekends with.
I shouldn't be so needy; I should be strong and independent and happy on my own. But I'm not, I'm lonely. Yes, I have amazing friends, who I am so grateful for. But it's not the same, at all. I've never been one to form super-close bonds with friends. Even my closest friends don't know the inner workings of my brain; I've always saved that part of me for relationships. The better, happier, more interesting version of me is always reserved for a boyfriend, as awful and ant-feminist as that sounds. My mom has even commented before, I'm a happier, nicer person when I'm in a relationship.
I feel like Charlotte Yorke, perplexed and asking, "I've been dating since I was fifteen; where is he?!". At twenty-one I know I'm probably too young to worry about not having met "the one" yet, but I can't help but feel a bit frustrated. I would LOVE to meet the one at this age. Honestly, I cannot wait to meet the man I'll spend the rest of my life with; the sooner we get to start our love story, the better.
Even if I'm not meant to meet the love of my life for another few years, I'd be more than happy with a temporary stand in. Just someone to spend time with, make me laugh, and make each other happy.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
How Old is Too Old to Have No Idea?
At what age are you supposed to have your life figured out?
Or even, when should you have a general idea of where your life is headed?
Or, most importantly, should I be worried that I'm close on twenty-two years old and have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life?
From outside appearance, you'd think I had my life on lock.
I have a college degree, plus a handful of bonus university credits. I have a 9-5, Monday to Friday office job, plus an (excuse me for sounding douche-y) impressive savings account.
At twenty-one, I guess that's better than a lot of people can say.
In reality though, I'm incredibly discontent in most aspects of my life right now.
I dredge through my workday, come home and eat with my family, then spend the evening in my bedroom on the internet. Occasionally, I'll go for a coffee with a friend.
Day by day by day, my life is boring. And I have no idea how to change that.
I have no idea where my interests lie, in my professional or casual life.
You'd think after living my whole life with myself, I'd be more aware of what I like. But I have no hobbies to take up my free time, and if I were offered a choice of any career in the world, I couldn't even begin to choose.
Shouldn't I have this figured out by now??
My mom suggested I take some university courses. Try out some fitness classes. Keep exploring my options until I find something I'm passionate about. Maybe I'll surprise myself and have a love (and talent of?) belly dancing. I'll never know until I try.
Yeah, maybe I shouldn't worry about not having my life in order by my twenty second birthday. But there's no reason to sit around and wait for things to sort themselves out. Life's what you make it, after all, so you might as well get out there and make the most of it. So I'm choosing to start exploring my life options; who knows where my passion will lie and how long it will take to find it!
Or even, when should you have a general idea of where your life is headed?
Or, most importantly, should I be worried that I'm close on twenty-two years old and have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life?
From outside appearance, you'd think I had my life on lock.
I have a college degree, plus a handful of bonus university credits. I have a 9-5, Monday to Friday office job, plus an (excuse me for sounding douche-y) impressive savings account.
At twenty-one, I guess that's better than a lot of people can say.
In reality though, I'm incredibly discontent in most aspects of my life right now.
I dredge through my workday, come home and eat with my family, then spend the evening in my bedroom on the internet. Occasionally, I'll go for a coffee with a friend.
Day by day by day, my life is boring. And I have no idea how to change that.
I have no idea where my interests lie, in my professional or casual life.
You'd think after living my whole life with myself, I'd be more aware of what I like. But I have no hobbies to take up my free time, and if I were offered a choice of any career in the world, I couldn't even begin to choose.
Shouldn't I have this figured out by now??
My mom suggested I take some university courses. Try out some fitness classes. Keep exploring my options until I find something I'm passionate about. Maybe I'll surprise myself and have a love (and talent of?) belly dancing. I'll never know until I try.
Yeah, maybe I shouldn't worry about not having my life in order by my twenty second birthday. But there's no reason to sit around and wait for things to sort themselves out. Life's what you make it, after all, so you might as well get out there and make the most of it. So I'm choosing to start exploring my life options; who knows where my passion will lie and how long it will take to find it!
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
On Realizing Your Parents Aren't Immortal
I can't remember much about my grandfather on my mom's side. I remember he ate a lot of oranges, and I remember that he'd always sit on the floor with me and draw pictures. I remember he had an orange hunting hat, and he liked Neil Diamond. And that's all I can tell you about him.
But last night, I cried for him. Next week marks thirteen years since he died, but I'd never really known about how he died. I was eight at the time, so I guess I never really thought about it. Last night, driving home from gramma's house, mom told me about it.
It was a stormy winter night, the night before it started. Mom's lifelong best friend was headed home from work, but the roads were dangerous, and she decided to stay the night at my grandparents house. The storm got worse and worse, but they spent a cozy night indoors, drinking tea and telling stories and looking at old photo albums.
Sometime during the night, my pop had a brain aneurism. An ambulance rushed to get he and my grandma to the hospital, where they did everything they could to save him. Something went wrong though, and the drugs put him into a coma. In order to keep him alive, my grandfather was hooked up to tubes and needles and monitors. My mom rushed to the hospital as soon as she found out, and her siblings flew home from across Canada to be with their family.
Ten days passed, and no change. Mom, Grandma, and the brother and sisters stayed at his bedside around the clock. Everyone was exhausted, mentally and physically. At this point, the doctors told them what they already had guessed. Pop wasn't going to get better, and if he did, he wouldn't be the man they knew; he'd essentially be a vegetable.
During his life, my grandfather had let everyone know that he'd never want to be kept alive artificially; it wouldn't be a true life, and he wouldn't want it. The family all agreed with his decision, and as heartbreaking as it was, they chose to pull the plug.
When the time came, the room was deadly silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering when the many monitors would announce the end. They didn't though, not that night or all through the next day. The next night, after the most stressful, anxious 24 hours of her life, my mom was still in the hospital room, with her youngest sister and their aunt.
Mom and her aunt stood by the window, looking up at the sky. One star shone bright, and they both found themselves making a wish. The same wish, both just wishing for this nightmare to be over.
A few minutes later, he died.
I never knew how my grandfather died. I never knew what a long, agonizing time it was. I never knew my mom was in the room with him when he died.
I think that's what pushed my sadness over the edge. Being there, watching a parent die, is the worst thing I can possibly imagine. It made me realize, my parents aren't immortal. Someday, hopefully years and years away, when even I am terribly old, my parents will die.
I don't know what I'll do; I can't picture my life without them. But it's inevitable, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it.
The only thing you can do, is cherish the time you do have with them. It makes me glad that my grandfather spent the last conscious night of his life how he did, with people he cared about, reminiscing on happy times.
I know sometimes I'll still be awful to them, but I want to spend more time like that with my parents. They're amazing people, and I just realized I won't have them forever. Better appreciate them as much as I can while I can.
But last night, I cried for him. Next week marks thirteen years since he died, but I'd never really known about how he died. I was eight at the time, so I guess I never really thought about it. Last night, driving home from gramma's house, mom told me about it.
It was a stormy winter night, the night before it started. Mom's lifelong best friend was headed home from work, but the roads were dangerous, and she decided to stay the night at my grandparents house. The storm got worse and worse, but they spent a cozy night indoors, drinking tea and telling stories and looking at old photo albums.
Sometime during the night, my pop had a brain aneurism. An ambulance rushed to get he and my grandma to the hospital, where they did everything they could to save him. Something went wrong though, and the drugs put him into a coma. In order to keep him alive, my grandfather was hooked up to tubes and needles and monitors. My mom rushed to the hospital as soon as she found out, and her siblings flew home from across Canada to be with their family.
Ten days passed, and no change. Mom, Grandma, and the brother and sisters stayed at his bedside around the clock. Everyone was exhausted, mentally and physically. At this point, the doctors told them what they already had guessed. Pop wasn't going to get better, and if he did, he wouldn't be the man they knew; he'd essentially be a vegetable.
During his life, my grandfather had let everyone know that he'd never want to be kept alive artificially; it wouldn't be a true life, and he wouldn't want it. The family all agreed with his decision, and as heartbreaking as it was, they chose to pull the plug.
When the time came, the room was deadly silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering when the many monitors would announce the end. They didn't though, not that night or all through the next day. The next night, after the most stressful, anxious 24 hours of her life, my mom was still in the hospital room, with her youngest sister and their aunt.
Mom and her aunt stood by the window, looking up at the sky. One star shone bright, and they both found themselves making a wish. The same wish, both just wishing for this nightmare to be over.
A few minutes later, he died.
I never knew how my grandfather died. I never knew what a long, agonizing time it was. I never knew my mom was in the room with him when he died.
I think that's what pushed my sadness over the edge. Being there, watching a parent die, is the worst thing I can possibly imagine. It made me realize, my parents aren't immortal. Someday, hopefully years and years away, when even I am terribly old, my parents will die.
I don't know what I'll do; I can't picture my life without them. But it's inevitable, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it.
The only thing you can do, is cherish the time you do have with them. It makes me glad that my grandfather spent the last conscious night of his life how he did, with people he cared about, reminiscing on happy times.
I know sometimes I'll still be awful to them, but I want to spend more time like that with my parents. They're amazing people, and I just realized I won't have them forever. Better appreciate them as much as I can while I can.
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