A Tear (CCHS & Life on a Personal Note)

(Taking a break today from the Berks Catholic posts to reflect on a more personal aspect of it.)

Death is a part of life. We all know that. We all expect that.

Death comes in many ways. From the end of an era to the passing of someone close to you, it closes one chapter in your life and begins another. Having lost many friends and family and survived life’s unexpected and tasking challenges so far, two of the most important lessons I’ve learned are that time doesn’t necessarily heal the pain and one can never forget. Then again, these aren’t always bad things.

After about a week or two, news of my cherished high school’s closure finally sunk in over the past couple of days. Today I found out that the individual dreams and aspirations of several old friends of mine came to an end. And, this afternoon the last of my childhood pets passed away.

When trying to offer solace, I often find myself saying, “It could be worse.” Applying that logic to my own circumstances, my thoughts can easily conjure a hundred more desperate and sad scenarios. After all, it’s only a school and a pet. I could’ve lost my home and a person, right?

You see, my alma mater and dog (Lexie) are tied together, symbolically anyway. My family got Lexie when I was in high school (yes, she had a very nice, super-long life). The point is that within one week I’ve lost two important pieces of my past. Figuratively, high school is a place where we transition from childhood to adulthood; literally, the building is our home away from home during our teen years. Whether we like it or not, the CCHS teachers and administration were very much a part of our extended families. Lexie was a member of my family and the spoiled baby at that. Just like school provided us an escape from our personal troubles at home, Lexie was my family’s silent therapist as she would always be willing to console and play with us.

Digging deeper, it’s important to note that I’m not just living in the past or dreaming of better days gone by—because they certainly weren’t better. I love my family and life today. The thing is that seven years ago my husband and I made a decision for our new family that physically severed the ties to our pasts.

When we moved to California, we left behind our individual families, our friends, the home we created as well as our childhood homes, the familiarity of our hometown, and all the places that meant something to us—Gring’s Mill and Lausch Parks where we used to go for walks and just muse about life and music, CCHS Stadium (the place where we fell in love over football season ’93), Berkshire Mall (the only place we could really go to hang out when we were teens), Arby’s @ Fairgrounds (Jeff’s 1st job), Boscov’s East (my 1st job), the list is endless.
California was a fresh start and was a dream come true since we finally got out of Reading—something we always wanted. Seven years later (and it didn’t even take this long to figure it out), Reading had everything we wanted for our family (except viable jobs for us—a big issue, yes). Most importantly, it was an inextricable part of our joint histories.

As I’m constantly reminded by native Californians, what’s not to like here? Quite frankly, nothing! It’s breathtakingly beautiful, there are hiking trails a-plenty, wine country is in our backyard, and within a few hours you can be in the desert, mountains, or ocean. Though our “new” friends are few; they’re wonderful. Our life is everything we always dreamt of, but it’s not home. Why? Because our families are “home.” And home isn’t here; it’s 3,000 miles eastward.

Living so far away we’ve missed the most important days of our family and friends’ lives—graduations, weddings, births, baptisms, funerals, family reunions, class reunions, holidays, and just hanging out with them—going to a concert or two, having a glass of wine over a great conversation, and offering a physical shoulder to cry on when it’s needed most. As our parents get older and siblings lives’ evolve, we’re not there to help them. Our children are growing up fast and their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins are missing out on valuable time with them.

With CCHS’ closure in a matter of months and Lexie gone, two important pieces of my childhood history will have died. Yes, life will go on; it always does. And great memories help me cope. And yet, even if just for one moment, I’d love to walk the halls of Central and hug Lexie one last time to say goodbye to them and to an era.

Cherish every second of today for tomorrow it may be too late…

Saying Goodbye

In a few short months silence will echo permanently in its three floors of winding hallways. The once bustling corridors of students pushing their way to class—some begrudgingly, others enthusiastically—will be mere memories haunting the emptiness. A history we thought would live on for our children and our children’s children will come to an end.

Reading Central Catholic High School (CCHS) in Reading, PA isn’t just any school. Most are built for the specific purpose of educating students. As such, certain elements and conveniences are built in and modernized for the faculty and pupils. But half of CCHS is a historic landmark. It had a history long before any student ever set foot onto its property. (But that’s a story for another day.)

After years of dwindling enrollment, this private school succumbed to the recession and its inevitable fate was sealed by the Allentown Diocese. While I understand the decision to merge CCHS with (its arch-rival) Holy Name (HN) from a business perspective, there has been a vehemently vocal push from some members of the HN community (and less vocal but staunch CCHSers) to reject becoming a unified school under the Berks Catholic title and remain “Holy Name.” True, this is a generic union of two schools with long, fascinating histories. However, what these “good” Catholics are forgetting is that the CCHS institution is losing everything—its building, its traditions, its memories, and more—by moving into the HN building. It’s a necessary move in order to keep secondary Catholic education alive in Berks County, but it’s one that I’m sure current CCHS students, parents and alumni are finding a difficult one to accept.

The closure of CCHS feels like a death in the family. You see, CCHS is so much more than just another school. It’s our school. It represents everyone who wandered its halls. Awkward teen-dom was survived there. The most impressionable and important years of our lives leading to adulthood were spent in its halls and classrooms. It defined who we were then and who we are today. Though with each passing year its memories are fading, CCHS will forever live on in our hearts.

Closing the school is a necessary “evil” in this economic climate and makes financial sense, but CCHS is more than a business. It’s filled with thousands of individual stories. I met my husband in Freshman Homeroom #2. I made friends and lost friends in its halls. Fates were decided. Dreams came true and some were dashed. Hearts were broken, but lifelong friendships were made. Limits were pushed; detentions served (and in some cases using a toothbrush to scrub the sacred marble staircase—more on that in another blog). Academic, athletic, and personal challenges were faced head on; we won some and lost a lot. In these four vital years, we entered as children and left as adults.

Central lives on through each of us. We may not have a spectacular one-of-a-kind building to call our home anymore or CCHS homecomings at the football field on St. Lawrence Avenue, but we carry the school’s spirit, its lessons, and its memories in our unforgettable tales and our lasting friendships.

I can’t believe I’m saying this to Catholics who are supposed to support each other and their communities. It’s time to put aside differences and understand that CCHS and HN will live on as Berks Catholic.
• Centralites: The decision has been made. The school is closing. Remember the past, but look to the future.
• Holy Namers: It’s a merger, not an acquisition. Both schools need to blend. Get used to it.

New traditions will be forged. New opportunities will come to pass. And as long as both schools’ alumni live, the wonderful memories and traditions of CCHS and HN will live on through our stories, our actions, and our efforts to preserve both identities while peacefully compromising to create a better, richer community for the future Berks Catholic students, who ultimately are our future in Reading and beyond.

We are adults. Our children learn from our actions in what we do and say. More importantly, the leaders of tomorrow learn from their parents first. Shouldn’t we set an example for our children by teaching them that compromise is a necessary way of life? In a situation like this feelings on all sides are going to get hurt and no one at the moment is going to be 100% happy with the decisions and choices that are made. But twenty years from now Berks Catholic alumni will be grateful that private, college prep education was available in their backyard and, more importantly, provided a solid, moral foundation for their lives.

The situation could be worse. Both schools could close in this economy and Catholic education—along with both CCHS and HN’s rich pasts—would be nothing more than a forgotten page in Reading’s quickly vanishing history.

Image:
The title page of our 1996 yearbook foreshadows the state of the school today.

Cancer

Less than 24 hours apart, two of my friends lost their mothers to cancer this week.

Over the years five of my family and friends died from cancer. Like many of you, I know countless others who have been touched by this horrible disease and have lost loved ones to it.

The statistics* are scary:
• In 2010, 1,529,560 Americans died from cancer.
• Nearly one of every four deaths is because of cancer.
• More than 1,500 people in the U.S. die from cancer every day.
• 28% of all new cases are attributed to prostate and breast cancers.
• 29% male / 26% female deaths in 2010 were due to lung and bronchus cancer.
• 10,700 new cases of childhood cancer were estimated in 2010. About 1,340 children aged 0 – 14 were expected to die from cancer last year.
• The probability that we will develop an invasive cancer in our lifetimes is estimated at 44% in men, 38% in women.
• A little good news: The survival rate is 68%, up from 50% 35 years ago.

Early diagnosis and treatment is best, but prevention helps too. The American Cancer Society recommends we maintain a healthy weight, have an active lifestyle, eat healthy (lots of fruits and veggies), and limit alcohol intake.

Let’s honor those who’ve lost their valiant battles to this deadly disease by making a commitment to take care of ourselves (i.e. stop smoking, eat right, wear sunscreen, go to the doctor [this is always the hardest], etc.). No more procrastination, the time for change is now. Cancer doesn’t wait. Why should we?

To K & J: May you find comfort in your family and friends and may happier memories carry you through this difficult time.

* Resources:
American Cancer Society
Cancer Facts & Figures 2010
Treatment & Support
Staying Healthy

Live, Laugh, & Love

Life has a funny way of knocking you off your feet. With the rush of the holiday season adding to the stress of personal and professional commitments, I had a mini-breakdown this morning. A trusted and wise friend suggested I take an hour and just relax. Taking a deep breath to convince myself that a break was indeed needed, I figured I’d check the world of Facebook to see what my friends have been up to lately. And there it was, news that a classmate and friend had passed away.

Like a movie sequence where the world around you continues to spin while time stops in your mind, all of my selfish cares and worries vanished. People die every day, but today it happened to someone I know. Someone who in his early 30’s was way too young to go. As “they” say, the good die young. And, it’s true.

I can’t be certain of what lies beyond our world, though I believe our souls live on in one form or another. One thing is for sure, he’ll never again feel the sunshine on his face the way we can. He’ll never again feel the physical embrace of those who loved him. The seasons will come and go without him. The world will be slightly emptier and sadder with him gone.

On my way to get my son from school today, I passed a house with tons of Christmas lights and decorations. Until that moment, it had looked like any other house trimmed for the season. Only now, it was different. It served as a reminder to savor every moment. Christmas lights, decorations, and presents too often end up as the focus of our holiday planning. We want to make everything perfect when everything we need is already with us. It’s in a hug from our kids or a wave from a friendly neighbor. It’s in the love of our families and friends and a kind gesture from a stranger. What matters most is the priceless, un-buyable, and unconditional love we give and receive from family and friends.

While John was a wonderful person and friend to those who knew him, his spirit lives on in the hearts of everyone he touched. And those who didn’t have the privilege of knowing him can hopefully take something away from his sad passing. Life is too short. Love fully. Laugh often. Seize the day.

John~ Wherever you are now (I’m picturing you playing vampire games on heaven’s facebook network), know that we will keep you in our memories and hearts forever. It was an honor to know you and watch you grow from the shy kindergartener to the sarcastically-witty friend with a contagious smile. You were a unique star in our universe and though your light has gone out, it will never be forgotten. RIP.

Life, Death, and the Choices in Between

We drive through the intersection and I cringe waiting for the question.

“Mommy, when is Melodie coming back,” my four-year-old asks for the third time this week.

He keeps asking not because I don’t provide an answer. He asks because he doesn’t understand the answer.

“Melodie is in heaven, sweetie,” I say.

How do you explain the intangible to a child? A year ago, Melodie was a smart, happy, shy but friendly nine-year-old. A year ago today, she went for a walk with her dad when a drunk driver struck her as she crossed the street. A year later, our community is still grappling with the aftermath of this tragic and avoidable accident which devastated her family and friends.

We pass through the intersection and my son pushes on, “How did she get there?”

Struggling with a way to explain it in terms he can understand, I say, “Her ghost went there and now she’s with God, the angels, and all the people who love her there.”

He nods and looks through the window visibly trying to process this concept as my thoughts drift to the “What ifs?” of the situation.

What if the man riding his motorcycle that night had someone who could take away his keys? What if he was jailed or had his license revoked for the six other DUIs he committed over the years (a scary thought to consider—he was only caught six times; how many other times did he get away with it and put himself and others in danger)? What if in the split second that he started the ignition he changed his mind and decided not to go for a ride that night? What if he started his ride two minutes later?

Lifting another bottle of beer to his lips, inserting the key in the ignition, driving 60+ mph in a 35 zone – what if he didn’t make just one of these decisions? So many choices yet the one he made had irreversible consequences.

Every day we make decisions that impact those around us. While our intent is never to harm anyone, what if a split second choice altered our reality and lives forever?

The police tape, chalk outlines, and flower memorial are long gone, but the imprint of that moment in time can never be erased. Tomorrow when we drive through the intersection my son will ask again. I’ll tell him about heaven and we’ll say another prayer for Melodie.

And I’ll think about her unapologetic murderer as he rots in his tiny jail cell and how one tiny decision could’ve altered his fate and saved a little girl’s life.

Gone but Not Forgotten

November is a sad month for me. Three people who touched my life indescribably passed away in November. Time has not healed the pain left by their abrupt departures. However, their memories comfort me. So, in honor of them, today’s blog is a tribute to these three wonderful souls.

Alexis
I met Alexis at work when I was pregnant with my first son. We shared an instant connection. We were both English majors in college. She was extremely well read and intellectual, but never flaunted her knowledge or made anyone feel uncomfortable. We often discussed writing a series of books together—a passion we both shared and never had time for. Genuine and real, Alexis was easy to like.

Coming off of a disappointing divorce, she was in the process of rebuilding her life and doing her darndest to make ends meet and be happy. She took on an extra job at a local landscaping nursery; she loved the outdoors. We’d speak about flowers. Once she came across blue/purple alyssum seeds and gave me a packet because she knew I liked them.

After I moved to California, we lost touch until mid-2007 when a mutual friend of ours told me that Alexis had been battling a deadly disease. I reached out to her and she replied—optimistic as ever. After spending months in the hospital, her last update was filled with a positive outlook: she felt better and was hoping the doctors would release her soon so she could go home.

That day never came.

Alexis passed away in November 2007.

Easy friendship, honest, unpretentious, organic, healthy (she exercised every day and ate impeccably well), kind, caring, supportive, sweet, smart

Alexis was a good soul and a blessing to have known for such a short time. Alyssum fills my gardens today. Every time I pass by them, I’m reminded of our sweet but brief friendship.

Andrea
Junior year of college was filled with many changes for me—the biggest and most challenging of which was my first year as a resident assistant. Luckily, my honors students were as wonderful and fun as they were incredibly smart.

Andrea was the outgoing life of every party. She was friendly with everyone and fiercely loyal to her close friends. Boy crazy and fun loving, she was also immensely deep, kind, and brilliant—intellectually and personally.

Post college, we kept in touch via e-mail over the years. I remember her feeling sick frequently and eventually her health interfered with her work. After testing, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She never complained to me. Her updates were always filled with hope, trying new tests and treatments when others failed.

In the summer of 2007, I headed back to Pennsylvania to celebrate my sister’s bridal shower and wedding. Both visits were packed solidly with non-stop responsibilities and events. Both times Andrea asked to get together with me. Both times, I regretfully had to decline.

If only…If only I had known then, what I know now. I had no idea how seriously her condition had deteriorated. On November 29, 2007, Andrea lost her battle with the disease.

Passionate, fun, inspiring, hopeful, positive, motivating, vibrant, a true star among a midnight blue blanket of normalcy

Andrea remains in my memory as the optimistic, whirlwind force of nature she was when I first met her. Her hopeful outlook on life is one that continues to inspire me today.

Keresztpapa (My Godfather)
I miss him. Miss him terribly. This November 5th marked the 20th anniversary of his death and it still hurts as much as it did then.

My dad’s parents died when he was a teenager. My godparents (my dad’s brother and sister-in-law), who were much older than him, brought him to the United States from Hungary and helped him get started here. My godfather fulfilled the role of grandfather for me. There was never a doubt in my mind that he loved me. He was firm but kind and always up to something—he was playful and loved to tease me and my siblings. Then there were the presents—the rocking horse on springs which reminded me of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, the enormous stuffed bunny for my 3rd Easter, and, who can forget, the live, white rabbit he surprised me (and my parents) with on another Easter.

I watched him play cards and drink with my dad and his closest friends. He was always telling stories and laughing—though I’d seen him get into rather serious conversations and debates with my dad, who was more like an overly-opinionated son to him than little brother.

Twenty years ago, my cousin called to tell us that he passed away unexpectedly overnight due to complications from leukemia. The shock and the pain of this ripped my entire family to shreds. Somehow we managed to get through that week, but the emptiness brought on by his absence was—and still is—physically palpable.

Despite the two decades separating us from the day he crossed over, I can still hear his voice call me “Kis Szivem,” Hungarian for “My Little Heart.” Whether it’s a manifestation of our missing him or a call from the other side, he’s visited me and the rest of my family in our dreams. Ironically, he’s always at the center of a party and having a blast. The dreams are never sad and just his way of letting us know he’s still with us.

Some people touch our lives for a brief moment, yet their impact is undeniable and permanent. Others play bigger roles in our being and their mark on us is like a tattoo that can never fully be erased.

The main lesson I’ve learned from all the deaths of family and friends over the years is to make the most of every minute with those around you. We never know when their time, or ours, will be up.

Alexis, Andrea, and my godfather were taken too soon. I find great comfort in knowing that we’ll see each other again in the next life. For me right now, they live on through the happy memories we shared and the pictures that speak a thousand words in the empty silence they’ve left behind.

Life: A Momentary Blip in Time

A breath. A kiss. A taste. A tear. Feeling one minute, void the next.

I read a phenomenal (and highly disturbing) blog post today which poignantly captured the delicate balance between life and death.

Every day that we don’t think about mundane things like breathing, loving, and just being, we take life for granted. You can be going about your daily routine, running to the grocery store, taking the kids to soccer practice, when without any warning your time may be up.

Throughout my life I’ve always worried about death—never so much about what waits on the other side, but losing someone we love here. When I became a parent, the fear multiplied a hundred fold. I agonize over keeping my kids safe from themselves and from others. I worry about them when I drop them off at school or watch them play a sport. I hope for their sake that my time won’t come until they’re adults and able to live without me. Though it’s not a sadistic or oppressing part of my daily thoughts, death is ever-present thanks to experiences like my car accident which could’ve been a lot worse and a little girl in our neighborhood who was struck and killed by a drunk driver as she crossed the street a few months ago.

After rereading my manuscript over the weekend, death is preying heavily on my mind. Though “Eternity is not Enough” touches on many topics, the unavoidable idea of death shapes the entire series and even grabs the reader in the preface.

The vampire storyline pushes the basis for the plot into paranormal fiction; however, the theme of losing those you love is something which everyone can understand. Ultimately, the lesson learned (in both my fictional and real worlds) is that we’re all at the mercy of fate and, one way or another, life goes on.

Life is precious. Life is fleeting. Make every moment count.