The Swirly.

I seem to think about you the most when I am driving, mainly because I spend what seems to be half my life driving and because it is one of the few times that my mind has time to be alone. We drove down to Charleston Thursday for a wedding that Jared is in, so while Jared and Reagan slept, I had a lot of a time to think of you. I kept searching my memories for some profound, life altering moment that shared with you but the one memory that kept surfacing was the time that Garrett gave you a swirly. I'm not sure if it was the knowledge that I would be seeing Garrett at some point in this trip or I subconsciously I wanted to laugh, but the image of you getting your head dumped in a flushing toilet kept rearing up. 

I'm not even sure I can accurately remember where this hysterical incident occurred, but I want to say it happened on Pennwaller Cove. I remember you doing what you seemed to do best, pestering Garrett, and working very hard at it, when he threatened you with a swirly. You had never heard of a swirly and kept inquiring as to what it involved. I'm not sure what provoked you to keep up your antics; whether your curiosity fueled you forward or that you even really cared because to you, any attention was better than none. But when he finally had enough of your insistent annoyance and deemed you worthy, you finally got to see, first hand, the wrath of the swirly. 

While Jared and I sat, with tears of laughter streaming down our faces, unable to control our amusement and laughter, Garrett took you into the bathroom and turned you upside down and dumped you, head first, into the swirling abyss of our guest bathroom toilet. 

While this event was hilarious in itself, the look on your we face, covered in the dripping mess of your hair, was nothing short of priceless. In all of your shock, horror, and disgust at the series of events that had just unfolded upon you by a beloved brother, you still found it in your good spirit to join in the chorus of laughter that erupted from 103 Pennwaller Cove. I remember being bewildered and a little proud of your uncanny ability to receive our unending abuse with such grace and poise and wishing that I could have just a little of your carefree, take-it-or-leave-it spirit. 

After you died, I was thinking about how I remember always trying to unveil the harsh realities of the world to you while you were living and thinking now, after you were gone, how silly I was for trying to break the spirit that truly made you who you were. I thought about how wrong I was to do that and that I should have worked harder to preserve that attitude throughout your life, one that was untouched by bitterness and injustice. 

If only more people could think the way that you did, what a wonderful place the world could be. Luckily, you never took anything I did or said too seriously and stayed true to yourself. All the while I was trying to teach you and, in fact, you taught me one of the greatest lessons I will ever learn. 

I would never admit this to you but I am glad that you never listened to me. 

                           
  

                        

Grace...or lack there of.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I haven’t slept really well in a lot of nights but last night I dreamt about you. In the dream you came to me in the middle of the night and you were trying to get me to remember this telephone number. I couldn’t seem to remember it for the life of me you kept saying, “it is a lot like that song, ‘867-5309’, but the number is ‘867-5662’”. So I kept singing it over and over again. I would be singing it and mess up and you would poke me in the rib cage, letting me know that I didn’t have it right, but the more that I sang it the more I kept getting the numbers mixed up. When I woke up this morning I was so angry at myself because it was so important to you that I remember that number and I couldn’t remember it, even with the song. I have literally been angry all morning and I just can’t seem to shake this feeling of complete failure, like I have absolutely let you down when you needed me the most.

After a rough two hours at work, I decided to close my door and listen to the song that the North Georgia Singers (your chorus group at NGCSU) dedicated to you at a recital, which you would have been at, at the Holly Theater the other night. The name of the song is Omnia Sol. I was immediately brought back to the dark of the theater and the beautiful song that those kids performed, when I was listening to it at work. I was curious about the words and lyrics, so I looked them up. The chorus goes: “O stay your soul and leave my heart, O stay your hand; the journey may be long! And when we part, and sorrow can’t be sway’d…Remember when, and let your heart be staid.” I had a pretty good idea of what staid meant, but I looked it up in Webster’s just to be on the safe side, and according to Ol’ Webster it means: marked by settled sedateness and often prim self-restraint. When I thought about it, it actually sounds like they are asking us to keep our heart doped up in a drug induced coma so as to mask our sorrow and uncertainess, because it is our sorrow that makes them so uncomfortable (I’ve always been the half glass full type of gal ;).

During the North Georgia Singers performance the other night, Jared leaned over to me and said, “I wonder if they were intelligent enough to put Chelsea on the risers and if they did, I wonder how many times she tripped coming down and walking up those things?” We both laughed out loud and inappropriately because we got a few stares. I was thinking in my head that they would have had to put you on high risers because you were so short no one in the audience could have seen you otherwise. Then I started thinking about the Polar Bear Swim at Lake Lanier two years ago. It was cold and rainy so the dock was super slick. When it came your turn to jump in, you took off running full blast, ended up slipping on the edge of the dock, and did the most ferocious belly flop into the lake. That was the most hilarious thing to see you do in front of all of those people! It reminded of a tweet I saw of yours the other day:

I laughed so hard when I read this because of the thousands of times I remember you tripping and/or falling in public. You were always so worried about someone seeing you do it. It is like a genetic disease in our family…lackofgracitis. Mom has it, you had it, and Reagan has it. I think it gets worse with each generation too.

As I was sitting there in the audience listening to these kids sing, I wondered how many of their lives were touched by you. I wondered how many of their lives were rocked and shattered by the news of your death. I wondered how many of them felt the need to sing along to every song on the radio and drive their families crazy. I giggled to myself and thought that they probably all did. Then I found myself searching the crowds of faces to see if I recognized any of them from the services all the while thinking, “Why does it matter?” I know it seems really strange but I find myself wanting to delve deep into your life, like I am searching for the person that was my sister. I just can’t enough knowledge about how you lived every day and I somehow feel like meeting your friends, reading the same books, listening to the same music, and going to the same places that you did are all going to bring me closer to you.

After that dream last night, I think I am just trying so desperately to hold on to you, specifically, your life. I think that I am afraid that if I stop trying to pursue your favorite people, places, and things that I will somehow lose sight of who you were.

But we both know who you were. The girl that fell down stairs and ran into parked cars and slept a lot and banged her head on tables. You are my sister and hopefully I can ‘let my heart be staid’.

This is Chelsea (far right) immediately after the award winning face plant. 

Aren't we all a little insane at times?

Reagan had her guitar duet with her instructor in church yesterday (she did amazing!). While I was waiting for church to begin, sitting in the pew in the empty sanctuary, I thought: Chelsea would have come to watch Reagan play, if she could have. As I was reflecting on this thought I imagined what you would say at the end of her performance. It would have been some sort of criticism about the way that she was sitting or the way that she was holding her guitar, it would have angered her to the core and it would end with you laughing at me saying, “What? I can’t help it she is over sensitive,” and Reagan crossing her arms and pouting. I would have said something to the effect of, “Chelsea, she is 7 and you are 19, please act your age and just leave her alone.” This thought was the first time that I had realized that you would have been sitting right there next to me, but you weren’t. It was the first realization that you would never again sit next to me in church, or anywhere for that matter.

Is this what that Keebler-Ross lady calls acceptance? I think it should be called “A Punch in the Gut.” The stages of grief should be redefined to include this exact step. The steps would go: 1) Denial, 2) Anger, 3) Bargaining, 4) Depression, 5) A Punch in the Gut. So when you are done with your heart wrenching sadness and pain, you feel the wind rush from your lungs when you suddenly realize that you are starting a life without your loved one, this sensation would feel much like someone punching you in the stomach. To me, that causes you to start the whole damn process over again, so it becomes this vicious cycle of highs and lows until you are either so insane that you learn to mask it or your husband decides to lock you away in a institute because you are about to drive him insane. Either way, there is a lot of insanity floating around.

I was thinking about the time (one of many) that I thought you had gone insane. You were in middle school at White County Middle and had just started a new year, I believe 6^th grade. You had just moved up to Cleveland from Savannah to live with your dad for a bit so you didn’t really know any of the kids at school. Once you get to school the staff herds you in to the cafeteria to be put into “holding” until the bell rings, signaling for the all clear to get to class and the day to begin. I am not sure to this day what could have provoked you to think that doing this was a good idea but you started banging your head on the cafeteria table in order to….make friends? Of all of the socially insane ways to make friends, this one might actually make the top ten best. I’m not really sure what kind of friends you were trying to attract but either way, your plight failed, and you were immediately ushered to the counselor’s office. Your father was contacted and so began an era. Your dad told me that for Christmas that year he was going to get you a pillow so when you decided to bang your head on a table to make friends at least you would have a soft place to land it. You, somehow, ended up making quite a gaggle of friends that year, regardless of your socially insane behavior in the beginning. I guess you always knew how to make a scene in the best possible way.

The dictionary defines insanity as the condition of being insane; a derangement of the mind. I truly believe that you were insane, especially in the above mentioned situation, but I also think that your insanity was an attribute to your intense uniqueness. Of course your inability to filter your words, smart mouth, and your dry sarcasm were also huge parts of your personality, but they are all characteristics that made you, you. 

Though sometimes it was difficult to tolerate, your personality could fill a room to capacity. 

I feel like we all go a little insane at times, just a rare few of us have the courage to show it off with pride in such a public manner. 

"Don't let the sun go down upon your anger."

During a recent instant message conversation with our mother she told me that she "is still angry with God". While the very idea of our mother's faith quaking, gives me the greatest heartache, I can’t say that I blame her. In the moment I replied with, “and you have every right to be”, and while I am uncertain if this was the correct route to take, it is what I felt in my heart. While I can only hope that “this too shall pass”, it got me to thinking of who I could find to deter her from placing the blame on God. The answer was as heartbreaking as the question, nobody. There isn’t a horrible person to put on trial for your murder, there isn’t someone to press charges on for driving under the influence, your car didn’t have some sudden malfunction that we were unaware of, we couldn’t even blame you for driving with less than perfect inhibitions or without a seatbelt. So who do we blame? Or do we blame anyone at all? Or perhaps we are just left to accept it for exactly what it was a callous, unexpected accident.

I started thinking about the trip we took to Savannah over Labor Day weekend and how we didn’t speak to each other at the whole way back to your dorm. I had wanted to get an early start back to Cleveland but you amazingly had “forgotten” I had ever mentioned that to you. You wanted time to go say bye to your boyfriend at his work before we left and I guess I was making that task more difficult on you. So you pitched a big fit and called me a bunch of nasty, profane names and refused to speak to me the whole way home. What are sisters for? So instead of talking we went to battle with the radio, with you picking one and blasting it, then me picking one and blasting it. By the time we reached your dorm in Kennesaw, we were laughing so hard about how we literally had a three and half hour sing off and not once did we say anything to each other. Good times.

Mom ended her instant message about her resentment towards God with me saying, “I don’t want to be angry with God because I am afraid he won’t let me come to Heaven and then I will never get to see Chelsea again.” I kind of giggled to myself and wrote back to her that if all we had to do was be angry with God to get rejected from Heaven then I had NO chance of getting in and might as well give up now.

I started thinking about one of the books that I took from your room because it was one of our favorites, Little Women. At one point, Jo gets so angry at her younger sister, Amy, for burning her novel during one of her fits. Marmee, in trying to alleviate Jo’s rage says to her, “It is a very great loss and you have every right to be put out but don’t let the sun go down upon your anger, forgive each other and start again tomorrow.” In the last few weeks this has become one of my favorite quotes because it speaks volumes to how one lives life after the loss of a loved one. Day by day we have to learn to live all over again, learn to forgive, learn to let go, and learn to hope.

I can only hope that our mom's anger subsides but if it doesn't maybe she can find a great song to blast instead.

"Hey, I'm not too proud to grovel."

I was texting with your idol, Paula, the other day. I had to ask her to deliver a copy of your death certificate to the Dean of Women at North Georgia College, a task I hated having to ask of her, but of course, she gladly accepted.

Talking to her reminded me of a trip to Savannah that we took over Labor Day weekend last year. We somehow thought it would be a good idea for me to come and pick you up in Kennesaw after work, but after sitting in a line of traffic that was literally stopped in its tracks for like an hour, I quickly realized we had not thought this through very well. After picking you up at your dorm, which reminded of a prison in a third world country, we were finally able to get through Atlanta and on our way.

We got hungry and needed a supply of coffee to help fuel the rest of the trip, so at about 10:00 we stopped in Macon at McDonald’s. You ordered your usual chicken nugget Happy Meal, but decided on asking for a boy’s toy, just to switch it up and throw off the drive through window attendant. I ordered a basic iced vanilla coffee and a grilled chicken snack wrap but announced that I would be stealing some of Reagan’s fries. The poor girl at the window must have been running on even less sleep than us because after 4 tries, one “please pull up and wait”, and an unpleasant trip inside, I finally got my chicken wrap, although it wasn’t until I pulled away that I realized it was fried, not grilled, and my iced coffee, that ended actually being hazelnut and not vanilla. Once we got back on the road you told me the devastating news that Vince and Paula had broken up (Vince is our brother and Paula was his girlfriend of several years, for whom Chelsea would often “stalk”). I am not sure if it was the delirium of the tedious trip, complete lack of sleep, or the extra sugar from the “nonfat, vanilla” coffee I had just received, but we began plotting ways to win her back. We kept taking turns pretending to be Paula while the other would act out a dramatic plea to “Please, come back to us!” We thought a good course of action would be to ask, “Was it something we said? Or did?” and then promptly send her some flowers professing our undying love and our unrelenting devotion. We laughed so hard at ourselves, literally thinking we could have very well been, in that moment, the two funniest people on the planet.

I remember then discussing how creeped out both Paula and Vince would be if we went through with our plot. You looked up from your phone and with the glow of the screen letting just enough light radiate your face you told me that you were not below begging and that you would stop at nothing to win her back whether Vince liked it or not. I believe your exact words were “Hey, I am not too proud to grovel.” We then continued on with our “diabolical” laugh.

I told Paula at your Memorial Service how much you loved her, so much so, that it kind of became a little obsessive and strange ;).

It is strange that the memory of that night has been one of the strongest I remember sharing with you. It wasn’t like that was the first time we had ridden a long distance together in a car or even the first time we plotted against someone for our own selfish purposes (we did that to Mom all the time). For some reason, that night, under the stars, on the most boring road on the planet, buried under a mess of fast food wrappers, slim jims, and coffee cups, exhausted, delirious, and on the brink of insanity, we started REALLY seeing each other for the first time, not as just sisters, but friends as well (even though I’m pretty sure I can hear you saying now, “No, Holly, why would ever be friends, you are too old”). So I will say that I know that I truly began to respect the women you had become and for the first time I was really excited about the years of friendship we could build together.

Well at least I got that night. Thank you.

When you "stalked" Paula in Hilton Head.

Poor Paula, ever smiling.

Vince being creepy with Paula.

Hindsight is 20/20

This morning I was listening to the radio and one of the girls on there, probably about my age, was talking about her 15 year old sister and how she sometimes thinks of her sister as more of a daughter than a sister because of the age difference. She talked about how she nagged her about keeping her life on track, staying away from boys, getting good grades, and making smart choices. She had gone so far as to prevent her from having a Facebook page. She was asking for advice about whether or not she was being too motherly and crossing a fine line.

Listening to her talk really hit close to home because it got me thinking about our own unconventional relationship and the last time I talked to you. Our last conversation took place on Christmas day at our Grandmother’s house and we (Vince included) had gotten in a fight over the very thing that this girl on the radio was talking about. The three of us went to blows because I was “too motherly” to the two of you and neither of you cared for it. I stormed out of our grandmother’s house that day and never looked back. We never got a chance to speak again.

It has taken me nearly three weeks to blog about this incident or even speak of it. I was so afraid that if I spoke of it and tried to say the words out loud that 1) I would not be able to even choke my way through it and 2) it would make it real, which it is, unfortunately.

Many of your friends, those that knew of our falling out, have approached me in the last weeks giving me words of comfort, most of them saying that it wasn’t on your mind and that you had long ago let it go. One of your friends told me that it didn’t have any effect on you and that it was not even a glimpse in your thoughts. I laughed at this thinking, “Of course it wasn’t, nothing I ever said had any effect on Chelsea.” It still doesn’t take away from the fact that I never let it go and it was and always will be forever on my mind. I can only hope that you knew that everything I have ever done or said to you was out of unwavering love.

You once came to me, late, on a Sunday night late in October last year hysterically crying and completely devastated over a recent incident that had wreaked havoc on your young life. I was in my bathroom drying my hair and you collapsed on the toilet seat and put your face in your hands. You were so worried that this one tiny bleep on the radar of your life was potentially going to leave you branded with a scarlet letter for life. I believe your exact words were, “My life is ruined.” I started laughing so hard at this statement that you started getting even more upset and angry. I finally pulled myself together and explained to you that in the ways of your naïve, teenage existence I could completely understand how you would think that because I could still recall thinking that same thing NUMEROUS times in my life as a teenager. Then I explained to you that you were so much more than that one incident; that it will never define who you are or you will become. I told you that one day, not long from now; you will look back at this time in your life and laugh so hard it would bring tears to eyes.  I also told you to look around, that you were not, nor ever would be alone; that you had a family that loved you immensely and passionately. I asked to see what lengths your father and mother had gone to to ensure your every happiness and to erase this incident from your memory. That no matter what your friends ever did or said, we would be standing beside you and nothing would ever change that. I told you that in the end your family is the only thing that will matter anyway, that while friends step in and out of your life, your family will be there forever. I meant every word of what I said.

You told me on the way out of my house that night that you felt better about the situation, I don’t really know if you actually did or you were just saying that, but I knew that soon that whole mess would be behind you.

If I knew now what I knew then. 

My shorts are not that short!

The weather has been absolutely amazing the last week or so, which got me to thinking today: "It would be about time for Chelsea to be pulling out those awful shorts". It was like you chose the smallest piece of fabric in your wardrobe and as soon as the weather got warm...out they came. I'm not even sure that those things could even constitute for clothing and should actually be categorized more as swimwear or underwear even. I would always ask if you actually paid money for your shorts and you would always reply, "My shorts are not that short! You are just old!". I would take being old any day over trying to squeeze my body, which has years of abuse and pregnancy wear on it, into that tiny bit of fabric. Honestly, I just couldn't have imagined having to ride long distance in them, walk long periods in them, or even bend over in them! Yikes! But that was you, always doing what you wanted and not taking anybody's criticism or judgement.

I remember last year (before the picture taken below was taken) you had been at the house in a pair of black "shorts" and said that you were going to take a shower before dinner. Garrett, Vince, and I spent about 20 minutes picking on you and asking you to please change your shorts before you came back. So, in the spirit of rebelling and sarcasm, you came back for dinner in the denim version of the same pair of "shorts". We all laughed and I said, "Chelsea, we asked you to change your shorts!", you simply replied with the biggest, sarcastic smile on your face, "I did, these are different." So you.

I was in the grocery store a few days ago with Reagan and as we rounded a corner I saw a girl at the other end of the aisle that looked exactly like you, or at least from a distance. As I started walking towards the other end of the aisle trying to get a closer look, she took off around the opposite corner. Even though I didn't need anything down the pet aisle, I found myself following her. As I continued to inconspicuously stalk this poor girl around the store just really wanting a closer look, I thought to myself, "Chelsea is probably making fun of me right now for being a creeper." When I finally caught up to her I realized that only one thing really struck me in that moment and that was, "My Lord, there are other parents in the world that allow their daughter to run around in those same, God-awful shorts?" I kind of giggled to myself which made her look up at me. The moments that followed can only be described as a series of very awkward events that ensue after you have been busted staring at someone, from which I panicked and fled the scene. I remember having a conversation with you on the way down to Savannah last year about those awkward "I just got busted staring at you and now I don't know what to do" moments; we laughed so hard. I will so miss seeing your unreasonably short shorts this summer, but because of you I laughed the whole way home from the grocery store that day.

Which makes me think: I wonder if they have a dress code in Heaven? I bet you don't follow it if there is one.

This was the family photo we took the night of the above conversation...not long after  she "changed".

Religion, The Quiet Room, and 7th Heaven

I was trying to remember the other day if I cried at my father's memorial service. I don't think I did. I do remember getting very angry during my teenage years about his death; mad at him, mad at God, mad at mom. I remember holding on to that anger for many years following and almost using it as a crutch and an excuse for shortcomings, which could have been hormones or could have just been crazy teenage banter, because when I look back now, I realize that I wasn't mad at any of those things, I was really taking on a form of extreme self-pity.

I have, in recent years, been trying to reconnect to the faith that I had when I was young and innocent, unaltered by the ways of the world. There has been a war raging within in me between my heart and mind and I knew I loved my church, but wasn't sure how in love with God I actually was, or if He even existed.

The night that you died was one of extreme madness. When someone dies at the hospital they put you and members of your family in this very tiny 8x8 room in a distant corner of the ER. All of the chairs are facing each other, almost as though they are forcing you to look into the face of the grieving relative that has just been exposed to the most horrid news of their being. I was able to sit in that room for about 30 minutes before I felt like the walls started closing in. After having to retell the tragic story and console the about the fifth relative, I realized that they should actually rename that room the Insanity Room. It should almost be a feat to conquer on Fear Factor: "Survive this and you advance to the next level". As I waited in that room, watching your Grandmother, aunt, cousins, father, and brother cry and go in and out of reality, I realized this was like hell on earth.

At some point, be it 3:00 or 5:30, while waiting for mom to arrive from Savannah along with our only other surviving sibling, I sat trying to prep myself to hold it together in the moment that would come that we would have to create a barrier of protection and literally hold up our grieving mother. I am not sure when it first came, or if it was an adverse reaction to lack of sleep, 12 pots of coffee, the in and out nausea, or just the emotional blackout that the combination of these things create, but I suddenly had this memory of the television show 7th Heaven. Specifically, I was remembering the countless of times, when you were about 7 and I was 15 (trying desperately to be cool with my friends), and every Monday night when 7th Heaven would come on you would run down the hall to my room at full speed and burst into my room and sing at the loudest decibel that you could reach sing "7th HEAVEN!". I would yell at you and slam the door in your face and then from behind the closed door we would hear you quietly say "Ouch" because the door hit you in the head.

I don't know what brought that memory to me that night but it replayed in my head over and over again. I think about it in hindsight and wonder: "Did I find God and was that my soothing memory?" It was like I finally let go and let the moment wash over me and in the same moment I found clarity. People might think it is crazy but I am hot headed by nature and find it hard to control my emotions but when faced with the adversity, nasty comments, and ignorance that I have seen in the last two weeks I can literally think of that moment and I am able to brush it off and walk away in complete peace.

This makes me laugh because I truly hated that show for so many years of my life and it now brings me the only comfort I have. It brings me the peace that I have been searching for so long, who would have thought? When I cry into my pillow and I feel a wave of peace, when after another pointless day of work I start to cry on the drive home but am stopped by a calmness, all because of you. Perhaps God and I found each other that night in a moment of clarity among a string of moments full of grief, sadness, regret, and questions I might have found what it was that I have been searching for my entire life.

I can only hope that you have found the peace that you deserve and are having (excuse the pun) a hell of a time in heaven.

Love you.

The should haves and have nots.

One of the most popular questions that I have heard in the last two weeks is: "What happened?" Normal, everyday people just trying to understand how this could happen to an "ordinary" family, all the while thinking in their head, "If something like this could happen to them, perhaps it could happen to me too." People seem to grasp at straws when faced with tragedy that hits so close to home. My reply to them varies day by day some days (the easier ones) I tell them what is only an assumption of the series of events that occurred as told from the kind Georgia State Patrolman that responded to the seen. On the bad days, I simply look at them and say, "Does it matter?" This statement might sound cold, but reliving the story doesn't change the fact that you are gone and we are here, left to pick up the broken pieces of our shattered existence. 

I have listened to so many comments, conversations, and statements of the "what ifs" and the "should haves".  Really, does it matter? What if you had still been driving that truck? What if a friend had told you to just stay home? What if someone had told you about the storm? I should have stopped her. I should have done more.    What if she had taken a different route? I even heard about someone asking why you were out at 10:30 at night, they obviously have a severe case of amnesia and can't remember being 19. I guess that is normal, though. It gives people comfort thinking that your fate could have been changed by their words or actions. Something I realized that night in the hospital was that no one could have done anything and nothing could ever bring you back because life doesn't give do-overs. Wouldn't that be nice if it did?

What happened that night, I truly believe, was an act of God, and as mere mortals on earth, He is not an entity we can reckon with. A series of events unfolded that led to your tragic loss. That is fact.

My only regret is one that has nothing to do with what came to be that night, but more to do with the fact that I hadn't eaten up as much time as possible with you while you were here. Now I am left writing my sentiments to you in a blog, which hardly seems sufficient.

According to Kubler-Ross the five stages of grief are 1) Denial, 2) Anger, 3) Bargaining, 4) Depression,    5) Acceptance, and I have played witness to at least the first four and have been guilty of acting them out as well. Acceptance, I think, is probably the hardest to grasp because how do accept a 19 year old's sudden death? In true Chlesea character, I have actually been taking these stages on in reverse. I was talking to a friend last night and told her that the further I get from the night of March 3rd, the easier it is to deny it ever happened. But then I started thinking today: Who is this Kubler-Ross chic anyway?

Jared took Reagan fishing down at the creek today and I remember last summer when I took you down there to try to teach you how to fish. HA! A lost cause, as I quickly realized. I spent an hour trying to teach you how to bait a hook while you spent an hour texting. I finally gave up on that task and moved on to teaching you how to cast the line, for which you got stuck in a tree, a rock, and the embankment 40 feet opposite to us. By the end of the two hour session, I had baited, cast, and reeled in "your" fish, and you were so excited, but then gave me a lecture about how disappointed PETA activists would be at the cruel treatment of the fish in the creek and went back to texting. I never invited you to go fishing with me ever again.

Even if I did in the moment, I don't regret trying to teach you how to fish that day, and I like to think that you didn't either.

So, Where Do Butterflies Go When It Rains?

It's amazing how tragedy changes you. How one event can change your daily habits and you are constantly noticing things that you were completely blind to before the tragedy occurred.


I was reading the newspaper this morning and for whatever reason, flipped straight to the obituaries (for which you would have said I was being morbid). I noticed that there was a 17 year old boy that died this week in a car accident when he was ejected from his jeep. I thought about his mom and dad and wondered if they were experiencing the same flood of emotions fueled by the same desire to find the answer as to why this happened as your own parents did just two short weeks ago. I read that he had 3 brothers and 2 sisters and wondered if they felt the same emptiness that we feel for you. It brought back a lot of the terrible feelings that I have been trying to oppress. 


Then I started thinking: Is this how it will always be? Every time I pick up a newspaper, will I flip to the obituaries and notice the ages of the people who have tragically lost their lives? Will I have this overwhelming desire to read the tiny paragraph that their sobbing parents had to come up with while planning their child's funeral? Will I always sit there and wonder how they were ever able to sum up their child's life in a 4x4 square on page 7A? I then figured it was (a harsh but necessary comparison) much like when someone you knows buys a new car and for weeks after you first set your eyes on it you start noticing all of the cars on the road that look like that car. That is just human nature, right?


I guess that it won't stop with the weekly obituaries because I noticed that everything sets off a new wave of thoughts and memories. 


It started raining on my way to school today and I was reminded of the time when we were driving somewhere and it had started to rain. You were quietly sitting there and then out of nowhere you turned and asked me where butterflies went when it rained. I laughed so hard and asked you how or why you were even thinking about that. In true Chelsea fashion you smiled and said, "So, do you know, think about it, where do they go when it rains?" Your determination to find out was silly and insignificant to me at the time, not to mention the fact, that I really had no idea. But today after class I so badly wanted to get home so that I could find the answer. 


So here it is, a few years too late, but a valiant effort to say the least. According to kidsbutterfly.org (because if there was anything I have learned in my 100 years in college, it is to never trust a .com site),
"Butterflies hide when it rains. They usually go to the same places they do for the night. Some butterflies hide under large leaves, some crawl down into dense leaves or under rocks, and some just sit head down on grass stems or bushes with wings held tightly. If the rains are exceptionally hard or of long duration many of the butterflies become tattered or die."
 
I wonder if there are butterflies in heaven? Even there are, I'm sure that it doesn't rain.
 
Love,
Holly

A nickel a day...

If I had a nickel for every time I had someone tell me, "Don't worry, Holly, time heals all wounds". Really? What about cancer? Or HIV? Time just seems to make them worse.

I have decided that when it comes to grieving, time doesn't heal anything, it only makes it easier to talk about. I really think that a person just runs out of tears, as I seen in the last few days. The sadness is sitting there like a rock in the pit of my stomach, but I just can't release those tiny water droplets. It is like those little carousels at grocery stores that you put a quarter into and to keep going around (in endless circle, mind you) you have to insert another quarter. The only problem is that you used all of your quarters paying for the milk inside the grocery store because it has become like a liquid gold these days. God only gives you so many tears per incident, and if you have no more quarters...well tough luck.

It is the little things that you start to notice when time has literally stopped, like not being able to shed tears, people tiptoeing around you like they are walking in a museum and if they speak too loudly they may shatter the Mona Lisa. The Mona Lisa, made of thick canvas and gooey paint, sits on her perch and smiles at you...reminds me of work.

I passed a fire station today and thought about the time that you told me that instead of going to college that you were going to become a fire women. You thought it was just so cool that they got free food and a free place to live. It wasn't until, after laughing heartily, that I had to explain to you that they only stayed at the station when they were on duty and that on average (for our region of life) they only made about $8.00 an hour. Hardly enough for your champagne taste. I also remember telling you that money wasn't important and that being a fire fighter was a noble and respectable job, but very dangerous. You would have made a terrible fire fighter, by the way, but I would have loved to see you try.

You are loved.
Holly

10 days.

Dear Chelsea,

Today was a little harder than usual. It was so difficult to talk to anyone at work. I really felt like anything that they said just wasn't important and I just didn't care. Trying to be happy for someone's latest achievement, or a girl that found a new boyfriend, or a someone's latest hobby seems virtually impossible. It isn't like I'm not happy for them but everything seems so tiny and minuscule compared to the life that was lost.

I have been trying to catch up with school work and everything I have turned in has been WAY below my standards, but you already know that. I have an accounting test on Thursday and can't seem to muster enough determination to study.

I did remember some pretty fantastic memories. I was thinking about how you would ask to borrow $20 to go buy my birthday present, or how you were so cheap that you wouldn't go buy a card, instead you would grab a used 'Happy Anniversary' card and mark out 'Anniversary' and any names in it and fill it in with my name. I remembered when Jared, Dan, myself, and you went to eat at Driftaway Cafe in Sandfly and mid bite you dribbled a dollop of mustard on your pants; for the rest of the day Dan kept looking at you and saying "And they called her ol' mustard pants". Jared and I still laugh at that one.

I find the memories coming in waves, here and then gone, leaving only a huge void in their wake.

I actually almost google talked you today wanting to give you the agenda for Easter, for our traditional Easter dinner, then I remembered that I can't.

Your friend Sarah "Faced" me today. She wrote some very nice things and then told me that from this tragedy, her faith has been confirmed. She told me that she knew there had to be a heaven, where else could such a huge personality fit? I thought that you would think it was impressive that you have quite literally brought religion into people's lives.

Love,
Holly

9 days have passed.

Dear Chelsea,

Though it hasn't gotten any easier and is still completely unbelievable, it is nice to know how loved and admired you were. We had two memorials for you last week: one on Monday at the church and over 300 people showed up, the second we had at your old high school, Savannah Arts Academy, where another whopping 140 people turned up. You would be so impressed.

The chorus from the class of 2011 got up and sang "The Lord Bless You and Keep You". This was the only thing mom requested from the service. I spoke on behalf of our family at both services and could barely hold it together at the second one.

I found a beautiful glass perfume bottle to put your ashes in. I put the opal ring that I gave you for graduation on a necklace with a music note pendant and wear it every day. We were also able to find your Tiffany & Co. necklace at mom's house. She was so worried about that necklace, she wants Reagan to have it.

I can't begin to imagine what our lives are going to be like with out you in them. It seems that no matter what I do I can't seem to do enough to hold on to your memory. I got a little angry yesterday when I was in the grocery store because I looked around and no one felt like I did, no one felt the truly devastating sadness and the heaviness that sits on my chest. I look around and see everyone around me going about their lives like nothing happened and I then have to remind myself that perhaps they were just not fortunate enough to meet you. How can they be mad that there is another angel in heaven?

Love,
A Sister Forever


This is a video that one of Chelsea's friends, Summer, wrote and performed for her. She did an amazing job.

1 week and a day since you've been gone.

My sister, Chelsea, was born on a beautiful, sunny, Monday morning 20 years ago on October, 19, 1992 at Northside Hospital in Atlanta, GA. She left this world far too soon on a dreary, rainy, windy Friday night less than 1 week ago. She was killed in a car accident while innocently driving to a friend's house that night and got caught in the storms. She was pronounced dead at 2:00 am at Northeast Georgia Medical Center in Gainesville, GA.

While that may not be important to anyone who didn't get a chance to meet this extraordinary girl, it has changed the course of my life, indefinitely. To me, it was the life in between that is important. This blog is to help cope with the loss of her life and the life she will never know, memorialize who she was, and spread the word about her infectious personality.

This is Chelsea Lynn Kiessling