Kapiolani Community College
Diamond Journal 2003Fall

A Walk Through A Dark Scene
Danielle Reghi

For years my only experience with death had been those of my pets. I had never experienced a death of a family member. At the age of three, I lost my dog. My tears from that experience were dried with promises of a new dog. As I got older, my cat, mouse, fish, each of which died, were soon replaced with a new pet. These animals were all weak; I knew from the beginning that they would die, and that is why they were so easy to replace. So my life went on, cherishing the time I spent with these pets, but in the end accepting their deaths. Little did I know that reality was waiting for me just around the corner. Like a predator, he stalked me, dropping hints at first, and after time unleashing his force with cruel pleasure.

The first hint came to me as I got home from school one day. My mom was waiting to tell me that my grandmother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I shrugged off the idea thinking, “They will give her a hysterectomy and everything will go back to normal. She will be as healthy as she ever was. The cancer will magically go away, leaving us with nothing but happiness and joy for the future.” This thought turned into reality in my head, and a safe haven that I could go to whenever anyone brought the subject up. After all, my grandmother Tillie was the strongest person I had ever known. An amazing spirit full of strength and vigor could be seen through her light blue eyes. If one looked deep enough into those eyes, one would also be able to see all the torment of her former life. To show the world that she was a rebel, she had worn only large loose fitting dresses for as long as I had known her. Her dresses all seemed to be cut from the same seventies-like polyester material that fell over her full figured body like a large silk sheet. Rising high above her head like a curly gray halo, her gray curls were always free from any restraints . She was a firm believer that marijuana is incredibly healthy, yet she refused ever to visit a doctor. Her diet consisted mostly of liver, Coca Cola, and chocolate éclairs. She was incredibly easy to please; all one had to do was show her an ounce of kindness, and she would act as if that one small comment or gift was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. However, behind Tillie’s childish search for acceptance, there was a fiery temper; when provoked, her wrath would leave you frightened for days. Most of all, Tillie was my best friend, and in a sense, my hero. She was my Titanic, indestructible, a symbol of strength. Six months after Tillie had been diagnosed, reality struck. My Titanic had sunk.

I was the last in my family to find out Tillie had died. My parents told me on the car ride over to my uncle’s house. When we got there, I was still in complete disbelief. As the doors opened and I was shoved inside, the initial disbelief wore off. The faces of my family members, once so familiar and comforting, seemed foggy and blank. The noise in the room stung my ears before it turned into a low hum in my head. I stood there, my face blank, my mind a mess of emotions and confusions. “How should I feel? What should I do?” I thought. Out of the darkness my aunt had emerged, and I could hear her voice alone over the hum in my head. Her embrace, once so warm, felt cold and detestable as she spoke words devoid of feeling. “Oh, you just found out didn’t you?” Then just as suddenly as she had come, she was gone, without even waiting for any kind of response from me. My disbelief of her insensitivity turned into hate and anger; I could feel fire rising inside of me. I was absolutely dumbstruck, searching inside myself for a release for the amazing pressure that was building up inside my body. I felt as though my head would soon pop off, much like the top of a volcano blows off when the final eruption takes place.

My mother pushed me further into the room. The gesture seemed so hurtful and commanding that it felt like a dagger in my back. I looked for something soothing; the room seemed cold as if it had taken on the characteristics of its inhabitants. All of the friendly pictures seemed to be glaring at me, mocking me, in their own silent way. They taunted me with their blank stares and happy smiles, as though they were telling me that I had absolutely no reason to be miserable when everyone else seemed so happy. I obediently made my way to the brown overstuffed couch. I sat rigid on its now abrasive surface. Objects around me seemed to blur and join together as if they were ghosts. I desperately tried to make sense of this insanity that seemed to be eating me alive. I was scared, confused, angry.

The room grew darker until I could no longer make out a single object. “How could they all be so uncaring?” I wondered. I was appalled by every one of them. I wanted to get up and scream at them; I wanted to hurt them like they were hurting me. In my mind I was screaming, “The reason we are all alive is dead, and you want to go disco bowling!?! Has every single one of you completely lost your minds? Are you even human?” “Obviously not,” I thought to myself. “They’re evil.” My anger and hatred were boiling over into self-pity. A heavy blanket fell over me and seemed to say to me, “You are the victim,” it said, “Death has first robbed you of your grandmother, without you having a proper goodbye, and now these monsters are robbing you of your right to grieve.” Its voice filled my ears with warmth that extended throughout my body. I surrendered to its embrace, “Don’t let them win.” it said to me. Its comforting words tingled on my skin like fingertips; its first hand seemed to slide into my chest numbing the pain in my heart. “You are completely justified in these feelings,” it said, “You are right, they are wrong.” With those words its second hand found the core of my emotions and flipped the switch off, numbing all my pain. My self-pity brought me what I thought was sanity. My anger and resentments toward my family and toward death combined in me to give me new strength, so I could stand up and be numb to the world. I was in the state that I was most comfortable, and knowing this I could go disco bowling, which was way too colorful and joyful for my black morbid mood, go to the funeral, and survive the whole ordeal without so much as a tear. Some would say that behavior was “being cold hearted.” At that point in my life, it seemed like my only option; it was my survival mechanism.

Now that I look back at this experience, I realize that I was thinking completely irrationally. As a matter of fact when it comes to Tillie’s death I still tend to be a bit irrational. Grief is a very real thing; it makes people do things they would never have done before. In my case, Grief was too much for my, I couldn’t handle it, and to be able to cope with it I had to become a victim, so that I could become numb. The sad thing is the only person who is victimizing me, in these situations, is myself.