Trauma

I wrote this for my English class freshman year. I truly believe my professor brought out something special from my writing. It had a sort of life. Now I feel like writing memos over and over has zapped out any creative ability I have. This is why I started this blog.

When I get a hangnail, I suddenly become depressed and reach for the nail file. Running the file along my nail returns the nail to a curve. It ends up not as perfect as the previous nail that was immaculately painted and shaped, but good enough. Getting over a traumatic event is like a file to your nails. It wears you down and keeps wearing you down until you take control and put it into perspective. After a traumatic event, the world changes shape and it will never return to its previous perfection.

My grandpa died when I was fourteen of lung cancer. He hadn’t told my dad about his diagnosis of cancer (or about his diabetes that he had for thirty years) until he was nearing death and had to get a nurse to live in his house with him. He was stubborn, but he was the most amazing man I have ever met in my life. He was a high-ranked Marine and was always determined to do everything himself. He was an avid Packer fan and lived less than a mile away from Lambeau Field. He called every Sunday night to check in on how my softball games were going. He ordered our Christmas presents out of random catalogues and every year bought us personalized pencils for school. My sister’s were always pastel, and mine were always brilliantly bright colors such as Hot Pink and Orange. He always told me that he chose those colors because I was an outgoing and strong-willed “firecracker.” He knew the real me, and he loved me.

One day, I was walking home from school with my friend Kristin. I called my mom when I got to Kristin’s house to let her know I was going to hang out at her house for the afternoon. She replied that I could not stay there and that I had to come home immediately. I was confused and angry, because her usual response would not have been that. My mom came over and picked me up in our little blue VW Beetle. I got in the car, and she looked distressed. We drove to my house in complete silence. In my opinion, Frankie Valli was wrong when he said, “Silence is Golden.” It is disturbing to me.

She sat me on the couch and started to explain what had happened. My dad traveled to Wisconsin the night before to go to a Fraternity reunion. He got to my Grandpa’s house and found him on his bed, not breathing. I was numb. I couldn’t feel anything, except my stomach dropping like I had lost the best thing in my life. We got on a plane to Green Bay that night.

I felt as though the world had turned against me. Why did this have to happen to him? He didn’t do anything wrong.

The next Sunday night, the phone was beside me and didn’t ring. The grief of losing my grandpa still files away at me sometimes, but I know that everything is still okay. Trauma also gives a sense of hope for the future. Although bad things happen to everyone everyday, we still get through it because we don’t give up- just as our nails continue to grow after a hangnail.

<3A.