I Remember The Day

There are days that must happen to you
Walt Whitman

I have blocked out a lot of the hard days that have happened to me. Then something so small can trigger some memory I didn’t even realize that I had. Then some days are vivid as if they happened moments ago.

I remember the day I was sitting at the kitchen table and Aunt Debbie telling me that mom was going to die. I remember the newspapers covering the entire table and how each one was placed. I kept scribbling while trying not to let any of my tears to drop. I refused to make eye contact with Aunt Debbie because then it would be real.

I remember the day that I walked into the sunroom with two milk bone treats and saw my Golden Retriever, Bobby, barking while standing at the open door to the back yard. I instantly felt that something was wrong. I walked out to find my other Golden Retriever, Rags, dead in the yard. I remember yelling her name over and over hoping just one more time of saying her name she’d pop her head up ready for the treat I had for her. She never moved.

I remember the day a week after Rags died. The day that Aunt Debbie told me that my dad had died. I was on Aunt Debbie’s king-sized bed. It was during a commercial break when she muted the tv. She started crying almost instantly when she said, “Logan I have something to tell you. It’s about your dad.” I said, “Okay.” Seconds after she told me I got off her bed and left. I went to my room and laid in the dark on my bed. I remember talking to God and saying out loud, “I am an orphan.”

I remember the day that Bobby died. It was the morning after the only night in over a year that I didn’t fall asleep with the thought of waking up to him dead. It was Mid-July and Aunt Debbie’s room was the only room with cold air so I was sleeping with Bobby on the floor. I woke up and Bobby didn’t wake with me so Aunt Debbie, sitting on the side of her bed reading a book, asked me to give him a shake to see if he would wake up. He didn’t. Aunt Debbie cried instantly. I quickly got up and went to my room and picked up all of his toys as if he didn’t exist. By this time I was tired of crying over everyone dying and refused to cry this time. Aunt Debbie stood at my bedroom door and said, “Logan it’s okay to cry.” I responded with, “I don’t want to cry,” while falling to my knees crying.

I remember the day that Aunt Debbie and I took Scrappy, our pit bull, to the veterinarian. He hadn’t moved for days before this visit. The vet came back in after he had taken tests and announced that Scrappy had pneumonia and cancer. Though medicine could prolong his life, it couldn’t eliminate cancer. Since the medicine was hundreds of dollars for barely a couple months added to Scrappy’s life, euthanasia was the best option. Before the vet could get those words out, Aunt Debbie started crying uncontrollably. Bobby and Rags were my dogs, but Scrappy was Aunt Debbie’s. Aunt Debbie stayed in the room but couldn’t handle being next to him while the injection was being made. Aunt Debbie pushed my arm while saying, “Logan, go and comfort him so he isn’t alone.” I held my tears back while I felt the life go out of Scrappy’s body. Aunt Debbie wanted to bury Scrappy, so we brought him home. The twenty or so minute ride back I held a body filled garbage bag so it wouldn’t go flying off the seat. I never did cry over Scrappy because I felt like I had to be strong.

I remember the day I had to call 911 because Aunt Debbie couldn’t breathe. I was asleep when she yelled my name. She thought she was dead so she forced me to blow in her mouth to help her breathe. When that wasn’t doing anything, I went to the front door and stared out waiting to see the lights of the ambulance. Once they got her into the ambulance, they didn’t move for minutes and minutes because her heart stopped when they intubated her. I knew she had died because the ambulance just stayed there until the fire truck came and one of the firefighters got into the driver’s seat of the ambulance and drove off. Both paramedics were in the back trying to revive her for over ten minutes. I called my cousin, but her phone was off since it was just before three in the morning. I stayed up the entire night waiting for my cousin to call me back. I was stuck in a tiny apartment with no way of getting to Aunt Debbie.

I remember the day, March 31st, almost two weeks after the 911 call, when Aunt Debbie went into cardiac arrest. I had just gotten back home from a full day of classes and work. My feet hurt so bad, and I barely made it into the door without collapsing from exhaustion. Barely an hour after I got home, I got a call that Aunt Debbie didn’t have long and we should get to the hospital. My cousin and I got to the hospital. My cousin went into the room where Aunt Debbie was unresponsive and her entire body uncontrollably shaking. She was so swollen full of liquid. I refused to go into the room, a lot like what I did when my mom was dying. Again, I refused to cry. Then Aunt Debbie’s friend got there and told me no matter what happened to Aunt Debbie she would always be there for me. That’s when I started to cry. When I got home from the hospital I cried myself to sleep. I was so scared. My heart had hurt from crying many times before, but I genuinely thought it was going to break that night.

I remember the day he slid his hand up my thighs. I was talking to another person that was standing on the other side of the counter when I felt his hand on the back of my knee. I continued talking to the one person while making more contact with them than I think I had ever done with anyone. I think it was because I had to focus on something while his hand continued to move up my leg. That was the start of many times of him touching me in a truck full of people.

I remember the day another girl told me that the same man was sending her inappropriate texts and that she had reported him to HR that previous week. I remember the feeling of my heart dropping. She then went to ask if he had sent me things not knowing he’d went further and touched me. I never went to sleep that night.

I remember the day he was terminated and was to never step foot back on the property except to empty his office. I remember checking his Facebook to see he had blocked me after he was terminated. I remember holding back my tears, once again, but knew I couldn’t hold them in. I went into an edit room aka my makeshift office, closed the door, and cried.

Sometimes I hate that these days had to happen to me. Sometimes I think, “Why me?” There are times that I think about how screwed up I am because of these days and the hundreds of other days. But I also think about how these experiences made me a better person.

If I hadn’t had some of these things happen to me, I can almost guarantee that I wouldn’t be that great of a person. Though I grew up in a chaotic environment not suited for a child, I lived in a privileged environment. I wouldn’t have been aware of that privilege to the extent that I am aware now if I had not lost it.

Despite the struggles. Despite the pain. Despite the issues. These days have made me who I am.