I'm dedicating this blog post to George L.--a dear friend of mine who underwent brain surgery just under a week ago.
When you awake from sleep, the world is blur (Max Payne reference) because everything is disjointed: Lights flicker and sting your eyes. Your head feels fuzzy, muddled. You're confused, disoriented. And sometimes you don't know where you are. Sometimes you despise rising from sleep, whether it be because you were loving the dream the neurons in your brain were firing--the subconscious playing the good angel on your shoulder--or because sleep is sometimes the only time to escape the problems of your perceived reality. And sometimes you love rising from sleep to escape what has haunted you during the night--your subconscious turning to the demon on your other shoulder, throwing nightmares to your brain like jagged rocks, cutting at your vulnerabilities.
I don't remember my reason for waking that Saturday; my guess is I was forced from slumber; sleep, lately, had been a respite from my troubles. But what I do remember was grabbing my phone and reading the message that had been sent to me via facebook: my friend had been found unresponsive and he had a three inch mass that needed to be removed from his brain. I sat there for a moment, not thinking. And even looking back I can't tell you what I was thinking or feeling in that moment. I do know I wanted to hop on a plane and do something, but then I thought no that wouldn't solve anything. After the initial numbness faded, I felt scared, terrified actually. Sadly, selfishly terrified. I didn't want to lose my friend. I kept asking God: why him? George is the only man that I would use the word "pure" to describe him. That's what he is--innocent and pure. And to have something like this happen to him is just plain wrong. And forget about your beliefs: I don't care if your atheist, agnostic, buddhist, jewish, whatever. Everyone asks the same questions when something like that happens to someone, to someone who I could objectively say is just a "good" person--why him? what did he do wrong? He doesn't deserve this.
I met George through my ex-girlfriend, Megan. I don't exactly remember how--college, like rising from sleep, is a blur. But for the last two years of my collegiate career, I spent almost every waking moment with George--not kidding. We were on the same tract, took the same classes, studied and had some of the same passions. We also shared similar problems with women, with school, had the same views on how life works--and that's still true today. Oh and we loved Halo, and Fifa, and Super Smash Bros. George's favorite character was Kirby--a fluffy pink ball that could turn to a rock and be a little pain in the ass, much like George himself. Kidding. But seriously... George... kirby was such a pain in the butt to fight. I hate your "Down B" move. haha. One of my fondest memories of George was in molecular biology: We were lab partners and both George and I had procrastinated on our lab assignments because we assumed that we had all the information we would need to put in and we didn't need to do much to finish it. Wrong. Let me explain this to you: Molecular Biology class was on Tuesday and Thursday--the lab report was due Thursday--and lab itself ran from 6pm-9pm on Wednesday. Wednesday night--the night before the lab was due--Dr. Scupham announces a list of things that we had to include in our lab notebook that George and I had not yet begun, at all. We both looked at one another and knew it was going to be an all nighter. It was atrocious, but fun. George made that experience bearable. He made a lot of situations for me bearable. He was there for me through my break up. He was there when I did horrible on tests, when I was having issues at home. And I was there for him. We all were.
And this is what I'm sure everyone did when they heard the new that George was in the hospital: they recounted all those moments they had with him, thought about how great of a person he was, and prayed to God or hoped that he would make it.
Then I thought about his family. The Lessmanns have always been generous with their time, their money, and their home to me. I've spent a Christmas or two there, as well as Thanksgiving. And let me tell you: as a man who comes from a family where everything isn't so stable and wholesome, it is such a joy to see a family that loves one another so much. You don't have to see it--you feel it. You can sense it, like you can sense tension in room when people have fought. They are wonderful people.
Mr. Lessmann, I have to say, is just like George--he loves his coffee, and he talks a lot. There is nothing wrong with that, trust me; he works hard, is kindhearted, has unwaverable faith, and will do anything for his family while holding himself together (something that shocked me while I talked to him on the phone); george's mom is much like my mother--heartwarming, caring, devout christian, and strong willed (which, I think, explains why George and I are partially such good friends); I haven't spent much time with Sara, his sister, but I do know she shares traits that the rest of her family has--she's compassionate, kind, and always has a smile on her face, even in the toughest of circumstances. I was amazed that while her brother lay waiting to have surgery she was able to keep us all updated on the events going on, and what was happening. She didn't have to let anyone know outside of immediate family, but she took the time for us, she took the time because she knew it was important to us and important to George. Thank you, Sara L. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Lessmann.
I talked with Mr. Lessmann shortly after I checked the facebook message that Saturday morning. He explained to me the situation and then went on to say something along the lines of this: "You know, you here about this in other parents' kids, in other tragedies. You never think this will happen to your own." I'm not a parent. And I probably won't be one for a long time, but I can't even begin to imagine what that's like. I admire the Lessmann's for their perseverance, their faith in God, their resilience, and their relentless hope they have. George knows, as well as everyone else, that this will be a long road for him, but like I told him yesterday: "you will have us and your family to help you through it. And you will get through it."
There is so much more I could talk about. I could talk about the fond memories of getting coffee with George and then napping in the Valparaiso Library--yes, that is after we had our coffee. I could talk about the numerous times we played Halo, shared funny moments in class, or about that time he made out with three girls in one night--sorry George, I had to confirm that the tale was true. But I won't do that. The point of this post is to look at the future, to look at that dark hole that seems unconquerable, or that mountain that you just can't take your first step to climb. But it isn't a dark hole really. Well, I guess it depends on how you look at it. It's about perception. George, I hope you look at this situation much like we see you--as something that radiates hope and joy. Try not to look at this moment as a dark pit, or a mountain that you need to climb. Pain is not an enemy; it is a companion, a reminder.
I can't relate to George--at all on this. I could never know what it was like to go through something like that, and then relearn how to walk, how to do basic things. I can't know unless I go through it myself. But I do know suffering. And I know that when I shattered my ankle at the age of twelve it took me a year and half of therapy to walk, run, and play again. I don't mean to make this sound daunting, George. What I mean to say is this: If you can go through this...you can go through just about anything life throws at you. Can't you? Like I said, it may be hell, but you'll get through it.
On a final note I'll finish with something that may seem tangential at first: There is an episode of the twilight zone where a man commits a robbery and dies. During the robbery he killed a cop, and was sent to hell. In this episode of the twilight zone, hell was the idea that everything you ever wanted, ever dreamed of wanting was given to you without no qualms, no complaints--nothing. In essence, there was no suffering. Would you look at that? How interesting... the concept of Hell is to have no suffering. In a short time, the man in the episode became fed up, furious. He lost all hope and eventually asked if he could go to the other place (he was under the impression that the place he was at was Heaven). The devil laughed and said, "where do you think you are?" I remind myself of that concept every time I see suffering in the world--that if we truly had everything we wanted right away would it make us happy? Or would we become so sick of our lives we would do anything to be rid of it? To suffer is to live. Everyone must suffer at some point, and it doesn't seem fair. But what I hope for George and for others suffering is that they will get through it, and they'll be a hell of a lot better for it. It may not be now, in 6 months, or even years from now. But its possible.
This one was for George, his family, and those that love him.
Sincerely,
Matt
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