The past beats inside me like a second heart. ~John Banville
Previously, I talked about not judging a situation and forgiving those that do. Everyone Has Scars, Don’t Judge Part 1 Again, easier said than done. I know. What’s really upsetting though, or even worse in my opinion, are those that believe they don’t judge or judge others for judging. Yikes! Come on. No one’s perfect. NO ONE! I do try to avoid such actions in general, but it’s something I need to work on too, for I’m not perfect. It’s an ugly human behavior that needs to be addressed to be avoided and corrected.
I don’t mean to bring a heavy topic on such a beautiful Thursday, although slightly chilly, but perhaps this will get everyone thinking differently this weekend and change behaviors for the better. In fact, I was so inspired by a friend of mine who commented on my previous post that I wanted to share it.
“Instead of judging, wouldn’t it be nice if people offered up a smile? Or to help in little ways?”
YES! Excellent ideas! Since we’re in the lenten season, a time of penance and reflectance, I think this might be a step in the right direction to being a better person. I know me personally, I will try to offer up more smiles and lend assistance when needed! I LOVE THESE IDEAS!
Now time for an example. Not too long ago, we ran into my third grade teacher at Saint Vincent Church, for Sunday mass. Kyle had the privilege of meeting one of the greatest teachers I’ve ever had! (Kyle’s met her on a number of occasions but alas he was just a little tyke.) One that I still respect and appreciate to this day. (I’ll keep her name anonymous in case she’s not comfortable being on my blog. I never asked permission.) Unfortunately, when I reminisce on that part of my life, third grade, I can’t help but remember what happened to Ryan that very year.
The day started before school, early morning. Ryan was in first grade, Nicole in fifth and I in third, at Sacred Heart School. I believe it was spring, with the school year coming to an end, hence the reasoning for our hyperactive morning. We were running around simply being silly. I believe the situation initiated with Ryan or Nicole locking me out the front door, or threatening to do so. Why? Why not. We were kids enjoying a bit of energy release before heading to school on a pleasant morning.
Ultimately, I had it in my head to retaliate and lock Ryan outside. I clearly remember mom was on the phone trying to quiet us while she conversed, probably to another PTA mom. Eventually, I succeeded in locking Ryan on the opposite side of the door as myself. I was on the inside. So what does a first grader do who was tricked and forced to the front porch by his older sister? He knocks on the door with his fists, demanding reentry, of course. Nicole, yelled at me, naturally taking Ryan’s side. Please keep in mind, I realize I was not the initial instigator in this situation, but I certainly was guilty of continuing it.
To add to the taunting, I stood directly in front of the door, which at the time had glass panels running from the top to the base. Also note, this was an older door, with equally as old glass panes, each measuring about two feet wide by about eight inches height. While taunting Ryan by waving through the small windows, he continued to pound on the bearer that separated us. Just before I was actually going to unlock the door and run, it happened. Something I didn’t anticipate or even considered. Ryan pounded not on the solid wood door frame, but on a single flimsy glass panel with both hands. In a single moment, I was faced with glass flying in my direction, and Ryan’s hands protruding through the door.
Instinctively, Ryan withdrew his hands, at the same time I looked around making sense of the mess. My only concern? The idea of me getting in trouble for the broken window. Glass was shattered all over the kitchen floor, and the once whole glass panel, was now a voided rectangle with jagged shards of sharp glass protruding from the edges inward. No one, not even Ryan, had a clue to the extent of the situation. Not even my sister, who didn’t waste any time yelling in my ear, in stead of evaluating the scene and offering assistance.
Was I injured by the flying glass? Nope. Perhaps a scratch on the leg, but nothing to keep me down. Ryan on the other hand was not doing well, except the adrenaline was keeping him from feeling pain. Either when his hands went through the glass, or upon retracting them, probably both, his wrists scrapped the edges of the sharp shards, slicing them up. Ouch! Within minutes I saw blood dripping from the glass. Eventually my eyes made their way to Ryan and his wrists, were the blood was flowing freely.
My mom, who was still on the phone, had no idea what just happened. Leave it to my sister to get mom’s attention and in the same process tattle on me. She reminds me of Kyle! There was a lot of yelling going on, all from my sister and mom, Ryan and I remained quite. After reality settled in, Ryan may have shed a few tears, but certainly no whaling. I’m not sure who mom was talking to but I know they were met with a dead line, when mom realized what happened and simply hung up.
Time went from slow motion as the glass flew, to high speed ending in a lot of blood, in a matter of seconds, matching my heartbeat. Mom ran straight for Ryan, who stood in shock. She’s never been a fan of blood, not the ideal candidate to deal with this terrible accident. To assist with the bleeding and probably to cover up the wounds, mom ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and wrapped both wrists in the terrycloth. Ryan pressed both wrists together against the towel to control the bleeding. Mom yelled again, yes mom yells when things are fine, but she has more of a knack for yelling, especially in stressful situations. What did she say? I have no idea. Something along the lines that Nicole and I were to go to my cousin Karen’s house down the road. Our normal routine was to walk to Karen’s and pick up my other cousins, and walk to school as a group. We did so minus Ryan.
The rest of the day, was a blur. I really felt bad for my brother, even telling my third grade teacher, yes the one I saw recently in church, about the entire morning. She was so since and caring, in fact all the teachers heard about the accident by mid-day. I know I shed a few tears for Ryan, especially as the day unfolded and we heard no word from mom. Later that day, we either had an assembly in the cafeteria (which also housed our stage) or we were practicing for our spring musical, either way, everyone was gathered in the cafeteria when mom finally arrived with Ryan. Finally!
He was sporting two wrists wrapped with stark white surgical tape. I never thought about it at the time, but he did resemble someone who tried to slit his wrists. The result? Ryan had to go into immediate surgery to repair the nerve damage to his wrists. They weren’t sure if he would regain complete feeling in that area again. However, they seemed certain he would have functionality. Seriously? Yes! All because a couple of kids were screwing around and it was a nice morning? Unfortunately, yes.
Eventually, Ryan healed up, sort of. He was able to use his hands without incidence and hunting or fishing was never an issue. Great! However, his wrists told a different story. For the remainder of his short life, his wrists were permanently decorated with laceration scars, and one wrist had no feeling at all. How do I know? Ryan would demonstrate the lack of nerve sensation under the scars by grabbing the skin and twisting it and turning it, without pain! His nerves on the skin were damaged and never healed.
Over the years, as we got older, I heard some folks ask Ryan about the scars, wondering if he tried to commit suicide and slit his wrists. Seriously? YES! Okay, I’ll admit, I can see that deduction, but totally wrong assumption. Ryan was always goodhearted about the accusation. He never got bad, in fact he would give a little chuckle before explaining. It used to bother me a little, but since Ryan never really gave two figs about what others thought, I didn’t either. As a well trained circus act, he would demonstrate the lack of nerves in those areas, and give a brief for them. That always made me wonder, how many others thought Ryan tried slicing his wrists, but never said a word and just assumed.
I know very well no one can control the thoughts of anothers. And I don’t know which is better, the curious (nosy) person who asks up front, or the one or never brings up his or her thoughts? Regardless, there’s always at least two explanations for a situation, but the correct one it’s not always the most obvious. Ryan and I both carried scars from that single morning, only Ryan’s were visible.
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