| It's been a year since I last wrote something here. Not really intentional on my part, believe me. In fact, this was one of the most blog-worthy years of my life. Maybe you'd like a recap? No? Well, you're getting it anyway. School's Out Forever? 2007 was also the year in which I bid the academic life adieu – no small event, I'd say. My classmates in this final year were absolutely fabulous, and not once did I get called an "unfortunate chicken" (sorry Angelo). I don't have much more to say about this other than at the end of it all, I was feeling completely burned out and ready to welcome an existence where the pressure to meet another essay deadline would never again keep me up at night and threaten my personal health. At this point in time I won't say that I'm filled with a desire to re-enter that world, but with each mild scolding delivered by my bosses for giving them writing that's "too academic sounding" I find myself wondering what Shannon Hengen is up to… The Wedding I got married in 2007. What can I say about our wedding day other than barring a few unforeseen events – the weather didn't cooperate, and the food was sort of lousy – it was as joyous and exhilarating as I'd hoped it would be. A few of you were there to see it, so I guess you'd have a more objective assessment of the day's events, but I hope it was as incredible as I remember it, and I hope you know how important it was for me to be surrounded by friends and well-wishers. It is a wonderful, wonderful feeling to know that there are people who love you deeply and genuinely, and when they assemble together on a day celebrating your happiness, then what can you really say about such an event other than it's one of the greatest things that can ever happen to you. Despite the oftentimes agonizing struggle of planning the wedding and the conflicts –in some cases extremely unpleasant ones—that arose amongst family members and ourselves, I look back on the experience as both life-altering and life-affirming. I would be lying if I didn't say that pledging the whole of yourself to another human being until the day your die (and beyond that, circumstances of afterlife existence permitting), wasn't sort of terrifying, but despite our differences and occasional hostilities toward one another, there are moments when I recognize that this woman would do anything for me, and with this realization comes a passionate desire to hold on to her with everything that I have. My happiness, safety, health and general well-being are paramount concerns for her; I know, without a doubt, that she genuinely and passionately loves me. And when someone says they've loved you since the day they first saw you, and when they say they'll always be yours, then I think you need to pay them fairly close attention. Anyway, for those who weren't in attendance, I think my vows contain a much more thorough and heartfelt explanation of how I feel about Terri, so posting them is a more fitting tribute to her, and a better way of expressing the wedding's significance for me: Terri: If there's one thing that I've come to understand in the last year living together with you, it's how much I truly need the security of your presence. Being with you gives me a sense of invincibility, as if there's nothing I can't do, and no situation that I have to face alone. It's hard to articulate just what it means to me to know that no matter what the time or place, you'll be there to back me up; to stand close beside me; to let me hold your hand when I feel too much by myself. I know that with you around my potential for happiness and joy in this life is increased infinitely, and so I make these promises to you today to show you that I will do what is necessary to make you see and really feel and know how important you are to me. I promise always to miss you when you're away from me, and to await your return anxiously and with an aching for the sound of your voice, your laughter and your tender assurances. I promise to long for your touch when the distance between us prevents the sharing of a kiss or a hug, and I promise to see you—really see and appreciate you—when you return home. I promise to love your incredible physical beauty, but also, maybe more importantly, to love your beautiful soul. There is a goodness and a compassion for others within you that speaks to your commitment to see a world free of suffering, and it is this sense of decency that I find truly irresistible. You know the difference between right and wrong, you have the courage to stick by your convictions, and you know what it means to be a just and empathetic person. I love you for this—don't ever change. While I promise always to uphold our shared beliefs, I also promise to respect and appreciate our many differences. I think opposites attract so readily because no one alone is without some flaw, some weakness, which they by themselves cannot overcome. Being with you has shown me that your strengths are my weaknesses, and I think the same can be said of you. But this is why we're meant to be together; we make each other better, fuller people than we might otherwise be. You protect me from suffering too severely from my own shortcomings; for that I promise to be forever grateful. If I have any fear at all in my heart today it's that if I fail to uphold these promises I might one day find myself facing the frightening possibility of a future without your love and comfort. And so I make a final promise to you today: I promise always to understand that without you, my soon-to-be wife and my best friend, there remains only a less capable and a more fragile, weaker me. So I ask you to make a promise of your own to me: To always make me aware of when I fall short of upholding these vows I have made to you. For the incredible happiness you've given me today and throughout all the days we've been together, you deserve only the best of what I can give. I love you now and forever.      The C Word I love my mother dearly. In 2007 she was diagnosed with breast cancer. As a health conscious woman with a staunch opposition to smoking born out of the incredibly devastating experience of watching her beloved brother, a heavy smoker, die a horrible death from throat cancer, the results of her mammogram came completely by surprise. My mother is a lovely, sweet and caring woman, and she'd suffered greatly since 2005 with Fibromyalgia– a strange disease whose characterizing symptom is constant, largely untreatable pain. When she was informed about her tests results and the tumour they revealed, she was completely destroyed. The inevitable "Why me?" questioning took hold of her, and our support system, consisting of vague assurances, desperate physical interactions and privately concealed tears, wasn't exactly what the doctor ordered. But it was the best we could do. My father, as you can imagine, didn't handle things very well. My grandparents – the memory of their son's death ten years earlier still fresh in their minds – drove them into a scary sort of depression. For my part, I simply refused to believe that the result of any and all medical interventions would be anything other than a complete recovery on my mother's part, and thus my denial of the seriousness of the situation left me relatively calm. When my mother underwent a mastectomy and was declared to be completely cancer free, I was secure in my sense that things turned out as I always knew they would, and that life could now return to normal. And then my mother asked me if I wanted to see her chest. Despite my mind's suddenly manic protestations, I nodded just slightly and she lifted her shirt revealing a smooth, nipple-less and now distinctly asexual space. Imagine, if you can, the enormity and intensity of this horrifying intimacy. There stood my mother, a woman I'd always seen as strong and iconic, looking so fragile, weak, and frighteningly, unimaginably revealed. Not only was the realization that she had lost a part of her physical body that had undoubtedly served as a confirmation of her status as a woman, wife and mom a painful one, but the hint of shame that I detected from her as she stood there baring herself to her son – someone she'd tried so diligently to protect from the sadness and pain of life – made my heart ache. That's all I really want to say about that.  The (Further) Tough Stuff In 2007, four days before our wedding, at 4 o'clock in the morning, Terri's grandfather, who had been ill off and on for something like ten years, died. I remember being wakened from this intensely strange dream where I was experiencing a sort of breathlessness and loss of stability - a feeling of descending into something dense but not altogether uncomfortable -- by the telephone's ring. In the dream I was in the process of acknowledging that this descendence was death, and to be awoken by the sound of a telephone ringing and your soon-to-be-wife crying is more than a little strange. (I'm not relating this story in an attempt to seem profound. In fact, I doubt the accuracy of this anecdote myself. However, it's a memory (false or not) I find myself returning to again and again, so I suppose its relevancy derives from its persistence.) This was our first shared experience of death, and if finding oneself surrounded by your weeping in-laws in a hospital room at four in the morning -- a situation that demands expressions of intimacy that are simply non-existent in our usual interactions -- isn't monumental, then nothing is. Things moved quickly in the next three days; a private, family-only memorial service was held, a small dinner/anecdote exchange took place, and his belongings -- mostly suitcases and clocks he'd picked up from second-hand stores -- were thrown out. In other words, there was an unspoken acknowledgement of the fact that this needed to be put to rest (no pun intended) as soon as possible, since to do otherwise would be to take away from the joyfulness of the wedding. As far as his death goes, the timing was all wrong. What do you say to your wife, your lover, and your best friend, when she loses someone important to her? In my case, you don't say much of anything. In case you're wondering, there is little that can make your feel worse about yourself, or more useless and childish, then struggling to find the words to comfort the one you love most. "Sorry" just doesn’t cut it, you know? Worse still, what do you say to someone who is starting to recognize the rapid decline of their own body, a constant reminder of the inevitability of death? 2007 was a year in which it became unexpectedly clear to me that my own grandfather is going to die, more likely sooner than later. These days he spends a lot of time drinking and crying – he tries to stop short of full-fledged sobbing, and you can't imagine how thankful I am for this. And yet in these moments I'm stuck in this terrible spot; I find myself overwhelmed by a feeling of uncomfortableness. I'm shaken by this tangible evidence of mortality -- this all-too-sudden realization that yes, the man that I fiercely admire and consider an integral part of "my world" or "my family" has become a terribly old, and worse, frightened man. Yet my reaction to any and all direct contact with this realness of dying has been a tongue-tiedness that is unusual for me, and as frustrating and disappointing as anything could possibly be in life. To find oneself, in these moments of closeness and finality, unable to deviate from the "Business as Usual" nonchalance of everyday interaction characterized by a joking dismissal of life's hardships and a dependence on worn-out clichés to express things that can only remotely be construed as personal thoughts and emotions, is devastating. These stockpiled sayings just want to pour out of your mouth and flood the room, drowning out the impulse to articulate something genuine and novel; the thing you really want to say -- the thing that would encapsulate, in one simple, devastatingly beautiful sentiment, the whole truth of your love. But I can't find that thing I think a lot about his eulogy these days, which I imagine I’ll be asked to give. If the thought of losing someone keeps you up at night and brings tears to your eyes, then I guess it's safe to say that you love them. They Working Man This year also signaled the start of my "professional" career, as I managed to get a job at the STC as their Marketing and Promotions Coordinator. It's been quite an experience so far, and despite so missteps on my part, I think I'm doing a fairly competent job. The people seem nice, the work is interesting, and I'm meeting tons of new people around the city. It's good to feel like a part of the "Arts Community," even though being on the administrative end of things conflicts slightly with my vision of what it means to be "artistic." But as far as jobs go, there are certainly less inspiring things I could be doing, and despite the idealism of it all, there's still room for that music/literary career down the road. After all, I'm only 24. Home Sweet Home Finally, 2007 drew to a close with the purchasing of our first home. Our search for the "perfect" home can hardly be called exhaustive – it lasted about three weeks – but I second her Dad's opinion that the house is "us." A library, a backyard with deck, guest rooms, a basement, and appliances included – what more do I need? $200,000 you say? Oh, right…    
So, to recap: wedding, graduation, death of a loved one, averted death of another loved one, first full-time job, first full-time house. I'm pretty tired. |
