These Four Walls - Katie Sell (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

These Four Walls
By: Katie Sell

It was late January, the beginning of February, mid-February- somewhere along those lines, where my mother, brother, and I had traveled across three state lines in a car ride; which couldn’t have went any slower. Six hours seemed like ten, because we had just packed our essentials, and headed out. We couldn’t have been any more worried in that moment, than we had been in the past couple of months. It got so bad, even life-threatening, that we couldn’t be there for the next week or two. It just wasn’t possible, because we were so emotionally drained. Too bad I didn’t know what was in store for us.
We had arrived to our destination really early in the morning, so early in fact, that no one was awake to greet us despite our commotion and fear. We did not sleep easily that night, and I don’t think we could if we tried. The sun had risen a few hours later, and we had to go- even if we were scared. My mother told us to bring a few books with us, and leave the rest there.
Again, we drove forty-five minutes and again time seemed to pass us like hours. I could have counted one hundred thousand cars that passed us, in the city that surrounded us, just by looking out the window and waiting. Thoughts ran through my little head, though they were simple, I couldn’t help but over-analyze things. We were there, and in that moment, I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Never has a building towered over me as high as that one did, or even been that intimidating.
My brother, cousin, and I were told to stay in that room, while my mother could try and sort all of the occurring problems out with a professional. I was six years old when I was thrown into that small room for hours at a time; there was nothing but a blue lazy-boy and a couple of books that I had brought that we would read over and over again to pass the time. I believe one of the walls had a television that didn’t work, that resided in a built-in compartment. There were other bookshelves built into the walls that we couldn’t reach, and protruding countertops to put our few belongings on. I did not realize how rich in history that room was, from getting good news, to getting the worst news in your life.
I cannot begin to say how old staying in that room for hours a day, for a week or two got. These walls housed my greatest fears, my sorrowful thoughts, and my doubtful hopes. The walls were not beige, or cream colored, but they were pure white. The only thing that provided a sense of color was the blue chair, the television, a few books, and us few kids. I can’t even begin to describe how white these walls really were. They were whiter than the whitest print of copy paper, my dentist’s teeth, or even an albino man. If it weren’t for those books I had brought, or even for the company of my cousin or brother, I would have gone crazy. They should have padded the walls, even though we weren’t in a mental institution. Whenever I think back to those days, those walls and that room still get to me.
I loved getting out of there when I could. This was mainly because my mom got a break away from all of it, and we needed to eat. Some days we didn’t even eat with her, somewhat strangers bought us our much-appreciated food. It was nice to get our minds off of the issue at hand, and have a break to concentrate on just simple and everyday tasks such as eating. I remember eating really expensive pizza one day; the price on it well exceeded its worth. And since the restaurant within the building was right next to the main entrance, we went outside.
We walked around so that my mom could have a smoke, and so that us kids wouldn’t be all cramped up in that room and could get a little silly in the fresh air. We would walk all around the parking lot finding many nickels, dimes, pennies, and quarters. My mom then told us the importance of these coins. “Pennies from Heaven” she’d call it, “rich” is what we’d call it. She went on to explain these Pennies from Heaven, saying that when we found a coin on the ground, it is from someone in Heaven looking and watching over you. We would match the dates with years of our relatives passing, and what year each of us was born in. It was a great way to get our minds off of the situation, and to give us hope.
We started back towards the building, and it was the first clear moment I remembered having to face the problem (with this intensity) straight in the eye. He was sitting right there in the doorway. I never had so many butterflies in my stomach, nor have I felt so caught up and consumed with sorrow in my life. He was just sitting there, outside by the doorway; in his wheelchair, with his yellow saturated skin from chemo, no hair, and a bigger-than-life smile waiting to welcome us. My uncle Brian was only twenty-seven when he was diagnosed, and later terminally ill with Pancreatic Cancer. I remember hugging him, and trying to keep a smile on my face despite his outward appearance, because this was not the uncle I remembered seeing. I remember the mirror image that my little brother saw when he peered at him because they looked so alike. I remember this very ill uncle that looked back at us, but was still over joyous with life. I remember sitting on a big ledge with him reading one of my books to me, that I still treasure to this day. Ten Green Monsters A Lift-the-flap-and-see-them-fall book it was called. We had to keep some things humorous, or we would have never made it through those tough times. We couldn’t let him see us crying because it would make him really upset.
That was the one clear moment I remember spending with my uncle at the hospital, and I hold it close to my heart. A man who had went through so much in his life, and still had so much going for him. He had a landscaping business, and man was he good. He could make the most atrocious yard on the block look pretty again. He had plans to get married to his wonderful fiancé Tara.
My uncle Jimmy was in the hospital room when my uncle Brian said “Baby Jesus wants me now, I have to go…” Those were his last words spoken. On May 12, 1999, my uncle Brian McLean had passed away at twenty-seven years of age from Pancreatic Cancer.
The glue that had bound my mother’s side of the family together had diminished into eternal life. The funny thing about this cancer is it only affects elderly people. The chances of him even getting this type of cancer were a million to one. I had an amazing uncle that was a million to one, and not many people can say that. I also had an uncle that wouldn’t give up, and loved to beat the odds. Odds were, when his cancer got really serious, and his health started declining rapidly, that he wouldn’t even live a couple of days. That is why the car ride had seemed like hours, because we didn’t know if he would still be alive when we got there. But yes, he lived all right; so much so, that he lived three weeks after the doctors said he was supposed to die. My uncle did not give up, and he would not take “no” for an answer.
Then came his funeral. I knew what death consisted of at six, but didn’t fully understand it, nor do I think any six year old could comprehend it. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand what it means to this day. Family, friends, and tears filled the room with positive energy that his life left behind mainly by sharing stories. I didn’t understand how my uncle could be cremated at that age; from him lying in the casket in the front of the room, to going to the burial, where he was in that small, black metal box being buried next to my grandma’s casket. You just can’t fathom at that age what death meant, or how they could cram a normal-sixed man into a box that small, like Houdini doing one of his magic tricks. And at eighteen, I can’t fathom my grandpa losing his son, before he died- it’s just not how things are supposed to work.
I have been told that I had met one of his buddies from rehab for the second time at the funeral, and that he was from a famous band. Talk about a true friend, he took the time out of his busy schedule to attend a good friend’s funeral. His name was Dan Lukacinsky, and he was from the band, The Suicide Machines. They used to have band practice in my grandpa’s basement before they were discovered, and his friendship with my uncle just flourished from there. Every so often, I go and listen to the song he wrote for my uncle titled “Goodbye for Now”. I still wonder how he could so perfectly put that song together to this day. It is amazing, because everything in it had everything to do with my uncle. Lyrics float through my head… “And I’ll see you soon again, my friend, the times that we’ve shared been so genuine. Know that you had to go, but you’ll tell me where you’ve been…” The band has since broken up, Dan has since moved to Japan, but the only thing that hasn’t changed is that Brian still lives forever in our hearts.
And I think that’s how we all should live life, like him. By taking one day at a time, and just live it to the fullest, like he did in his last days. You don’t know if you’ll be here tomorrow, because it could all be gone in the blink of an eye, or gone in a heartbeat. Don’t take life so seriously, you have to live, love, and laugh once in a while… If we lived like him, no one would be worried about death, because we’d be so full of life. If we loved everyone the way he did, we wouldn’t have one problem in this world. And if we laughed like him, we would have no sorrow. Dan put it perfectly: “I think of sunny skies and I know you never wasted your time. I think of your laugh, and I think of your smile and cry…” I did not know him that long, but I know this: I loved him, and he loved me. When it was all over and done, it was time to pack up and go home. And not too long after that, I found a Penny from Heaven on the ground with 1972 dated on it. It was from the year he was born, and I knew he was watching over me.