Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
Henry Scott Holland
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
I can’t stand June 5. I won’t buy food with that expiration date. I will change the channel if it’s the release date in a movie preview. I cringe on May 5 because it’s exactly one month until June 5. I hate that this day paralyzes me.
On this day and those leading up to it, I think about my brother and all that he’s missing.
I think about the horror that suddenly filled our lives on this date. One minute I was walking my dog through the neighborhood on a sunny Tuesday morning, and after one phone call on the sidewalk, I was running down the street screaming, struggling to unlock the front door, and was unable to dress myself or pack before we headed to my parents’. What’s the proper attire in the event of the sky falling?
I can remember all that I ate the rest of the week: two strawberries and a cheese cube. What a big, blurry, confusing, yet unforgettable mess of a day. Looking at that sentence, the word ‘understatement’ comes to mind. It’s weird how that date used to be just any other day.
I remember the first snowfall after it all happened. I stood by myself outside in the cold, silent night, thinking, “This is how it feels for it to snow without Nathan.”
There are so many firsts like this because you have to learn how to live all over again.
I marvel that the world keeps spinning even though life has stopped. Then somehow it moves forward again, each step strange and uncharted.
The events of that day ruined what are significant days that I used to look forward to: December 25 and 31, my birthday … my mom, dad, and sister’s birthdays, too. And other typically normal days since then that have given reason to celebrate, but now are punctuated with, “I wish Nathan were here.” Smile, cry, smile, cry. Repeat to achieve desired catharsis. It’s tiring.
Dates and numbers shouldn’t have this effect on me. I see 6/5 and shut down. I see the number 25 and think that’s how old Nathan was and ever will be.
I see the number 39 and remember that’s how many motorcyclists were killed in an alcohol-related crash in Virginia the year Nathan died. Nathan died. That doesn’t sound right. I hardly say it that way because it isn’t real. Is it? I say “Nathan’s crash” (and we silently know what happened next).
I see the number 32 and know that that’s the approximate number of people in the U.S. who die each day in motor vehicle crashes that involve an alcohol-impaired driver. 32 families and sets of friends get that news every day. One every 45 minutes.
This isn’t real. I’m just waiting for it to be over and things to go back. There are unexpected times when the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach, making me lose my breath.
A piece of me died at his side on that June night. I can’t believe that this is the rest of my life.
Sometimes I ask him aloud, “Where are you?” I swear he answered back as a twinkling star when I asked the first time that June 5 night, when I found myself sitting alone in my parents’ driveway, praying for a sign. I was clinging to the final hours of that day because it would be the last that we were both alive.
Signs are what get me by sometimes. Orange butterflies, songs that play at just the right time.
Three: the number of years since the crash. Then it will be four, five, six …
I still check my phone in the morning for that late-night text from Nathan, and when I’m telling someone what’s new with me, I make a list in my mind of each family member, one by one, and what I can share about their lives. Mom and Dad are doing ok -- just saw them last weekend. Adrienne and the fam are doing well up north. Then a gaping hole. Can anyone else see it?
No one asks “How’s your brother?” anymore, and it’s weird and depressing.
I don’t get to be a big sister anymore. I just thought of it that way only a couple months ago. I have a lot more advice to give, too.
In case you wanted more numbers, .18 was Chan’s blood alcohol content. 15 is the number of years he will spend in prison. He’ll be about 40 when he gets out.
Three is the number of people who were in the car. Zero is the number of them who were sober or remembered how they got on the road going the wrong way.
Countless are the cab drivers who are confused when I ask them to take me to DC without using 395, even though it’s the quickest route.
It comforts me to post online on this date, and I’ve learned never to pass up an opportunity for something to help. This is how I grieve. Nathan didn’t deserve this end, and I at least owe it to him to say these words.
“He was no longer surprised how easily tears could come to his eyes.”
The Shack
On this day and those leading up to it, I think about my brother and all that he’s missing.
I think about the horror that suddenly filled our lives on this date. One minute I was walking my dog through the neighborhood on a sunny Tuesday morning, and after one phone call on the sidewalk, I was running down the street screaming, struggling to unlock the front door, and was unable to dress myself or pack before we headed to my parents’. What’s the proper attire in the event of the sky falling?
I can remember all that I ate the rest of the week: two strawberries and a cheese cube. What a big, blurry, confusing, yet unforgettable mess of a day. Looking at that sentence, the word ‘understatement’ comes to mind. It’s weird how that date used to be just any other day.
I remember the first snowfall after it all happened. I stood by myself outside in the cold, silent night, thinking, “This is how it feels for it to snow without Nathan.”
There are so many firsts like this because you have to learn how to live all over again.
I marvel that the world keeps spinning even though life has stopped. Then somehow it moves forward again, each step strange and uncharted.
The events of that day ruined what are significant days that I used to look forward to: December 25 and 31, my birthday … my mom, dad, and sister’s birthdays, too. And other typically normal days since then that have given reason to celebrate, but now are punctuated with, “I wish Nathan were here.” Smile, cry, smile, cry. Repeat to achieve desired catharsis. It’s tiring.
Dates and numbers shouldn’t have this effect on me. I see 6/5 and shut down. I see the number 25 and think that’s how old Nathan was and ever will be.
I see the number 39 and remember that’s how many motorcyclists were killed in an alcohol-related crash in Virginia the year Nathan died. Nathan died. That doesn’t sound right. I hardly say it that way because it isn’t real. Is it? I say “Nathan’s crash” (and we silently know what happened next).
I see the number 32 and know that that’s the approximate number of people in the U.S. who die each day in motor vehicle crashes that involve an alcohol-impaired driver. 32 families and sets of friends get that news every day. One every 45 minutes.
This isn’t real. I’m just waiting for it to be over and things to go back. There are unexpected times when the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach, making me lose my breath.
A piece of me died at his side on that June night. I can’t believe that this is the rest of my life.
Sometimes I ask him aloud, “Where are you?” I swear he answered back as a twinkling star when I asked the first time that June 5 night, when I found myself sitting alone in my parents’ driveway, praying for a sign. I was clinging to the final hours of that day because it would be the last that we were both alive.
Signs are what get me by sometimes. Orange butterflies, songs that play at just the right time.
Three: the number of years since the crash. Then it will be four, five, six …
I still check my phone in the morning for that late-night text from Nathan, and when I’m telling someone what’s new with me, I make a list in my mind of each family member, one by one, and what I can share about their lives. Mom and Dad are doing ok -- just saw them last weekend. Adrienne and the fam are doing well up north. Then a gaping hole. Can anyone else see it?
No one asks “How’s your brother?” anymore, and it’s weird and depressing.
I don’t get to be a big sister anymore. I just thought of it that way only a couple months ago. I have a lot more advice to give, too.
In case you wanted more numbers, .18 was Chan’s blood alcohol content. 15 is the number of years he will spend in prison. He’ll be about 40 when he gets out.
Three is the number of people who were in the car. Zero is the number of them who were sober or remembered how they got on the road going the wrong way.
Countless are the cab drivers who are confused when I ask them to take me to DC without using 395, even though it’s the quickest route.
It comforts me to post online on this date, and I’ve learned never to pass up an opportunity for something to help. This is how I grieve. Nathan didn’t deserve this end, and I at least owe it to him to say these words.
“He was no longer surprised how easily tears could come to his eyes.”
The Shack
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
No 2010 Dogfish Head Alehouse Fundraiser
There will be no Nathan B. Marti Scholarship fundraiser at Dogfish Head Alehouse in 2010. We hope to hold one in 2011.
Please feel free to make a donation at https://www.applyweb.com/public/contribute?ruf by selecting "Other" from the dropdown list and typing Nathan B. Marti Scholarship Fund.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Successful Fundraiser!
The fundraiser at Dogfish Head was a big success! We had a great turnout throughout the day into that late Tuesday night. I saw friends, family, coworkers, Sigma Pi brothers, strangers, tall people, short people ... etc., etc. :) Thank you to everyone who showed up, ate, drank, sang, danced, bid in the silent auction, bought raffle tickets, and overall showed your support.
In the end, we raised over $4,700! Dogfish Head donated about $1,800 of that based on 15% of the profits it made that day. I not only love Dogfish Head beer, but also the food, staff, and overall organization. I truly cannot say enough nice things about Dogfish.
Originally, when we started collecting donations for the Nathan B. Marti Scholarship Fund in October 2007, the Radford University Foundation gave us 5 years to raise $15,000 in order for the scholarship to become endowed, which meant we would then be able to award a scholarship to a student each year. To date, only 1 year and 9 months later, we have raised close to $23,000. I am shocked by this number ... and completely thrilled. We hope to be able to award the first scholarship to a student in fall 2010.
Now that we've far surpassed our original goal, are we going to stop here? No way. I would like to hold one fundraiser a year for Nathan and to keep growing the scholarship fund. The sky's the limit regarding how much we can raise. To me, the scholarship and fundraisers have multiple purposes: first and foremost, to honor Nathan and serve as a memorial to his life and what he means to us; to help me channel my grief in a positive way; to financially help a Radford student who shares similar interests with Nathan; to give friends and family a way to show their support, remember Nathan, and perhaps help them in their grieving; and frankly, is a great excuse to get together with good friends and party, something Nathan really loved to do.
So for now, I'm going to rest and take this time to bask in the generosity and awesomeness that came from this fundraiser, and reenergize myself for the party next year.
In the end, we raised over $4,700! Dogfish Head donated about $1,800 of that based on 15% of the profits it made that day. I not only love Dogfish Head beer, but also the food, staff, and overall organization. I truly cannot say enough nice things about Dogfish.
Originally, when we started collecting donations for the Nathan B. Marti Scholarship Fund in October 2007, the Radford University Foundation gave us 5 years to raise $15,000 in order for the scholarship to become endowed, which meant we would then be able to award a scholarship to a student each year. To date, only 1 year and 9 months later, we have raised close to $23,000. I am shocked by this number ... and completely thrilled. We hope to be able to award the first scholarship to a student in fall 2010.
Now that we've far surpassed our original goal, are we going to stop here? No way. I would like to hold one fundraiser a year for Nathan and to keep growing the scholarship fund. The sky's the limit regarding how much we can raise. To me, the scholarship and fundraisers have multiple purposes: first and foremost, to honor Nathan and serve as a memorial to his life and what he means to us; to help me channel my grief in a positive way; to financially help a Radford student who shares similar interests with Nathan; to give friends and family a way to show their support, remember Nathan, and perhaps help them in their grieving; and frankly, is a great excuse to get together with good friends and party, something Nathan really loved to do.
So for now, I'm going to rest and take this time to bask in the generosity and awesomeness that came from this fundraiser, and reenergize myself for the party next year.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
One week away - NBM scholarship fundraiser at Dogfish Head
In case you haven't heard, we're holding the 2nd annual Nathan B. Marti Scholarship fundraiser at Dogfish Head restaurant next Tuesday, July 14.
Dogfish Head will donate 15% of all money raised the entire day to the Nathan B. Marti Scholarship Fund. Please support us by enjoying lunch, appetizers, and dinner (and drink responsibly)!
Participate in the silent auction and buy raffle tickets to win an iPod touch, HP netbook, or gift cards to Cosi, Legal Seafoods, Cheesecake Factory, and the Great American Restaurants!
Tickets are 1 for $5 or 3 for $10. Buy tickets in advance or at the fundraiser. The raffle drawing will be that night, but you don't have to be present to win. Please contact me for more details (lindsay.marti@yahoo.com).
Dogfish Head will donate 15% of all money raised the entire day to the Nathan B. Marti Scholarship Fund. Please support us by enjoying lunch, appetizers, and dinner (and drink responsibly)!
Participate in the silent auction and buy raffle tickets to win an iPod touch, HP netbook, or gift cards to Cosi, Legal Seafoods, Cheesecake Factory, and the Great American Restaurants!
Tickets are 1 for $5 or 3 for $10. Buy tickets in advance or at the fundraiser. The raffle drawing will be that night, but you don't have to be present to win. Please contact me for more details (lindsay.marti@yahoo.com).
Friday, June 5, 2009
The day the sky fell down
That’s what I call June 5, 2007. When my mom called me that morning and told me about Nathan, it might as well have. Trying to remember the rest of 2007, and a lot of life since then is like searching for something underwater—blurry and sometimes hard to breathe.
Year two has been easier (for lack of a better word) than the first year: I don’t bawl my eyes out on the drive to and from work every day, only sometimes now. I don’t avoid social situations all the time, only occasionally. And I don’t get angry at the drop of a hat … ok, I still do, but anyone close to me knows that I did that way before the crash happened.
It’s hard having life continue, juggling my grief and the everyday things. Sometimes I don’t want things to be “easier.” It shows me that more time has passed, which means it’s been that much longer since I last saw Na, talked to him, hugged him, laughed with him. And then there are the things that didn’t mean much to me before, but now are painful triggers of grief: I can’t drive down the road without seeing someone on a motorcycle. For a while after the crash, I would have mini panic attacks while driving and seeing one. Today, I can barely look at them—just enough to keep my distance from them while driving. I also can’t stand seeing a dead animal on the side of the road. I can’t help but get sad and angry about how Nathan died—much like that squirrel or deer I see. (This is when the anger comes out.) I get mad at Vathana Chan and his stupid friends, who had no right to end Nathan’s life and let him die on the side of the road.
I also can’t shake the occasional urge to call or text Nathan. While I’m well aware that he’s not going to answer, I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that he’s not alive. I wonder if I’m always going to forget and think he’s just away somewhere on a trip.
I marvel at how my life can continue on when I’m now living so much in the past. I cling to memories of conversations with him, trying so hard to remember how his voice sounded and how it felt to tell him a dumb joke that made him laugh. I was so glad to discover that we have tons of pictures of him, but am now saddened that there will be no more.
I tried not living in the past once. So I looked forward and realized that there will come a day, God willing, that I will have been alive longer without Nathan than I was with him.
I stopped trying to find some grand scheme or plan that I’m supposed to follow because of Nathan’s death. Some people realize how much they love someone after that person dies, and others are sorry that they didn’t have a better relationship with that person, so they deal with regret. I didn’t need Nathan to die to realize how much I love him and how much he means to me. So where does that leave me? I believe in God and I believe that Nathan is in Heaven. I’m sure the whole “his work here on Earth was done” is true, and “he’s in a better place,” but the fact is, I’m still here and alive. I’m pretty sure there’s no amount of charity work or good will I can perform that will satisfy me or even begin to fill the void that I feel. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to do charity work, but I will not do it thinking that it’s what I’m supposed to do now.
“Don’t drink and drive,” they say. I remember seeing MADD ads and stickers over the years, and thinking “Yeah, drinking and driving is bad and dangerous.” I thought fleetingly about how people die in car crashes. Then all of a sudden, Nathan became part of a statistic, and I’m driving in my car and crying because I just saw a dead deer on the side of the road. I think that if for one day, everyone who has a driver’s license (and people who drive without one) could feel what it’s like to lose their best friend in a drunk driving crash, the roads would be safer. Consequently, these people also probably would hug their families more and be nicer to others. At the same time, I wouldn’t wish this feeling or what my family and I have been through on anyone. Ah, the irony.
So I’m not much of a Mary Sunshine, but I’m pretty sure that today I don’t have to be. I actually do love life and have a lot to be thankful for. I’m grateful to have a family who, despite everything, is very loving and supportive of one another. It’s amazing how, although we are all broken, when one of us has completely fallen apart, another is strong enough to put the pieces back together. It’s just that there’s still that missing piece.
Year two has been easier (for lack of a better word) than the first year: I don’t bawl my eyes out on the drive to and from work every day, only sometimes now. I don’t avoid social situations all the time, only occasionally. And I don’t get angry at the drop of a hat … ok, I still do, but anyone close to me knows that I did that way before the crash happened.
It’s hard having life continue, juggling my grief and the everyday things. Sometimes I don’t want things to be “easier.” It shows me that more time has passed, which means it’s been that much longer since I last saw Na, talked to him, hugged him, laughed with him. And then there are the things that didn’t mean much to me before, but now are painful triggers of grief: I can’t drive down the road without seeing someone on a motorcycle. For a while after the crash, I would have mini panic attacks while driving and seeing one. Today, I can barely look at them—just enough to keep my distance from them while driving. I also can’t stand seeing a dead animal on the side of the road. I can’t help but get sad and angry about how Nathan died—much like that squirrel or deer I see. (This is when the anger comes out.) I get mad at Vathana Chan and his stupid friends, who had no right to end Nathan’s life and let him die on the side of the road.
I also can’t shake the occasional urge to call or text Nathan. While I’m well aware that he’s not going to answer, I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that he’s not alive. I wonder if I’m always going to forget and think he’s just away somewhere on a trip.
I marvel at how my life can continue on when I’m now living so much in the past. I cling to memories of conversations with him, trying so hard to remember how his voice sounded and how it felt to tell him a dumb joke that made him laugh. I was so glad to discover that we have tons of pictures of him, but am now saddened that there will be no more.
I tried not living in the past once. So I looked forward and realized that there will come a day, God willing, that I will have been alive longer without Nathan than I was with him.
I stopped trying to find some grand scheme or plan that I’m supposed to follow because of Nathan’s death. Some people realize how much they love someone after that person dies, and others are sorry that they didn’t have a better relationship with that person, so they deal with regret. I didn’t need Nathan to die to realize how much I love him and how much he means to me. So where does that leave me? I believe in God and I believe that Nathan is in Heaven. I’m sure the whole “his work here on Earth was done” is true, and “he’s in a better place,” but the fact is, I’m still here and alive. I’m pretty sure there’s no amount of charity work or good will I can perform that will satisfy me or even begin to fill the void that I feel. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to do charity work, but I will not do it thinking that it’s what I’m supposed to do now.
“Don’t drink and drive,” they say. I remember seeing MADD ads and stickers over the years, and thinking “Yeah, drinking and driving is bad and dangerous.” I thought fleetingly about how people die in car crashes. Then all of a sudden, Nathan became part of a statistic, and I’m driving in my car and crying because I just saw a dead deer on the side of the road. I think that if for one day, everyone who has a driver’s license (and people who drive without one) could feel what it’s like to lose their best friend in a drunk driving crash, the roads would be safer. Consequently, these people also probably would hug their families more and be nicer to others. At the same time, I wouldn’t wish this feeling or what my family and I have been through on anyone. Ah, the irony.
So I’m not much of a Mary Sunshine, but I’m pretty sure that today I don’t have to be. I actually do love life and have a lot to be thankful for. I’m grateful to have a family who, despite everything, is very loving and supportive of one another. It’s amazing how, although we are all broken, when one of us has completely fallen apart, another is strong enough to put the pieces back together. It’s just that there’s still that missing piece.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
2nd Annual NBM Scholarship Fundraiser -- July 14
The second annual NBM Scholarship fundraiser will be at Dogfish Head (Falls Church) again this year! Check out the Evite here or look for it in Events on Facebook.
Dogfish Head will donate 15% of all money raised the entire day. This includes food, drinks, and Dogfish merchandise.
Tuesday, July 14, 11:30 a.m. to 11 p.m.
I'm selling iPod touch raffle tickets through June and the beginning of July, and they also will be available to buy at the fundraiser. The drawing will be that night. (You don't have to be present to win).
Dogfish Head will donate 15% of all money raised the entire day. This includes food, drinks, and Dogfish merchandise.
Tuesday, July 14, 11:30 a.m. to 11 p.m.
I'm selling iPod touch raffle tickets through June and the beginning of July, and they also will be available to buy at the fundraiser. The drawing will be that night. (You don't have to be present to win).
Tickets are $5 apiece, or 3 for $10. Contact me to buy some!
Also come check out my friends' band, Compliments of George. It'll be a great time :)
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