Final Coming of Age Story

February 1, 2005

            I stare blankly at my flan. The one ominous candle stares back at me. The waiters and waitresses gather around and sing happy birthday. I smile meekly and hope no one realizes I am sad. We all are. We all are trying to celebrate my birthday by eating Mexican food and gathering together, but no one is happy. It is a lie to say we are happy on the inside. Our faces glowing with smiles say otherwise. I keep my smile plastered on my face. I secretly hope it is convincing everyone. I am thankful for everyone meeting on my birthday and I do not want anyone to think otherwise. But I am still sad.

            It is not a panging sad feeling in my chest. It is just tight. Tight like I am holding my breath underwater lying on the bottom of a swimming pool staring at the sky. But it is not even like that because I feel happy then. I feel happy when I watch the waves crinkle the rays of sunlight as they touch the bottom of the pool. It feels tight like someone is clenching my ribs in an iron grip and will not let go, even though I want them to.

            It is hard for me to look at the group gathered: my mom and dad, my sister, Lauren, Ms. Husband and her two kids Laura and Matthew, Mr. Lening, Mrs. Lening, and their son Jayton. Everyone acts sympathetic towards me, but I am not the one who needs sympathy. It just happened to be my birthday. It makes me want to cry, but not for myself, for them. It is not fair.

            I start to think about how there should be another chair at the table. It should be occupied. I decide to no longer dwell on that thought—salt water will not taste good in my flan.

            Once dessert is finished and the bills are paid, we gather to say goodbye to everyone. Hugs are given all around and exclamations of “happy thirteenth birthday!” Ms. Husband hugs me and apologizes that it had to happen on my birthday. It makes it hard not to cry—not for me, but for her. Her birthday wish to me is so selfless. She gathered everyone. She made the party. She picked a Mexican food restaurant in Pearland, TX to make it a short commute for everyone. But she still looks me in the eye and apologizes for something that affects her most. It just happened to be my birthday. No one could help that.

            My breath eases as my family and I enter the car. I stare out the window. I watch the light poles flick by. It is getting late. The sun is already down and I start to think of my early wake-up call for school. I hope to get some sleep, but I know it might be hard. I have to remember two years ago. If I do not, then it is like I am not paying homage to him. I am not remembering. I must remember. I feel like if I do not remember it will make him sad. Like he can see us from heaven and does not want to be forgotten. I know this is silly, but I cannot help but believe it. I do not want to be forgotten once I pass from this earth.

            Once the car stops, I tiredly walk into the house. It is getting late. I kiss my mom goodnight and my dad. Lauren does not grudge me a hug on my birthday, even though she is not a big hug person. I get ready for bed and then slide between the sheets. I stare at my ceiling. Tears well up in my eyes. My nose becomes obnoxiously stuffy. Despite this warning the tears still come. I must remember. It has only been two slow years since it happened. I think back to that day and the subsequent year that followed: my best friend moving, being put into the public school system, and the financial difficulty. That year teams with sad, heart-breaking events. Mr. Rick passing marks the beginning and saddest of the events. Death never knocked on the door of a close friend of my family’s until then. I begin to think about how different my life became. How different everyone’s life became. I became quiet and reserved. No more being a loud and rambunctious kid. Real life hit me like a speeding train on a track with no brakes that day. I took my school seriously and did not mingle much with others. Everyone began to adjust. Only two years and all of us still kept changing—like a ripple effect or dominoes falling in a line, one crashing into the next.

            I still cry, but not as much. The tears begin to slow. I hear a knock on my door. My mom enters. “Kara, honey, are you ok?” She knows. She always knows. No matter how hard I try to cry quietly. The tears come again. She holds me in her lap like a baby. She holds all 5’ 2” of me, even though I am sure it hurts her. I know I am too big to sit in her lap. But right now that does not matter. We both shed tears. I tell her about how I have to remember. She tells me “Kara, I do not think Mr. Rick would want you to cry every year. He would want you to be happy.” I find it odd it takes the broken to comfort the broken. Mommy is the only one who knows perfectly how.

January 16^th, 2003

The sun shines brightly in Florida despite the mid-January date. The cool breeze refreshes the crowd as we all stand there in anticipation. I look at the launch pad then back at the people surrounding me. Friends of the STS-107 crew stand packed like sardines on the bleachers. My dad stands there ready with his camcorder. My mom says prayers for the safety of the crew under her breath. Lauren and I stand goggle-eyed in awe of shuttle Columbia. I have seen retired spacecraft, such as a Saturn shuttle, at Johnson Space Center in Clear Lake, TX near my house, but nothing like this. A big black digital clock with red numbers stands in front of the bleachers to inform the crowd of lift-off.

            A man begins speaking to us through a megaphone: “Shuttle Columbia will launch soon, but remember, don’t watch the entire launch through a camcorder. It is breathtaking and can only be completely enjoyed with the naked eye.” I look at my dad hoping he will not make the mistake this kind man just mentioned.

            After some short delays, the man came back on the megaphone and began the countdown: “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-LIFTOFF!” The warmed-up engines light and launch STS-107 into the air. The noise deafens the crowd’s ears. I follow the shuttle with my eyes while covering my ears, craning my neck back to take in the sight as long as my 10-year-old eyes can. In an instant, the crew and Mr. Rick left the atmosphere in the shuttle.

I look at my father and he is still looking through the camcorder lens. He starts to kick himself for doing exactly what the man told us not to. Typical Gault move. Sometimes we learn best by making the exact mistakes someone told us not to.

January 17^th-18^th, 2003

             After the launch, my family and I stayed with the Husband family briefly, and then began the trek from Coco Beach, Florida to Universal Studios in Orlando. As exhilarating as this vacation seemed at the time, I cannot and do not look back at it often. Universal Studios and the roller coasters were amazing, but it was overshadowed by sad events to come.

           

Present—2012

After talking to me for a while or reading some of my short coming-of-age blogs, you will begin to notice I had a wonderful childhood. My family had no money, but we always had just enough. No large events happened to sully my short life. I went to school, had friends, and a wonderful sister, a loving mom, and a hard-working dad. While I grew up in small ways, like by catching my first fish, learning to juggle gymnastics and school, and entering public school, I can’t say that any of these left a large, marked, definitive impact on my personality. They all combined to form me, but none of them completely shaped me.

            After February 1, 2003 I cannot say I ever went back to being a carefree child. Not solely because of February 1^st and the events that unfolded, but also because of the year that followed. While the beginning of this full coming-of-age story is sad, it does end happy. A life continues to be celebrated and reaches out to impact others in a positive way.

February 1, 2003

            I sit in front of the television anxiously awaiting the birthday calls from my grandparents. My sister and I sit mesmerized, enjoying Saturday morning cartoons just like any other Saturday. Who could resist One Saturday Morning on ABC? I sit at my white “Little Tikes” table in a small gray-blue chair eating a bowl full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

My dad was working that Saturday and my mom was just picking up her Christmas present from Oklahoma City, where my grandma lives. My anticipation builds with each hour. When will they be home so we can start celebrating my 11^th birthday?, I think.

            Suddenly the phone rings.  As birthday girl, I allow my sister the luxury of answering the call. I briefly look away from the television set to look at Lauren’s face. Her brow wrinkles. The voice on the other end sounds like a man’s voice. I wonder who it is. Lauren snatches the remote and starts flipping through the channels.

            “What are you doing!?!” I exclaim.

            “Where are the news channels? Kara, we need to see this. Something’s wrong with Columbia.”

            Nothing can be wrong with Columbia. It’s Mr. Rick. He will be ok. His family needs him, so God won’t take him yet.

            The first news channel Lauren found is CNN. I stop eating. I just stare. I cannot believe my eyes. I do not understand. My freshly eleven-year-old brain cannot comprehend what I see. Lauren begins to choke down sobs. I do not hear what the television announcer says, all I see is Space Shuttle Columbia in flames. I go over and sit by my sister on the burgundy ottoman. I put my arm around her and say, “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.” I just know something like this cannot happen to the Husband’s. My mind cannot fathom it.

            Lauren calls my dad, still choking down sobs. He turns the radio on at work. He tells Lauren he is coming home immediately. Thirty minutes pass and he walks in the door.

            “Everything’s ok, right Daddy?”

            “No one can survive that, Kara. Mr. Rick is dead.”

            His face begins to contort into a weird shape. He almost looks angry, but he is not. Later in life, I realize he is trying not to cry. The only time I ever saw my father cry is at Mr. Rick’s funeral.

I cannot really say what happens the rest of the day. Everything becomes a blur. I only have snippets. I remember our close friends that called, the Myskowski’s, coming over. Their mom tries to comfort us since my mom has not yet arrived. I do not cry in front of them. Only babies cry, I think. My mom arrives later. People leave. Things quit down. Then nothing.

February 2, 2003

            Reporters swarm outside of the Husband’s house. We slowly pull up. NASA, after the disaster, quickly flew the crew’s families back home to Clear Lake for safety—at times the media can be brutal and prying. Everyone wants to interview Mrs. Husband, but she just wants to be alone.

            We ring the doorbell and a fellow astronaut of Mr. Rick opens the door. In case of tragedies, such as Columbia, astronauts about to be on a mission assign an astronaut friend to take care of their family. One such man opens the door for us.

            Lauren and I go find Laura and Matthew. We try to distract them or think of comforting words to say. Nothing comes to mind. Soon, we resort to the swing-set in the backyard. 13-year-old Laura looks at the sky and says:

            “I just feel like he’s still up there on his mission, floating around in space.”

            I become overcome with sadness for them. I try to hold back my emotion. Tears trickle down my small face. Lauren reprimands me for crying. We should support them, not cry. Laura hugs me and says, “It’s ok. I know it’s because you are sad for us.” My feeble tears show all I know how to express.

Present—2012

Looking back, I cannot remember any other details. It is like I blacked out. My brain shut off and nothing worked anymore. I did not cry about it in front of anyone. I kept to myself and only expressed my grief when alone. I know I cried in my room, but I have no implicit memory of it.

This past birthday marked 9 years since Mr. Rick’s passing. Almost every birthday Ms. Husband calls to wish me happy birthday and express regret that Mr. Rick died that day. We exchange condolences and silently remember.

I remember, but I do not cry every birthday. Age taught me that lives do end abruptly and unexpectedly, but instead of always mourning, I should rejoice in the wonderful life he lived. Mr. Rick is in heaven now. His life is a wonderful memory and his death is a trial, but one that continues to strengthen others.

Ms. Husband, now Mrs. Thompson is a speaker at Christian Women’s conventions and gatherings, and is wonderful at grief counseling. She assists in widow ministries at our church, Sagemont Church, in Houston. I would never wish for Mr. Rick to die again, but God has used a sad event to benefit others. Mrs. Thompson’s testimony speaks to many widows and brings new meaning to life.

Through Mr. Rick’s passing, personally, I realized life is short and precious. Things happen unexpectedly—life happens. Rejoice in the days you have. Rejoice in the good times and rejoice in the bad, for one does not exist without the other. Coming-of-age stories shape us. Mr. Rick’s passing opened my eyes to the world, but also became the catalyst for me to become the woman I am today. I will always remember. I will always miss him. I will always know that little girl is part of who I am today.