{"id":98,"date":"2021-03-29T16:44:04","date_gmt":"2021-03-29T16:44:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/english.illinoisstate.edu\/euphemism\/16-2\/?page_id=98"},"modified":"2021-04-29T00:33:15","modified_gmt":"2021-04-29T00:33:15","slug":"untitled","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/untitled\/","title":{"rendered":"untitled"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n
Saverio Sanci<\/span><\/strong><\/h5>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

It was this past summer in Elmont, New York. The night was hot and humid, and I distinctly remember hearing crickets around the yard as I sobbed silently in the dark corner between bushes. If I talked to my friends on the patio across the yard, I knew I\u2019d choke up and wouldn\u2019t be able to enjoy it, but I also knew that I shouldn\u2019t be spending my final night in New York crying instead of talking with my closest allies and support system for the entire 22 years of my life. They were there for me when I couldn\u2019t be there for myself, even when I didn\u2019t want anybody there for me. What I remember more than the moments my friends were there to pick me up is the feeling of wanting to stay down, with all my heart and soul. I remember waking up and staying in my bed the entire day, watching old TV shows that my mother,\u00a0sister\u00a0and I used to watch together when I was little. I remember getting to the last episode of Gilmore Girls on Netflix, only to go back and start all over again from season one, episode one. I remember looking away from my TV, knowing that I needed help, but knowing even deeper that I didn\u2019t want the help.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I remember\u00a0sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs for the entire day, only to go home, sleep, and do the same thing the next day. The Mini Oreos I\u2019d buy from the vending machine every day, sometimes multiple times in one day, cost $2.25. My phone would be close to dying, since I would be on it watching\u00a0Bojack\u00a0Horseman all day to pass the time, so I\u2019d have to sit in an awkward position by the outlet to let it charge so I didn\u2019t have to think about what was happening. More than anything else from that time, ironically, I remember positivity. My close cousins staying at the hospital every night, playing Heads Up, making stupid jokes, eating pizza together after celebrating a successful stent surgery. We all spent Thanksgiving together, but none of us had any time to prepare. We went and bought a rotisserie chicken from the\u00a0supermarket and ordered mashed potatoes\u00a0and\u00a0corn\u00a0from a caterer. I remember thinking \u201cThis is the best Thanksgiving because we\u2019re all supporting each other and, most importantly, supporting Mom\u201d.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The doctors were giving us nothing but good news, telling us that they would try to wake her up in a day to talk with her about the life changing surgery she was going to get. They wanted to give her an LVAD, which stands for Left-Ventricular Assist Device. It would replace her left ventricle and help pump blood out to her body, but she would need to be physically attached to special batteries for the rest of her life. My mom had an undetected heart attack, and when she went to the immediate\u00a0care\u00a0they told her she had bronchitis. After a week of unsuccessful treatment\u00a0for an illness she didn\u2019t have, she finally went back to the doctor, was given an EKG, and was told what it\u00a0actually was.\u00a0They believed it was bronchitis because the left ventricle, which usually pumps oxygenated blood out from the heart to the body, stopped working. This caused blood in the process of oxygenating to get stuck in her lungs,\u00a0causing her to feel chest congestion and leading to the misdiagnosis.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

It\u2019s at this point that I\u2019d like to point out that I haven\u2019t had to look up any of this information, since it\u2019s permanently etched into my brain. They explained everything to me, and I don\u2019t remember ever paying attention more fully to anything in my life. I knew everything that went wrong with her, and I even learned how to read the machines, much to the annoyance of the nurses to whom I kept asking questions. Interestingly, heart rate isn\u2019t a direct indicator of improvement, which I was quick to remind every family member that noticed that her heart rate was decreasing, which they assumed to be positive. What mattered was the blood pressure and the percent oxygenation of her blood, as well as a number that was in green that had to be close\u00a0to, if memory serves me correctly, 90 \u2013 they didn\u2019t bother explaining to me the mathematical process behind reaching that number.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I remember the smell of stale sweat that stuck to her and the other patients. I still hate the smell of sweat. It reminds me of that ICU, nervously looking at the monitor to check for changes in numbers and noticing the different amounts of the seven different drugs they were giving her, which by the end of the week was down to only three. We all took that as a good sign, the doctors included. My aunt took notes of the different drug amounts, telling us that they\u2019d lower the amount of anesthesia to try and get her to wake up, but she\u2019d get too agitated by the tube in her mouth and she\u2019d be put back to sleep just as quickly. I remember waking up earlier than intended at the end of the week, being told to get into the car and to ignore the plans we made\u00a0for breakfast\u00a0the night before. We got a call from the doctor to come by as quickly as we could, and the car ride there was uncharacteristically quiet. No talking, but also no crying. It was like we thought that if we ignored the possibility of what the phone call\u00a0meant,\u00a0we wouldn\u2019t have to deal with the ramifications.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I remember, over the course of the week, holding her hand, rubbing her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin just to remind myself that she was still alive. Clinging on to something that I should\u2019ve known wouldn\u2019t last.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Before he finished the words \u201cpassed away,\u201d we all let go of what we were holding back that morning. I had never known what the word \u201cwailing\u201d really sounded like until that day. I banged on walls, kicked chairs, slid down to the ground with my head between my knees only to get back up, clawing at my face, balling up my fist, punching my thighs. I remember two things very distinctly about that moment. I remember shaking my head\u00a0no<\/em>, but I knew that I shouldn\u2019t deny what happened. Trying to bite the bullet as soon as possible, every time I\u2019d think \u201cno\u201d, I\u00a0would respond, \u201cyes, she is. She\u2019s dead\u201d. Lastly, more than seeing her one last time, the tubes and medical equipment all removed, is the emptiness. What was the point of going on anymore? We cried and hugged and cursed and shouted until we realized\u2026 there was no reason to stay. Suddenly, after a week of this ICU being the most important thing in our lives, there was no reason to be there. We went outside and continued to cry out there. My sister\u2019s boyfriend arrived as soon as he could and I watched them silently embrace, both knowing that there was nothing to do, nothing to talk about.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

There was a church connected to the hospital \u2013 the hospital was named after Saint Francis, so the church seemed to be a package deal. When I was\u00a0younger\u00a0I wanted to go to church every Sunday and I would pray every night, but as I got older I became more skeptical. At this point, with nothing left to lose, I walked into the church, in the middle of Mass, not-so-silently sobbing and sniffling, as I sat in a pew, bowed my head, and put my hands together. I\u00a0spoke, not aloud but in my head, to God \u2013 or at least I tried. I talked and talked and talked, about how I stopped believing and I was sorry and how I know there\u2019s nothing I can do to get her back, but that I would give anything to know that she\u2019s\u2026 somewhere, right now. Anywhere. I sat in the pew, having poured my heart out, and felt nothing change. I was still sobbing, I couldn\u2019t keep myself together, I laid my problems out before God and begged for his assistance, and I walked out the same beaten, broken man that walked in. Since that day I\u2019ve silently hoped that there is no God, because if there were then he would be the biggest piece of shit ever.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I\u2019m desperately trying to wipe up and stop the flow of tears in the dark corner of the yard when I feel a group of hands on me. I turn around, looking for something to say in the face of the people that kept me going since November 25th<\/sup>, and instead could only find a deep sob. They\u00a0wrapped their arms around me in a hug, knowing much like my sister\u2019s boyfriend on that day that there are no words that can change anything.\u00a0My\u00a0very close cousins in Schaumburg, Illinois offered to let me stay with them,\u00a0finish\u00a0my college degree, and start my life over again here in the Midwest. I wanted nothing more than to stay with my heroes in New York, but there was nowhere for me to go, nothing for me to do. As much as I loved every single person who wrapped their arms around me that day, New York\u00a0can\u00a0never be \u201chome\u201d again. Not without her.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I often think about my life here in Illinois. I\u2019m infinitely grateful to my cousins for\u00a0supporting\u00a0me, and I\u2019ve met some professors,\u00a0peers\u00a0and friends out here that have made the transition relatively easy. Despite all this, everything out here feels\u00a0wrong\u00a0\u2013 it\u2019s all great and everyone\u2019s loving and helpful, but I can\u2019t help but repeat in my mind\u2026 this shouldn\u2019t have happened. I shouldn\u2019t be watching Gilmore Girls at two in the morning,\u00a0remembering\u00a0\u00a0how\u00a0much\u00a0my mom\u00a0hated\u00a0the character Logan as I laugh and cry, I should be watching it with her. I shouldn\u2019t be\u00a0rewatching\u00a0Parks and Recreation for the tenth time, I should be doing my homework and focusing on the life I have ahead of me. When I FaceTime my old roommate from New York every now and then, I wish that I could wake up and talk to him every morning like I used to. Why can\u2019t I be worried about normal college things, like hitting on girls and passing my classes, instead of wondering why I\u2019m even still going to school when tomorrow something bad could happen to my sister or my aunt or my cousin and I would\u2019ve wasted all the time I could\u2019ve had with them at school like I did with\u00a0her.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Sometimes, it\u2019s hard for me to think about my mom \u2013 not in the way that thinking of her makes me sad, but I physically cannot remember moments I shared with her. It\u2019s like by brain felt me get emotional whenever I\u2019d think of her and decided to quarantine off that entire section of my mind. Combing through my memories of her, I can only come up with two in recent\u00a0history. The first was over the summer before she passed away, when I was out at my\u00a0friends\u00a0house until two in the morning and I texted my mom and told her I\u2019d be walking home. During the walk, I didn\u2019t realize my phone had been buzzing \u2013 she called me at least ten times. When I got\u00a0home\u00a0she wasn\u2019t there, so I called her and she was panicking, asking me where I was and if I was ok. She was out driving around the neighborhood at, by now, three in the morning, thinking she\u2019d find me run over in the middle of a busy intersection. When she came back, she didn\u2019t even want to look at me. She cared so much about me, and when I came up to her and apologized, expecting her to yell at me, she began to cry. Because losing me was something she\u2019d never be able to live with. And I understand her pain now.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The second was from high school, when I had\u00a0began\u00a0to question life and\u00a0it\u2019s\u00a0meaning and got extremely existential. One day, when I was feeling particularly empty, I sat next to my mom at the couch and asked her, bold-faced, \u201cWhat\u2019s the point of life?\u201d Completely caught off guard, she responded \u201cGet a job and have kids, I guess.\u201d Not satisfied with that answer, I pushed further \u2013 I didn\u2019t mean\u00a0our\u00a0<\/em>lives, I meant\u00a0life<\/em>. Me and her, yes, but also trees and squirrels and the Earth and our Sun that will explode at some point and the\u00a0ever-expanding\u00a0universe that will eventually\u00a0go cold and dark. \u201cWhy are we alive if all of this is going to end?\u201d I could tell that she really had never given that any thought. But, ever the optimist, she looked at me, smiled, and said \u201cIt\u2019s to enjoy it. Life\u2019s all about having fun and sharing your love while you\u2019re here and able to appreciate it.\u201d I believed her for a while, but what happens when there\u2019s nothing that brings you joy anymore?\u00a0<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

None of this should have ever happened, but it did. The world is a cruel, meaningless, unimportant, uncaring, impossible, absurd, random, beautiful, terrible place. Right when you think it can\u2019t get much worse, right when you look at the hand you\u2019re dealt and think \u201cwell,\u00a0shit,\u201d something will take your hand, rip it to shreds and take all your chips. That\u2019s when you realize that, even though your hand had been terrible, at least you had some inkling of hope, no matter how unlikely, that you could win in the end. Without that hope, you begin to feel like an empty husk, watching everyone else play poker and have fun as you\u2019re broke and bored, waiting for the game to end so that you could just walk away and\u00a0never look back. Nothing happens for a reason and sometimes, without warning, things just end.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Saverio Sanci   It was this past summer in Elmont, New York. The night was hot and humid, and I distinctly remember hearing crickets around the yard as I sobbed silently in the dark corner between bushes. If I talked to my friends on the patio across the yard, I knew I\u2019d choke up and… Continue Reading untitled<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":40,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-98","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/98","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/40"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=98"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/98\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":914,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/98\/revisions\/914"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=98"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}