I sat on a round cafeteria stool, connected to a round cafeteria table, alone. Around me others worked at isolated tables as well. Outside the wind pushed the willowy branches of the birch trees against the huge panes of glass. In front of me lay a Scantron sheet, the kind that you have to bubble in fully and erase fully or it may not be scored correctly. Beside the bubble form was a book of codes for every college and university in the United States, and some in Canada. It was time for me to decide where I wanted my SAT scores to be sent.
I had thought before entering the glass cone of silence that usually served as our loud cafeteria that I was certain. I mean, that is kind of the point of prep school, especially in New England. It is college preparation. It makes choosing and going to college an almost religious experience. The first three codes were easy to fill in: my reach school- Princeton, runner up- William and Mary, and my fall back- James Madison. Yeah, I was kind of a nerd.
With those three done, the smell of chicken nuggets reached me along with the realization that I had two slots left. I was a little angry at this turn of events. It was unexpected; I had only planned on three.
Two images came to mind. The first was a letter in the bottom drawer of my mom’s dresser. It was a card from my grandmother on the occasion of my birth. It was very long. Her languid handwriting informed my mom that she was very blessed that her oldest was a daughter. Scrolled lettering assured her that I would be the one she could count on, just as my grandmother relied on my aunt. The yellowed paper bore the promise that I would be there for holidays regardless of circumstance and most importantly by her bedside in old age. The letter was tucked in an expensive card heralding daughters as angels in disguise.
The second image was of my soccer coach. Her long red hair pulled back and her freckles dark in serious remonstration. “You can be anything you want Katie. You can go anywhere you want. Go to Westmont, they’ve been divisional champs for three consecutive years.” I rolled my eyes. Westmont was in California and that was the one place that my parents had expressly forbidden me to go.
A birch branch knocked against the window behind me and reminded me of the task at hand.
Two slots left.
Harvard. It would be fantastic to get into Harvard. No one from our school had gotten in for years. It wasn’t far from home either. I bubbled slowly H- A- R.
Wheaton was the obvious next choice. Yes, it was in Illinois, but it was a small conservative Christian school, known for rigorous academics and impeccable moral training. Our guidance counselor said I would be a great fit there.
Suddenly, I did not want to fit in. My heart began to pound and I wanted to get away from all this indecision. I wanted to go somewhere I could breathe. I wanted to walk on the beach for hours with no one to ask me where I had been. I wanted to climb up into the mountains and feel the dangerous breath of the sun.
I wanted to be alone. I filled in the bubbles hastily... W-E-S. I felt rebellious, I was scared but I turned in my paper to the moderator and hustled out the door into the bright light of the sun.
Despite my coach’s urging I did not end up playing soccer at the collegiate level. The team was too good, too big a commitment, and I didn’t even try out.
But I did go to Westmont to my parent’s dismay and I found myself to be a fish out of water. Even the landscape bewildered me. I had taken trees for granted. The canopy of green that formed the backdrop of my childhood had always provided the illusion that there was a place to hide. The amount of hot, dry California sky was completely overwhelming.
The cheery smiles of clerks at the grocery store and greetings on the sidewalk from total strangers made my skin crawl. They were looking up and around, not staring at their feet, fearful of slipping to their death on black ice. It was uncomfortable to feel seen.
Even in September there was no place for my forest green L.L. Bean fleece or even my grey long sleeved Henley. Bright colored, brand name fabric highlighted the sea of skin I found myself adrift in. I was aghast upon my first visit to East Beach to find that no one, and I mean no one (aside from myself), was wearing a one piece bathing suit. Grandmothers, expecting mothers, you name it; they would not be restrained by spandex cloying to their mid-section.
I had once requested from the interior of a dressing room that my mother search for turtleneck bathing suits. She laughed at the excessive modesty of her eccentric 11-year old. Fortunately, I found that despite the plethora of bikinis there was such a thing in California: the wet suit. So, I would surf, not well, but well enough to own a board and most importantly a wet suit.
And I would make friends – true friends – the first being Katie Noel Parsons.
I had thought before entering the glass cone of silence that usually served as our loud cafeteria that I was certain. I mean, that is kind of the point of prep school, especially in New England. It is college preparation. It makes choosing and going to college an almost religious experience. The first three codes were easy to fill in: my reach school- Princeton, runner up- William and Mary, and my fall back- James Madison. Yeah, I was kind of a nerd.
With those three done, the smell of chicken nuggets reached me along with the realization that I had two slots left. I was a little angry at this turn of events. It was unexpected; I had only planned on three.
Two images came to mind. The first was a letter in the bottom drawer of my mom’s dresser. It was a card from my grandmother on the occasion of my birth. It was very long. Her languid handwriting informed my mom that she was very blessed that her oldest was a daughter. Scrolled lettering assured her that I would be the one she could count on, just as my grandmother relied on my aunt. The yellowed paper bore the promise that I would be there for holidays regardless of circumstance and most importantly by her bedside in old age. The letter was tucked in an expensive card heralding daughters as angels in disguise.
The second image was of my soccer coach. Her long red hair pulled back and her freckles dark in serious remonstration. “You can be anything you want Katie. You can go anywhere you want. Go to Westmont, they’ve been divisional champs for three consecutive years.” I rolled my eyes. Westmont was in California and that was the one place that my parents had expressly forbidden me to go.
A birch branch knocked against the window behind me and reminded me of the task at hand.
Two slots left.
Harvard. It would be fantastic to get into Harvard. No one from our school had gotten in for years. It wasn’t far from home either. I bubbled slowly H- A- R.
Wheaton was the obvious next choice. Yes, it was in Illinois, but it was a small conservative Christian school, known for rigorous academics and impeccable moral training. Our guidance counselor said I would be a great fit there.
Suddenly, I did not want to fit in. My heart began to pound and I wanted to get away from all this indecision. I wanted to go somewhere I could breathe. I wanted to walk on the beach for hours with no one to ask me where I had been. I wanted to climb up into the mountains and feel the dangerous breath of the sun.
I wanted to be alone. I filled in the bubbles hastily... W-E-S. I felt rebellious, I was scared but I turned in my paper to the moderator and hustled out the door into the bright light of the sun.
Despite my coach’s urging I did not end up playing soccer at the collegiate level. The team was too good, too big a commitment, and I didn’t even try out.
But I did go to Westmont to my parent’s dismay and I found myself to be a fish out of water. Even the landscape bewildered me. I had taken trees for granted. The canopy of green that formed the backdrop of my childhood had always provided the illusion that there was a place to hide. The amount of hot, dry California sky was completely overwhelming.
The cheery smiles of clerks at the grocery store and greetings on the sidewalk from total strangers made my skin crawl. They were looking up and around, not staring at their feet, fearful of slipping to their death on black ice. It was uncomfortable to feel seen.
Even in September there was no place for my forest green L.L. Bean fleece or even my grey long sleeved Henley. Bright colored, brand name fabric highlighted the sea of skin I found myself adrift in. I was aghast upon my first visit to East Beach to find that no one, and I mean no one (aside from myself), was wearing a one piece bathing suit. Grandmothers, expecting mothers, you name it; they would not be restrained by spandex cloying to their mid-section.
I had once requested from the interior of a dressing room that my mother search for turtleneck bathing suits. She laughed at the excessive modesty of her eccentric 11-year old. Fortunately, I found that despite the plethora of bikinis there was such a thing in California: the wet suit. So, I would surf, not well, but well enough to own a board and most importantly a wet suit.
And I would make friends – true friends – the first being Katie Noel Parsons.
Kerrwood Hall. Photo courtesy of Westmont College
We had the same first name and the same dorm. We also were both from very far away; I’ll admit that I was a little jealous. Russia kind of puts New England to shame in terms of mystique. And Katie had a glamour and self-assurance that warned me not to get my hopes up about being friends. She was sure to be the most popular freshman that year or any other year for that matter.
From the first, her charisma was disarming and a little intimidating. Her bright red lips bloomed into a bouquet of perfectly white teeth, cheeks bright and eyes sparkling as she introduced herself. I was at a loss as to what she could be so happy about. Apparently, it was meeting me. This was true of everyone she met. Katie loved people. Before dinner she had acquired an eclectic group of “roomies” comprised of her two roommates (one of whom was another Parsons), two athletes from down the hall (one of whom was another Katy), a feisty redhead, and me.
That first night we walked past the birds of paradise and Kerrwood Hall to the dining commons together. Her stories of smoking cigars at a bar beside Red Square were so mesmerizing that I walked straight into a waist-high pole, flipped over it and landed on my head. The look on her face was a struggle between genuine concern and overwhelming amusement. The other Parsons was pre-med and hovered over me like the sweet doctor she would one day become. The other Katy burst out in trumpets of contagious laughter that I would always adore. I assured Katie that if we were going to be friends amusement was always the right choice. We all laughed till our stomachs ached, reliving my surprise, the reactions of those around us and my less than graceful decent onto the concrete.
We modeled ourselves after the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. She convinced us to streak through campus, skinny dip in the Pacific, stay up all night smoking cigars, dance on the stages of shady clubs, and drink White Russians.
We took a road trip to her grandparent’s house in San Luis Obisbo when the waves were double overhead, and though we talked like we were going to ride them none of us had the skill. Instead, Katie charmed some local boys who took us to the rock where you can feel the spray against your skin without being dashed to pieces by the 20 foot swells. Then she had them show us the best piercing and tattoo parlor. She negotiated a free pizza from the delivery man when he fell down the stairs and smashed our dinner against the front door.
She was the sun around which we all orbited.
And then she got sick.
Katie started having trouble breathing at the beginning of our sophomore year. I chalked it up to her cigar habit but the other Parsons convinced her to have it checked out. At first it seemed like severe asthma, but then there was a day she just couldn’t breathe at all. She was airlifted to UCLA’s respiratory unit and diagnosed with Pulmonary Hypertension (PH). PH is a disease where your lungs don’t get enough blood from your heart, which causes your heart to work harder and harder until it weakens and eventually stops.
We all went down to see her. We joked that it was a good excuse to get Diddy Reese ice cream sandwiches but each one of us was scared sick. We walked softly into Katie’s room. The machines were ubiquitous – monitoring her heart, monitoring her lungs. She was conscious but immobilized so as not to raise her blood pressure. Her skin was translucent and her smile not as broad but her eyes still sparkled. We made the trip again and again, each time getting better at parallel parking and at navigating LA’s insane traffic grid. And each time she was a little better. They finally let her come home. Katie didn’t have an IV or a ventilator – which was a miracle – but they also predicted that she didn’t have more than 5 years to live.
At first, this prognosis was on all our minds all the time. We each desperately wanted to make Katie better. I promised her so many things I could never fulfill. I promised to move to San Francisco with her when she took an internship as a hospital chaplain. I promised to be her surrogate if she got married and wanted to have kids. Surely, she would live long enough to get married and have kids.
By our senior year, Katie’s courage was so natural that I began to forget her forecast. To be nearer, her family bought a condo in a gated community in Santa Barbara where we used to jump the fence to in order to make use of the outdoor hot tub. Now we could legally soak in the steaming water and gaze up at the stars. We were all busy but that summer we made time for family dinner nights where we could catch up on what and how everyone was doing. Sometimes PH would come up. Katie would joke about taking Viagra (which she took along with so many other things to help her blood pressure) or regale us with some adventure at the hospital.
At our last family dinner we celebrated her latest clean bill of health and my recent engagement. She was defying all medical expectations, and I was getting married and moving to Boston. It was bittersweet. I was so excited about all that lay ahead but I knew that this long summer was ending and I’d have to face the changing seasons without her beside me to make me brave.
We actually stayed in touch, which for me is unheard of. I am notoriously terrible at keeping up with even the dearest of friends. But Katie came over and visited us and I went out and visited her. I actually got to tell her in person when I found out I was expecting a baby boy. She was in the hospital again. By this point she had flown past the 5-year mark and I was sure it wasn’t long before she’d be at the top of the list for a transplant. We had agreed back when I left California that it probably wouldn’t be feasible for me to be her surrogate. But in some strange way I felt like I was having this baby for both of us. She was so happy to see me. Just like the first day we met, bright eyes, tremendous smile. She was getting married in the fall. I wanted desperately to be there but I was too sick during the pregnancy. I promised to visit her in the summer when we came out to see my husband David’s family.
David and I flew into Redding Airport with our newborn son James, and went straight to the houseboat where we would be vacationing for the week with my in-laws. My plan was to stop and visit Katie on my way down the coast. I wanted to surprise her with James. I knew she would love him like her own. I also knew she might be back in the hospital so I’d have to work out the details on our drive back. The reception up on the lake was almost nonexistent, so I was totally shocked when a phone call from the other sweet Parsons came through. I went on top of the boat to hear her better, but there wasn’t much for her to say. Katie was gone. The memorial service was in two days.
From the first, her charisma was disarming and a little intimidating. Her bright red lips bloomed into a bouquet of perfectly white teeth, cheeks bright and eyes sparkling as she introduced herself. I was at a loss as to what she could be so happy about. Apparently, it was meeting me. This was true of everyone she met. Katie loved people. Before dinner she had acquired an eclectic group of “roomies” comprised of her two roommates (one of whom was another Parsons), two athletes from down the hall (one of whom was another Katy), a feisty redhead, and me.
That first night we walked past the birds of paradise and Kerrwood Hall to the dining commons together. Her stories of smoking cigars at a bar beside Red Square were so mesmerizing that I walked straight into a waist-high pole, flipped over it and landed on my head. The look on her face was a struggle between genuine concern and overwhelming amusement. The other Parsons was pre-med and hovered over me like the sweet doctor she would one day become. The other Katy burst out in trumpets of contagious laughter that I would always adore. I assured Katie that if we were going to be friends amusement was always the right choice. We all laughed till our stomachs ached, reliving my surprise, the reactions of those around us and my less than graceful decent onto the concrete.
We modeled ourselves after the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. She convinced us to streak through campus, skinny dip in the Pacific, stay up all night smoking cigars, dance on the stages of shady clubs, and drink White Russians.
We took a road trip to her grandparent’s house in San Luis Obisbo when the waves were double overhead, and though we talked like we were going to ride them none of us had the skill. Instead, Katie charmed some local boys who took us to the rock where you can feel the spray against your skin without being dashed to pieces by the 20 foot swells. Then she had them show us the best piercing and tattoo parlor. She negotiated a free pizza from the delivery man when he fell down the stairs and smashed our dinner against the front door.
She was the sun around which we all orbited.
And then she got sick.
Katie started having trouble breathing at the beginning of our sophomore year. I chalked it up to her cigar habit but the other Parsons convinced her to have it checked out. At first it seemed like severe asthma, but then there was a day she just couldn’t breathe at all. She was airlifted to UCLA’s respiratory unit and diagnosed with Pulmonary Hypertension (PH). PH is a disease where your lungs don’t get enough blood from your heart, which causes your heart to work harder and harder until it weakens and eventually stops.
We all went down to see her. We joked that it was a good excuse to get Diddy Reese ice cream sandwiches but each one of us was scared sick. We walked softly into Katie’s room. The machines were ubiquitous – monitoring her heart, monitoring her lungs. She was conscious but immobilized so as not to raise her blood pressure. Her skin was translucent and her smile not as broad but her eyes still sparkled. We made the trip again and again, each time getting better at parallel parking and at navigating LA’s insane traffic grid. And each time she was a little better. They finally let her come home. Katie didn’t have an IV or a ventilator – which was a miracle – but they also predicted that she didn’t have more than 5 years to live.
At first, this prognosis was on all our minds all the time. We each desperately wanted to make Katie better. I promised her so many things I could never fulfill. I promised to move to San Francisco with her when she took an internship as a hospital chaplain. I promised to be her surrogate if she got married and wanted to have kids. Surely, she would live long enough to get married and have kids.
By our senior year, Katie’s courage was so natural that I began to forget her forecast. To be nearer, her family bought a condo in a gated community in Santa Barbara where we used to jump the fence to in order to make use of the outdoor hot tub. Now we could legally soak in the steaming water and gaze up at the stars. We were all busy but that summer we made time for family dinner nights where we could catch up on what and how everyone was doing. Sometimes PH would come up. Katie would joke about taking Viagra (which she took along with so many other things to help her blood pressure) or regale us with some adventure at the hospital.
At our last family dinner we celebrated her latest clean bill of health and my recent engagement. She was defying all medical expectations, and I was getting married and moving to Boston. It was bittersweet. I was so excited about all that lay ahead but I knew that this long summer was ending and I’d have to face the changing seasons without her beside me to make me brave.
We actually stayed in touch, which for me is unheard of. I am notoriously terrible at keeping up with even the dearest of friends. But Katie came over and visited us and I went out and visited her. I actually got to tell her in person when I found out I was expecting a baby boy. She was in the hospital again. By this point she had flown past the 5-year mark and I was sure it wasn’t long before she’d be at the top of the list for a transplant. We had agreed back when I left California that it probably wouldn’t be feasible for me to be her surrogate. But in some strange way I felt like I was having this baby for both of us. She was so happy to see me. Just like the first day we met, bright eyes, tremendous smile. She was getting married in the fall. I wanted desperately to be there but I was too sick during the pregnancy. I promised to visit her in the summer when we came out to see my husband David’s family.
David and I flew into Redding Airport with our newborn son James, and went straight to the houseboat where we would be vacationing for the week with my in-laws. My plan was to stop and visit Katie on my way down the coast. I wanted to surprise her with James. I knew she would love him like her own. I also knew she might be back in the hospital so I’d have to work out the details on our drive back. The reception up on the lake was almost nonexistent, so I was totally shocked when a phone call from the other sweet Parsons came through. I went on top of the boat to hear her better, but there wasn’t much for her to say. Katie was gone. The memorial service was in two days.
|
We had to turn the boat around that afternoon and drive through the night to get there. I kept feeling like we were going to see her. I’d think how she’d laugh when I told her we didn’t have time to stop and feed the baby, and how I had to lean over the car-seat and hope he could reach to suckle. That sort of thing would kill her. And then I realized I couldn’t use phrases like that anymore.
But the service was like seeing her in a way. I will never ever forget the words from her family. The family we had made our own when they moved to Santa Barbara to be near her. We met up as roommates before the service so we could sit together. We cried through the entire three hours. Afterwards, I sat in the nursing room, alone, re-watching the slideshow through one-sided glass. Tears drenched my shirt and my baby. When it was time to scatter her ashes in the waves crashing outside, I wrapped James close to me and walked outside into the bright sunlight. |
|
Header art by T. Guzzio. Original photo via the author.
CONNECT WITH KATIE:
Katie Simington is a born and bred New Englander who set out west looking for adventure. She graduated from Westmont College in Santa Barbara, CA, with a Bachelor of Arts in Religious Studies. It was there that she met and married her husband, David. They moved back to Boston in 2006. Katie attended Boston College to earn her M.Ed. She is currently on leave from formal teaching to raise her three little ones. She is a compulsive reader, writer and debater. You can find her on Twitter @katiesimington, on Facebook, or her personal blog: www.pennedbutnotpublished.blogspot.com.
ADD YOUR VOICE:
ABOUT COMMENTS:
At Prodigal's Chair, thoughtful, honest interaction with our readers is important to our site's success. That's why we use Disqus as our comment / moderation system. Yes, you will need to login to leave a comment - with either your existing Facebook, Twitter, or Google+ account - or you can create your own free Disqus account. We do this for a couple of reasons: 1) to discourage trolling, and 2) to discourage spamming. Please note that Disqus will never post anything to your social network accounts unless you authorize it to do so. Finally, if you prefer you can always email comments directly to us by clicking here.