Alison Caiola's Blog
August 17, 2014
The Night Robin Williams Dried Our Tears
Monday, at 7:10 P.M, I logged on to my Facebook page and randomly scanned my friends’ posts. I was stopped dead in my tracks when I read my dear friend, Lita's, post:
Thanks for the laughs, Robin Williams. Sorry for the pain
. My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results. My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive.
www.alisoncaiola.com
award-winning author of The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord
facebook.com/alisoncaiolaauthor
@AlisonMCaiola
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive.
www.alisoncaiola.com
award-winning author of The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord
facebook.com/alisoncaiolaauthor
@AlisonMCaiola
August 13, 2014
The Night Robin Williams Dried our Tears
Monday at 7:10 P.M. I logged on to my Facebook page and randomly scanned my friends’ posts. I was stopped dead in my tracks when I read my dear friend, Lita's, post: Thanks for the laughs, Robin Williams. Sorry for the pain.
My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately Googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results.
My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL that I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning.
We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda.
While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, and what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken to feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break the fourth wall, and jump out of our television sets and into our living rooms.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin was still alive.
My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately Googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results.
My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL that I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning.
We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda.
While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, and what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken to feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break the fourth wall, and jump out of our television sets and into our living rooms.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin was still alive.
The Night Robin Williams Dried Our Tears
Monday, at 7:10 P.M, I logged on to my Facebook page and randomly scanned my friends’ posts. I was stopped dead in my tracks when I read my dear friend, Lita's, post:
Thanks for the laughs, Robin Williams. Sorry for the pain
. My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results. My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive.
Rest In Peace
Like this blog? Don't miss out on any future posts--just click: BECOME A MEMBER and you will be notified of new posts!
www.alisoncaiola.com@AlisonMCaiolawww... is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.
The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes
It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.
Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.
I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come, what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.
In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock. Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.
Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive.
Rest In Peace
Like this blog? Don't miss out on any future posts--just click: BECOME A MEMBER and you will be notified of new posts!
www.alisoncaiola.com@AlisonMCaiolawww... is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.
The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes
June 19, 2013
Whatever you do, DON'T PULL THE PLUG!
“I need a vacation, just a few days to do nothing but unwind, unplug and relax.” I looked out the window at the three feet of snow that dropped down from the heavens the night before, and sighed. My friend, who was on the other end of the phone and three thousand miles away in a world where The earth shakes at times, but the sun almost always shines, chortled. “Relax and unwind? I’d like to see that. I just don’t know if you can.” she said matter-of-factly. Before I could think about what she said or respond, the conversation floated to another topic and then another, as our long distance catch-up calls often do.
Later that evening, I thought about what she said and felt a bit hurt, and truthfully more than a bit upset. What did she mean by that? Of course I can unwind and relax. Didn't I spend many, many, sometimes way too many hours lounging by the beach and the pool in Malibu and Santa Monica? Doing nothing for hours on end but, as my mother would say, contemplating my navel?
Alright, to be completely honest, those Santa Monica/Malibu days happened way back in the mid to late 90’s, before I owned a smart phone. Hell, I didn't even own a dumb phone and Facebook was only a Nano twinkle in a prepubescent’s eye.
Oh oh--have I become thatperson? You know the one I mean. The one who can never let the phone go unanswered lest a business deal be forever lost? Or the one with the nagging itch that can’t be scratched unless they catch every single text, post or tweet that’s hit into cyber left field? Am I destined to join the growing throngs of the virtual community, social media twelve-step program?
Shamefully, I must say it sure as shit looks that way. So that being said, today I will set a goal. End of the first week of July I am planning a bucolic trip to Maine with my dear left coast pal. On that trip I will unplug. I won’t take my computer on the trip (It’s a little warm in here, did someone turn off the A/C?) My voice mail will inform people not to leave a message unless their hair is on fire (I’m sweating profusely now) and I will have an "away on vacation” automatic email message response (the room is spinning) AND I forbid myself to text, tweet or post (make way, I’m hitting the floor. . . CRASH).
Now of course a person cannot quit cold turkey like that. There can be some serious withdrawal symptoms. I can see myself on vacation, breathlessly climbing the craggy cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, all the while wondering what Liza’s Panini-of-the day had been or if I missed the cutest dog/baby photo ever posted in the history of time! It may cause me to take a misstep and fall hundreds of feet into the watery abyss, never to be heard from again.
So that being said, I will slowly disentangle myself from the social media vortex. Right here, right now! In a few moments, I will grab my towel and walk out to the pool. I’ll leave my Droid Incredible behind! Just in case I become weak and run back into the house to fetch the phone, leaving chlorine puddles everywhere, I’ll lock it away and hide the key. Even I won’t be able to find it.
You know, on second thought, while I'm swimming, maybe I’ll just leave the phone by the table next to the lounge chair. Baby steps, people. Baby steps! lol <3 <3
www.alisoncaiola.com
twitter: @AlisonMCaiola
like my fan page: www.facebook.com/alisoncaiolaauthor
Alison Caiola is the author of The Lily Lockwood Series:
The Seeds of a Daisy( now available in paperback and download on amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes
Later that evening, I thought about what she said and felt a bit hurt, and truthfully more than a bit upset. What did she mean by that? Of course I can unwind and relax. Didn't I spend many, many, sometimes way too many hours lounging by the beach and the pool in Malibu and Santa Monica? Doing nothing for hours on end but, as my mother would say, contemplating my navel?
Alright, to be completely honest, those Santa Monica/Malibu days happened way back in the mid to late 90’s, before I owned a smart phone. Hell, I didn't even own a dumb phone and Facebook was only a Nano twinkle in a prepubescent’s eye.
Oh oh--have I become thatperson? You know the one I mean. The one who can never let the phone go unanswered lest a business deal be forever lost? Or the one with the nagging itch that can’t be scratched unless they catch every single text, post or tweet that’s hit into cyber left field? Am I destined to join the growing throngs of the virtual community, social media twelve-step program?
Shamefully, I must say it sure as shit looks that way. So that being said, today I will set a goal. End of the first week of July I am planning a bucolic trip to Maine with my dear left coast pal. On that trip I will unplug. I won’t take my computer on the trip (It’s a little warm in here, did someone turn off the A/C?) My voice mail will inform people not to leave a message unless their hair is on fire (I’m sweating profusely now) and I will have an "away on vacation” automatic email message response (the room is spinning) AND I forbid myself to text, tweet or post (make way, I’m hitting the floor. . . CRASH).
Now of course a person cannot quit cold turkey like that. There can be some serious withdrawal symptoms. I can see myself on vacation, breathlessly climbing the craggy cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, all the while wondering what Liza’s Panini-of-the day had been or if I missed the cutest dog/baby photo ever posted in the history of time! It may cause me to take a misstep and fall hundreds of feet into the watery abyss, never to be heard from again.
So that being said, I will slowly disentangle myself from the social media vortex. Right here, right now! In a few moments, I will grab my towel and walk out to the pool. I’ll leave my Droid Incredible behind! Just in case I become weak and run back into the house to fetch the phone, leaving chlorine puddles everywhere, I’ll lock it away and hide the key. Even I won’t be able to find it.
You know, on second thought, while I'm swimming, maybe I’ll just leave the phone by the table next to the lounge chair. Baby steps, people. Baby steps! lol <3 <3
www.alisoncaiola.com
twitter: @AlisonMCaiola
like my fan page: www.facebook.com/alisoncaiolaauthor
Alison Caiola is the author of The Lily Lockwood Series:
The Seeds of a Daisy( now available in paperback and download on amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes
April 22, 2013
PTSD--Stay The Hell Away From Me!
Today I called my therapist. Which doesn't seem like a big deal, right? I should have said today I NEEDED to call my therapist. Bad. I originally started seeing her years ago when I was so overcome with grief that my skin actually ached, everything annoyed me and even the tick. . .tick. . . tick… of her office wall clock catapulted me over the edge during one session. She helped me through it all and when I came out the other end, we were dear friends. As a matter of fact, most sessions we had in the past few years were more like business strategy meetings. She has a talent for putting everything in perspective, her bull meter is finely tuned and she loves me. Perfect!
Skin aching, stomach twisting, sadness oozing from every pore, I punched in her number and when the message machine came on, I calmly asked her to call me as soon as was convenient. I hung up knowing I should have left her a more in-depth message. I should have shouted “PTSD has me by the throat and I can’t shake the fucker off.”
I was sucked into a multi-faceted perfect storm. Phase one of the storm began a few weeks before when Steven, my one and only brother, my dear friend and support system, who had been vacationing in Virginia, blacked out, coughed up blood and was rushed to the hospital. He was brought into the ICU with a diagnosis of sepsis-- blood pressure so low it was barely measurable. The next 48 hours was a nightmare as we held our breaths, waiting for him to turn the corner. The poor fellow in the bed next to his, with eerily similar symptoms, did not. Thankfully my brother, who had been a marathon runner and in great physical condition, did. He is a little worse for wear but definitely on the mend.
The emotional twister then headed northeast, gathered speed and hit hard. Phase Two: I, like everyone else, watched in horrific real-time, the act of pure evil and cowardice as two bombs exploded at the finish line of The Boston Marathon. I don’t have to go into detail about the nightmare that followed. We've all seen it. Some of us were standing feet away, some gorilla-glued to our televisions. In those couple of moments we all again witnessed the fragility of life; how in a split-second, we can experience the highest of highs then the unfathomable lowest of lows.
I closed my eyes, tight. Memories of twin buildings falling into their own footprints instantly flooded back. Visuals that were painstakingly hidden and held hostage underneath boulders of self-protection, escaped with rapid-fire speed. I opened my eyes at the exact second a man in a wheelchair flashed on the screen. His legs were blown off and two men were running, pushing him through the crowd.
Phase three nearly knocked me down. It was suddenly 2001 and I was back in the ICU. I was one of ten people who surrounded the hospital bed. Later, I would find out they were surgeons, nurses, psychiatrists and a social worker. It was up to me to tell the one person that I loved most in the world, the one person who for so many years my main purpose in life was to keep safe and out of harm’s way, that his strong left arm was no longer there. Only a densely-wrapped bloody gauze remained.
I know, all too well, the shock, anguish and disbelief. I know all too well the phantom pain that waits for these innocent victims. I am overwhelmed with anger. Who are the monsters who plotted this destruction, mayhem and death?
When the photo of a sweet-faced teenager dominated the networks, I was stunned. Monsters are supposed to look like monsters! Not like a typical teenager who plays video games in his filthy clothes-strewn bedroom! What could have happened to the kid who people call “…sweet, polite, fun and full of life” that he could commit such a heinous act? I don’t want to wonder about that. With every fiber of my body, I don’t want to agonize over what went terribly wrong with him! But I do.
Skin aching, stomach twisting, sadness oozing from every pore, I punched in her number and when the message machine came on, I calmly asked her to call me as soon as was convenient. I hung up knowing I should have left her a more in-depth message. I should have shouted “PTSD has me by the throat and I can’t shake the fucker off.”
I was sucked into a multi-faceted perfect storm. Phase one of the storm began a few weeks before when Steven, my one and only brother, my dear friend and support system, who had been vacationing in Virginia, blacked out, coughed up blood and was rushed to the hospital. He was brought into the ICU with a diagnosis of sepsis-- blood pressure so low it was barely measurable. The next 48 hours was a nightmare as we held our breaths, waiting for him to turn the corner. The poor fellow in the bed next to his, with eerily similar symptoms, did not. Thankfully my brother, who had been a marathon runner and in great physical condition, did. He is a little worse for wear but definitely on the mend.
The emotional twister then headed northeast, gathered speed and hit hard. Phase Two: I, like everyone else, watched in horrific real-time, the act of pure evil and cowardice as two bombs exploded at the finish line of The Boston Marathon. I don’t have to go into detail about the nightmare that followed. We've all seen it. Some of us were standing feet away, some gorilla-glued to our televisions. In those couple of moments we all again witnessed the fragility of life; how in a split-second, we can experience the highest of highs then the unfathomable lowest of lows.
I closed my eyes, tight. Memories of twin buildings falling into their own footprints instantly flooded back. Visuals that were painstakingly hidden and held hostage underneath boulders of self-protection, escaped with rapid-fire speed. I opened my eyes at the exact second a man in a wheelchair flashed on the screen. His legs were blown off and two men were running, pushing him through the crowd.
Phase three nearly knocked me down. It was suddenly 2001 and I was back in the ICU. I was one of ten people who surrounded the hospital bed. Later, I would find out they were surgeons, nurses, psychiatrists and a social worker. It was up to me to tell the one person that I loved most in the world, the one person who for so many years my main purpose in life was to keep safe and out of harm’s way, that his strong left arm was no longer there. Only a densely-wrapped bloody gauze remained.
I know, all too well, the shock, anguish and disbelief. I know all too well the phantom pain that waits for these innocent victims. I am overwhelmed with anger. Who are the monsters who plotted this destruction, mayhem and death?
When the photo of a sweet-faced teenager dominated the networks, I was stunned. Monsters are supposed to look like monsters! Not like a typical teenager who plays video games in his filthy clothes-strewn bedroom! What could have happened to the kid who people call “…sweet, polite, fun and full of life” that he could commit such a heinous act? I don’t want to wonder about that. With every fiber of my body, I don’t want to agonize over what went terribly wrong with him! But I do.
PTSD--STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!
Today I called my therapist. Which doesn’t seem like a big deal, right? I should have said today I NEEDED to call my therapist. Bad. I originally started seeing her years ago when I was so overcome with grief that my skin actually ached, everything annoyed me and even the tick. . .tick. . . tick… of her office wall clock catapulted me over the edge during one session. She helped me through it all and when I came out the other end, we were dear friends. As a matter of fact, most sessions we had in the past few years were more like business strategy meetings. She has a talent for putting everything in perspective, her bull meter is finely tuned and she loves me. Perfect!
Skin aching, stomach twisting, sadness oozing from every pore, I punched in her number and when the message machine came on, I calmly asked her to call me as soon as was convenient. I hung up knowing I should have left her a more in-depth message. I should have shouted “PTSD has me by the throat and I can’t shake the fucker off.”
I was sucked into a multi-faceted perfect storm. Phase one of the storm began a few weeks before when Steven, my one and only brother, my dear friend and support system, who had been vacationing in Virginia, blacked out, coughed up blood and was rushed to the hospital. He was brought into the ICU with a diagnosis of sepsis-- blood pressure so low it was barely measurable. The next 48 hours was a nightmare as we held our breath, waiting for him to turn the corner. The poor fellow in the bed next to his, with eerily similar symptoms, did not. Thankfully my brother, who had been a marathon runner and in great physical condition, did. He is a little worse for wear but definitely on the mend.
The emotional twister then headed northeast, gathered speed and hit hard. Phase Two: I, like everyone else, watched in horrific real-time, the act of pure evil and cowardice as two bombs exploded at the finish line of The Boston Marathon. I don’t have to go into detail about the nightmare that followed. We've all seen it. Some of us were standing feet away, some gorilla-glued to our televisions. In those couple of moments we all again witnessed the fragility of life; how in a split-second we can experience the highest of highs then the unfathomable lowest of lows.
I closed my eyes, tight. Memories of twin buildings falling into their own footprints instantly flooded back. Visuals that were painstakingly hidden and held hostage underneath boulders of self-protection, escaped with rapid-fire speed. I opened my eyes at the exact second a man in a wheelchair flashed on the screen. His legs were blown off and two men were running, pushing him through the crowd.
Phase three nearly knocked me down. It was suddenly 2001 and I was back in the ICU. I was one of ten people who surrounded the hospital bed. Later, I would find out the pthers were surgeons, nurses, psychiatrists and a social worker. It was up to me to tell the one person that I loved most in the world, the one person who for so many years my main purpose in life was to keep safe and out of harm’s way, that his strong left arm was no longer there. Only a densely-wrapped bloody gauze remained.
I know, all too well, the shock, anguish and disbelief. I know all too well the phantom pain that waits for these innocent victims. I am overwhelmed with anger. Who are the monsters who plotted this destruction, mayhem, dismemberment and death?
When the photo of a sweet-faced teenager dominated the networks, I was stunned. Monsters are supposed to look like monsters! Not like a typical teenager who plays video games in his filthy clothes-strewn bedroom! What could have happened to the kid who people call “…sweet, polite, fun and full of life” that he could commit such a heinous act? I don’t want to wonder about that. With every fiber of my body, I don’t want to agonize over what went terribly wrong with him! But I do.
_________________________________________________________________________________ Alison Caiola's novel The Seeds of a Daisy is now on amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, iTunes and www.theseedsofadaisy.com facebook.com/theseedsofadaisy
April 4, 2013
An Homage To The Cell Phone
I remember being on a commercial shoot in the very late eighties. I don’t remember the product, but the era it was set in was also the late eighties--the late 1880’s. We were deep in the country, haystacks abound, dirt roads and weathered clapboard barns as far as the eye could see. The rural area was so frozen in time, you fully expected little Laura Ingalls to race across a meadow and tumble down the nearest hill in a desperate attempt to beat the ringing of the school bell.
· glorious spring day, CHECK,
· authentic locale, CHECK,
· child actors who actually remember their lines, CHECK
· A director who actually likes child actors, CHECK
So serene was the setting that by hour two the New York city tension that, like a badge of honor most of the crew had etched into their very DNA, melted away leaving in its place serene “Andy Griffin whistling and happily fishing with Opie” expressions.
Desperately needing to make a call, I decided to forgo lunch and jumped into my car to find the nearest phone. A half hour into the one hour break I still hadn’t found a town, much less a phonebooth. The “I could definitely live in the country, feed the chickens and darn my farmer husband’s socks” euphoria I felt a mere thirty minutes before had morphed into a crazed “If I pass one more dairy cow slowly chewing its cud, I am going to gouge out my left eyeball with a rusty scissor” sort of feeling.
Without touching the brakes, I spun the wheel around, leaving an angry cloud of dust in my wake and headed back to set. The cast and crew, still naively sporting their country-bumpkin, shit-eating grins, were already back at work. I grabbed a donut from craft services and caught up with one of the actresses I befriended earlier in the day. I launched into a tirade about my failed phone booth seeking mission.
“That’s why I got myself a car phone last month.”
At that moment she was a Goddess. I asked her if I could borrow her phone. She shook her head no. I was a annoyed and quite frankly hurt. Four hours ago we had forged a friendship that I was absolutely convinced would last the test of time.
“I only use it for emergencies, it’s way too expensive.”
I was relieved. It wasn’t that she didn’t value what we had together, everyone knew money problems trumped newly blossoming friendships any day of the week.
“Well this IS an emergency; I have to call JD’s agent to check in." I played on every actor's worst fear-- missing an audition for your NEXT acting job, because you're stuck working and incommunicado on your CURRENT acting job!
“ I'll gladly reimburse you.” I was already dialing the number in my head.
She agreed and the first chance we got, she walked me to her car and told me to get in. I opened the passenger side door and there it was; THE HOLY GRAIL OF TECHNOLOGY in all its clumsy glory. My trembling hand respectfully lifted it out of its leather-mounted holster and dialed the number. Within seconds I was chatting away. Ten minutes later, still flushed from the heady experience, I emerged triumphant.
“Thanks so much. I REALLY appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”
She thought for a second and replied “Probably about eighteen dollars.”
I was understandably shocked, but as promised, I forked over the dough. I also knew at that moment, the world as I knew it, would never be the same. I HAD to get me one of them babies as soon as we returned to civilization
· glorious spring day, CHECK,
· authentic locale, CHECK,
· child actors who actually remember their lines, CHECK
· A director who actually likes child actors, CHECK
So serene was the setting that by hour two the New York city tension that, like a badge of honor most of the crew had etched into their very DNA, melted away leaving in its place serene “Andy Griffin whistling and happily fishing with Opie” expressions.
Desperately needing to make a call, I decided to forgo lunch and jumped into my car to find the nearest phone. A half hour into the one hour break I still hadn’t found a town, much less a phonebooth. The “I could definitely live in the country, feed the chickens and darn my farmer husband’s socks” euphoria I felt a mere thirty minutes before had morphed into a crazed “If I pass one more dairy cow slowly chewing its cud, I am going to gouge out my left eyeball with a rusty scissor” sort of feeling.
Without touching the brakes, I spun the wheel around, leaving an angry cloud of dust in my wake and headed back to set. The cast and crew, still naively sporting their country-bumpkin, shit-eating grins, were already back at work. I grabbed a donut from craft services and caught up with one of the actresses I befriended earlier in the day. I launched into a tirade about my failed phone booth seeking mission.
“That’s why I got myself a car phone last month.”
At that moment she was a Goddess. I asked her if I could borrow her phone. She shook her head no. I was a annoyed and quite frankly hurt. Four hours ago we had forged a friendship that I was absolutely convinced would last the test of time.
“I only use it for emergencies, it’s way too expensive.”
I was relieved. It wasn’t that she didn’t value what we had together, everyone knew money problems trumped newly blossoming friendships any day of the week.
“Well this IS an emergency; I have to call JD’s agent to check in." I played on every actor's worst fear-- missing an audition for your NEXT acting job, because you're stuck working and incommunicado on your CURRENT acting job!
“ I'll gladly reimburse you.” I was already dialing the number in my head.
She agreed and the first chance we got, she walked me to her car and told me to get in. I opened the passenger side door and there it was; THE HOLY GRAIL OF TECHNOLOGY in all its clumsy glory. My trembling hand respectfully lifted it out of its leather-mounted holster and dialed the number. Within seconds I was chatting away. Ten minutes later, still flushed from the heady experience, I emerged triumphant.
“Thanks so much. I REALLY appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”
She thought for a second and replied “Probably about eighteen dollars.”
I was understandably shocked, but as promised, I forked over the dough. I also knew at that moment, the world as I knew it, would never be the same. I HAD to get me one of them babies as soon as we returned to civilization
March 2, 2013
A Gift From Beyond
Today marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Eight years. Strange they call it anniversary, since that word is usually associate with celebrating a milestone event. This isn't one of those--no celebrating going on here.
March 2, 2005 I lost my mother who was the gorilla-strength glue that held the family together. She was also my best friend and I, hers. The officiant who presided over the funeral said that every family member he spoke to said the same thing; that she was their best friend and they were hers. Imagine having that type of effect on your loved ones. She was a special woman. We were lucky to have her.
The last weeks of her life she was on the hospice floor of St Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson. They were wonderful, patient and kind and even allowed me to sleep in the bed next to her. We had the opportunity, those long days and nights, to say everything that needed to be said. Truth be told, we always spoke and had a free-flowing non-stop communication that started decades before. Even though we lived 3000 miles apart, much of those last decades we managed to speak every day. We shared our daily lives during long distance phone calls and eventually emails, when she got up to computer-savvy speed. No matter where I was in the world, if I was experiencing something touching, beautiful or heartbreaking I would call her and share.
So during the last few days that she was conscious, we held hands, watched our favorite TV shows and talked non-stop. It was during one of those hand-holding conversations, she looked at me and thanked me for being there for her. She went on to say "I didn't know a person could love another person like this."
After she passed away, that sentence was a warm comforting blanket that I wrapped around myself to ward off the chilling effects of grief.
One month and one day later was my birthday. It was one of those BIG ASS birthdays that people usually either go to many lengths to forget and refuse to acknowledge or over-celebrate to in an effort to anesthetize themselves against the harsh reality. I was not up to celebrating, as a matter of fact I couldn't imagine ever having a birthday that I wasn't the recipient of a birthday song sung by my mom in her slightly off-key, gravelly voice.
That morning I received an email from someone asking where my mother was, since they had not heard from her in months. It seems that she had become sort of an email pen pal of this husband and wife whose young son Mikey had undergone heart surgery. Over the years, they communicated and even though they never met, they shared much of their lives. I wrote back to tell them that Mom and passed. I made sure to let them know that she cared for their family and over the years, kept me apprised of Mikey's recovery.
That night my sister and niece surprised me with a small birthday party and invited the immediate family. Later on that evening, I returned home to find an email from Mikey's father telling me how sorry he was and how much they would all miss communicating with her. He attached a voice email message that my mother sent Mikey while he was in the hospital. With shaking hands I clicked the link (below) and heard:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/zjz93y61xe...
I'm convinced that my mother did not want my birthday to pass without hearing her voice.
March 2, 2005 I lost my mother who was the gorilla-strength glue that held the family together. She was also my best friend and I, hers. The officiant who presided over the funeral said that every family member he spoke to said the same thing; that she was their best friend and they were hers. Imagine having that type of effect on your loved ones. She was a special woman. We were lucky to have her.
The last weeks of her life she was on the hospice floor of St Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson. They were wonderful, patient and kind and even allowed me to sleep in the bed next to her. We had the opportunity, those long days and nights, to say everything that needed to be said. Truth be told, we always spoke and had a free-flowing non-stop communication that started decades before. Even though we lived 3000 miles apart, much of those last decades we managed to speak every day. We shared our daily lives during long distance phone calls and eventually emails, when she got up to computer-savvy speed. No matter where I was in the world, if I was experiencing something touching, beautiful or heartbreaking I would call her and share.
So during the last few days that she was conscious, we held hands, watched our favorite TV shows and talked non-stop. It was during one of those hand-holding conversations, she looked at me and thanked me for being there for her. She went on to say "I didn't know a person could love another person like this."
After she passed away, that sentence was a warm comforting blanket that I wrapped around myself to ward off the chilling effects of grief.
One month and one day later was my birthday. It was one of those BIG ASS birthdays that people usually either go to many lengths to forget and refuse to acknowledge or over-celebrate to in an effort to anesthetize themselves against the harsh reality. I was not up to celebrating, as a matter of fact I couldn't imagine ever having a birthday that I wasn't the recipient of a birthday song sung by my mom in her slightly off-key, gravelly voice.
That morning I received an email from someone asking where my mother was, since they had not heard from her in months. It seems that she had become sort of an email pen pal of this husband and wife whose young son Mikey had undergone heart surgery. Over the years, they communicated and even though they never met, they shared much of their lives. I wrote back to tell them that Mom and passed. I made sure to let them know that she cared for their family and over the years, kept me apprised of Mikey's recovery.
That night my sister and niece surprised me with a small birthday party and invited the immediate family. Later on that evening, I returned home to find an email from Mikey's father telling me how sorry he was and how much they would all miss communicating with her. He attached a voice email message that my mother sent Mikey while he was in the hospital. With shaking hands I clicked the link (below) and heard:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/zjz93y61xe...
I'm convinced that my mother did not want my birthday to pass without hearing her voice.
A Gift From Beyond
Today marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Ten years. Strange they call it anniversary, since that word is usually associate with celebrating a milestone event. This isn't one of those--no celebrating going on here.
March 2, 2005 I lost my mother who was the gorilla-strength glue that held the family together. She was also my best friend and I, hers. The officiant who presided over the funeral said that every family member he spoke to said the same thing; that she was their best friend and they were hers. Can you imagine having that type of effect on your loved ones? She was a special woman. We were lucky to have her.
The last weeks of her life she was on the hospice floor of St Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson. They were wonderful, patient and kind and even allowed me to sleep in the bed next to her. We had the opportunity, those long days and nights, to say everything that needed to be said. Truth be told, we always spoke and had a free-flowing non-stop communication that started decades before. Even though we lived 3000 miles apart, much of those last decades we managed to speak every day. We shared our daily lives during long distance phone calls and eventually emails, when she got up to computer-savvy speed. No matter where I was in the world, if I was experiencing something touching, beautiful or heartbreaking I would call her and share.
So during the last few days that she was conscious, we held hands, watched our favorite TV shows and talked non-stop. It was during one of those hand-holding conversations, she looked at me and thanked me for being there for her. She went on to say "I didn't know a person could love another person like this."
After she passed away, that sentence was a warm comforting blanket that I wrapped around myself to attempt to ward off the empty, chilling effects of grief.
One month and one day later was my birthday. It was one of those BIG birthdays that people usually, either go to many lengths to forget and refuse to acknowledge, or over-celebrate in an effort to anesthetize themselves against the harsh reality. I was not up to celebrating, as a matter of fact I couldn't imagine ever having a birthday that I wasn't the recipient of a birthday song sung by my mom in her slightly off-key, gravelly voice.
That morning I received an email from someone asking where my mother was, since they had not heard from her in months. It seems that she had become sort of an email pen pal of this husband and wife whose young son Mikey had undergone heart surgery. Over the years, they communicated and even though they never met, they shared much of their lives. I wrote back to tell them that Mom and passed. I made sure to let them know that she cared for their family and over the years, kept me apprised of Mikey's recovery.
That night my sister and niece surprised me with a small birthday party and invited the immediate family. Later on that evening, I returned home to find an email from Mikey's father telling me how sorry he was and how much they would all miss communicating with her. He attached a voice email message that my mother sent Mikey while he was in the hospital. With shaking hands I clicked the link (below) and heard:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/zjz93y61xey02xj/sOetkEXh16?m
I wiped my eyes, convinced that my mother did not want my birthday to pass without hearing her voice.###Like this blog? Don't miss out on any future posts--just click: BECOME A MEMBER and you will be notified of new posts!
Alison Caiola, authorThe Lily Lockwood Series: Book One The Seeds of a Daisy, Book Two: The Silver Cord( published March 2015) www.alisoncaiola.com facebook.com/alisoncaiolaauthortwitter@AlisonMCaiolaInstagram: alisonwritesgoogle + https://google.com/+AlisonCaiolaAuthor/goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show... purchase: amazon.com/author/alisoncaiola[image error]
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February 11, 2013
In My Life, I Loved You More. . .
In My Life I Love You More. . .
I was walking up the stairs outside the student center, when I first saw Gil. It was only two weeks into my college career and already I felt pretty confident. All the nervous energy that I brought with me dissipated and with one of my best friend’s from high school by my side, I felt braver than I might have, had I been flying solo.
He was on the top step leaning against the railing. From his vantage point, he could easily watch the throngs of students, like industrious ants, rushing in and out of the surrounding buildings. His father’s Filipino heritage was more dominant than his mother’s English background and the result was striking and exotic good looks. His layered, shoulder length brown hair added a whisper of a rock and roll edge.
He had a large heart embroidered on the front of his bell bottom jeans. Without hesitation I said the first thing that came to mind, "Hey that’s a cool heart.” My own heart skipped a beat when he gave me possibly the warmest smile, and revealed the straightest, whitest teeth I had ever seen. He was easy to talk to and before I knew it, I was handing him my phone number and making a date for the following Saturday night.
When Saturday came around, after a flurry of beautifying activity, I waited for his car to pull up. Seven o’clock came and went with no Gil in sight. By seven twenty, I grabbed my keys and got into my car to leave. I recently made myself a promise never to sit and wait for anyone.
The last three years of high school I was head over heels in love with an older boy. Unfortunately, six month into our relationship, his number was picked in the last lottery draft of the Vietnam War. Before we knew it, Uncle Sam scooped him up and stationed him four thousand miles away in Germany.
Thankfully, he did not see any action, but the three years we spent apart were emotionally charged with a cycle of joyful reunions followed by tearful goodbyes. Letters flew across the globe on a daily basis and at least three times a week the phone would ring at 6AM. From a deep sleep, I would jump out of bed, bolt down two flights of stairs and answer it before the third ring. I missed out on most of my high school social milestones because he was away. I didn’t go to any event geared toward couples. I missed dances and my prom. I felt that it was worth it, because after the wait was over, we would be together forever. We planned to marry, move to Oregon where he would become a Park Ranger and I a writer.
I was ecstatic when he managed to get a leave from the army, fly home to surprise me for my graduation. When the leave was over and he was getting ready to return, he dropped a bomb. He had met a German girl and they started dating the month before. My high school was over and so was my relationship. I missed out on so much and vowed from that moment on, never to wait for anyone again.
Gil’s face was one of complete shock when he turned the corner and saw me driving away. After he explained that he was stuck in traffic, I parked my car and we went on our first date. He would never be late again.
That night, like so many nights to come, we sat on the beach and he played his guitar and sang to me. He had the sweetest voice and could play as deftly as Jose Feliciano. Sometimes he would sing his original songs, other nights he would give me a personal concert under the stars with tunes from The Beatles, Eric Clapton, James Taylor and Cat Stevens. Hook, line and sinker I was in, and in love!
One day I was set to make a presentation in my Communications class about relationships. Even though it was only a couple of hours away, I didn’t have a clue how to start it. He told me not to worry, he’d figure it out. He had a math test at the same time as my class. He ditched it and a couple of hours later, Gil sitting cross-legged on a desk in front of the class, played guitar and sang the Beatles song, In My Life To this day whenever I hear There are places I remember all my life, it’s always Gil’s voice I hear.
A few months later, a well-known manager in the music world heard Gil's band and invited us to his home to talk about possibly representing them. His best friend from childhood Joe, also a band member, Joe’s girlfriend Cathy, Gil and I sat in his living room in awe listening to his stories of all the famous groups he had plucked out of obscurity and catapulted into stardom.
He told the guys that he was going to shop their songs around and would let them know what the next step would be. We left with our heads spinning and our feet never touching the ground.
Two days later, Gil called to tell me that he had great news to share. In the time it took for him to drive over, I planned our rock star future. When he arrived, he was flushed with excitement.
I made him sit down and take a few deep breaths. He finally calmed down enough to tell me that Joe had decided to join the Marines and since he and Joe were inseparable, he enlisted too.
I couldn't believe my ears. Who in their right mind, only four years after The Kent State Massacre and six months after Nixon resigned would ENLIST? It was unheard of! My last boyfriend didn't have a choice, he was drafted-- but Gil had volunteered to leave me.
Thoughts of putting the next four years on hold while I waited for him to come home and the thousands of letters that had to be written to maintain the relationship as well as the heartbreaking loneliness that I would surely experience in his absence, did not allow me to hear him out I didn't give him a chance to explain, I just couldn't.
I told him if leaving me was so easy, he could just leave then and there. Before I closed the door, I told him not to contact me again.
The next few months, I threw myself into schoolwork, friends, boys anything that would anesthetize the pain of my broken heart. When Gil came back to town on his first leave, he begged me to meet him for just one cup of coffee. I sat opposite him in the coffee shop. I couldn’t get past his crew cut or shiny dress uniform to look into his eyes or hear his words of apology and love.
Years later, I realized that what I thought would happen, did not. I was convinced that there was a world of guys like Gil out there for me. I was wrong. So, in the pre Google, post-divorce days, I searched for him. Nothing ever came up. Every few months from the mid-nineties on, I tried.
A dear friend gave me a book the talented author, Amy Ferris, wrote entitled Marrying George Clooney-Musings from a Midlife Crisis. In it she talks about having insomnia and googling old boyfriends in the middle of the night. I told no one for years I did just that, always searching for Gil. After reading the book, I decided to give it another shot.
On April 30th after the umpteenth time, I googled him again. THERE WAS A HIT! My heart raced and my hands trembled in anticipation as I clicked on the link that lead to the site,
Gil, who was born on October 13, 1953, passed away April 18th only twelve days before. The obituary spoke of his talent,kindness and generous heart. Things I knew so many years ago. . .
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
In my life, I love you more
http://www.alisoncaiola.com
http://www.theseedsofadaisy.com
Alison CaiolaThe Seeds of a Daisy
I was walking up the stairs outside the student center, when I first saw Gil. It was only two weeks into my college career and already I felt pretty confident. All the nervous energy that I brought with me dissipated and with one of my best friend’s from high school by my side, I felt braver than I might have, had I been flying solo.
He was on the top step leaning against the railing. From his vantage point, he could easily watch the throngs of students, like industrious ants, rushing in and out of the surrounding buildings. His father’s Filipino heritage was more dominant than his mother’s English background and the result was striking and exotic good looks. His layered, shoulder length brown hair added a whisper of a rock and roll edge.
He had a large heart embroidered on the front of his bell bottom jeans. Without hesitation I said the first thing that came to mind, "Hey that’s a cool heart.” My own heart skipped a beat when he gave me possibly the warmest smile, and revealed the straightest, whitest teeth I had ever seen. He was easy to talk to and before I knew it, I was handing him my phone number and making a date for the following Saturday night.
When Saturday came around, after a flurry of beautifying activity, I waited for his car to pull up. Seven o’clock came and went with no Gil in sight. By seven twenty, I grabbed my keys and got into my car to leave. I recently made myself a promise never to sit and wait for anyone.
The last three years of high school I was head over heels in love with an older boy. Unfortunately, six month into our relationship, his number was picked in the last lottery draft of the Vietnam War. Before we knew it, Uncle Sam scooped him up and stationed him four thousand miles away in Germany.
Thankfully, he did not see any action, but the three years we spent apart were emotionally charged with a cycle of joyful reunions followed by tearful goodbyes. Letters flew across the globe on a daily basis and at least three times a week the phone would ring at 6AM. From a deep sleep, I would jump out of bed, bolt down two flights of stairs and answer it before the third ring. I missed out on most of my high school social milestones because he was away. I didn’t go to any event geared toward couples. I missed dances and my prom. I felt that it was worth it, because after the wait was over, we would be together forever. We planned to marry, move to Oregon where he would become a Park Ranger and I a writer.
I was ecstatic when he managed to get a leave from the army, fly home to surprise me for my graduation. When the leave was over and he was getting ready to return, he dropped a bomb. He had met a German girl and they started dating the month before. My high school was over and so was my relationship. I missed out on so much and vowed from that moment on, never to wait for anyone again.
Gil’s face was one of complete shock when he turned the corner and saw me driving away. After he explained that he was stuck in traffic, I parked my car and we went on our first date. He would never be late again.
That night, like so many nights to come, we sat on the beach and he played his guitar and sang to me. He had the sweetest voice and could play as deftly as Jose Feliciano. Sometimes he would sing his original songs, other nights he would give me a personal concert under the stars with tunes from The Beatles, Eric Clapton, James Taylor and Cat Stevens. Hook, line and sinker I was in, and in love!
One day I was set to make a presentation in my Communications class about relationships. Even though it was only a couple of hours away, I didn’t have a clue how to start it. He told me not to worry, he’d figure it out. He had a math test at the same time as my class. He ditched it and a couple of hours later, Gil sitting cross-legged on a desk in front of the class, played guitar and sang the Beatles song, In My Life To this day whenever I hear There are places I remember all my life, it’s always Gil’s voice I hear.
A few months later, a well-known manager in the music world heard Gil's band and invited us to his home to talk about possibly representing them. His best friend from childhood Joe, also a band member, Joe’s girlfriend Cathy, Gil and I sat in his living room in awe listening to his stories of all the famous groups he had plucked out of obscurity and catapulted into stardom.
He told the guys that he was going to shop their songs around and would let them know what the next step would be. We left with our heads spinning and our feet never touching the ground.
Two days later, Gil called to tell me that he had great news to share. In the time it took for him to drive over, I planned our rock star future. When he arrived, he was flushed with excitement.
I made him sit down and take a few deep breaths. He finally calmed down enough to tell me that Joe had decided to join the Marines and since he and Joe were inseparable, he enlisted too.
I couldn't believe my ears. Who in their right mind, only four years after The Kent State Massacre and six months after Nixon resigned would ENLIST? It was unheard of! My last boyfriend didn't have a choice, he was drafted-- but Gil had volunteered to leave me.
Thoughts of putting the next four years on hold while I waited for him to come home and the thousands of letters that had to be written to maintain the relationship as well as the heartbreaking loneliness that I would surely experience in his absence, did not allow me to hear him out I didn't give him a chance to explain, I just couldn't.
I told him if leaving me was so easy, he could just leave then and there. Before I closed the door, I told him not to contact me again.
The next few months, I threw myself into schoolwork, friends, boys anything that would anesthetize the pain of my broken heart. When Gil came back to town on his first leave, he begged me to meet him for just one cup of coffee. I sat opposite him in the coffee shop. I couldn’t get past his crew cut or shiny dress uniform to look into his eyes or hear his words of apology and love.
Years later, I realized that what I thought would happen, did not. I was convinced that there was a world of guys like Gil out there for me. I was wrong. So, in the pre Google, post-divorce days, I searched for him. Nothing ever came up. Every few months from the mid-nineties on, I tried.
A dear friend gave me a book the talented author, Amy Ferris, wrote entitled Marrying George Clooney-Musings from a Midlife Crisis. In it she talks about having insomnia and googling old boyfriends in the middle of the night. I told no one for years I did just that, always searching for Gil. After reading the book, I decided to give it another shot.
On April 30th after the umpteenth time, I googled him again. THERE WAS A HIT! My heart raced and my hands trembled in anticipation as I clicked on the link that lead to the site,
Gil, who was born on October 13, 1953, passed away April 18th only twelve days before. The obituary spoke of his talent,kindness and generous heart. Things I knew so many years ago. . .
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
In my life, I love you more
http://www.alisoncaiola.com
http://www.theseedsofadaisy.com
Alison CaiolaThe Seeds of a Daisy
