The Battle Rages On

Everyone is referred to as "your (fill in relationship here)." For example, "Your mother wants to see you," or, "When are you going out with your brother?" They don't have names, they are no longer directly associated with him - he's made them mine. I wasn't under the impression that they were prizes to be won in our war.

Memories really are just where you laid them...

*Rough Draft*
"You know it's funny what a young man recollects? 'Cause I don't remember bein' born. I don't recall what I got for my first Christmas and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world." -Forrest Gump

It's funny how some memories - especially the traumatic ones (positive & negative) - stay with us, while other, less significant events are lost in the past.
I can remember being three years old & in pre-school. I met my first "boyfriend" there. His name was Nicky. I met my first best friend, Erin.
I recall being five & watching daytime TV with my Dad, eating lunch with him & then going to kindergarten for the afternoon.
My first day of first grade was very traumatic. I had never spent a whole day in school before. I couldn't understand. I cried - sobbed & screamed - when my Mom dropped me off. I refused to let go of her - my teacher, Mrs. Finnegan, pried my tiny fingers from my mother & ushered me in line with the rest of my classmates - some upset, some eager.
One of my Christmas presents that year was a trip to Disney World with my Mom & my big brother.
In second grade, I met my second best friend, MaryKate, who didn't really become my best friend until the fifth grade.
First Reconciliation and First Communion were that year & I was so uncomfortable my puffy, itchy white dress. Mom told me I looked beautiful & I couldn't wait to put on some shorts & a t-shirt!
The summer between second & third grades was the most traumatic by far: my infamous nose job in the Pocono Mountains!
In third grade I played Clara Barton. I wore some of my Mom's old clothes, practiced all my lines & was the only girl in my group. I guess that was my first memorable interaction with boys.
Fourth grade was...tough.
Fifth grade wasn't too bad.
That was the year I started dancing. I didn't want to start taking lessons, but Mom insisted. Turned out to be a lot of fun, actually. That's right, Mom, I admit it!
Sixth grade was a lot more difficult.
In seventh grade, we went to Disney World for the second time.
Eighth grade proved to be much smoother than previous years. Then I graduated from grade school! I am a member of the Class of 2002! Okay, that's just scary...

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet."

If I was a boy then my name would be Andrew - Drew for short. I'm good with Andrew, but Drew? I'm not particularly a fan. I prefer Andy. But I'm not a boy, thankfully. My name is Bridget, a very Irish name meaning "strength." I like my first name, I think it fits who I am - at least, I like to thikn that I am a strong woman most days. The real treasure is my middle name: Furey. As in "hell hath no fury" - at least that's how it's pronounced. Furey doesn't mean anger - actually, I'm not sure what it means. I am named after my great-great-grandmother Bridget Furey Monaghan.

I haven't always liked my middle name. In grade school, when I told my friends, I was ridiculed & called "Furry." They made me feel like their pet rabbit.

In high school I gained not popularity but recognition as "BridgetFurey." Everyone seemed to love my name & soon shortened it to just Furey. I took the new & awesome nickname to college with me. For two years I was Bridget to my teachers & new people, but my identity had become Furey.
One of my good friends who loved my middle name would announce "It's not a hurricane - it's the Furey!" whenever I walked into a room.
When I was introduced to someone new, my friends would introduce me as Furey - just for the reaction of this new person - & it was up to me to explain & clarify my full name.

Furey is certainly a great conversation starter - "Hey, you'll never guess my middle name!" - & it's given me mystery, made me interesting. What I'm saying is that, now, I appreciate my name. I like my name! Come on, Bridget Furey Kelly? How much more Irish could I be?!

Coming Home

There’s something about coming home. Whether you’ve been out for the day, or gone for months, there’s something ultimately fantastic about coming home. Your family is there to greet you. Your dog runs into the room, barely able to control his/her excitement at your long-awaited arrival.
I love coming home. Especially after a long semester at school, when I haven’t been home in weeks. I immediately want to eat some home-cooked food, catch up with my family, and enjoy the atmosphere I have grown up in.

"It would be an awfully big adventure"

January 14

9A.M. – I still have time to back out.

I start my day calculating the hours until I have to leave: 6 hours. Ignoring all clocks I try to make the most of my final hours. Despite the cold weather, I take Zoe for a walk. Quality time with the Chubster as well as my last glimpse of Northeast Philly [not that it’s any great shakes – but it’s still home].

12P.M. – I still have time to back out.

Lunch with my Mom in the dining room feels tense. Simple PB&J sandwiches have turned depressing – it is my last meal at home. Mom tries to keep us busy, going over what else needs to be done: finish packing, weigh the luggage, make sure I have packed everything I want & need. Unfortunately, I think to myself, I can’t pack my parents, big brother and dog into those suitcases. I go to my room and cry. I cry because I don’t want to leave. The tears, however, are quickly wiped away. Mom is coming up the stairs to help me.

3P.M. – I still have time to back out.

Michael is home. I’m on the living room floor saying “goodbye” to Zoe. I’m trying so hard not to cry. I can’t cry – not yet. Michael & Dad have taken my stuff out to the car & Mom is telling me “it’s time to go.” Already? How can that be? Not too long ago I was packing up for the start of Fall Semester in my Junior year. Now here I am, starting Spring Semester of Junior year. I want to cry. I want to beg my Mom: “Don’t make me go! I changed my mind! Let me stay! Please?!” But I stand up, pat the dog one last time and say “goodbye” to my house. I climb into the back seat of the car & stare out the window. It feels like Dad is driving slower than usual and I am not sure if I am thankful or ungrateful. Am I thankful for a few extra minutes in the car with my family? Or am I ungrateful that Dad is prolonging my inevitable departure?

3:30P.M. – I still have time to back out.

The black Le Sabre pulls into Departures in A Terminal of Philadelphia International Airport. Lanette is already inside waiting with her Mom. Tammy calls me to tell me she is almost there. Michael takes my bags inside, Dad leaves to park the car, Mom & I hold hands as we walk behind Michael. Standing in line I keep my eyes on Mon & Michael – memorizing their faces. Dad comes in a few minutes later & I watch him walk toward us. There’s plenty of time to watch my family since the British Airways counter seems to be lacking representatives today. I am doing everything I can to cherish my last few moments with my family.

4P.M. – I still have time to back out.

A British Airways rep has finally come to the counter. I wait in line with my family. Soon – too soon – it is my turn to check-in. The woman looks at my passport, hands it back to me with my boarding pass. Michael places my luggage on the scale. We had all been worried it was over the maximum weight limit. Luckily each suitcase was a few pounds under the limit. We stand there, watching, until my bags are placed on the conveyor belt taking them to unseen parts of the airport where they will hopefully be put on the right plane. We leave the line, waiting for Tammy to check-in and the tears have started. Pictures are taken of three red-eyed girls embarking on their semester-long adventure. Presents are opened: seven guide books and scarves: necessities in the big, cold city. I cannot stop the rush of tears. I cling to Mom. I literally cannot let go of her – my body refuses. She tells me she loves me, that she is so proud of me and that she will see me very soon. I know that as soon as I land I will start counting down the days to February 21^st, the day that Mom will land in London to visit me. I turn around to hug my big brother and I see that he is wiping away tears – he’s even busted out the tissues for everyone. He says “come on, stop crying, you’re gonna have so much fun.” I tell him “I know, but I wanna have fun with my big brother.” “You will soon enough.” Again, I know that when I land I will count down the days till March 5^th, the day Michael will arrive in London. I give him the biggest hug I can manage through my tears & tell him I love him, that I am going to miss him. Then I see Dad. Dad’s a little teary-eyed, too. Once again, I will be counting down the days till March 26^th, when it will be Dad’s turn to see London.

4:45 P.M. – I still have time to back out.

I give everyone one more big hug and throw out as many “I love you’s” as I can. It’s time to go. It’s time to say goodbye. But maybe not. What if I stayed? What if I went back to CHC like I should be? What if I didn’t go to London? Would I disappoint my family and friends? Would I disappoint myself? Probably. I know this is my adventure. “It would be an awfully big adventure.” But I just want to stay home where it’s safe – where I know everyone and everything. I’m not ready for the unknown. The three of us grab our bags, give some more hugs and kisses and make our way to the gate. Going up the escalator I throw out a big wave to my family, holding back the tears that are fighting to get out. We get through airport security, find our gate, and sit. No one says anything. I pull out my phone and start texting. I’m not going to be able to text anyone from home for 3 ½ months, might as well do it now. I text Michael: “we’re at the gate…got through security fine…love you all! miss you already!!” I text Mom: “i love you! i miss you!” I text friends: “miss you guys already! can’t wait to see you!!!”

6P.M. – I still have time to back out.

It’s now time to board the plane. We get in line, show our boarding passes and passports, find our seats. It feels routine for me. I’ve flown so many times in my life – I know the drill. But I keep my eye out for Tammy who is walking on a plane for the first time in her life. I hope and pray she doesn’t lose it. She’s my best friend, but I don’t know if I can help her get through this right now – I’m too weepy. I’m also still texting my brother and my Mom. I settle into my seat and stare at the door: I still have time. I can grab my stuff, get off the plane, call Michael and tell them to turn around. I can still go home! There’s still time to fix this stupid mistake I have made!

6:30P.M. – It’s too late. I’m stuck.

The flight attendant closes the door. Shit. The time for bailing has passed. There is no longer a way out. I am officially, 100% stuck and headed to London with only the thought of flying home again. Deep breath. I only get one shot at this. I have to make it count.

The Only Thing...

The only sounds I wish to hear in my dreams are the sound of the rain strumming against the window, the sound of your breathing, the sound of your heart fluttering in your chest.
The only feelings I wish to feel while I dream are your arms wrapped around me, the sensation of our lips meeting in the dark, the warmth of your breath on my skin, the rhythm of our hearts beating together.
The only sight I wish to see in my dreams is your eyes.
The only wish I will make in my dreams is to wake up lying next to you.

clinging to the tick-tock, tick-tock of life

time
getting carried away
no control
getting faster
further out of control with every second
is it running out?
will i get anywhere any faster?
despite the speed will i be stuck?
stuck in a world in which i am fighting to find my place

Something Old. Something New. Something Borrowed. Something Blue. Something Stolen...

I was robbed at ages 1 1/2, 19, & 20. I was even robbed before I was born.

My paternal grandfather died when my father was about 18 years old. Before my father even met my mother.

My maternal grandfather died when I was just a baby. The only memories I have of him are pictures & stories from my mother.

My paternal grandmother died when I was 19 years old. Her death, I suppose you could say, was harder to handle - but also easier. I was at school when I found out - my sophomore year of college. But I quickly went home to be with my family.

My maternal grandmother died when I was 20 years old [about 7 months after Nan]. Her death was even more difficult to handle because she had lived with us for 5 months before she died. I like to think we had a wonderful summer with Grandmom. She was happy before she died. But what made her last months with us & her death more difficult, in my opinion, was Beth's abandoning her. I understand she felt overwhelmed - believe me, I understand feeling overwhelmed - but I would never attempt suicide while my elderly mother was in the next room, helpless. [I wouldn't attempt suicide at all - no matter how bad life seemed to be].
I also understand that Beth doesn't see that she did anything wrong. In fact, she was right to bring Grandmom to us - she should never have brought her to live in Baltimore to begin with!
The day Beth brought Grandmom to us [without even saying goodbye to her own mother] was the day she died in my heart. She is no longer my aunt. My ties with her died with Grandmom.

Like I said, I have been robbed in my life. I was fortunate enough to have known 2 of the greatest grandmothers in the world; lucky enough to call them my grandmothers.
I do wish I had gotten the chance to meet & know my grandfathers. They were 2 such extraordinary men & I know some of their stories. But I long for the memories of sitting on my grandfathers' laps & hearing their stories firsthand.
Pop [Mom's Dad] ran away & joined the Navy at age 16. He lied about his age & was found out after about 3 months. He was sent home to his mother [his father had been killed in WWII] & waited till he could legally join up. I've heard the story from my great-grandmother, my grandmother, & my mother. But I would love to hear Pop's version of the story - to know what he was thinking about when he suddenly ran away from home.

Pop [Dad's Dad] was born in Huddersfield, England [not too far from Manchester - 2 hours from London]. His father was Irish, his mother English. My dad has told me that Pop had a wonderful singing voice - he had been trained as a young man. My dad has also shared a childhood memory of his own: he didn't realize his father had an accent till he was about 10 years old.
Pop worked on & drove the trolleys in Lawncrest [Philadelphia]. It was because of one of these trolleys that Pop lost his legs [a horrible accident that happened years before my father was born].

I wish I knew the sounds of my grandfathers' voices. I envy my older brother for his fishing trips with Pop [Mom's Dad]. I envy some of my older cousins, who were lucky enough to meet Pop [Dad's Dad]. They were lucky enough to know my grandfathers. For that, I am eternally jealous.

One of the STRANGEST dreams I've had in a long time...

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this around 12:30 this morning. It started as a dream, then I woke up, realized how bizarre it was, & decided I needed to write it down. So, I spent an hour in the middle of the night writing this odd story. *It's also not finished*

Someone is in the house. Someone who doesn't live here. I'm in bed. I was asleep. My parents are asleep - my brother, too. Who's here? They need to leave. They don't belong here!
They're on the stairs. I can hear them ascending. Shit. What do I do? Do I stay in bed? Do I rush to my parents? What if they get to my parents first? What if they've already gotten to my brother? Oh God! What do I do?!
They're coming toward my door. They're whispering...counting...I hear a creak...

I'm awake again. How did I fall asleep?! There were intruders in our house! I heard them! How did I fall asleep knowing there was someone in the house?!
I open my eyes. Oh my God!! This can't be real. I must be dreaming.
No way! Impossible!
There's a lion on my bed! How did I fall asleep with a lion on my bed?! How can I still be alive? Unharmed? Unscathed?
He senses me - my anxiety. He looks at me. I'm frightened. Terrified. He's staring at me. What is he thinking? Am I breakfast? Should I try to run? Scream?
No. Stay calm. Breathe. He'll feed on my fear. Be calm & he won't hurt me.
[Easier said than done, of course.]
My heart is racing. Sweat breaks over my brow. What do I do?
Oh no. He's moving. He's standing up on my bed! Oh God! He's towering over me. So tall, so strong.
He sits. Still staring at me. Finally...he yawns & goes to sleep. There's a lion asleep in my bed.

I slowly - painstakingly slow, so as not to wake the lion - creep out of my bed. I crawl toward the door. Tiptoe down the hall to my parents' bedroom. Sound asleep. Do they even know someone broke in last night? I go to Mom's side of the bed. I quietly try to wake her. She starts - immediately wondering what's wrong - why I am waking her.
I say nothing, but motion for her to follow me. We tiptoe back down the hall toward my door. I signal for her to remain quiet. Slowly, I push open the door. There lies the lion - asleep in my bed. Mom gasps & instantly my hands are on her to keep her quiet - not knowing what the lion will do when he wakes.

Mom & I are downstairs in the kitchen. We're looking to see what food we have to offer the lion. There's some raw chicken in the fridge - but not enough to satisfy a hungry lion. Our only other option is dog food. We quickly decide to get more food for the lion & to re-stock our dog food supply. Then comes the realization that the dog is still in the house. When she wakes up, she'll bark in an effort to make sure everyone else is up. That will surely wake up the lion, whom Mom & I have dubbed "Mufasa" & "Aslan."
We climb the stairs. Mom will wake Dad to explain our new resident & to send him out for food. My job is to check on "Aslan" momentarily & then get the dog outside before all hell breaks loose. Today is not the day for a battle between cats & dogs.
On my way outside with our dog, Zoe, I stop to wake up my brother, Michael. I quickly tell him about "Mufasa" & he laughs in disbelief. I let the dog out & take Michael to my room.
One look at the sleeping beast & Michael is hooked! He wants to touch him, see him up close. Of course, I usher him downstairs & outside with the dog in order to get some quiet in the house. Mom & I need to brainstorm.
Do we call the police? The zoo? Animal control?
Is there even a protocol for something like this? I can see the headlines now: "Lion Found in Girl's Bed," "Small Dog Lives in Peace with Lion King," "Family Adopts Lion."
Before a decision can be made, I hear a thump & a soft, low growl from my room. He's awake. Mom rushes to get the raw chicken & dog food in a bowl before he comes downstairs. Then she pauses to debate whether the food should go in a bowl, on a plate, or just on the floor. I panic, "Just put it on the floor!"
He's on the stairs! I try not to react; try to stay as calm as possible.
I see him - in the living room. He turns, catches my eye. What is he thinking?! Is he going to eat us? Eat all of our food? Leave?
He approaches me. Sits down at my feet. He's nearly eye-level with me. He yawns again, looks at me - "Hello," he says. The lion said "hello" to me! He spoke!
He walks into the kitchen, greets my mother [who is beside herself with shock] & consumes the meal she has prepared for him. Moments later, he thanks my mother for his breakfast, looks out the door & tells me to bring in Michael & Zoe. ["Tell Michael to come inside, & to bring Zoe with him."] He knows their names! How?!
I obey the lion, wondering at the same time how odd it is to be taking orders from a lion!
Meanwhile, Dad has just come home with an assortment of food for the lion. Naturally, he doesn't believe us when we tell him the lion spoke to us.
The lion summons us into the living room, where he has taken over the couch. We sit on the floor in front of him, curious if he'll pounce on us.
Silence.
The lion takes a few moments to look at each of us, but doesn't speak. I break the silence, "What were you doing in my bed this morning?" The lion laughs [&shakes the house with his thunderous laugh]. He says, "Bridget, I am here to protect you & your family. Someone came into your home last night. Their intention was to hurt you & I came to chase them away. You were so scared when you heard them, your heart was racing - I could sense it from the hall - you must have fainted before I came in. Even in sleep you were terrified. So I stayed to watch over you. I didn't sleep until you were awake this morning."
Silence.