judypatricia

Maybe it's weird that I feel it's somewhat insensitive (I suppose that's the word I'm looking for) to say that the part of Death Be Not Proud I liked most, was the bit at the end, written by Johnny's mom, Frances.

Basically, if you've never read the book, it's a memoir written in 1949 by John Gunther, about his 17-year-old son, Johnny, who dies of a brain tumor. Johnny not only has a great attitude, but is an intelligent, considerate boy who looked forward to going to Harvard and greatly loved science.

I don't think I've ever before heard or read about what it might be like, exactly, for someone to go through all that they do when life tosses them a brain tumor. I appreciated what I read a little more because of Michael Rinaldi; Michael and I were friends back in my Catholic elementary school days. He was the only kid then that I knew who openly loved, talked about and imitated Ren and Stimpy, which made for many interesting and ridiculously inane conversations. And I totally remember, probably when we were in the third or fourth grade, turning around in my seat to say something to him, and catching him picking his nose. Over the summer before we started fifth grade, my mother had gone over to my grandmother's house, and because she took longer than expected to return, I went over thereit's a walk of about 50 feetand found her crying, my grandmother totally serious-faced. They told me that Michael has a brain tumor. I don't remember how this hit me at the time. I think I had planned on visiting him at the hospital with a couple of girls I was friends with and their parents, but my mom didn't want me to see him that way. I remember thinking it awesome luck to have found in some store that sells everything in a mall, little Ren and Stimpy bean bag-type dolls. I told my parents I wanted to buy them and give Michael the Ren doll, because he was his favorite, and that I'd keep Stimpy. I never got those dolls.

Michael was well enough to come to school sometime that year, I don't remember how much time he'd missed, but seeing him that first day was a shock that went away quickly enough: his face was chubby, and his hair had been shaved underneath so it had kind of like that mushroom-cut look to it. He looked sick; it was something about him. But he was a ten-year-old boy, and happy to see his friends, return to normalcy, and it showed. He neverthat I can recallever got sick while in school, even though he was only around the classroom a short time. One day during a lesson, the principal came into our class, whispered something to our teacher and we knew. Michael died. That's the only real time I remember feeling anything about this entire thing; I cried at my desk, like most of the other kids did, and one boy I was friends with, Eduardo who sat behind me, touched my shoulder and asked in tears if I was alright. My best friend Angela, back then, and I went into the hallway at some point and her mother had come to school and hugged us. Older kids in the upper grades who had heard the newsI don't know whether or not they'd even known who Michael waswere walking around, visibly upset that day. I never went to his wake, never went to the funeral. I only visited his grave years after he'd been buried.

I think about that kid a lot.

I think about all the stuff he missed out on in life, but also how happy a guy he was. He was just a damn silly little boy, and I thought he was great because of it.

Going back to Death Be Not Proud, and the note at the end written by Johnny Gunther's mom...it was perfect, some of what she wrote, and I'm just going to quote her on these things.

My grief, I find, is not desolation or rebellion at universal law or deity. I find grief to be much simpler and sadder. Contemplating the Eternal Deity and His Universal Laws leaves me grave but dry-eyed. But a sunny fast wind along the Sound, good sailing weather, a new light boat, will shake me to tears: how Johnny would have loved this boat, this wind, this sunny day!....
What is the grief that tears me now?
No fear of death or any hereafter....I would write in my diary when I couldn't sleep...."Look Death in the face: it's a friendly face, a kindly face, sad, reluctant, knowing it is not welcome but having to play its part when its cue is called, perhaps trying to say, 'Come, it won't be too bad, don't be afraid, I understand how you feel, but come....' No fear of Death, no fight against Death, no enmity towards Death, friendship with Death as with Life....What a joy Life is. Why does no one talk of the joy of Life? shout, sing, write of the joy of Life?...."
Today, when I see parents impatient or tired or bored with their children, I wish I could say to them, But they are alive, think of the wonder of that! They may be a care and a burden, but think, they are alive! You can touch themwhat a miracle! You don't have to hold back sudden tears when you see just a headline about the Yale-Harvard game because you know your boy will never see the Yale-Harvard game, never see the house in Paris he was born in, never bring home his girl, and you will not hand down your jewels to his bride and will have no grandchildren to play with and spoil. Your sons and daughters are alive. Think of thatnot dead but alive! Exult and sing....