I just got off the phone with my Grandma B, she of many previous posts on this blog. I’d set up a special little surprise for her tonight, and she was calling to report the news of it.

You see, a few weeks ago, she and I were discussing my upcoming Confirmation over the phone. I casually asked who her Confirmation sponsor was, and she said that it was an older cousin of hers, N. After a pensive pause, my grandma wistfully remarked that she hadn’t talked to N in decades, and she wondered aloud whether her cousin was still alive.

Her inquiry sparked something in me. After gleaning what information Grandma knew of N, I took to my laptop to try to track down the elusive N. With the help of a second cousin of my own and WhitePages.com, I finally found a listing that seemed to fit the bill. I called the number, and, disappointed, had to leave a message. My mission seemed to be dead-ended.

But later that afternoon, the phone rang. Caller ID (one of the best inventions since sliced bread; up there with WhitePages.com) revealed it to be N herself! I was overjoyed to speak to this woman at last, the long-lost piece of my grandmother’s past. Once I convinced her I was not a stalker and informed her of the existence of my grandpa, and therefore my mom and her brothers and myself, she and I arranged for her to have a phone chat with my grandma.

Today, in secret, I made a call to N and sealed the deal. I couldn’t resist a mischievious call to Grandma informing her that she’d receive a mystery call tonight: one that she wouldn’t be expecting.

And just a half hour ago, I was aroused from my book with a call of, “Telephone!” It brought me such indescribable joy to hear my grandma so animated. I haven’t heard her sound so happy for years. And another first: during the entire phone call in which she recounted their hourlong conversation, Grandma didn’t complain about ANYTHING. Not once did a single negative word escape her mouth. Her voice, livelier than ever (ironically, she’s currently recovering from laryngitis), was incredibly chipper, and her conversation was peppered with heartfelt thank-yous (which, of course, felt out of place, since I’d only spent about a half hour on my quest for N, but were still appreciated).

As soon as I said good night to Grandma, I was suddenly filled with this joy I’ve never experienced before. I can’t describe it, except to say that I was immensely happy. I went out to the living room and recounted this to my mom, grinning stupidly the entire time. Mom rewards my good deed with a warm smile and the knowledge that everyone involved is happier for it: N, Grandma and all the people she will encounter…the list goes on.

Even though Grandma couldn’t stop talking about how much good I’d done her, I think I was the true beneficiary of this entire exchange. I reunited two long-lost people, and, more importantly, taught myself a life lesson: the value of joy. And thanks to today’s events (my surprisingly easy quarterly exams at school today didn’t hurt either), I’ll be radiating joy for a long time to come.

Well, I think this is going to be another “deep” post, not that I haven’t written enough of those lately…

Being that I am a freshman in high school now, things have really started to hit hard. I’m going to be driving six months from now, and in a few short years it will be time for me to start applying to colleges and thinking about what I really want to do the rest of my life.

And this goes back to my The Good Old Days post. I realized, thanks to everyone who posted a comment on that post, that these days I’m living now will soon be “the good old days”. Don’t get me wrong, I am looking forward to driving – and having a (ahem, Mom and Dad) car – but I’m starting to dread college.

I can’t imagine living life away from home; home is the only life I’ve ever known. I’ll have to pack up everything I own and move, for the only time I can remember, to someplace completely unfamiliar and strange. I can only come back to the comfort of my own home for visits – and I never get to live there again. I’ll never live with my mom and dad and my little brother again. I’ll have to venture out into the big, bad, scary world and find my own place to live and people to live with.

And I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to not wake up to a hug and kiss from Mommy. I’m not ready to abandon card games with my dad at night before bed, or petty fights over video games with my brother. I’m just not ready

Gandhi once said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

I plan on taking his advice to heart. In reference to my last post, Making a Difference, I’ve been thinking a lot about doing just that – making a difference.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about that in the past week or so. I’ve come to the conclusion that my ultimate goal in life is to make a positive impact on just one person’s life – and as many others as possible. When it comes time for me to leave this earth, it’s very important to me that I be satisfied with the life I’ve lived and everything I accomplished. I know I won’t be able to rest for the final time until I can honestly say that I left the world just a little bit better than it was when I came into it. And I also know how I’m going to go about it.

In the words of Poor Richard himself (aka Ben Franklin), “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.”

I hope to one day have accomplished both. I have always dreamed of penning the elusive Great American Novel, and seeing my name on top of the New York Times’ bestsellers list is one of my motivations.

I realize that what I’ve just written may seem conceited of me. But I truly don’t care for fame or money. I’d like to think I wouldn’t be greedy about it.

All I really want is to make a positive impact on someone’s life. And I know that writing is the way for me to do it. I hope that by sifting through all of my thoughts and feelings, and writing them all down, I can identify with other people. And maybe, just maybe, my words on a page can change their lives.

This post will be very similar to the one I did a month back, Mortality, but I just can’t get the subject off my mind.

A few weeks ago, I checked my Facebook as normal, only to find a link to a YouTube video posted by T, a fellow writer and classmate of mine. Last year, T and I were both on a competitive writing team, and we attended practices and competitions together. Now, I don’t see her much – we’re not in any classes together – but I always considered her a good friend, so I clicked on her video out of curiosity.

Her video turned out to be the most emotionally affecting one I have ever watched. Hers was part of the “My Secrets” video craze, in which people from all around the world post videos of themselves holding up notecards, on which they have written their secrets, both trivial and important.

T, who was always extremely kind to me, reaching out to me when I didn’t really have any friends on the writing team, revealed some things about herself that I never would’ve guessed, and that made my respect for her so much deeper.

You see, T used to be depressed. Last year, she started cutting. Around the time we began spending time together for the team, she was seriously considering ending her own life. She even had a plan.

This really hit home for me. Even though the two of us aren’t terribly close, I can’t even imagine losing T. She is an incredible human being and I admire her and what she’s gone through. What really hurts me is that I could’ve done something about it. I could’ve helped T if I would’ve known about what she was enduring. I could’ve stopped her. Thankfully, someone or something else did, and so I am able to forgive myself for it. But if she had gone through with it, I would never be able to live it down. I was so close to losing her, and yet I stood by, unaware. And, unlike so many other times when people exaggerate, it really was a matter of life or death.

Lately, I’ve been doing a ton of writing. This blog kept me busy enough already, but I’ve started three new writing projects in the last few months: a writer’s notebook I am required to keep for English class, a novel project, and a personal journal.

I’m really excited about those last two. I’ve met a new friend who shares my love of writing, and together we decided to write a story. We’ve made up characters whose experiences are similar to our own, and we alternate posts as them on our new blog, www.nicoleandmaya.wordpress.com. I really like the way things are going with that project, and I can’t wait to see where it takes us! Writing a novel is something I’ve always dreamed of doing, but I could never think of a good enough plot to do it in. I like that the pressure isn’t all on me in this project; I only have to write half of the story. And plus, making it up as I go has proven to be very fun!

In addition, I’ve finally committed to starting – and more importantly, continuing – to write in a journal. I wrote about wanting to do this in a previous entry (http://writerkid.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/dear-diary/), but it never came to fruition until now. With a little prodding from my mom, I came to the conclusion that if I’m truly serious about writing for a career, I need to start doing this kind of thing to make it happen. Although it’s a little hard at the beginning (the thought of all the blank pages ahead of me + not knowing what to write = journal-phobic writerkid), I know I need to stick with it. I’m sure that in time, I will come to love writing in it.

Lately I’ve been thinking about another not-so-pleasant thought: mortality. I know it’s a pretty morbid concept to have on your mind, but I just can’t seem to shake it.

I guess it’s because all around me, things have been changing. And they’re changes I do not like. For one thing, I’ve been anticipating the upcoming holiday season, and I can’t help but notice the wrenches that have been thrown into our usual holiday traditions. In my family, it used to be that both of my grandmas would host Christmas Eve parties, and we’d drive from one to the other. Now, the parties on one side of the family have been moved to December 23rd, and the other side of the family takes turns hosting amongst aunts and uncles. Like it or not, I suspect my Christmases will never be the same again. I have to face it: no one’s getting any younger here.

It breaks my heart to visit my Grandma B and see her the way she is. She’s stuck in a nursing home. She’s not going to move back home again. Half of a curtain-partitioned room has become her home. All day long she lies there in bed, some days not even bothering with the effort of changing into street clothes and opting instead to stay in the hospital gown. She doesn’t even try to get better – she doesn’t exercise or socialize much. She has given up on herself. Now, every time I see her, she looks just a little bit worse. The wrinkles on her face are just a little more delineated, her once rosy cheeks are just a little more sallow. The smile that once shone on her face is just a little more wan each time; the lilt in her voice loses a little power every day. She’s a prisoner in her own body, condemned by her body and her mind to a life of – well, nothing.

And every time I see her, a little part of me gets mad at her. She doesn’t ever try to help herself, and she is constantly complaining. Once, fed up with it all, I asked her to name one good thing that had happened to her that day. She had no response, and I just couldn’t keep my composure. I had to use the bathroom all of a sudden. That little part of me just wants to scream, let it all out. Go ahead and get mad at her for once, try to knock some sense into her.

But I know I can’t. I know the day is soon coming when her name will be nothing but a memory, a reminder of times past. The day will come when she will die. And I know I will cry. I know I will grieve. I know it will be one of the hardest things I’ll ever have to overcome. I’ve tried to prepare myself for that fateful day. But I know I can’t. I know I’ll never be ready for that to happen, whether I’m there when it happens or not, whether or not it’s expected or sudden. I know I’ll never be able to say goodbye. Not when it happens. Not at the funeral Mass. Never until I myself go.

And so I know I have to savor every moment I have with her now. Even when she frustrates the heck out of me, even when she yells at my mom or greets me with a barrage of complaints on the phone. I love her, even when her ungratefulness gets the better of me, when she wants to cancel Christmas, when she desperately tries to spend money she doesn’t have. But I love her too when she calls me up just to share a pun or find out how my day was, when she pulls me tight and wraps her warmth around me for a hug, when she’d drag herself out to the computer to email me advice and condolences when my Grandpa Bob died. I know I’ll go back and read those emails when it happened; I saved them for that purpose. I know I’ll weep for her, but I also know I’ll manage a smile through my tears. I know a smile, however tiny and tight-lipped, will creep across my face as I read a joke she’s typed or fondly recall memories of the “avalanches” that would accidentaly happen on the sides of my favorite Italian cream cake, when she’d insist a cleanup crew be called to get rid of the awful debris.

I’ll never say goodbye; I will always remember her. As long as I live.

Recently, some volunteer work led me to my former preschool/kindergarten building, which prompted some unprecedented nostalgia.

I saw some of my old teachers and caught up with them. It seemed as nothing had changed since I’d been going to school there, 10 long years ago. They looked the same as I remembered them from old pictures, and so did the building. I went into the bathroom and was amazed at how tiny everything was. Even as a more petite person, I had to bend over to wash my hands. There was even a little stepstool platform at the sink – I marveled at the realization that years ago, little five-year-old me probably used that stool. Little me probably had to look up at the sequenced picture cards taped to the wall to remember what to do when washing my hands, and glanced into that miniature mirror hung above the sinks.

I could almost see a reflection of my five-year-old self in that fingerprint-smudged mirror. Wistfully, I reminisced about the days when I probably adjusted my pigtails in that mirror…and now, all I notice is that the tiny little mirror is in dire need of some Windex.

I feel the same way every day in biology, when I look out the window to see that very preschool right next door. I see the tiny little kids playing happily on the swingsets, running amok in a game of “catch me if you can” and then lining up to go inside with their teachers. Sometimes, if I can manage to block out my biology teacher’s lesson on biochemistry or whatever the tortorous topic of the day happens to be, I can hear their screams of delight.

The whole thing just makes me jealous of those little kids. So carefree and happy. Part of me wishes I could stop them and tell them to make sure they enjoy it while it lasts. Make them appreciate it, because life will never be that way again. But they’re so blissfully unaware. The toughest decision they have to make is what kind of jelly they want on their peanut butter sandwich. How I wish I would’ve known what was coming when I was younger. How I wish I would’ve appreciated it more, savored every moment of it. Those were the days of my life when I had it the easiest, when I had nothing to worry about. And I didn’t even know it.

Now my life is full of stresses. I have things to worry about now that I understand the world a little bit better. I have to worry about life. And death. My family. My friends. My grades. My future.

I just finished reading the book Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson. It’s comprised of the diary of a 47-year-old amnesiac who was in an accident years ago. Now, she wakes up every day with absolutely no idea of who she is, or who the stranger lying in bed with her is. Every morning, the man from bed explains to her that she has amnesia, and that he is her husband. The woman (named Christine) can remember things throughout each day, but not overnight.

I’ve never really read anything like this before. It was very intriuging, yet more than slightly creepy at the same time. Either way, I couldn’t put it down. Every time I would pull myself away from it for a bit, a strange feeling came over me. I couldn’t say for sure exactly what it was, but I think it’s got something to do with wondering what it would be like to live that kind of life. To wake up not knowing what your name is, where you are, who and what you love…it’s such a scary thought. Before I read this book, I don’t think I really understood what memory-loss diseases like Alzheimer’s actually were. (Of course, I never truly will.) But now, I can’t even fathom something so terrible.

One time, when I was in sixth grade and N was in fifth, N was playing in an after-school volleyball intramural league when he fell on the gym floor and hurt his head. We drove him to the emergency room, and they said he had a minor concussion. When it first happened, I remember being slightly annoyed, thinking – with my naive sixth-grader brain – that he was a wimp and he’d be perfectly fine. Then in the car on the way to the hospital, he didn’t know what had happened to him. My mom and I kept explaining it to him every two minutes (at first, I gave him the whole story, but eventually I realized I knew better and just gave him the short version!), and at that point, I was so scared for him. I’d heard of people forgetting who they were. So I continually drilled him on his full name, my name, his birthday, our address and phone number, etc. I think I annoyed him, but I was just so glad he really was going to be okay.

It’s good to be back in the blogosphere! I just haven’t made time to put up a post since school started. Even now, I must admit, I am going to cheat a bit and copy an entry from my writing notebook for English class onto here. (Hey, it’s just being resourceful, right? I’m killing two birds with one stone!)

…

I have been recently been forced to accept the fact that summer is over. Both in a literal sense (according to the calendar, the first day of fall was the 23rd), and a more abstract figurative one. I’m wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts every day now (although, thankfully, no jackets yet). The first of the trees are beginning their kaleidoscopic metamorphosis. The novelty of a new school year has worn off. My beloved Cincinnati Reds concluded their final game of the season a few hours ago, and the Bungles (formerly referred to as the Bengals), have, in true Bungle fashion, taken their place by losing games and making sure half the team is behind bars.

And so it is that I (unwillingly) begin to face the prospect of a long winter. Other than Christmas, winter seems to be one boring, monotonous drone of days that are clones of each other. Temperatures below freezing every day, sometimes accompanied by snow and/or ice. The same routine, day after day. (In the summer and early fall, I still have the novelty of school to get used to, and the spring brings with it a renewed zest for life, spurred by a warm, shining sun, all the baby animals, and most importantly, the promise of summer.) To me, winter is a months-long slump. I have diagnosed myself with an oh-so-mild case of SAD.

But alas, there’s really no way of stopping time. If there was, I’d do it. I think that this time of year, this transitive period between summer and fall, is my least favorite part of the entire year. I know what’s coming ahead, and I do not look forward to it, yet I almost find myself wishing that it would just hurry up and come already so I can get it over with and move on to the more exciting/fun parts of the year.

Tomorrow, I start high school.

I can’t believe I just typed that sentence, partially because it seems like summer just started yesterday. And partially because of those two fateful words at the end of the sentence: “high school”.

Am I excited? Yeah, you could say that. A more accurate question might be, “Are you so nervous you’ll probably stay up half the night (defeating the purpose of going to bed early) and peeing your pants sounds like a possibility?” The answer to that question is a resounding yes. Maybe I’ll feel better if I type out the reasons why:

• School starts at 7:15 AM.
• Being in a crowded hallway, carrying a mountain of binders and books, with dozens of people – many of them 300-pound football players – does not exactly appeal to me.
• I will not know anyone. Not just at the freshman campus, where there will be another junior high’s worth of kids merging with the 300 at my school, but at the main campus, where I’ll be spending my afternoon with sophomores, juniors, and seniors, aka strangers. I don’t know of a single person in any of my classes.
• I somehow managed to stupidly rope myself into getting up in front of every single one of those kids and telling them all about “What Makes Writer Kid Special!”
• I’m fairly sure the jokes sprinkled throughout the aforementioned speech are far too corny to gather a single laugh, especially from a cranky and sleep-deprived audience.
• For goodness’ sake, it’s high school. I mean, it’s only, possibly, maybe the most important four years of my life. Over the course of those four years, I will learn how to drive (crossing my fingers that my parents will allow this – hi Mom, that’s T-minus 306 days from now!), attempt to get the best grades humanly possible, decide where to go to college. A boyfriend might be nice. Oh, and I forgot one other thing – choosing my destiny in life. No pressure.
• Did I mention school starts at the ungodly hour of 7:15 AM?

Today, my mom gave me a letter. She wrote it to me when I was three years old. Once I read all three pages of it (hey Mom, that means if you write me a letter today, it has to be 14 pages long!), I – okay, yes, I teared up a little bit. I guess it’s just another sign that Mommy’s little baby girl is growing up…I’m still not sure quite how I feel about that.

Well, school starts in 11 and a half hours. I suppose I should stop writing and go get a shower, pack up, and go to bed. (I shouldn’t even have to think about going to bed at 7:45 PM!)

Assuming I am not dead from either a panic attack, sleep deprivation, or being run over by a horde of high schoolers at this time tomorrow, I’ll be back to blog about it.