We Lucky Few

"I cherish the memories of a question my grandson asked me the other day when he said:

"Grandpa? Were you a hero in the war?" 

Grandpa said "No. . .


But I served in a company of heroes.""


 -- Sergeant Mike Ranney, in a letter sent to Major Richard "Dick" Winters



Martyrdom is a tricky business, and so far as I have found is not restricted to religious extremists. A little martyrdom exists in all of us and in some, more than others. We sacrfice our comfort/peace of mind/sanity in order to make someone elses life easier. I've done it, I've spent most of life doing it.

I want to point out the responsibility that comes with this. Making yourself responsible for someone elses happiness is a big deal. You might think it's a good idea at the time, but in reality, it is not. You severly stunt your personal growth. By taking on someone elses problems, you leave no room to figure out your own.

I guess I'm just worried about my family. Believe it or not, it's only during the past year that I've become concerned for their well-being. I never really considered it to be an issue, but damn. Each of them are as fragile as I am. Well that's not true. I've come to understand that my parents are the two strongest people I know. The shit that they deal with, between work, the trials of their children, volunteerism, health issues, and their ability to deal with it, is fucking monumental, and they've been dealing with it for twenty-four years. They didn't get a break after college to travel, and work on who they were, they went straight to work to support their children (or child, as they case was at the time). They're incredible.

But they're still figuring it out, the same as I am, and at the same level as I am. My opinion is valued, and acted upon by these people. I understand aspects of human beings that they don't understand. I don't know about you, but I was pretty sure they had that kind of thing nailed down, and if you met them you'd know what I'm talking about; they are people persons. But when it comes down to the six of us, them and their four children, there's a barrier.

We, as in all four of us, have only really started talking to our parents in the last three years. Which is quite late. We've never been really close, as noted in one of my previous entries when I mentioned we never said we loved each other and how big a deal that was. We've improved since we started saying it. Whan I'm getting at is that we've never been a great family unit until recently, and I think it's one of the issues that affects my sister.

Ya see, each member of my family has had to deal with depression and the effects of it. We've gone through the same shit as she is going through, except she is more sensitive to it than we were. The result is anxiety, worry, and guilt. These feelings really come from nothing, but the fact that she's a hormone-crazed teenager doesn't help. Couple that with the evil-mindedness of other teenages and you've got a recipie for disaster.

Believe me when I say that I do not even want to clean and bandage her arm again.

This is year three. It's hard to think about it, but I've had the luxury of living away from home so I don't have to deal with her directly. My parents are there every day, and every time she throws a strop, or breaks down in tears. Somehow, they manage to go on. Somehow they see a future. I can't see the future, but I feel in my guts that it's bright. I know it could be denial, but the alternative is unthinkable. I love these people to much to lose them. So I will be there when they need me.

I love that quote from Ranney's letter. It was delivered by an aged Winters, his voice choking over the last few words of the final line. A veteran of World War II, who knew exactly what he meant when he said "heroes".