It’s been at least a week since I last wrote in this journal, which is probably the longest span of time I’ve lapsed in my writing since I started this journal. My parents are in the country, and I’ve been out of town most of the week. So I suppose I have some sort of an excuse for not getting to write recently.
The main reason why my parents came over is because there was a memorial for Dr. Sam, the person pretty much responsible for my family’s moving to the United States in 1990. Dr. Sam was about 50 and died of leukemia. The memorial wasn’t necessarily sad—good stories and songs. It’s not like I knew the man well. But I was tearing up the entire time. The handkerchief that my mother lent me was completely soaked. I’m not quite sure if I was sad about this particular death, but perhaps I just have some issues with dealing with death in general. It’s just odd since I haven’t been at all emotional about his passing until this memorial. As I found myself full of tears during the memorial, I kind of wondered why I would have such an emotional reaction to death when I personally have tried to reach my own death several times. Shouldn’t death not be such a sad occasion for someone who doesn’t seem to have a problem taking her own life?
I am still not sure why I cried that much. One thing I really did feel sad about was for Dr. Sam’s wife. I can’t imagine being in her position of losing her love.