I Can Write About Couches Next Week

Once upon a time I wrote a short story about how everybody loves a good tragedy. That rubber-necked pull toward thankgodit'snotme, at once both plain ol' human nature, because in a way we are all in this together, married with sensationalism because, well, didja hear about--?

I wasn't going to write about this because it's not my tragedy. I was afraid writing about it verged more on the side of sensationalism since I hardly know the girl. I mean, I went to high school with her, but she was a year younger, I think, which of course in high school is a chasm of other. So while I have been following her story with horror, it has admittedly been horror from afar, from other people's Facebook posts and the local newspaper, the kind of detached horror that compelled me to donate but that's it because I hardly knew the girl, right?

So why am I writing about it now? I don't know. As far as tragedies go it's pretty fucking up there: With a brand new baby, Tika Hick and her contractor husband had to declare bankruptcy and lost their home that he had built. Then she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. So they went to Maui to gather strength before she was to undergo a double mastectomy, and while there, her husband was swept into a blow hole by a rogue wave. His body has not been found.

I guess I am writing about it now because while you might think my neck is made of plasticine I know my heart is made of something warmer. We are all in this together. And while part of me wanted to write about how I really want a new couch I also knew that I had to get off my ass and write about something more. I have readers from all over the globe-albeit a little farther away from knowing a girl from high school that was a year younger at that--but I'm asking you to please hear her story. If you're a blogger, please reblog. Better yet, donate. This girl who you don't know and who I hardly knew? She and her son need us.



Donate here.
The chasm of other is a mirage at best.

xo,
S