“What’s wrong with death sir? What are we so mortally afraid of? Why can’t we treat death with a certain amount of humanity and dignity, and decency, and God forbid, maybe even humor. Death is not the enemy gentlemen. If we’re going to fight a disease, let’s fight one of the most terrible diseases of all, indifference.” -Patch Adams
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I used to have a really cool pair of suspenders. I wore them whenever I had the chance and along with my Wonder Woman Underoos, they were probably one of the most special items in my wardrobe. Maybe, if you were a kid in the late 70s, you had the same pair.
If you did have a pair, or even if you didn’t, you probably knew why some of those weird kids were into rocking the rainbow suspenders.
Because Mork rocked the rainbow suspenders. And Mork was awesome.
In 1982, the year that Mork and Mindy came to an end, my mother and her boyfriend at the time stuffed me and whatever possessions would fit into our car. We were moving from Indiana to Colorado for reasons I was too young to understand or care about. But, I was excited. Colorado had mountains, so I was sure it must be a beautiful place full of adventures.
Not only that, but I knew Boulder, Colorado was where Mork lived and Mom’s boyfriend promised that he’d take me to see Mork’s house.
He kept his promise. I saw the house. Because I did not yet understand how TV shows work, I tried very hard to peek into the windows, hoping to see Mork himself, thinking that if he saw me looking, we would surely be good friends right away and he would tell me many wonderful, funny, and interesting things.
I didn’t see Mork. And he didn’t see me, but that was okay. I kept watching anyway, and he still told me all kinds of weird and wonderful things. And they often turned out to be very important things.
I outgrew my suspenders and my Underoos, and I got interested in other things, but whenever I saw Robin Williams, I felt happy. I paid attention. It was only a couple of months ago that I was telling my husband about my super-rad suspenders, and that magical day when I saw Mork’s house.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that whenever we came across a Robin Williams movie, I mentioned something about it. I’m also pretty sure that each time, my husband responded with, “Dead Poets Society. That’s my favorite. That one is really great.”
Well, it’s not like I could argue with that.
Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve spent time laughing, crying and sitting in silence while we rewatched Good Will Hunting, Dead Poets Society and Hook. We watched a newer one, The Angriest Man in Brooklyn, that we’d had sitting on the to-watch pile, and if you’ve seen it, you know that this film is likely more eerie and poignant than originally intended.
It was nice to revisit those stories. Nice… yet very sad.
Some people, things, and characters affect us so strongly because we discover them when we’re young. For better or worse, they stick. We forget about them as we go about living our lives, but there are those moments, no matter how old we get where we’re reminded of them and that sense of wonder and happiness returns, even if for a brief moment.
I have not been diagnosed with depression, but I try to understand it. I have had periods of sinking that I cannot get out of alone. There are days I have lived through only by asking for help, by saying, “This is too heavy and I can’t get out from underneath this thing.”
Other times, I’ve lived through those days by making jokes, acting like a buffoon or getting drunk while watching funny movies. Funny helps us cope. It’s a means of survival and defense.
But sometimes our defenses and survival tactics are not enough.
If you’re too sad, too broken, and it’s too much for you, please say those words out loud. And if someone is telling sending a message to you that they need help, please listen. Being a flawed, fleshy human is a rather poor means of survival, but it’s all we’ve got.
Luckily, many of those fleshy meat sacks are so wonderfully weird. Some of them we have the good fortune to meet and spend time with. Others are magical beings we discover when we’re young. We might not get to meet them, even if we go to their house and try to peek at them through the windows, but that’s okay, because we still get to spend time with them.
After they’re gone, the most important thing is the funny and interesting things they said; they way they made you laugh and feel like being weird was okay. One of the things I’ve noticed the most over the past couple of weeks is that everyone seems to have their very own Robin Williams story. The most valuable thing we can leave behind is stories.
Not only stories about aliens, teachers, doctors, and clowns… but stories about how they made us feel. How they made us more than just stinking sacs of meat.
It no longer matters how they left, because it can’t be undone. All that matters is what we can learn from their exit so that we can hopefully prevent it from happening to someone else.
What matters is that we give a shit about the fact that everyone’s going through something, even when they’re spreading so much happiness around.
What matters is that I find an adult-sized pair of rainbow suspenders.
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“I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.” -Jack Kerouac
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