by Lydia Laythe |
Everyone has a story. The Beacon editorial board has written about this idea in the past. But this idea recently began to hold even more weight for one editor on staff: me.
My name is Lydia Laythe. I’m the Opinion Section Editor of The Beacon. I’m a senior social work major. Before I was an editor for The Beacon, I was a reporter, writing articles about police brutality, wheelchair accessibility, LGBTQ athletes and the infamous critique of the Villa Man Auction.
Before I came to UP, I was senior class president at Mercyhurst Preparatory School and voted “Most Likely to Make You Laugh.” Before that, I was a second string player for my 6th grade basketball team at Villa Maria Elementary and I played Glinda in the school’s performance of “The Wizard of Oz.” Before that, I won “Cutest Costume” for my kindergarten Halloween costume (I was in a full-body unicorn suit with a sparkly horn on top). But before that, before all that, I was a “miracle baby.”
That’s what my dad calls me: his miracle baby.
And this might all seem really pointless to you, but being my father’s miracle baby is important to me because in a few months that might be all I’ll have left of my dad.
My dad was diagnosed with soft-tissue sarcoma the spring of my freshman year here at UP. What started as a pea-sized lump on his leg quickly turned into a football-sized tumor wrapped around his femur. And that quickly spread to dozens of tumors in his lungs. I’ve seen my dad endure the most exhausting chemo and radiation treatments. I’ve watched my parents make the painful decision to put my dad on hospice care. And I’ve heard my dad sob louder than I’ve ever heard when he says goodbye to friends and family that come to visit.
He sobs — not because he’s afraid of dying — but because he might not see these people ever again. When I left Pennsylvania last Tuesday at 5 a.m., after an emotional weekend of visiting my parents, I didn’t know if I could come back to UP and keep my composure. I didn’t know if I could walk into my English class and still talk about feminism and Jane Austen. I didn’t know if I could go to my internship and help facilitate group therapy sessions. I didn’t know if I could go to The Beacon meetings and pitch story ideas. I didn’t know if I’d even want to get out of bed.
Saying goodbye to my dad last Tuesday at 5 a.m. was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
That might be the last time I ever say goodbye to him.
And it sucks.
But my dad told me something the night before I left. It was 11:50 p.m. on Monday night and I was lying in his bed next to him. I was sobbing and leaving tears and smudged makeup on his T-shirt. He told me that to be a good person — to be a good nurse, to be a good professor, to be a good social worker — to be a good human being, you had to acknowledge and appreciate the presence of the people you come in contact with every day. To be a good human being, you have to realize that everyone has a story, and if you can acknowledge that, people will appreciate you.
He said he saw that in me when I check out at the grocery store and I ask the cashier how they’re doing.
Because, like I’ve written in editorials in the past, everyone has a story. The Commons worker that’s fumbling with your sandwich has a story. The professor who’s a tough grader has a story. The annoying kid in your class has a story. And the girl that writes controversial articles for The Beacon has a story.
So before you call someone “annoying” or “an empty-headed bimbo,” please remember that everyone has a story that you will never know the half of. Everyone has a story that they want to share. And everyone has a story that you’re forgetting to acknowledge. So listen for people’s stories and share your own. Our community will be the better for expressing and acknowledging all of our stories. Editors’ note: This piece was written last week, and Lydia’s father has since passed away. Our thoughts are with the Laythe family.
