Harold Ramis, R.I.P. 1944-2014

[ravenpenny]

Celebrity deaths rarely affect me as deeply and profoundly as the death of Harold Ramis has today. I actually learned about it from John Kovalic's tweetstream and I swore that it had to be a joke. I mean, come on guys, he's Harold Fucking Ramis - he's immortal. I have to say that I was disabused of that notion this morning and really - I couldn't be more miserable. Besides the amazing work, he's done over the years in just about every medium you could think of one thing he's done means something very special to me in particular. If you frequent my blog often you know that I suffer from the peculiar combination of night terrors and insomnia. I'm pretty sure one stems from the other somehow - but I and my legion of doctors over the years have never been able to figure out how or why. There are days when I can't go to sleep because I'm too scared of what will be waiting for me on the other side of the Gates of Horn and Ivory. Having nearly three decades to deal with this, I've come to gripes with the fact that my dreams cannot hurt me. But as a boy, I didn't know that. I thought I was being visited by the literal forces of Hell whenever I slept. I remember the first time I saw Ghostbusters. I stayed over at my aunt D's house and had a night terror. I woke up screaming. She didn't know what to do because I'd not be around her often. So she sat up with me, and we watched Ghostbusters on sparkling bright VHS. I didn't get all the humor right then. I couldn't. I was maybe four or five years old. But the one thing I saw was the Ghostbusters fighting back at things that scared them. Seeing this helped me. It helped me so much that my aunt gave me the coveted VHS tape when I went home (I wore out two more tapes and a DVD since then - I'm all digital now). I know it sounds corny, but in my child's mind, I knew that no demon, ghost, or monster could hurt me because the Ghostbusters were out there. Hell, they were ready to believe me. They said so. They knew that the demons came at night and tore away the covers and scared me -  but if I had the Ghostbusters move playing, they couldn't hurt me. They couldn't sacred me. But they couldn't hurt me. That movie, more than anything (other than my doctor getting me to journal about my dreams) might have saved my life. And I mean this in a very real, very literal way. I vividly recall wondering if I could kill myself, and if I did would it make the nightmares stop. I was a fucking kid, and I wondered if death was the answer to a pain and torment that I just could not understand. So losing Harold Ramis has hit me in the gut like few celebrity deaths could. It's like losing a favorite uncle you never see - you know he's out there and doing things - but he's busy. Maybe it's a little weird, but the Ghostbusters have given me comfort over the years like few things ever could. Even now when I need a laugh, or I'm feeling outting of sorts I put on the movie and play it on repeat. I could recite the entire thing backwards, forewards, or whatever I've seen it so much. So Mr, Ramis thank you for your work, your humor, and being there (along with three other kooks) when a child was too scared to sleep. May you find whatever peace you can.