Since October 2006

It's June of 2011. It's been almost five years since Bob died. Unbelievable. In fact, I haven't really thought about that until right now. FIVE YEARS this October. It's so hard to believe, I cannot put my feelings into words at the moment. It's excruciating not having him in my life. Every day, there are things I want to tell him, to talk to him about.

Since he's been gone, the world seems to have progressed rapidly. In my personal life, a lot has happened. With every event and new family situation, I miss Bob. My dad had bypass surgery a couple of years ago. Bob and I would've talked a lot about that. I got married last June. Bob, obviously, would've been there. The officiant talked about Bob, which brought my parents and I to tears. Just a few months ago, dad had knee replacement surgery. Soon, mom will have a hip replacement. I want to talk to him about OUR parents. I want him to be here now and be there in the future, when our parents grow old and need assistance. Bob and I could help each other. But he's not here. I feel alone.

Another family tragedy happened recently. My uncle, mom's brother, died suddenly. Bob would have been equally shocked and saddened as I. We would've gone to Paul's memorial as a family. Paul spent many holidays and vacations with us. Bob probably had memories of Paul I never knew.

But, as my blog has mentioned before, life goes on. Families continue to deal with the little things and the big things in life. That's just what life is. We don't know what's around the corner and can't genuinely prepare for anything. We live, day to day, and try to enjoy it as best as possible and just cherish family and friends and health. That's all we can do.

A Note

This evening I started craving soup for dinner. My brain started buzzing. It's raining and snowing, I've got lots of vegetables in the fridge to use, I could make a lot of it and freeze the rest, I've got some soup base seasoning to boost the flavor, should I use a recipe from a book or should I throw stuff together, on and on ran my thoughts. Among my rows of cookbooks is one called Thai. It was a Christmas gift to my brother from me many years ago. I was flipping through it, looking for soup recipes, when I came upon this piece of paper with his handwriting. Ingredients needed for egg rolls. I was overcome with emotion. My hunger turned to nausea. Here he was. My beloved brother that was once alive on this earth, scribbling a list of things to buy at the food store. It was a shock to my system. It was one of those moments I found myself caught between my daily reality and my life reality, if that makes sense. I'm living, I'm going on about my days, I'm looking through cookbooks, and then the heavy reality presents itself. It's a quiet, empty feeling.

One of the most tragic, difficult aspects of losing a loved one is just not being able to talk to them. I just want to talk to him. I want to have a conversation with him, it doesn't matter what about. I do talk to him in my mind, but, obviously, it's not the same. I want to ask him if he made those egg rolls. And if he made them for himself or a friend or if he took them to a party. How'd they turn out? Then we'd talk about his delicious marinated chicken kabobs he used to make for our 4th of July parties. But I can't call him. I'm left with a note, written one day, years ago, when he was looking through a cookbook.

The House

The top photo is of the Ocean Bowl Skate Park in Ocean City, Maryland. The house, above, is a block away from the skate park. This is the location where I last saw my brother. He had been in OC with his long-time friend, Dave. I stopped by the skate park to watch them skate, as they've done for years. It was May of 2006. Specifically, the final vision I have of my brother is him kicking and coasting along on his skateboard on the street, in front of this house—which, if I'm not mistaken, was/is owned by a friend of his— while I drove away, waving good-bye. I swear to God (which I truly do not say lightly), I remember thinking it might be the last time I see my brother. I actually had that thought. I don't know why. I didn't know why at the time. I remember having that thought and skeptically dismissing it because it was such a crazy thing to think, ...right? 

The snapshot I have of him skating by is so vivid and I will forever cherish it. I will never forget how he looked: smiling, optimistic, excited to go to the bowl and make more videos of Dave and the other guys skating the ramps; his hair was blowing away from his face as he kicked. He had such a great time in OC. It was a beautiful moment, really. If I had to choose one vision to be the last of my brother, it would either be of him throwing clay, fishing, or skating. Luckily, I have photos of him doing all of those things he loved, and a final, wonderful memory of him enjoying life and having a good time. Amen, bruddah, amen.

Another December

Even if you don't usually spend time praying, giving yourself a moment to sit in silence will help get you through the holiday season. It's difficult to see all the commercials of happy families sharing Christmas morning together or watching people in stores smiling with their Santa hats as they shop, but just remember— you are not alone. There are millions of people worldwide experiencing the holiday season—be it for the first time or the fiftieth— without a loved one. You are not alone.

Here's an excerpt from Healing After Loss by Martha Whitmore Hickman:

Dec 8
In the flurry of the coming weeks I will try to spend a few minutes each day in prayerful silence—my own particular stay against the emotional and physical tumult of these days.

October Rituals

Tomorrow is the four year anniversary of Bob's passing. I can't believe it's been four years already. Even more surprising is the fact my parents and I have been able to survive and continue living without my brother, without their son. I don't know how we've done it. Holidays pass, birthdays pass, significant anniversaries pass... The world keeps moving at rapid speed.

Today my mom drives up from North Carolina. We'll be going to the beach tomorrow which is what we've done since October of 2007. I have leis coming in from Hawaii which we'll throw into the waves and say a blessing for Bob. My dad will go to the beach in North Carolina with Kona, take a fishing pole, maybe throw a line out. 

I've learned the importance of rituals honoring a loved one. Whether it's on their birthday, anniversary of some kind, or just a special day during the year you set aside, designating a time to be with your loved one helps in so many ways. You feel more at peace, gain strength, you're allowed to laugh and to cry. It's a special, quiet time when the world does seem to stop...just for a moment. 

A poem from ELEGY by Mary Jo Bang

UTOPIAN LONGING BECOMES MORE ABSURD

After the beloved is dead.

After the personal history ends

With a glassy-eyed over, it's been,

Says a polar presence. Cold

Juxtaposes with the waning warmth

Of the human. Cold, and its polar

Opposite. There was once

An earlier epoch

Of four-wheeled skates, a Philadelphia

Sidewalk, when imagination corresponded

To a future. Here is the tormented

Arithmetic of one minus one. The zero

In one now hides the other. This is

What it looks like. A domino sequence

Of nothing becoming a spectacle

Watched for a while

(The gate latch sticks and then clicks)

While eating a cone of cotton candy.

A poem from Mary Jo Bang's National Book Critics Circle Award Winning book, Elegy.

By Graywolf Press

What's on my mind. 7:52pm, Tuesday night.

I have so many things I want to write but I'm feeling overwhelmed. So this particular entry will be somewhat of a stream of consciousness. More like scattered thoughts.

I want the world to be gentle with me. Have patience. I'm forgetful. I get confused easily. I find myself unorganized at times. But sometimes I am completely focused. And sometimes, I just need help.

I want the world to know that my brother is on my mind every minute of every day. When someone talks about their brother, I instantly get a sick feeling in my stomach. I can't help it. I want to cry. I want to change the subject of the conversation or walk away. When people joke about death, or talk about it nonchalantly, I want to berate them. I know they're not being insensitive. They simply don't know about or understand my situation. Or maybe they forgot. I want people to ask me how I'm doing. No one asks me that anymore. Yes, it's been 3.5 years since my brother passed away. It hasn't gotten easier. It's not something that happened in the past, therefore insignificant. His death is with me always. The feeling of his absence is with me always. The reality of knowing he is not here on earth is with me always. He's not waking up, having lunch, petting his dog, checking out the forecast, laughing at something he saw, hugging someone, skating, driving somewhere, celebrating a holiday, throwing clay... At the same time, I do feel he is with me. He is with me as I'm looking up at the clouds. He is with me when I'm petting Mason. He is with me when I'm laughing. He is with me when I'm driving.

On July 4th— just a few weeks ago— I was standing outside on my balcony. It was around 9:15pm and the fireworks in Annapolis were already on their way. And all day long I was feeling my brother's presence. It's something I can't explain. If you feel these things, you know what I mean. And I was hoping I'd see a blue heron. (That's the sign/symbol of my brother for me. When I see a heron, it means sort of like, "Hi, sis!") But no herons were spotted all day. Then, I see this thing flying straight towards me as I stood there looking out, leaning on my railing. It was flying away from the black sky smudged with a haze of fireworks and smoke. I thought at first it must be an osprey since they're everywhere. No, it flew closer and closer, I could see it was a huge blue/gray bird, and it flew— I AM NOT KIDDING— right over my head, over my balcony. All of a sudden I couldn't hear the fireworks. Everything was silent but for the flapping of this heron's wings. I remember looking at his outstretched legs then he was gone, overhead, over the building. I think he may have even looked at me. It was one of those moments of pure disbelief and of joy and of shock. I couldn't speak. I almost fainted. Bob, I love you and I miss you.

Today's Entry - June 25

Here is today's entry in the book I read every morning, Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief by Martha Whitmore Hickman.

How much time we spend anguishing over a future without the one we love—anticipating all the times we would have expected that person to be present with us, sharing our life.
Yet the future is unknown to us. We ourselves may not be present at these events we look toward anticipating grief. Why spend the energy of our lives on an unknowable future when the present world lies all around us, moment by moment, day by day? There is grief enough here. But we do not need to compound that grief by projecting ourselves into a time beyond our knowledge or control.

Affirmation:
I feel wonderful freedom when I stop imagining my future sadness and live only in the present.

Absence

I apologize for not blogging in a long time. I have a list of topics I need to write but haven't been able to sit down and write in a long time. Hang on. I'll post something new soon. Thanks for checking in ya'll. And don't forget to leave a comment if you'd like.

Personal Items - Part 1

Bob was born in Harrogate, England. My parents lived there while my dad was working for NSA. It was something that my brother always thought special; the fact that he was born in another country just added another layer to his interesting life. He always carried a metal British flag/Union Jack keychain on his keys. On the back it says, Made in England. I don't remember if he told me where he got it. Maybe he found it or bought it. I don't know. I wish I knew. Because I now carry it on my keys. It's damaged, pieces of the enamel have fallen off from years of being attached to my brother's keys. Keys to his VW van, keys to his Jeep Commando, keys to his red Ford pick up truck. Keys to his home, his potter's studio.

I think it's really important to carry something around everyday that was once owned by the departed. I have many of Bob's possessions, as I've mentioned before, but to have something so small, something so meaningful, and be able to carry it with me every single day and look at it when I'm at a stoplight, glance down at it when I'm at the grocery store, it just really warms my heart and is extremely comforting. I suggest you carry something, too. A piece of jewelry, maybe, a patch of fabric from a t-shirt, a photo of them you know they liked. Wear it on your finger, around your neck, keep it in your pocket, or place it somewhere in your car where you can see it every day. That way, they are always with us. Always.