Mason

My husband and I had to put our dog of 12 years down last month. Just 5 days after the 6th anniversary of Bob’s passing. Our dog, Mason, was the world to us. He was our son. He died of cancer and hung on for a month after surgery. I slept next to him every night and was with him almost every day, thankfully being able to work from home. He declined rapidly, going blind, then not wanting to eat, ultimately not being able to walk. My husband and I were next to him, holding him, as he had a stroke Sunday night, shaking in his plush dog bed surrounded by his stuffed animals. We rushed him to the ER, I snuggled up with him in the back of the Jeep, wrapping 2 blankets and my arms around him and talking to him softly, letting him know everything will be okay.

The loss of my brother has helped me understand the grieving process. I will grieve differently for Mason, but it’s still the same amount of pain. Mason was my loyal companion for 12 years. I cry every day, mostly mornings and evenings, when I miss him the most. Missing the person or pet is the worst part of loss. There is  nothing you can do about it. They’re gone. It’s helpful to keep talking to them, to realize they are still with us, but it’s obviously different. One major thing grieving over the loss of my brother has taught me is that it’s okay to cry, to let it out, to feel that emotion, any time it wants to present itself. Allow it to overcome you, do not fight it. It will subside. And, of course, as with any loss of a loved one, the ONLY thing that will help us heal is time. Drugs, therapy, meditation, new hobbies, none of that helps as much as time.
http://flic.kr/p/9wbiqh

The Tree

A few days ago I was walking Mason down our neighborhood street like I do every evening after work. I always take my keys, some plastic bags, and my phone. After about 20 minutes, we were walking back towards the house and I just stopped and noticed a tree. I pass by it everyday but for some reason I just wanted to stand there a moment, look up, see the texture and its colors and silhouette against the sky. I took my phone out and took a photo as Mason patiently waited, sniffing the ground. I kept looking up. Then as I was in the action of taking another photo I saw something in the corner of my left eye in the sky. A HERON! A huge blue heron flew right above the tree! Unfortunately, I didn't get him in the photo because of the camera delay. But oh my god a heron. It was amazing. I understood. I was in shock. I felt like fainting. I felt like screaming of joy. It was my bro saying hi. It's happened before. There is no explanation for this but of him saying hi, him telling me everything is fine, and him telling me he is with me. HE IS WITH ME, ALWAYS. I am so glad I got that photo of the tree. It doesn't show the heron, but it shows nature's beauty and the awe-inspiring wonder of the universe and how there are things we cannot explain but we can certainly believe.

Favorite Photo

My dad, mom, Bob, me, and close family friend, Larry. Lititz, PA, circa 1977-78.

Bob is Always with Me

Approaching the 5th year anniversary of Bob's passing, I wanted to take a visual inventory of just how much he is still in my life. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, he is with me. Saturdays sitting at my computer, evenings relaxing on the couch, I am surrounded by his things, gifts he's given to me, and even gifts I gave to him that I now own. Every piece of pottery he created, unique gifts from Hawaii, his guitar he adored, the clothing he once wore. It's not that I need to be reminded of my loss; having all of these things fills the air with his spirit, and I know he is with me, and that's comforting.

Below is a slideshow of the photos I took of the things I see everyday around my house...

If you don't have Flash, copy and paste this link into your browser to see the album.
https://picasaweb.google.com/109746190036513054714/BobAroundTheHouse?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO7xyuLr86DsuAE&feat=directlink

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.

After the Holidays

The holidays are over thank goodness. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy the holidays to some extent, but they’re not the same, obviously. November through January is a very difficult time for those who have lost a loved one. There is heartache, happiness, confusion, joy, depression, and for me personally, an indulgence in pasta. 

December 2006, two months after my brother passed away, I attended a ‘getting through the holidays without your loved one’ seminar at the local hospice. There were about 20 people there--teenagers and older folks, men and women. Little did I know at that time (because I was still in a complete fog), it was going to be so helpful each holiday season thereafter. The two women speaking from hospice were extremely knowledgeable and kind. They talked about how the grieving process is a roller coaster; we made memory keepsakes of our loved ones; we shared our stories if we wanted; and one really wonderful thing they did was give us a little gold jingle bell on a ribbon. It was to signify how much ‘jingle’ --happiness for the season-- we wanted to allow ourselves to have. If we wanted to be a part of the joyfulness of the season, then we can hold it in our hand and jingle it for as long as we wanted. If we’re not feeling in the mood for the holidays, then maybe just one shake of the bell would do. No matter how we felt about the holiday season, we were told that it was okay if we didn’t want a lot of ‘jingle’ this time of year. 

It was such a simple gift yet so effective. I have kept that little bell on a stand in my foyer ever since. I look at it every day and remind myself that--even though the holiday season is over-- I am the one who has control over whether or not I want ‘jingle’ as I go about my day and it’s okay to want a lot or none at all. 

I encourage those who have lost a loved one to contact your local hospice. They are not only incredible caregivers, they have programs and counseling on bereavement. Click here to find the local hospice near you.

These Days Vol. 4

1. Rusty Nails / 4:32 / Moderat
2. Zero / 4:26 / Yeah Yeah Yeahs
3. Drunk Fun In London / 5:44 / Vincent Oliver
4. Fifths / 6:19 / Deadmau5
5. Green Eyed Love (Classixx Remix) / 5:08 / Mayer Hawthorne
6. Ashes On the Fire / 4:26 / Richard Hawley
7. Tom Sawyer / 4:34 / Rush
8. Ring the Bell / 4:23 / YACHT
9. Puppy Toy / 3:30 / Tricky
10. Too Late to Think / 4:00 / Slaraffenland
11. Velvet / 4:12 / The Big Pink
12. Forget My Name (feat. Hot Chip) / 4:20 / Jesse Rose
13. Brass In Pocket / 3:06 / Pretenders
14. Heartbreaker (feat. John Legend) / 3:13 / MSTRKRFT
15. At Forest Edge / 5:49 / Vetiver
16. Headphone Space / 4:47 / A Sunny Day In Glasgow
17. My Last Days on Earth / 4:39 / Bill Monroe

11 - 17 - 67

Bob would have been 42 years old today. It's amazing how fast time flies, especially these days, being in my thirties. Everyone my age–and older–comments regularly on how fast time is flying. It's true. I remember just yesterday my brother and I both being "teenagers"— for only a couple of months. I turned 13 in September and he was 19, soon to turn 20 in November 1987.

So this is the third birthday in a row I haven't been able to talk to Bob. I can't wish him a Happy Birthday and send him cds or silly things we can laugh about.

But I'm okay, I guess. I'm still surviving this...

I set aside time this evening to be with him. I toasted a drink to him, talked to him in the dark while observing the few stars I could see after the sun went down. Tonight for dinner I am going to prepare Thai chicken satay because he loved Thai food, as do I.

I talked to my dad tonight. He went fishing early this morning "with Bob" on a deserted Carolina beach and then he said he and mom golfed together in the afternoon. It's been 3 years since their baby boy passed away. Their baby boy who was born in England 42 years ago today, 5:35 p.m. to be exact. That thought hurts me the most– my lovely parents losing their son. But to hear my dad talk about how mom is improving in golf, how he had the entire beach to himself for miles, how he grilled hamburgers for dinner...was wonderful. People CAN survive after loss. It is not easy, but we're enduring the days, even as fast as they are...

September

It's September 4, 2009. I'll turn 35 in 2 days. The air feels heavy and anxious this time of year. 3 years ago, September of 2006, is when I visited my parents at their new condo in North Carolina. Bob was going to come down, too, since he lived only hours away but work overwhelmed him. As a potter, he was very busy in the fall, getting ready for an annual Thanksgiving fair where he could make some good money selling his pottery. I remember sitting at the glass table in the new condo as my dad called Bob and talked to him. We all sat there smiling and kind of laughing. Bob must have been saying something funny on the other line. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to talk to him but I said I'd call him later. I didn't know that a month later he'd be gone.

Bob used to always call me on my birthday and send a gift, usually a few weeks late. When he passed away October 2, and I was at his home solemnly looking through his things, there was a small cardboard box on a chair that had my address written on it with a black Sharpie. There it was, the birthday present he was eventually going to send me. It was the book Marley and Me. I still have it, in the box, unread.

They say birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays are the worst for the bereaved. It's true. I would always look forward to my brother calling me on my birthday, sometimes leaving funny messages on my voice mail if I didn't answer. But now, I'm somewhat afraid of September 6th. Just knowing I won't get that call from my brother still fills me with anxiety.

Crying Time

I cried every day for two years after Bob's death. Every single day. Mornings, in the shower, I cried heavily and loudly because no one could hear me and the water streaming down my face would carry the tears with it to the drain. During the afternoons, I sought out unoccupied public restrooms to shed tears. When I left work, I cried in the private sanctuary of my car. In the evenings I cried on the couch in the guest room, looking out at the moon through the narrow window that faces the Bay.

After the second anniversary, the crying episodes have become less frequent. I've noticed I rarely spend long amounts of time crying; rather, I have outbursts. I'll also experience several days, sometimes weeks at a time, when I feel very fragile, and the tears come and go, and my mood drifts from high to low.

Looking into the mirror now, possibly having cried more in the past two years than my entire lifetime before my brother's death, I see anguish. My eyes have gone through hell! They've had no rest in almost three years! They look heavy and sullen, like I've aged too quickly, or, better yet, incorrectly.

No one ever warns you of the strain your eyes will have to endure. I've realized this is the reason my eyes have become so sensitive to light. Sunglasses are a necessity to me more than ever before. I block out the light coming from the ceiling lights at work with a makeshift cardboard obstruction. I keep my brightness settings on my computer as dim as they will go.

This is just another element of grief. The physical toll it takes on our appearance is obvious, and more evidence that our lives have forever changed.

A Favorite Quote

From Healing After Loss, July 3:
"Everyone can master a grief but he that has it" -- William Shakespeare

Every grief has its own timetable, which only the griever knows. And usually the journey through grief is slow and often delayed.