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.

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

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

Why the Good People?

Why did Bob have to die? Why was he taken from my parents and I? Why not someone who is evil, a murderer, a child molester. Not only my life, but the whole entire earth benefited from him being a part of it. He had such a good soul. He was genuine and generous.

I recently read an article about a couple who had been married for 40+ years and were inseparable, high school sweethearts. Along with their distinguished careers serving the public, they volunteered throughout their lives, helping others live better lives. They gave and they gave and they gave. Then they were killed in the Washington, DC Metro crash. Why were they taken?

The world suddenly but silently changes when good people die. And we are left empty, distraught, confused, asking questions that have no answers. At least, no answers that fill the void in our hearts.

Book Recommendation

Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief by Martha Whitmore Hickman.

For every day of the year there is a quote, a paragraph describing the theme of the quote, and an affirmation to say to yourself. It's been my companion for two years, helping me cope and understand the grieving process. A friend of my mom's in her Compassionate Friends network gave it to her a while back and now my mom and I recommend it to others. Not every entry is perfect, obviously, but the majority are insightful, comforting, and encourage healing. Check it out...

Past, Present, Future — Present

Everything along my life’s timeline has taken on a new meaning. I have an entirely new, albeit somewhat depressing, perspective on my past, present, and future.

The Present
Before my life turned upside down, I was living in the present. I can honestly say I tried to live every day to its fullest potential. That doesn’t mean I was jumping out of airplanes every chance I got, or attempting daredevil stunts, or doing anything and everything I could possibly do for tomorrow may never come. No. But I did live every day. I cherished every time my parents and my brother and I got together. I appreciated my life and never took anything nor anyone for granted. I’ve realized throughout my 34 years that life is indeed fragile and our time here on earth is indeed fleeting. But now, having lost my brother and having experienced firsthand what it feels like to have someone existing in my life one day and not the next, I’ve learned to trust the present. It’s here, and it’s all I’ve got.

I trust that I may awake in a fog but throughout the day, it’ll subside. I trust some days I will take one small step at a time, other days I’ll be leaping. I trust I’ll feel lonely in my sorrow but that I’m not entirely alone. I trust time will heal but the scar will forever exist. I trust my thoughts and feelings as my own, and whatever arises, accepting them for what they are, because they’ve originated from my very being. I trust that the sun will be in the sky, warming the atmosphere and encouraging the vitality of all living things. I trust that birds will go about their day, foraging for worms and building nests. And I trust the universe, in all its magnificence and ambiguity, because no one has all the answers. We’re just here, living in the present, gambling on trust.

Past, Present, Future — Past

Everything along my life’s timeline has taken on a new meaning. I have an entirely new, albeit somewhat depressing, perspective on my past, present, and future.

The Past
Before my life turned upside down, my memories were of a warm, happy, innocent childhood. A childhood filled with much laughter, self-revelation, of a safe neighborhood where my friends and I could spend all summer playing outdoors, and of frequent fun family trips. Granted, my brother and I didn’t have the best relationship growing up. He was 7 years older and really wanted nothing to do with me during his high school years. That was fine though because his neglect helped strengthen my independence and imagination. Moreover, he was my brother and eventually our relationship would evolve and I would come to realize my family life was the foundation of my happiness.

So this was my past as I knew it. It was secure. It was sacred. It was the past, unable to be changed. Until now. Because my brother is not physically here with me, when I think of my childhood now, it brings tears to my eyes. My memories have become delicate snapshots in time that only I can see and cherish. No longer do I have the opportunity to reminisce with my brother about funny moments and family vacations. No longer do I have the opportunity to learn new insights into our upbringing, making our bond even stronger. No longer do I have the opportunity to ask him about his memories of his childhood. I am alone with my past, a past that he and I once shared. And the fond memories have become hallucinations, nearly unrecognizable, revealing a frightening reality of what was and what is.

Whatever "it" is, I'm doing it

People often say,"I don't know what I would do if my brother/mother/best friend/grandfather died suddenly." I know I've even said that in the past. But now I'm actually doing whatever "it" is. So I had to ask myself, What am I doing? Just existing? Am I living? Am I going to work? Yes. Am I reading through mail and paying bills on time? Yes. Am I watering my plants? Yes. Am I sleeping at night? Sort of. Do I laugh? Yes. Do I cry? Certainly. Do I maintain a loving relationship with my partner? Yes. Do I celebrate holidays? Sometimes. Do I take care of my dog? Of course. Do I miss my brother? Terribly. So throughout the two and a half years so far doing this "it" thing, I've arrived at an answer: surviving. I'm actually surviving.

Merriam-Webster's definition for "survive":

SUR•VIVE

intransitive verb

1. to remain alive or in existence: live on

2. to continue to function or prosper

transitive verb:

1. to remain alive after the death of

2. to continue to exist or live after

3. to continue to function or prosper despite: withstand

Like a mysterious illness finally diagnosed, my "it" has been explained. The symptoms and signs all point to doing this thing called surviving. And with surviving, there is adjusting and adapting. And those who are grieving know, the world is seen through different lenses after the death. The surroundings are familiar but the environment has changed.

Take a moment to cherish and appreciate your family and friends. And live on.