A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!"
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
(apologies to Stephen Crane)
2012 is here (though perhaps not for too long, if the doomsayers are correct and you never know-- a broken clock is right twice a day). I'm unspeakably relieved that 2011 is done, without any more damage wrought. It did bring me a few presents, like divorcing parents plying their child with therapy and gifts once they realize the impact of their actions. Which is not to say that I don't appreciate these bits of goodness-- mixed bags of success in unlikely places, unexpected love, rare moments of light that shine all the brighter against the darkness of the rest of the year. But the darkness, the pall that has hung over my life for almost a year is still quite undeniably there. I think I overestimated my own resiliency, especially with how difficult the holidays were. Trust me, little can completely sap that holiday spirit like accidentally ordering Christmas presents for your deceased little brother. Nor can I really enjoy the Steelers this season, lacking my brother (the king of Steelers criticism) and his non-stop bitching. And so on. Every little thing leads to a train of thought that leads back to the massive amount of grief that I'm apparently still processing. In ultra slow motion.
So, to sum up? It's still one day at a time.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Here we go again.
I'm so over 2011. Can we move on to 2012 yet? The universe clearly wasn't done having fun at my expense this year, and now I've lost both grandmothers and my brother in the space of four months. Of course, my training for my big swim is wrecked with just one week to go. I'm physically and mentally exhausted. It's not just this latest loss, that of my other grandmother. It's the cumulative effects of so much in such a short time. It's hard to muster up any enthusiasm for or interest in anything, let alone my first open water swim. I'm lugubrious, despondent, disconsolate, with a side of melancholy. Instead of excitement about Purple Swim, I feel nervous and insufficiently prepared. I hate to admit this, but I'm struggling with maintaining interest in the now happening NFL season. Nothing seems to matter all that much anymore.
I'm so very, very tired of death and funerals. I would like the rest of the year off from death and funerals. In fact, don't have one for me if I should drown or die from a rabid jellyfish attack. I won't attend.
But now that I'm becoming something of an experienced mourner, allow me to make a few suggestions as to how to/ how not to treat the bereaved:
1. Do not comment on appearances, including attire, for the bereaved or the deceased. The bereaved may have had to travel at the last minute and may not have had time or the presence of mind to pack appropriately. Even if they didn't travel as great a distance, the enormity of the loss may make dressing and grooming challenging. And even if you think they look "good," they probably couldn't care less. Yes, my hair's back to long and blond-- do you think I particularly care if anyone likes it, when we're in front of a casket? Noooooo. And do not comment on the deceased's appearance at all, with the possible exception of how peaceful they may look. So many people fed me crap about my brother looking good-- which was total bull because it was obvious he was swollen and beaten up, with heavy makeup necessary, and lying about it just drew more attention to the obvious.
2. Do not discuss politics or religion. I'm more intimately aware than the average bear about what's going on in politics, but I don't really want to hear a political debate in front of a casket. And do not offer platitudes about how "God has a plan" or that the deceased is an angel/ is with the angels or similar such sentiments unless you are absolutely certain that the bereaved would find such sentiments comforting. For example, I consider myself a marginal verging on lapsed, extremely liberal eastern rite Catholic and I find none of those sentiments comforting in the least. I also have 13 years of Catholic education, and I will smack down your misinterpretation of doctrine regarding angels if you annoy me enough.
3. Do not tell the bereaved what they need to do unless they actually need to do it. Yes, get them something to eat/ drink, to sit down or to sleep. But don't tell them to call-- you call them. Don't tell them to email-- you email them. Don't tell them to visit-- you call or email and invite them. Why? Because the phone works both ways, email works both ways, and you're an insensitive berk if you don't realize that lots of people say nice things they don't mean and make promises they don't intend to ever keep, so how should the bereaved know which is sincere and which isn't?
3.a. As a corollary to 3, do not lecture the bereaved for not doing something that you think is important unless a) it actually is important and b) you're not a huge hypocrite about it. And even then, don't lecture. You're probably not a professor, and even if you are? It's not class time. I may also be a little irritated that my grandfather lectured me about not calling when he's never inquired after my or my parents' well-being after losing my brother and only offered the scantest words at the time. It was only for the sake of keeping peace that I didn't snap back that I only returned all of his calls while I've been wrestling with the crippling depression that came with losing my brother. Oh wait, that's right. No calls to return. I can count the calls from anyone outside my parents and closer friends on one hand.
4. Do not make promises you won't actually keep. It makes it difficult for the bereaved to figure out who they can really trust and rely on when the shock wears off and the actual, long-lasting mourning begins.
Finally, a "do":
5. Do shut up and just be there. Talk is cheap, unless it's at 2am and you're willing to talk to someone suffering through grief-wracked insomnia. Hugs, alcohol, and ice cream are even better.
I'm so very, very tired of death and funerals. I would like the rest of the year off from death and funerals. In fact, don't have one for me if I should drown or die from a rabid jellyfish attack. I won't attend.
But now that I'm becoming something of an experienced mourner, allow me to make a few suggestions as to how to/ how not to treat the bereaved:
1. Do not comment on appearances, including attire, for the bereaved or the deceased. The bereaved may have had to travel at the last minute and may not have had time or the presence of mind to pack appropriately. Even if they didn't travel as great a distance, the enormity of the loss may make dressing and grooming challenging. And even if you think they look "good," they probably couldn't care less. Yes, my hair's back to long and blond-- do you think I particularly care if anyone likes it, when we're in front of a casket? Noooooo. And do not comment on the deceased's appearance at all, with the possible exception of how peaceful they may look. So many people fed me crap about my brother looking good-- which was total bull because it was obvious he was swollen and beaten up, with heavy makeup necessary, and lying about it just drew more attention to the obvious.
2. Do not discuss politics or religion. I'm more intimately aware than the average bear about what's going on in politics, but I don't really want to hear a political debate in front of a casket. And do not offer platitudes about how "God has a plan" or that the deceased is an angel/ is with the angels or similar such sentiments unless you are absolutely certain that the bereaved would find such sentiments comforting. For example, I consider myself a marginal verging on lapsed, extremely liberal eastern rite Catholic and I find none of those sentiments comforting in the least. I also have 13 years of Catholic education, and I will smack down your misinterpretation of doctrine regarding angels if you annoy me enough.
3. Do not tell the bereaved what they need to do unless they actually need to do it. Yes, get them something to eat/ drink, to sit down or to sleep. But don't tell them to call-- you call them. Don't tell them to email-- you email them. Don't tell them to visit-- you call or email and invite them. Why? Because the phone works both ways, email works both ways, and you're an insensitive berk if you don't realize that lots of people say nice things they don't mean and make promises they don't intend to ever keep, so how should the bereaved know which is sincere and which isn't?
3.a. As a corollary to 3, do not lecture the bereaved for not doing something that you think is important unless a) it actually is important and b) you're not a huge hypocrite about it. And even then, don't lecture. You're probably not a professor, and even if you are? It's not class time. I may also be a little irritated that my grandfather lectured me about not calling when he's never inquired after my or my parents' well-being after losing my brother and only offered the scantest words at the time. It was only for the sake of keeping peace that I didn't snap back that I only returned all of his calls while I've been wrestling with the crippling depression that came with losing my brother. Oh wait, that's right. No calls to return. I can count the calls from anyone outside my parents and closer friends on one hand.
4. Do not make promises you won't actually keep. It makes it difficult for the bereaved to figure out who they can really trust and rely on when the shock wears off and the actual, long-lasting mourning begins.
Finally, a "do":
5. Do shut up and just be there. Talk is cheap, unless it's at 2am and you're willing to talk to someone suffering through grief-wracked insomnia. Hugs, alcohol, and ice cream are even better.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
crisped critter
Dear blog,
Long time, no write. What can I say, it's turning into a hectic summer. Which probably isn't the worst thing in the world, because that means a little less time to ruminate and cry, but it's also not leaving me much time for myself. Or things like laundry and litterboxes.
The hollowness from losing my brother is cementing itself pretty well in place. It's just this massive brother-shaped gap that I'm learning to manage around. It's like I've lost a limb, but there won't ever be a prosthetic that can help me manage. I experience this moment of sinking disappointment every time I arrive at my parents' house and know he's not there, and not just because he's out running errands. And I cry with guilt every time I drive back to Baltimore because I'm leaving my parents alone. But... nobody really cares about that anymore. The rest of the world has moved on and spares little time or thoughts or sympathy for those of us still in mourning. So there's little point in sharing the grief-- nobody's asking or listening anyway.
In my misguided attempt to give myself something to swim FOR, I registered for PurpleSwim Baltimore, an open water swim in the Bay. It's... a little sooner than I'd like, especially because I'm nowhere near my best swimming shape. And I managed to thoroughly burn my back this weekend when I went out to the bay to spend some time in the open water-- despite liberally applying SPF 30 water resistant sunblock multiple times. So my back is an angry shade of magenta bordering on fuchsia, noticeably swollen, and unspeakably painful. Even my limbs are slightly swollen. I've used most of a 12oz bottle of aloe gel in the past 48 hours, on top of cold compresses, ibuprofen, and giving vinegar the old college try-- to minimal avail. I sucked it up and got a bathing suit on tonight (no such luck yesterday), but moving my arms in the water caused too much pain. So... now I'm in danger of falling behind on training thanks to sunblock failure. I did order a rashguard today to minimize this issue in the future, but still. OW. STUPID STUPID STUPID.
Sigh. Let's see if the NFL can give me some good news... oh wait. DAMMIT, HINES. DAMMIT, OWNERS.
Sorry, blog-- mamma's going to have to cut this little reunion short get herself a drink. It's just one of them summer.
Long time, no write. What can I say, it's turning into a hectic summer. Which probably isn't the worst thing in the world, because that means a little less time to ruminate and cry, but it's also not leaving me much time for myself. Or things like laundry and litterboxes.
The hollowness from losing my brother is cementing itself pretty well in place. It's just this massive brother-shaped gap that I'm learning to manage around. It's like I've lost a limb, but there won't ever be a prosthetic that can help me manage. I experience this moment of sinking disappointment every time I arrive at my parents' house and know he's not there, and not just because he's out running errands. And I cry with guilt every time I drive back to Baltimore because I'm leaving my parents alone. But... nobody really cares about that anymore. The rest of the world has moved on and spares little time or thoughts or sympathy for those of us still in mourning. So there's little point in sharing the grief-- nobody's asking or listening anyway.
In my misguided attempt to give myself something to swim FOR, I registered for PurpleSwim Baltimore, an open water swim in the Bay. It's... a little sooner than I'd like, especially because I'm nowhere near my best swimming shape. And I managed to thoroughly burn my back this weekend when I went out to the bay to spend some time in the open water-- despite liberally applying SPF 30 water resistant sunblock multiple times. So my back is an angry shade of magenta bordering on fuchsia, noticeably swollen, and unspeakably painful. Even my limbs are slightly swollen. I've used most of a 12oz bottle of aloe gel in the past 48 hours, on top of cold compresses, ibuprofen, and giving vinegar the old college try-- to minimal avail. I sucked it up and got a bathing suit on tonight (no such luck yesterday), but moving my arms in the water caused too much pain. So... now I'm in danger of falling behind on training thanks to sunblock failure. I did order a rashguard today to minimize this issue in the future, but still. OW. STUPID STUPID STUPID.
Sigh. Let's see if the NFL can give me some good news... oh wait. DAMMIT, HINES. DAMMIT, OWNERS.
Sorry, blog-- mamma's going to have to cut this little reunion short get herself a drink. It's just one of them summer.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The sun's setting early on the longest day of the year thanks to the coming storm. Rain. Shower? It'll probably peter out before anything actually falls. It's weird. Among the things I miss most about Pittsburgh is the weather. Sure, transplants-- and natives-- bitch endlessly about the lack of sunny days, but I liked having a lower risk of skin cancer and I liked my landscapes green. In the almost-year since moving, most of the rain in the warmer months seems to be in the form of brief storms. Not sustained gentle rains of the type favored by farmers nor the sustained storming-all-night storms, just quick hits that usually bypass my humble abode thanks in part to the good old urban heat island effect. As a result, even with sprinklers the grass is already fairly yellowed.
Christ, how I dread holidays. Knowing that it's going to suck and trying to make it suck less is a setting myself up for disappointment, but I can't not do that. Our first father's day without my brother went okay-- as long as we were busy. St Michaels was an adequate distraction. And being down that area just reminded me how much I want to live on the water with a nice little sailboat. Just a wee little sloop or catboat would be nice.
Christ, how I dread holidays. Knowing that it's going to suck and trying to make it suck less is a setting myself up for disappointment, but I can't not do that. Our first father's day without my brother went okay-- as long as we were busy. St Michaels was an adequate distraction. And being down that area just reminded me how much I want to live on the water with a nice little sailboat. Just a wee little sloop or catboat would be nice.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
hot and bothered
I know that Memorial day is the unofficial start of summer, but it's quite literally the day I cried uncle to Baltimore. Something about an extra hour of traffic, non-functional air conditioning, a 94 degree apartment and miserable felines, and watching my incredibly straight (the straightest caucasian hair around) hair downright curl that just caused a SNAP! kind of moment. But it's okay now. Mostly. The air is more or less functioning now, making for two very relieved beasties. My hair's still curling in an unlovely frizzy way, which is a rather unpleasant novelty. But. Hello summer. Guess you're here to hag out until about October. Try to not make a mess.
In other news, meh. Still working through that stealthy second-third wave of major grief. It's, well, rough. The rest of the world has moved on, but I'm sort of stuck in the horse latitudes of loss. My bad poetry writing high school self would slap my current self silly for such a crappy metaphor, but if the shoe fits..
It's weird. I intellectually understand that this is going to be the worst year, because every. single. holiday. is the first and rawest experience without my brother or grandmother. Not just holidays, but everything-- first summer, and no Nick to help grill. First Steelers game, and no Grandma to opine on what a bunch of lazy bums they are. And I know that there is not a single damn thing that can be done to mitigate this. But knowing is in some ways worse, because it adds the feeling of helplessness as well as grief.
God, I miss them both.
In other news, meh. Still working through that stealthy second-third wave of major grief. It's, well, rough. The rest of the world has moved on, but I'm sort of stuck in the horse latitudes of loss. My bad poetry writing high school self would slap my current self silly for such a crappy metaphor, but if the shoe fits..
It's weird. I intellectually understand that this is going to be the worst year, because every. single. holiday. is the first and rawest experience without my brother or grandmother. Not just holidays, but everything-- first summer, and no Nick to help grill. First Steelers game, and no Grandma to opine on what a bunch of lazy bums they are. And I know that there is not a single damn thing that can be done to mitigate this. But knowing is in some ways worse, because it adds the feeling of helplessness as well as grief.
God, I miss them both.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
stll here. ish.
Long time, no blog. What can I say? I've been trying to reclaim something that resembles a life (between spending most weekends on the road), but my efforts all ring false and hollow. My poor cats are none too thrilled that I spend relatively little time at home, and what time I do spend here is spent actively engaged in some distraction or sobbing in a fetal position. I exaggerate for dramatic effect, but sadly not by too much.
I seem to be experiencing a second round of major grief. I'm not really sure why-- it's true that my brother's profile is now "In Memoriam" on the Blood Bank's website, which caused a nontrivial amount of sobbing. But the second wave, as it were, started prior to that. Which hasn't helped when I do something like drive past the Bowie Baysox's home field, because then I remember driving in a huge circle the first time I drove past just so I could check out the stadium and get a picture of the sign to send to my brother-- and how I planned to take him to see our Curve play down here this summer (the Baysox are at the Curve this coming week, coincidentally). Got to love those suckerpunches.
I seem to be experiencing a second round of major grief. I'm not really sure why-- it's true that my brother's profile is now "In Memoriam" on the Blood Bank's website, which caused a nontrivial amount of sobbing. But the second wave, as it were, started prior to that. Which hasn't helped when I do something like drive past the Bowie Baysox's home field, because then I remember driving in a huge circle the first time I drove past just so I could check out the stadium and get a picture of the sign to send to my brother-- and how I planned to take him to see our Curve play down here this summer (the Baysox are at the Curve this coming week, coincidentally). Got to love those suckerpunches.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
::insert clever blog post title here::
Oh Penguins, my Penguins. They did better than I thought they would, given how the season went. But still.
Wow. Almost 1/3 of the way through the year, and I'm frankly pressed to come up with anything good to say about 2011. Some well-meaning souls have noted that I'm doing so well. In actuality, I'm holding on by the tips of my raggedy fingernails, gritting my teeth to make it through each day and collapsing as soon as I'm safe, free and clear from having to interact with another human being. I feel this pressure to be OK with a capital-O capital-K, to make other people not uncomfortable and shield the true, ugly depth of my grief. Even when other people do mean it when they say that they're available for me, I just... I don't know. It's not anything with those folks (and you know who you are), it's just that I feel like I don't have the energy/ will/ spirit/ whatever to even be around other people being normal. I mean, I appreciate the gestures. I just don't know that I can do anything normal. Hell, even casual brunch with plenty of mimosas was overwhelming, as is going to the pool or trivia or anything I used to enjoy. It's like, it's such a deep, profoundly personal sense of loss that I feel like I'm isolated from almost every other person around. I know it's costing me a lot and I'll regret it someday, but right now? I can hardly handle the interaction required at the grocery store.
Hm. Let's think of something good. NFL draft? Well... kind of a little more concerned about whether there'll actually be a season. Er. I guess I can say that my sketchy neighbors are actually moving out. Yay? I don't know. Dear Rosemary is my new favorite song? Hm. Maybe I'll think of something later.
Wow. Almost 1/3 of the way through the year, and I'm frankly pressed to come up with anything good to say about 2011. Some well-meaning souls have noted that I'm doing so well. In actuality, I'm holding on by the tips of my raggedy fingernails, gritting my teeth to make it through each day and collapsing as soon as I'm safe, free and clear from having to interact with another human being. I feel this pressure to be OK with a capital-O capital-K, to make other people not uncomfortable and shield the true, ugly depth of my grief. Even when other people do mean it when they say that they're available for me, I just... I don't know. It's not anything with those folks (and you know who you are), it's just that I feel like I don't have the energy/ will/ spirit/ whatever to even be around other people being normal. I mean, I appreciate the gestures. I just don't know that I can do anything normal. Hell, even casual brunch with plenty of mimosas was overwhelming, as is going to the pool or trivia or anything I used to enjoy. It's like, it's such a deep, profoundly personal sense of loss that I feel like I'm isolated from almost every other person around. I know it's costing me a lot and I'll regret it someday, but right now? I can hardly handle the interaction required at the grocery store.
Hm. Let's think of something good. NFL draft? Well... kind of a little more concerned about whether there'll actually be a season. Er. I guess I can say that my sketchy neighbors are actually moving out. Yay? I don't know. Dear Rosemary is my new favorite song? Hm. Maybe I'll think of something later.
Monday, April 25, 2011
gimme some rope, I'm coming loose..
I've been listening to Wasting Light on repeat. I do love me some Foos. Wasting Light may not be a life-altering album, but it's solid and pretty much what I'd hoped for and not entirely unlike aural comfort food (even though it really makes me want to learn how to play guitar). The Letterman webcast? Pretty fricking amazing. Thank you guys for your most excellent timing with this release.
So. Easter kind of sucked. Which I guess was to be expected, but still. Bad. Very bad. I mean, once upon a time I couldn't wait until I could host holidays and try new things. But the circumstances that brought about my first hosted holiday? Kind of put a damper on that. To say the least. Plus I hardly got any sleep. And then we've secretly replaced our Pittsburgh Penguins with Folger's instant crystals, which really sucks given that I'm surrounded by Caps fans. So. Not the greatest weekend in the history of me. Let's see, what's positive right now? Hm. My super sketchy neighbors will be gone as of Saturday? And then I can feel reasonably confident coming and going after dark again? I guess that's something, as long as they don't trash the common areas any more than they already have or try to burn the building down on their way out. Oh, Baltimore. Your utter lack of buffer between acceptable risk and dangerously sketchy is oh so charming.
So. Easter kind of sucked. Which I guess was to be expected, but still. Bad. Very bad. I mean, once upon a time I couldn't wait until I could host holidays and try new things. But the circumstances that brought about my first hosted holiday? Kind of put a damper on that. To say the least. Plus I hardly got any sleep. And then we've secretly replaced our Pittsburgh Penguins with Folger's instant crystals, which really sucks given that I'm surrounded by Caps fans. So. Not the greatest weekend in the history of me. Let's see, what's positive right now? Hm. My super sketchy neighbors will be gone as of Saturday? And then I can feel reasonably confident coming and going after dark again? I guess that's something, as long as they don't trash the common areas any more than they already have or try to burn the building down on their way out. Oh, Baltimore. Your utter lack of buffer between acceptable risk and dangerously sketchy is oh so charming.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
give until it hurts
I started donating blood regularly because of my brother. I teased him almost every time I donated telling him that I was paying the blood bank back for all of his withdrawals. Plus it never hurt to boost the supply in our shared type, however temporarily, just in case. But today was the first time I've donated in memory of my brother instead of because of my brother.
Not an opportune thought to have while in the donor chair.
This is definitely going to be the worst calendar year ever. Everything is a first time without my brother. His birthday was pretty awful, but there's the first Easter, Mother's day, Father's day parents' birthdays, my birthday, trip to the Outer Banks, picnics, Halloween (and his pumpkin carvings of dubious taste), Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Steelers games, races, Curve game... EVERY last thing is going to be a slap in the face painful reminder that he's missing.
Not an opportune thought to have while in the donor chair.
This is definitely going to be the worst calendar year ever. Everything is a first time without my brother. His birthday was pretty awful, but there's the first Easter, Mother's day, Father's day parents' birthdays, my birthday, trip to the Outer Banks, picnics, Halloween (and his pumpkin carvings of dubious taste), Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Steelers games, races, Curve game... EVERY last thing is going to be a slap in the face painful reminder that he's missing.
Yup. Definitely not the best day I've ever had.
Well Nick, neither the Bucs nor the Yanks could pull it off today. And the Curve game was postponed (they're having an Al Tuna bobblehead giveaway on July 8th-- I think I have to go after missing the St. Francis bobblehead last season). I'm sorry they all played crappy baseball (or no baseball) for your birthday.
Happy birthday, Nick. Wherever you are.
Happy birthday, Nick. Wherever you are.
Monday, April 18, 2011
splat.
Tomorrow should have been my brother's 29th birthday. I'm kind of prepared for it to not exactly be the best day I've ever had. Not that knowing makes it any easier. I can't not think that I should have booked a room in NY so we can go to a Yankees game. Or how much he'd love all of the crap going on for the Civil War sesquicentennial, all around me. I have those thoughts that I need to do something or tell him something, and then I catch myself, and then bye bye composure. I cannot begin to tell you how much I am not looking forward to Christmas this year.
I planned to head to Pittsburgh this past weekend and hit a wall. Metaphorically, luckily, though my car is still acting up. I've been skating up against my limits and hit them, dead on. I'm kind of burned out. And it sucks. And I feel horrendously guilty. And.. I think what also bugs about it is how many people told me/ keep telling me to stay strong for my parents. Which is great and all, but who's staying strong for me? They have each other at least, while I'm hundreds of miles away from them and any real friends (yes, there's a handful of friendly type people and a guy or two I've seen/ am nominally seeing, but it's not the same). And I've put just about two thousand miles on my car in the past month. So, yes, I'm trying to be the good daughter and help to ease my parents' burden, but.. at what point do I get to share or even put down my own burden for a while?
I may come across as a little bitter, but to be honest? I'm not sure how concerned about that I am at the moment. I think it's just one too many tone deaf individuals that seem to expect me to magically be Over It By Now. Like, because the loss of a sibling is lesser than the loss of a child, parent, or spouse, I should be more okay. I especially liked the one person who, in response to my description of my day as "rough," empathized with a "rough" day that involved taking a car to a garage. Yep. Dealing with a mechanic is totally on the same level as dealing with the loss of two very close family members. Of course. This is kind of why I find FatCat to be far more effective at providing comfort than 99.9% of supposedly sentient, self-aware humans.
I planned to head to Pittsburgh this past weekend and hit a wall. Metaphorically, luckily, though my car is still acting up. I've been skating up against my limits and hit them, dead on. I'm kind of burned out. And it sucks. And I feel horrendously guilty. And.. I think what also bugs about it is how many people told me/ keep telling me to stay strong for my parents. Which is great and all, but who's staying strong for me? They have each other at least, while I'm hundreds of miles away from them and any real friends (yes, there's a handful of friendly type people and a guy or two I've seen/ am nominally seeing, but it's not the same). And I've put just about two thousand miles on my car in the past month. So, yes, I'm trying to be the good daughter and help to ease my parents' burden, but.. at what point do I get to share or even put down my own burden for a while?
I may come across as a little bitter, but to be honest? I'm not sure how concerned about that I am at the moment. I think it's just one too many tone deaf individuals that seem to expect me to magically be Over It By Now. Like, because the loss of a sibling is lesser than the loss of a child, parent, or spouse, I should be more okay. I especially liked the one person who, in response to my description of my day as "rough," empathized with a "rough" day that involved taking a car to a garage. Yep. Dealing with a mechanic is totally on the same level as dealing with the loss of two very close family members. Of course. This is kind of why I find FatCat to be far more effective at providing comfort than 99.9% of supposedly sentient, self-aware humans.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Wicked insomnia tonight despite the precautionary measures I took. Unfortunately, it's too late to do much else. I'm screwed.
It's partly my own fault. I feel guilty for neglecting my apartment and plants and my poor, poor freaked out cats. I feel guilty not being physically present for my parents. And in my guilt-induced insomnia, I played with my phone and tried to clean up my texts. First I accidentally resent old drafts to people I really don't want to talk to. Then I looked at my inbox and the messages from my brother. I deleted so many of his because he'd spam me with crap, and I really can't tell you how bitterly I regret that now. And then I got to the other texts. The ones from mom, from waiting in the ER, and then the ICU, and just... things getting worse and worse. And how I stupidly thought it was a replay of the last time, that it was scary as hell but ultimately it was going to be OK.
And it wasn't.
Incapable of talking and feeling so very, very alone, I texted just about every number I have, regardless of relationship. I feel kind of bad about that, because I definitely texted people I normally wouldn't share something personal with. I guess it was an automatic reaction, someone please do something, tell me it's going to be alright, let me please make a fool out of myself, utterly humiliate myself by overreacting to a nightmare, just please let this not be true.
I imagine this is the emotional equivalent of a traumatic amputation. The immediate blinding pain of loss followed by the long drawn out healing process replete with phantom pain and maddening itch and all manner of complications. And then Grandma, which was like chopping off a little more. If it's not belaboring the metaphor, I suppose that tonight I ripped open my stitches. God, it hurts. Come Saturday, it'll be a month. I guess that's right, but I've frankly lost just about all perception of the passage of time. I mean, my brother? Cannot be gone an entire month. It's just not possible. Come a week from tomorrow, it'll be what should have been my brother's 29th birthday. I should be trying to buy him Yankees tickets. I should be planning when I'm going to make nut and poppyseed rolls for Easter (no raisins for Grandma).
It's just all wrong, and it is never going to be right ever again.
It's partly my own fault. I feel guilty for neglecting my apartment and plants and my poor, poor freaked out cats. I feel guilty not being physically present for my parents. And in my guilt-induced insomnia, I played with my phone and tried to clean up my texts. First I accidentally resent old drafts to people I really don't want to talk to. Then I looked at my inbox and the messages from my brother. I deleted so many of his because he'd spam me with crap, and I really can't tell you how bitterly I regret that now. And then I got to the other texts. The ones from mom, from waiting in the ER, and then the ICU, and just... things getting worse and worse. And how I stupidly thought it was a replay of the last time, that it was scary as hell but ultimately it was going to be OK.
And it wasn't.
Incapable of talking and feeling so very, very alone, I texted just about every number I have, regardless of relationship. I feel kind of bad about that, because I definitely texted people I normally wouldn't share something personal with. I guess it was an automatic reaction, someone please do something, tell me it's going to be alright, let me please make a fool out of myself, utterly humiliate myself by overreacting to a nightmare, just please let this not be true.
I imagine this is the emotional equivalent of a traumatic amputation. The immediate blinding pain of loss followed by the long drawn out healing process replete with phantom pain and maddening itch and all manner of complications. And then Grandma, which was like chopping off a little more. If it's not belaboring the metaphor, I suppose that tonight I ripped open my stitches. God, it hurts. Come Saturday, it'll be a month. I guess that's right, but I've frankly lost just about all perception of the passage of time. I mean, my brother? Cannot be gone an entire month. It's just not possible. Come a week from tomorrow, it'll be what should have been my brother's 29th birthday. I should be trying to buy him Yankees tickets. I should be planning when I'm going to make nut and poppyseed rolls for Easter (no raisins for Grandma).
It's just all wrong, and it is never going to be right ever again.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
gimme, gimme shelter, or I'm gonna fade away
My brother & I disagreed vehemently about music at times, but the intersection of our musical tastes included a shared intolerance for all Bruce Springsteen and Rush and appreciation of the Who, Rolling Stones, Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson, Hendrix, the Doors, Pink Floyd, and others. Of course, we rarely could agree on what we were in the mood for at any one given time when in the car together, so we usually compromised with Rob Zombie and/ or some Stones.
I listened to his 'DVE morning show CDs plus Hellbilly Deluxe and 40 Licks on the way back to Baltimore, wishing I could have one more argument where we each pronounced the other's taste in music pure shit.
I listened to his 'DVE morning show CDs plus Hellbilly Deluxe and 40 Licks on the way back to Baltimore, wishing I could have one more argument where we each pronounced the other's taste in music pure shit.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Hm. My sense of sarcasm is starting to return. A little? I guess that's... good? Sort of? I think that it's because anger is an easier emotional transition. I don't know. My sense of humor is still decidedly missing. I kind of don't want it to be back though, because in a weird way I don't want to feel normal again, because there is nothing that will ever be normal again and, if things become "normal" again it means that my brother is consigned to the past. And that is just opening another world of pain.
Bizarre sign that I miss my brother of the day: I actually left Ken Burns's Civil War on for a while tonight. It's just soooooo painfully boring to me, but I actually watched it for an hour and imagined Nick nitpicking the shit out of it. Sure beats the email from the blood bank asking my opinion about how to best handle Nick's image in their advertising campaign. That one left me a sobby mess in the restroom at work for a while-- on top of dropping the freshly baked coffee cake on my kitchen floor, should pretty much illustrate what a crappy morning it was. Sadly, it didn't get much better from there and then my plans got canceled on me. On the plus side? A quiet evening at home with FatCat and a good book is about the best way my evening could have turned out.
Monday, April 4, 2011
My feeling of suffocation in the vacuum of loss isn't completely metaphorical. Apparently I'm having a common reaction to grief and breathing a little too shallowly. Good to know, I guess. I mean, I'm incapable of sleeping properly or holding a pen (shaky hands), so why should I assume that I'd be able to breathe properly?
I indulged in a few things from Amazon (some people are slaves to iTunes, but I'm addicted to Amazon) in the name of self-soothing-- one of which being Hellboy II. Way overdue in my paltry DVD collection. I took Nick to see it when we were both in post-breakup funks. He was skeptical at first, but Hellboy is awesome and Ron Perlman is awesome, and this scene is pretty damn awesome (crappy quality, but they're ridiculous about policing YouTube). He had a good time. So I'm watching it now on my laptop while Gone with the Wind is on TV (I can't not leave it on-- like any of the LotR series or the original SW trilogy), and I kind of wish I had a cold Tecate in hand because it's still 83 degrees in my apartment. Nick would understand. I know. I'm rambling. But it's my blog (even though the only time most anyone sees it is when it autoimports to FB), so I think it's allowed.
So. How many more months until I find something approximating normal?
I indulged in a few things from Amazon (some people are slaves to iTunes, but I'm addicted to Amazon) in the name of self-soothing-- one of which being Hellboy II. Way overdue in my paltry DVD collection. I took Nick to see it when we were both in post-breakup funks. He was skeptical at first, but Hellboy is awesome and Ron Perlman is awesome, and this scene is pretty damn awesome (crappy quality, but they're ridiculous about policing YouTube). He had a good time. So I'm watching it now on my laptop while Gone with the Wind is on TV (I can't not leave it on-- like any of the LotR series or the original SW trilogy), and I kind of wish I had a cold Tecate in hand because it's still 83 degrees in my apartment. Nick would understand. I know. I'm rambling. But it's my blog (even though the only time most anyone sees it is when it autoimports to FB), so I think it's allowed.
So. How many more months until I find something approximating normal?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Opening day. Lots of pain. And not just the kind from Nutting-induced indigestion.
My brother was a baseball savant. I mean, it was kind of creepy at times. And how someone can be BOTH a Pirates and a Yankees fan, well. I take full responsibility for the Yankees thing (an unintentional consequence of a souvenir), but the Pirates thing? Well, you could call it quixotic. And hilarious. Even though I've boycotted the Bucs for 12 years now (okay, except for getting to see a game from an unused luxury box donated to charity-- and that was thanks to my brother), I still would follow their short-lived initial success with bemusement and tease my brother about the inevitable meltdown every season. I caught myself starting to post said trash talk on his FB wall following the win today when I was reminded that, oh yes, he's not there to read it anymore.
Well, shit.
Likewise, my questions about what he thinks of the Curve's championship ring have to go unasked and unanswered (I know he was skeptical of the new logos, though would probably have bought the merchandise), and we will not be seeing the Curve play the Baysox in Bowie or Altoona as planned this summer (if it were in Altoona, we could have gotten Al Tuna bobbleheads! I love Al Tuna!). Or ever. Which really hurts. It's one of those many, many things (like hiking the Milford Track) that I planned to do with my brother in a future that was starting to become a little more solid instead of just a "someday" notion. His birthday should have been in less than three weeks. I was going to take him to New York again so he could see another home Yankees game and climb the Statue of Liberty to the crown. There was just so much I wanted to do with him that I'll never get to do. Or do for him. I owed him banana bread, for crying out loud. Now I'm not sure that I can ever bake banana bread again. I can't even hear any talk of baseball without crumbling. It's non-stop O's talk around here (lack of their own hockey team does that, I suppose), and all I can think about was when he insisted that we HAD to go see the O's on the single. hottest. day. of. the. year. But he did make me proud that day:
My brother was a baseball savant. I mean, it was kind of creepy at times. And how someone can be BOTH a Pirates and a Yankees fan, well. I take full responsibility for the Yankees thing (an unintentional consequence of a souvenir), but the Pirates thing? Well, you could call it quixotic. And hilarious. Even though I've boycotted the Bucs for 12 years now (okay, except for getting to see a game from an unused luxury box donated to charity-- and that was thanks to my brother), I still would follow their short-lived initial success with bemusement and tease my brother about the inevitable meltdown every season. I caught myself starting to post said trash talk on his FB wall following the win today when I was reminded that, oh yes, he's not there to read it anymore.
Well, shit.
Likewise, my questions about what he thinks of the Curve's championship ring have to go unasked and unanswered (I know he was skeptical of the new logos, though would probably have bought the merchandise), and we will not be seeing the Curve play the Baysox in Bowie or Altoona as planned this summer (if it were in Altoona, we could have gotten Al Tuna bobbleheads! I love Al Tuna!). Or ever. Which really hurts. It's one of those many, many things (like hiking the Milford Track) that I planned to do with my brother in a future that was starting to become a little more solid instead of just a "someday" notion. His birthday should have been in less than three weeks. I was going to take him to New York again so he could see another home Yankees game and climb the Statue of Liberty to the crown. There was just so much I wanted to do with him that I'll never get to do. Or do for him. I owed him banana bread, for crying out loud. Now I'm not sure that I can ever bake banana bread again. I can't even hear any talk of baseball without crumbling. It's non-stop O's talk around here (lack of their own hockey team does that, I suppose), and all I can think about was when he insisted that we HAD to go see the O's on the single. hottest. day. of. the. year. But he did make me proud that day:
Thursday, March 31, 2011
home again
I drove home (funny calling Baltimore "home") last night in truly terrible weather, forced myself to go to work this morning, and got treated to a check engine light coming on as I pulled into the lot for my pains. Loverly. But. I'm home, and it's nice to sleep in my bed again and shower in my own shower. In the last two weeks, I've only spent three nights in my own bed. No wonder the brats are ready to kill me. And my poor, poor plants. Oof.
I honestly feel like about 20 years have passed in the last two weeks. I don't know what to do with myself. I used to talk to my brother every day and think about what to bake/ make for Grandma for Easter. Now I can't go an hour without something reminding me of them and then here come the tears. I feel like a huge vacuum has been created in my life, and now I'm suffocating from loss.
It's funny-- I got a sympathy card in the mail from the folks at my old job (thanks, guys!). It's the exact same card my new coworkers bought. It's a really nice card, just a funny coincidence. The vast majority of people have been understanding and kind, though there have been a few that have kind of just checked out. Or seem to be avoiding me. Or have been kind of rude. I don't know, it's kind of good in a weird way because I'm hurt and even a little angry, and that's at least not just loss.
I honestly feel like about 20 years have passed in the last two weeks. I don't know what to do with myself. I used to talk to my brother every day and think about what to bake/ make for Grandma for Easter. Now I can't go an hour without something reminding me of them and then here come the tears. I feel like a huge vacuum has been created in my life, and now I'm suffocating from loss.
It's funny-- I got a sympathy card in the mail from the folks at my old job (thanks, guys!). It's the exact same card my new coworkers bought. It's a really nice card, just a funny coincidence. The vast majority of people have been understanding and kind, though there have been a few that have kind of just checked out. Or seem to be avoiding me. Or have been kind of rude. I don't know, it's kind of good in a weird way because I'm hurt and even a little angry, and that's at least not just loss.
Monday, March 28, 2011
I'm really beginning to hate funeral homes and obituaries and flowers and all of the accoutrements of death.
Because March clearly hasn't been bad enough yet, my grandmother passed away this morning following several days in a palliative care/ hospice type ward. Friday morning I was told they didn't think she'd make it through the night. So I left work, grabbed a suitcase still half filled with laundry from my immediately previous visit, drove to my parents' rural-ish eastern Pittsburgh suburb with two cats meowing piteously in the back while praying to my new personal patron saint of speed trap spotting (a.k.a. my brother) to intercede for me, dropped my cats with their country cousins, and then zoomed off to Akron while alternately praying that I avoided tickets and that I'd make it in time to say goodbye. Grandma was stubborn and tenacious to the end, which is why I'm just writing this now and not this past Saturday night. Maybe she didn't want to leave us so soon after losing my brother. I do know that Grandma probably would have appreciated having so much of her family there for her towards the end, and that few people will ever be so fortunate as to love and be loved as much as she. What I don't know (among many things) is how one is supposed to cope with so much devastating loss in such a short period of time.
Because March clearly hasn't been bad enough yet, my grandmother passed away this morning following several days in a palliative care/ hospice type ward. Friday morning I was told they didn't think she'd make it through the night. So I left work, grabbed a suitcase still half filled with laundry from my immediately previous visit, drove to my parents' rural-ish eastern Pittsburgh suburb with two cats meowing piteously in the back while praying to my new personal patron saint of speed trap spotting (a.k.a. my brother) to intercede for me, dropped my cats with their country cousins, and then zoomed off to Akron while alternately praying that I avoided tickets and that I'd make it in time to say goodbye. Grandma was stubborn and tenacious to the end, which is why I'm just writing this now and not this past Saturday night. Maybe she didn't want to leave us so soon after losing my brother. I do know that Grandma probably would have appreciated having so much of her family there for her towards the end, and that few people will ever be so fortunate as to love and be loved as much as she. What I don't know (among many things) is how one is supposed to cope with so much devastating loss in such a short period of time.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Cleaning my brother's watch tonight. It's taken a third of a bottle of rubbing alcohol and scores of q-tips and cotton balls to clean away the grime of working with his hands. Now it gleams, cleaner than it's been since it was new-- though etched and pitted and scratched and dinged.
I looked on my brother's face for the last time on Saturday. I never knew the last time I'd see him alive would be when he left my apartment a few weeks ago, or the last I'd hear his voice would be when we spoke for just a few minutes the night before he died, him so tired and feeling so out of it when normally the guy'd talk the hind leg off a donkey about utter minutia. And I say that meaning that it was comforting. Either he or I could be bored or just killing time and call and bullshit about nothing. Or if the sketchy people downstairs had "guests," I could call and talk to him until I was safely locked in my place. Sure, it was probably nothing more than a placebo. But it made me feel that much safer knowing that my not-so-little little brother had my back as much as one can from a few hundred miles away.
I returned to work today for the first time in a week, feeling like both no time and an eternity have passed. And really, both have. From when I left work last Wednesday, less than a full week of days had passed, only four work days. And in that same scant time the landscape of my life has been forever altered, my family irreparably damaged. The world carries on, of course. The sun rises, and I hate it for that. It means another day without my brother is dawning. People go about their business, and I hate them for it. The rock tossed into the streams of their lives caused a few eddies that are now fading away. The process of trying to discern who really meant it when they said to call "anytime" has begun. I know that the patience and understanding on the part of others will not last forever, but I don't know what I need or want aside from my brother back. I'm learning all kinds of lessons I never really wanted to, like how losing a sibling is an afterthought in the grief and loss counseling biz, far behind the loss of a child or parent or pet or spouse or grandparent or friend. The crying has lessened somewhat, but is more prone to explode at inopportune moments (like when putting next month's blood drive on my work calendar-- it's the day after what should have been my brother's 29th birthday). I'm impatient to figure out what is going to pass for normal now, but I don't want this whole situation to ever become normal. I feel guilty for laughing, for eating, for driving, for living, but I can't stop living. Can I? Should I? I don't know anything anymore, except this fantastic, exquisite sense of loss. And I do know that I've been cruising, drifting for the past few days and getting by because the sense of shock has dulled things enough for me to be able to function. And I know that I fear reality setting in and my protective bubble of shock is dispersing. What then?
I looked on my brother's face for the last time on Saturday. I never knew the last time I'd see him alive would be when he left my apartment a few weeks ago, or the last I'd hear his voice would be when we spoke for just a few minutes the night before he died, him so tired and feeling so out of it when normally the guy'd talk the hind leg off a donkey about utter minutia. And I say that meaning that it was comforting. Either he or I could be bored or just killing time and call and bullshit about nothing. Or if the sketchy people downstairs had "guests," I could call and talk to him until I was safely locked in my place. Sure, it was probably nothing more than a placebo. But it made me feel that much safer knowing that my not-so-little little brother had my back as much as one can from a few hundred miles away.
I returned to work today for the first time in a week, feeling like both no time and an eternity have passed. And really, both have. From when I left work last Wednesday, less than a full week of days had passed, only four work days. And in that same scant time the landscape of my life has been forever altered, my family irreparably damaged. The world carries on, of course. The sun rises, and I hate it for that. It means another day without my brother is dawning. People go about their business, and I hate them for it. The rock tossed into the streams of their lives caused a few eddies that are now fading away. The process of trying to discern who really meant it when they said to call "anytime" has begun. I know that the patience and understanding on the part of others will not last forever, but I don't know what I need or want aside from my brother back. I'm learning all kinds of lessons I never really wanted to, like how losing a sibling is an afterthought in the grief and loss counseling biz, far behind the loss of a child or parent or pet or spouse or grandparent or friend. The crying has lessened somewhat, but is more prone to explode at inopportune moments (like when putting next month's blood drive on my work calendar-- it's the day after what should have been my brother's 29th birthday). I'm impatient to figure out what is going to pass for normal now, but I don't want this whole situation to ever become normal. I feel guilty for laughing, for eating, for driving, for living, but I can't stop living. Can I? Should I? I don't know anything anymore, except this fantastic, exquisite sense of loss. And I do know that I've been cruising, drifting for the past few days and getting by because the sense of shock has dulled things enough for me to be able to function. And I know that I fear reality setting in and my protective bubble of shock is dispersing. What then?
Thursday, March 17, 2011
I lost my brother today. My little brother. My little brother, my oldest friend, among my truest friends despite our propensity for bickering over the absolute stupidest, most trivial shit imaginable. I keep praying that this is some sort of fantastic nightmare brought on by deep psychosis. I'm thoroughly drunk as I type, so it's not outside the realm of possibility.
This isn't supposed to happen. He's the one that's supposed to be spare parts for me (since he's younger and all), the one that's actually going to settle down and marry a nice girl and give my parents all the grandchildren they want (so that the pressure's off me), the dude who has gamely offered to beat up every guy who's ever broken my heart despite his personal feelings, the guy who helps me change my oil and is my culinary guinea pig, to whom I still owe banana bread. The guy who picked up a 40lb bag of manure and accidentally sprayed it in a perfect arch over my feet. Who cried on Santa's lap as kid, made a scene waving at us from the altar the first time he served as an altar boy, adored his cats and dogs, gave me shit nonstop about the Steelers and Pens, took shit nonstop about Brett Favre and the Pirates. The guy who's at the heart of my best stories, like when he was run over by the Pirate Parrot on a quad.
I miss my brother.
This isn't supposed to happen. He's the one that's supposed to be spare parts for me (since he's younger and all), the one that's actually going to settle down and marry a nice girl and give my parents all the grandchildren they want (so that the pressure's off me), the dude who has gamely offered to beat up every guy who's ever broken my heart despite his personal feelings, the guy who helps me change my oil and is my culinary guinea pig, to whom I still owe banana bread. The guy who picked up a 40lb bag of manure and accidentally sprayed it in a perfect arch over my feet. Who cried on Santa's lap as kid, made a scene waving at us from the altar the first time he served as an altar boy, adored his cats and dogs, gave me shit nonstop about the Steelers and Pens, took shit nonstop about Brett Favre and the Pirates. The guy who's at the heart of my best stories, like when he was run over by the Pirate Parrot on a quad.
I miss my brother.
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