six years

Six years, as of yesterday.  Six years.  It feels a moment and a lifetime.  A fresh, angry, gaping wound and a dull, ever-fading scar.  I didn't really mark the day yesterday.  I acknowledged it briefly and then I tamped it down, powered through and pretended it wasn't happening.  I survived the day.  It is an ugly, ugly day and it is just a day like any other.  As I'm sure I've said in past years, my little brother is just as dead today as he was yesterday.  The anniversary technically makes the number of years he's been gone continue to tally up, but it's arbitrary, really.

And you know what?  I was fine yesterday.  By evening, I felt I'd been bottling up the feelings of the day, and I was afraid I wouldn't fall asleep easily.  I knew if I didn't settle to sleep, the flood gates would open and I'd probably end up crying late into the night.  I did, though.  I fell asleep and I slept fairly well.  For the first time since Greg died, I marked the anniversary without falling apart AND without feeling guilty about not falling apart.  Being okay doesn't mean I miss him any less.  It doesn't mean I am less sad or less hurt.  It doesn't mean I won't still have bad days, sad days - I definitely do - but it does mean I'm healing.  It means I am making my active, conscious decision, every single day, to live life and to move forward.

scene: kitchen table, lunch time, a couple weeks ago

Emmett is eating pasta, begging for more parmesan cheese to be added to the bowl between every bite.

Mama: "Emmett, don't you think that's enough cheese?"

Emmett: "No. I need more cheese! I need it."

Mama: "You're just like your Uncle Greg; he used to eat lots and lots of cheese on his pasta, too."

Emmett: "Where is Uncle Greg?  Where is Uncle Greg's cheese?"

until it happens to someone you love

Written for an English assignment in high school, what follows is a guest post from my cousin's son Zachary.  He was asked to write about something that changed his life, and he chose to write about my brother. 

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Picture a small, cozy clearing ringed with towering, ancient pine and maple trees.  In the center naturally fallen logs sit around a tall, blazing bonfire.  A gentle breeze slinks into the clearing bringing with it the heady scent of moist wood and whisking the fire’s smoke into the wide blue sky.  This same breeze also makes the trees rustle in a strange, almost other-worldly music.  Listen closely, and you may hear the forest’s heartbeat.  It is made up of the voices of birds twining together with the trees and squirrels in an orchestral imitation of glorious sound around you.  They sing of the simple joys of life.  This is where I believe my second cousin Gregory would visit often.

Gregory was a very likable guy with a great personality.  He lived for the outdoors spending every available second there.  Because of this he worked as a construction worker which provided opportunity to stay outdoors and work hard.  Even as a kid, I am told, he was very adventurous and would often be out skiing, hiking or kayaking (among many others) with his parents (my Great Aunt and Uncle) and his sister Amy.  He enjoyed fishing trips, and as a teen, joined not one, but two Outward Bound programs.  Anyone can see why I liked spending time with him. 

Unfortunately, Gregory was also addicted to drugs.  He had started with marijuana and by the time of his death, he was using heroin.  My Grandmother (his Aunt), speculates that Gregory’s adventurous spirit may have been what caused him to start in the first place.  He died at the age of 22, only 7 years older than I am now.  Right before he died he had been in the process of planning a hiking trip in the famous Appalachian Trail with his girlfriend Aggie.  At the time of his death in 2006, I was 10, soon to be 11 years old.  At this point I was still very much a kid, but I remember being told he had died, and feeling shocked.  He had actually gone to a rehab facility in Oklahoma from July, 2005 to January, 2006.  Unfortunately, when he came back his friends started him with drugs all over again.

Now that I am older I can feel the full effects of this grief and it still hurts to think about him.  Whenever my Grandparents held a party, Gregory would always set aside some time to go out in the yard to play with me.  Before any of this happened I never had a reason to think about drugs.  I knew what they were and what they do but, it was never really a concern of mine.  You never expect anyone you know to die from it.  Almost every night you hear a story about a drug addict dying on the street.  You automatically assume that they were a bad person, and you don’t give it another thought.  Until it happens to someone you love you don’t know what it is truly like.  Gregory wasn’t a bad or stupid person.  He was smart and got help but it didn’t stick.  Now when I hear about a dead drug addict I think about what their family must be feeling.  It is truly a horrible thing and no one should have to go through it. 

Looking back at what happened to Gregory has reinforced my resolution to never use drugs.  What happened to Gregory scares me.  I don’t ever want my life to end in such a way.  As a memorial of Gregory’s death his parents decided to set up a fund in his honor.  The fund benefits such organizations like the AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) and Outward Bound.  These organizations help young people gain a stronger understanding and appreciation of the outdoors which Gregory loved so much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

This essay is published exactly as Zachary wrote it, without edits from me.  A few facts in his writing are not exactly accurate as I know them and some points, of which I have a much different perspective, I would have addressed quite differently.  Having said that, the piece is honest, true and accurate to Zachary's knowledge and I think it captures a very special point of view.  Zachary, I thank you for the honor of allowing me to share this piece here.

Information on the memorial fund to which Zachary refers can be found here.

the things that can drag you back

As you may know, Amy Winehouse died on Saturday, and, though it hasn't been confirmed by toxicology yet, the public assumption is that she died from a drug overdose.  Her use of drugs was widely publicized and when her death was reported, several offhand comments popped up on my facebook news feed.  One person in particular, someone close and dear to me, posted a particularly dismissive comment about how unsurprising her death was.

Whenever a celebrity dies of a drug overdose, which has happened a few times since Greg died, there are inevitably these types of comments in the media and in general conversation.  I am in the habit of blocking out these discussions, as it brings forward some difficult feelings for me.  I know that these people used drugs of their own accord; in a way, they "brought it upon themselves," as is often said.  I also know that addiction and its struggles, in reality, are far more complicated than that.  These addicts - these people - they have families.  They have friends.  They have lives and issues and struggles and joys and sorrows.

Even if they are celebrities, this is true.  Even if the media has shown only one side of them.  Even if it's so easy to dismiss them as worthless addicts you've never met and won't think twice about. 

I force myself to block out these comments, because I am hyper-sensitive to this issue.  If I let it in, every single offhand comment about drugs, addicts and overdoses makes me question how people view my family.  My brother died of an overdose because he made some bad decisions, and because of addiction.  I am in no way denying that.  But that is just a small part of his story.  That is what happened to him, but that is not his story.  That is not his legacy.  That is only a small part of him. 

Amy Winehouse's family, right now, has to deal with the media (not just news, but blogs, magazines, social networks, tabloids, and countless other outlets) making assumptions about their daughter, their sister, their cousin, their friend.

I dealt with, and still deal with, enormous internal struggles regarding how to present my brother's memory.  I am not trying to make him a saint, because heaven knows he wasn't.  I am not trying to hide the fact that he died of a heroin overdose, because he did.  That's what happened.  I just don't want people to forget the rest of his story; I don't want the rest of it to be overshadowed by the way he died. 

When that facebook post popped up the other day, I closed facebook and ignored it.  But it ate away at me, dragging up all those fears that people just think of my brother as a druggie, and no wonder he died, oh well, tough break, life goes on.  It made me remember hearing through the grapevine that many high school classmates of mine - people I never called friends - were gossiping about Greg and digging for juicy details about his death.  It made me realize how incredibly painful that was, and on such a small scale.  Imagine being under that kind of offhand scrutiny in front of the general public?

I went back into facebook and told this person how I felt.  This person responded, we talked about it, and it ended with an apology and the post being taken down.  I explained that I know I am hyper-sensitive to the issue, and I wasn't trying to censor.  I just wanted another perspective included.  But as I said, this person is dear to me, and understood where I was coming from.

I've been secretly bothered by these types of comments from many different sources since Greg died - some related to him directly, but most of them not.  I don't know what made me confront it this time, but I'm glad I did.  It dragged out a lot of residual pain, hurt and fear but it was worth it.  It was therapeutic, in a way.  And I sincerely thank the facebook friend in question for listening to me and understanding. 

this cursed day

Today is a beautiful day outside.  The weather is perfect, and we spent a lovely morning at the park.  There was an Easter Egg Hunt for kids, a childrens theater performance and plenty of activities.  We poked through an antiques & junk store, bought a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette to go with dinner, and had lunch at the window table in a little bistro.  Now Emmett's napping and we are about to do some packing and planning for our big move coming up in less than a month.  A perfect day.

And yet, I am feeling hurt, miserable and angry.  I am feeling sad and sorry for myself.  I have been crying on and off since last night.  Because today, despite its perfect mask, is my most dreaded day.  I want it to be just another day, because it IS just another day, but it also isn't.  It marks another year without Greg.  It symbolizes time rushing by, so much of my life adding up and going by without him here.  It's another tally mark on the number of years since he died, putting more and more time between now and the last time I saw his precious face. 

I feel so empty and lonely today.  I can't make a decision as simple as what to do next, and I feel like my head isn't quite attached properly to my body.  I miss my brother so much that it's physically painful, like my body is being torn apart.  I hurt today, more than I have in some time.  I let my guard down, allowed myself to relive that hideous, obscene night, allowed the tears to fall, and now it's so hard to rebuild those walls, to put it away again, but I am trying.  I will survive it and I will tuck it far away again so I can live my life.  I am not really okay today, but I will be tomorrow.

27

Sunday was the 27th anniversary of my brother's birth.  Next month will mark the 5th anniversary of his death.

I spent about a half hour staring at the screen here yesterday, trying to sort out what to say about it, and the two sentences above is as far as I got.

We marked the day on Sunday with some laughter and some tears (and, for my parents, a terrible awful stomach bug), and it was, in many ways, just another day.  Greg isn't just dead on his birthday; he's dead every day.

We have made an effort, in the last couple of years, to celebrate his birthday instead of squeezing our eyes shut, covering our ears and screaming "LA LA LA LA LA" while we wait for the day to be over.  It is not easy.

Stuffing the thoughts, memories and feelings way, way back in my head is how I survive.  If I want to move forward, I have to push it back, ignore it.  As my mom recently told a friend who asked how she does it, "I choose to live my life." 

Make no mistake: it is a choice.  We choose to spend most of our time and energy moving forward and living, or we choose to spend it dwelling and suffering and grieving. 

Having chosen to live, having chosen to push it all aside and embrace life even without my brother, it is hard to lower that wall and let it out.  To do so is like opening flood gates, breaking down levees, allowing the grief and the threat of  suffering and depression to come in and overwhelm me. 

I experiment with inching that wall down ever so slightly, in order to keep memories present, alive and fresh without bringing down the uncontrollable wave of grief with it, but I'm not very good at it.  And I would say our attempts to celebrate Greg's birthday, to actively remember and celebrate his life, have not been very successful.  It is a step in the right direction, though, however tiny, and we will continue to celebrate his life on his birthday as best we can. 

My mom wondered aloud this morning whether we'll ever get to the point where we can really talk about him. 

I hope we will.

tinsel

We brought our Christmas tree inside a couple of weeks ago, after picking it up at a local tree lot.  Mike gave it a fresh cut, it took its place in the stand, and I began turning it around and around, deciding on the perfect angle to face into the room.  As I was studying the tree, an unexpected shine flashed from near the bottom.  I bent down to examine it, and found a piece of tinsel nestled in the branches.

The memory came flooding in.

When I was a kid, we used to put tinsel on the Christmas tree.  At some point, we stopped.  I imagine it was due to some combination of environmental reasons and mess reasons.  Greg loved the tinsel, though, and wanted to keep using it.  The compromise was that he got to keep a few pieces.  He tucked them away in his own ornament box.  Each year, he carefully placed the tinsel on the tree, and then carefully tucked it back into his box.

I think this mystery strand of tinsel has just found a new home.

tomorrow

Based on the fact that I started this blog as an outlet where I could write about life after the death of my brother, you would think I'd write often at this time of year. I don't know if I have in years past or not, I can't remember and the last thing I need right now is to look back in those archives.

The thing is, I do have a lot to say. I just can't seem to organize my thoughts in even a remotely coherent way. And I'd rather not face it. I'd prefer to just play with Emmett and pretend nothing is wrong. This, of course, is not healthy or productive. I know this. You probably know this. And yet, that's what I do.

Sometimes I'm not sure whether the actual anniversary week of Greg's death is harder, or if Easter week is harder. The fact is they're both difficult. Greg died Palm Sunday. His funeral was Wednesday of Holy Week. And on Easter Sunday, Mom, Dad, Mike and I went to the casino for mindless distraction, rather than face the day.

Easter week was long and difficult this year. But there was also fun and distractions and I made it through okay.

Tomorrow, it will be four years since Greg died. I'm dreading it but it's also just another damn day. He isn't any less dead today than he will be tomorrow. He's gone every day, not just on the anniversary.

At any rate, I'm thankful to be busy right now. Emmett and I are taking a mini road trip today for lunch and bonding time with some family. This weekend will be family and friends and gathering to celebrate Emmett's baptism on Sunday.

I'm thankful for Emmett, who has saved me from figuring out how to end this post. He's wailing and screeching on the floor right now, waiting for me to come get him because he's flipped onto his belly and he's unable to get back over. Would it be insensitive of me to compare him to a beached whale, given the humpback whale currently stranded on Long Island?