Sounding the Well of Grief

I was watching my husband and our older son today and felt a pang because it made me think of my brother and his youngest son.  I thought that there were surely countless times that my brother and my nephew chatted about any number of topics.  Conversations that are forever lost because the two people who had them are gone.

I was startled to realize that it's been almost 2 1/2-years since my brother died and 1 1/2-years since my nephew followed his father in death.  Can that really be?  Was it so long ago? 

Time passes so quickly and even very loved members of your family eventually will slip through your memory.  You still love them and miss them.  Of course you do.  It's just that eventually you learn to live without them.  And, as much as I hate that I haven't constantly attended the altar of grief. . .life has gone on because that's what life does.  It goes on whether you want it to or not.

Sometimes I still feel an ache in my chest. . .a pain that I can only describe as my heart actually breaking.    That pain is rare, though blindingly painful when it happens.  At one time I felt that pain every second of every day.  Words are inadequate to describe that sad, sad time.  I never would have believed that there would come a day that I didn't feel the physical pain of grief in addition to the emotional torment it imposed.

Having the benefit of hindsight and the emotional buffer of years passing allows me to look back and realize that I was in a bad place.  I know that and I fully recognize it now, but I was unable to see it at the time.  My grief didn't just blind me.  It strangled me.  I was being smothered by it - held down, pushed further than I could have possibly imagined.

Grief is a well - and it is deep.  It can seem to go straight to the center of the Earth, it is so damn deep.  You find yourself treading water, desperately trying to keep your head up.  Trying to pretend that you aren't sinking lower by the moment.  Eventually, you stop fighting it.  You let go and give yourself to that well.  And it begins to drown you.  If you're lucky, you hit bottom fast so you can bounce back up.  If you're not as lucky, well, you feel smothered just a little longer.  Eventually you hit bottom too.  You push back up and gasp in the sweetness of life again.

I've sounded the well of grief.  I know just how deep it truly is and it's terrifying.  Yet, here I stand.  I was knocked flat and one day I was back up.  I don't know when it happened, it probably happened little by little, but it did happen. 

I am present.  I am me.  I am back.

I'm Back. . .Maybe

Some of you may have noticed that I've been silent lately.  It would be fair to say that I've been, for the most part, stunned silent.  It's been well over six-weeks since my nephew died and I'm still unable to begin processing my grief.  It's not that I can't handle grief, goodness knows that I can certainly handle grief, it's that I'm afraid to fall too deeply in to that pit of sadness and hurt during what should be - what needs to be - a happy and joyful time in my life. 

I know that sounds selfish, but it's not even only for my own sake that I refuse to address my pain.  It's for the sake of my children, the one I hold and the one I'm still carrying.  For being such a young child, my son has witnessed far too much of my grief and I don't want his mind to somehow connect my pregnancy to my tears and despair because I don't want him to somehow think it's his little brother's fault that Mama is so sad. . .so sad yet again.  I don't want my unborn son to be negatively impacted by my own mental state.  I know that I don't care for myself adequately when I'm down there and that means that he won't be adequately nourished either.  That's not even addressing whether or not a fetus suffers developmentally based upon the mother's depression or stress hormone levels.  Without a doubt, my boys would suffer if I allowed myself to delve into the aching depths of human sadness.

Of course, it isn't all selflessness.  This baby in my womb only came after two solid years of trying every month, after losing one precious babe, after subjecting myself to hormone treatments that made for an unbelievably stressful first half of pregnancy.  After two years of bitter disappointment each month, I want to experience all the joy I possibly can.  Is it wrong that I want to try to enjoy what will most likely be my final pregnancy?  If it is, then I guess I'm wrong.

I simply can't wrap my head around a 17-year old kid dying from a heart attack.  I just can't.  It's like something you read about and feel sorry for the family who was impacted by such a fluke occurrence.  Only it's not some random anonymous family.  It's my family.  It's my family who has been hurt by yet another unnaturally natural death.  It's such a bizarre and unthinkable thing that I don't know whether to laugh, cry, scream, pull at my hair, or some mixture of all responses.

So how am I handling my grief?  I'm not.  I push it back down whenever it comes up and I generally pretend that it does not exist.  Is this healthy?  No, not by a long shot.  Is this the most sensible way I can handle it at the moment?  Yes.  I know the time is coming where my grief will begin to manifest itself in other ways and I'm already having difficulty pushing it from my mind when it comes to me, but thus far only the silence of midnight's moon has been the witness to my weeping so I'm thankful my son has been spared.  It's a scene that he's seen before, but I know it frightens him and he's seen it altogether too often.

Why do I cry in the night?  Why else?  It's when I say my prayers and I can't help but cry when I pray for my nieces and nephews.  Most nights I automatically put his name in there, my mind still unable to accept that he no longer has need for any of my prayers, and that's when it hits me the hardest.  I begin to play the highlight reel - tears always come when I think of him joking and clowning around - and I have to muffle my cries in my pillow and begin praying that sleep comes mercifully soon.

Perhaps I'd be well on the road to healing if I'd been able to attend his funeral?  I don't know and it doesn't matter since I was unable to attend.  My mother fell and broke her hip just days after his death (she only just returned home), I wasn't keen to leave my little boy because it really messed with his head when I did so to attend my brother's service last year, and my OB wasn't wild about the notion of me traveling 3,000 miles away when I was still having bleeding episodes in this pregnancy.  So I didn't go.  I wish on some level that I had, but my parents and my children needed me to stay here and I did.

I don't know that I will be able to continue blogging, but I will make an effort.  Though I have always been brutally honest in this blog, I won't be able to address these emotions because they need to stay bottled up for the time being.  The way I see it, I probably have plenty to write about without participating in a bit of free therapy.  So I'm back. . .maybe.

My Brother, My Nephew, and the Cruelty of September

I can't remember the last time I blogged, but I initially stopped writing because I could feel the distinct pang of melancholy knocking on my heart.  In looking at the dates on the calendar, I was sad to realize that it was rapidly approaching the date marking one year since my beloved brother had unexpectedly died at 41-years of age.  The puzzle that is my family was made incomplete that day because a piece will always be missing. . .this side of Heaven, my parents will never have their son and my sister & I will never have our brother.

His death was unnaturally natural.  His aorta dissected in several places.  That is, his aorta split apart and he bled to death.  It's painful, very rare, and usually fatal before the hospital can even be reached.  My brother was unique in that he worked at a hospital and he was able to hit the OR fairly quickly.  Unfortunately, no surgeon on this planet could have possibly repaired such extensive damage fast enough to save my brother's life. 

He died.  He kissed his wife goodbye that morning, went to work, and never came home.  A seemingly healthy man had his life cut short.

I found his death far more difficult to recover from than any other I'd known.  Yes, losing him was even harder than any other loss - harder than seeing my grandfather die right in front of my eyes, harder than thinking of babies I'll never be able to hold in my arms here on Earth, harder than losing my best friend to the ravages of a cruel disease, harder than losing my grandmother when she seemed perfectly fine the last time I saw her.

I still sometimes feel like something is missing and it hits me that it's not something, it's someone.  Someone who I had always had in my life, someone who I had every reason to expect that I'd have in my life for another couple of decades.  My brother.

September 7th came and went.  It wasn't nearly as trying as I thought it would be and I credit the babe in my womb for keeping me from sinking down as far as I would have otherwise.  One year had passed; that crucial year of healing that everyone needs to go through after suffering catastrophic loss.  I could begin to breathe easier, knowing that so much healing that occurred in this year and would continue to occur as time continued marching forward.  I had such unbelievable naivete.

* * *

I was lounging in bed with my 3-year old watching morning cartoons when I received a phone call from a number I didn't recognize on Saturday, September 10th.  I missed the call and almost ignored the voicemail notification because I was tired and snuggling with my son was preferable to writing down a message.  My curiosity is what motivated me to check the message.  I figured that it would be a wrong number. 

I was wrong.

I didn't even recognize the voice, let alone understand the message the first time I listened.  It was a tearful message and my ear finally picked up the name of one of my brother's daughters and that she'd been trying to reach my parents.  I thought that perhaps she was in some sort of trouble and I immediately returned the call. 

When I got an outbound voicemail message, I really began to worry about her.  Why was she crying?  Why was she trying to reach my parents?  Why wasn't she able to get the phone?

My son began to pick up on my agitation and I was able to get him to return to my bedroom to watch some more television while I pondered my next move.  Should I call my parents?  Go to their house?  Try to contact someone who might know what was going on with my niece?

The phone rang and I snatched it up.  It was my niece's cousin and I could hear her tears and my niece's in the background.  My niece came to the phone and the world that had finally felt righted was knocked off-balance once again.

She told me that her youngest brother had died in his sleep.  Suddenly very aware of my pulse pounding, I swallowed hard and chewed on my tongue to keep from crying out.  She was still talking and I was trying to follow her words though my mind was racing. 

The same kid who I had blogged about here had died?  The cousin who my son still asks about at least once or twice every single week wasn't living?  The young man with such a winning personality, sharp wit, and kind heart was dead?

My brother's four children are remarkably good kids, but I had to ask if this was some sort of sick joke.  I didn't want to believe it.  I still don't.  I already knew the answer and was crying when she confirmed that her 17-year old brother had died in his sleep and that her younger sister had found him.

I vaguely recall telling her that I'd go to my parents to tell them the news.  They'd received the news that their only son was dead over the phone and I could not let them learn of their grandson's death in the same way.  She apologized for having to tell me over the phone - see what I mean about being good kids - and I hope she knows that I didn't mean for her to take it like that.  I just felt that it would be easier for my parents if they could possibly be told in person so that I could lovingly hold them while delivering such devastatingly unwelcome news.

I called my husband home.  I'm not sure exactly what I told him.  I may have just blurted it out or I may have just asked him to come home.  All I can remember for sure is that I began to get dizzy and I was having trouble catching my breath.  It reminded me of what happened before my husband called the ambulance when I lost my baby in January and I forced myself to sit down to try to relax. 

I put my head in my hands and began sobbing.  The only thing that prevented me from completely melting down was my son standing next to me, innocently asking, "Are you okay, Mama?  Mommy!"  I wiped my face, hugged him, and said it was time to get dressed.

To keep myself in check, I began doing the most mundane tasks.  I put away some laundry.  I paid some bills.  I was doing anything I could to stay busy and not focus on what my niece had reported.

We took my son to hang out with my in-laws and set out to see my parents.  I kept telling my husband that I don't know how to tell them this and I don't want to tell them this and I don't want this to even be true.  I still don't want this to be true.

My father's first thought when he saw us walking up by ourselves was that something had happened to our son.  He immediately dismissed the thought because he rightfully deduced that I would have been unable to walk if anything had happened to my boy.  But he knew something was wrong.  And he was right.  Something is so very wrong.

I asked him to sit down and he would not so I put my arms around him and told him the horrible news as I hugged him.  I could have lived my entire life without ever again seeing such pained shock and disbelief on my father's face.  He finally said that he'd go up and tell my mother.  Yet again, I could have lived my entire life without ever again hearing my mother's anguished cries.  After my brother's death, I never thought I'd see my parents in such a wounded state.  I was wrong.

* * *

My nephew came out to visit California for two weeks this Summer.  I am so thankful for that for a number of reasons.  Though my parents and I had the opportunity to develop strong bonds with his four children when my brother was stationed in San Diego for a few years, things were dramatically different once his wife divorced him.  I've often referred to divorce as "the atomic option" and it really is because the fallout injures everyone.  As is almost always the case, children are the biggest casualties of divorce.  In this case, the relationships were part of the fallout.  It was wonderful to see that the little joker I remembered had grown to become such a fantastically good hearted kid.

My husband and I had him stay over at our house for a few days while he was here.  I felt bad that most of my house is packed up and it's really empty at the moment, but he didn't complain or even seem to care.  It was hotter than the blazes, but we took him to the standard touristy LA & Hollywood stuff.  Hubs and I made it a point to take him dining around the world and the cuisine we hit included Japanese, Vietnamese, and Mexican.  I chuckle at thought of he and my husband looking like twin Godzillas stomping around in Little Tokyo.  Mostly, I'll cherish the memories of the mornings. . .my son would wake early and come to my room to sit on my bed and watch cartoons so as not to disturb the slumber of his cousin.  When my nephew would wake, he'd wander in, sit on the bed with us, and start joking around with my son.  It was so perfectly normal and comfortable. . .like he was always there and always would be.

Family or not, I might feel a little uncomfortable about a 6'3" guy sitting on the bed, but my mind couldn't help but think of him as the little boy he used to be.  The same little boy who lit up with joy when he discovered that one could not only make fart sounds with their armpit, but somehow also with the back the knee.  The same little boy who maniacally jumped up and down with his brother the year one of them received a CD of "Who Let the Dogs Out."  The same little boy grew to only become a young man before his own life ended and he joined his father in shockingly early death.  The same little boy only lived one year and three days after his father died.

* * *

Brian Rushing was young, only just turned 17-years old, but he had the confidence of a grown man.  He was bright, witty, and charming.  I don't think I've ever known such a young man who was so very comfortable in his own skin.  He knew who he was and he was cool with that because he liked himself. 

He liked watching the news and he was a great conversationalist.  He was able to discuss politics and current events as easily as sports and the current music scene.  Since his visit out here, my husband and I have often remarked that adults would actually like teenagers if every teenager was like him. 

My young son didn't just love his Cousin Brian, he ADORED him.  In only two weeks, my son grew incredibly attached.  He wailed and sobbed on the way home the night that we said goodbye to Brian.  I asked him if he wanted to send his Cousin Brian a special video message before Brian flew home and he did. My son's final line in that message holds a particular poignancy now. 

I hate that Brian's brother and sisters now have to know the unrelenting ache of his loss.  I hate that these three kids have to feel the hurt of losing a sibling because that's a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone.  More than hating the hurt that I feel at Brian's passing, I hate that I'm going to have to break my son's heart by telling him that he'll never see his Cousin Brian again.  I hate that none of us will. . .

Why is Miscarriage so Isolating?

A couple of things on Facebook reminded me of a post that I always intended to write.  Though I had an outpouring of love and support after I lost my baby in January, I was surprised at how isolating a miscarriage is to women who have lost their babies.  Not only is the tragedy isolating, but I found that most women keep quiet about miscarriage unless they pulled my move of blabbing about the pregnancy early on and ended up with a loss.

Why is it that miscarriage is shrouded in painful silence?  We know that around 20% of confirmed pregnancies end with a miscarriage and there is some evidence that it's more like 50% of all pregnancies (not necessarily confirmed pregnancies) end in loss.  Think of the women you know. . .chances are that several of them have lost at least one baby; perhaps you have too.  So why are women so reluctant to talk about it if so many of us have experienced it?

I wonder if the medical establishment view toward miscarriage doesn't help squelch healing discussions after loss.  After all, one miscarriage isn't considered to be a problem and a woman isn't generally going to receive additional care until she's suffered at least two (or more!) losses in a row.  The message that this attitude sends is that your one miscarriage isn't a big deal.  It's not even important enough to warrant any further examination once they've verified that the "products of conception" are out of your womb.

You know what?  Every baby that is lost is a big deal.  It's a big freaking deal to the woman who miscarried and it's a big deal to her family because they also lost a family member.  It's heartless and cruel to suggest or imply that miscarriage doesn't matter.

I also wonder if the standard responses people give to women who have experienced miscarriage doesn't force women to clam up and hold back their feelings.  I heard some things that were so off-the-charts insensitive that I almost couldn't believe that a loved one would ever consider saying them to a grieving mother.  And that's exactly what a woman who lost a baby is - a grieving mother.  It makes no difference that her baby was never born when the fact is that her baby was alive at one time.  I think sometimes people forget that a baby is very real to a woman as soon as she discovers that she's pregnant. . .as soon as she hears that precious heartbeat.

I was contacted by many women who had lost babies after I shared that my pregnancy had ended.  Whether or not they went on to have a perfectly healthy baby later, we are all united in knowing the pain of miscarriage.  A sisterhood of sorrow.  Not surprisingly, none of these women tried to downplay what had happened and their support was particularly comforting.

If any good can be found in losing my baby in January it's that I know the ache of loss and, since I have a big mouth (or, more accurately, an active keyboard), I hope that I make the loneliest of tragedies feel a little less isolating to at least one woman.

A Due Date with No Baby

Most readers probably remember that I suffered a miscarriage earlier this year.  If they don't, it's probably because they couldn't bear to read the things that I wrote while trying to process my heartbreak at losing a long-desired pregnancy.  I can't say that I would blame anyone for skipping those posts. . .I wish I could just erase that part of my life and I certainly wouldn't want a spectator's seat to it.  If you missed out and are interested, check out the posts I wrote in January and February to know what I'm writing about.

I realize that most children are not born exactly on their due date, but today was my baby's due date.  I would have either had a newborn by now or I would have had one in the next two weeks or so.  Of course, that wasn't to be and here I sit, just shy of 18-weeks pregnant with the one who I hope will be the final member of our family.

Losing that pregnancy resulted in a loss of innocence, an awareness that sometimes the most painfully cruel things can happen when least expected.  Sometimes you really do get kicked when you're already down.  Losing that baby also resulted in fostering a fierce love and gratitude, deeper than I ever knew possible, for my son who was born and for the baby currently living in my womb.  I guess it's because I realize that they could have been, and I suppose still could be, taken from me at any moment.

I attempted to achieve pregnancy for so long and I now know that life is never promised, even where life once existed.  In that mindset, I've tried so hard to think positive about this pregnancy and avoid complaining about any uncomfortable symptoms because I know that I'm lucky to have them at all.  Some may say that I'm reallly not all that successful with either intention, but I really do try.

One day, one day far in the future, I fully expect to be able to finally hold my babies who were never born.  And on that day, the holes in my heart will finally be filled.

Sadness in My Mailbox - Part II

About two months ago, I wrote a blog post about a catalog that made me break down and cry like a baby.  In light of recent events, I received an unwelcome package in the mail today that should have yielded the same result.  I received the maternity clothes that I ordered last week.

I don't know why I ordered those stupid clothes.  I hadn't gained any weight yet and I certainly wasn't showing anything even remotely resembling a pregnant figure.  Fat figure, yes; pregnant, no.  I still have all of my maternity clothes that I wore when I was expecting my son.  I hate shopping for pants without being able to try them on.  So why did I do this to myself?  Why in the world did I order these stupid fucking maternity clothes?

I find it oddly fascinating that I didn't dissolve into a blubbering mess of tears.  I stared at the package for a few moments and then tossed it on a pile of magazines that I keep intending to donate somewhere.  I didn't even open it. . .I mean, why bother?  It's not like I'll be wearing the clothes anyway.

* * *

On a related note, I'm still exhibiting pregnancy symptoms for some damn reason.  As if the last few days haven't been awful enough without nausea and impossibly sore breasts.  My food aversions seem to be decreasing though and it's good to finally be able to eat vegetables and drink water without running to the toilet to yak it up.

My body still hasn't started to release the baby.  It is killing me to know that my beloved baby is still there, dead and rotting in my own body.  This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. . .it's truly horrific. 

I'm beginning to wonder if I should just have the D & C and be done with it.  I just can't bring myself to do it.  I know that having to undergo that procedure will rip open a long-closed wound and I just can't do it.  But I also can't stand the knowledge that my body is stupidly holding on to my dead baby.

The internet is a blessing and a curse in times like these.  It's wonderful to read of all the times that the ultrasound was wrong and the baby was found perfectly healthy when they checked before doing a D & C.  It's awful to read of other women's experiences with miscarriage at 10-weeks.  I have read several accounts of women who actually saw their dead baby's features as they pass it out of their body.  That sounds like it's too much to bear.

I don't know what's worse:  Seeing your dead baby at home and at least being able to bury it or honor it in some fashion or not seeing it and letting the doctor throw it away like biological garbage.  Unfortunately, I know what they do with the fetal tissue and I can not allow that to happen to this very loved and wanted baby.  I just can't. 

I don't know what I'm going to do, but this back and forth crap is making me crazy.  Opinions?  Suggestions? 

* * *

I've been contacted by more than a half-dozen women who have experienced a similar situation.  I had no idea this was so common.  I appreciate that so many of you have shared your experiences because I was sure that this was my fault, my shame.  Thank you for being so open and caring.  Here's hoping that one day all of our wounds will be healed.

An Unsettling Dream

My husband kindly took our son to a birthday party this morning and our little one took a 3-hour nap as soon as they arrived back home.  That means that I also was able to take a 3-hour nap.  I'd ordinarily be happy to get such a great nap, but I had an unsettling dream that I've been pondering since I woke up.

I dreamed that my best friend and I were drinking and she uncharacteristically got overserved.  I offered to give her a ride and she declined.  I also suggested an alternate transportation arrangement which was also declined.  We were both parked in opposite directions so we turned from each other and began walking toward our vehicles.  I turned to watch her leave and, as she walked away from me, I was painfully aware that it would be the last time I would see her alive.  At that point, I woke up.

This dream was odd for a few reasons.  My best friend died in 2006 so it's been many years since I've had the joy of seeing her.  The last time I saw her wasn't after a pleasant time hanging out; it was after cancer had wasted her away and left her in a coma on life support.  And, while we enjoyed cocktails plenty of times, I never once saw her even remotely drunk. 

My husband analyzed this dream and he feels that it highlights the guilt I feel for not seeing more of her when she was still here.  I think that's a fair assessment, but I don't know - it could just be some stupid dream.  For reasons I can't understand, she didn't want visitors when she was fighting cancer the hardest.  I sent cards and letters, but I didn't visit and I do regret that I respected her wishes because it isn't something a good friend would have done so I do have a lot of guilt.

* * *

I had another hCG test this morning and my levels are now at 19,678.  On Sunday they were at 4,000, I was at 13,000 by Thursday and today it's at 19,678.  I'm reassured that it's obviously rising, but it has slowed and isn't doubling every 48 hours.  I have read that this isn't terribly uncommon at this point and plenty of pregnancies progress with slow growing HCG levels so I'm trying not to make too much over the numbers.  Besides, ultrasound becomes a better diagnostic tool than hCG levels by around 6-weeks gestation.  My doctor still wants to see me Tuesday and, hopefully, we'll at least see a fetal pole in my gestational sac by now.  I'm also hopeful that I'll be released to enjoy normal activities.  Please keep your prayers coming, we're not totally out of the woods yet.

Sadness in My Mailbox

I broke down in tears yesterday when I received the mail.  What arrived in my mailbox to make me cry like a little baby?  A catalog.  To be specific, it was a Hickory Farms catalog.

Why did a Hickory Farms catalog make me cry?  Was it because I'm back on Weight Watchers, but those fatty summer sausages and cheese logs are so darned delicious?  Was it because I love their candy baskets?  No, it was because I sent Hickory Farms offerings to my brother for Christmas for the last several years.

I had been enjoying a couple of weeks without any tears, so I guess that I was due to have a crying jag.  I stared at that stupid catalog, bitter tears streaming down my cheeks, and longed to make a purchase that I thought he'd like.  I'm afraid that the holiday season will be terribly difficult this year and it just hit me that I'll never make a purchase for my brother ever again.

Ticking Time Bomb

My brother just recently dropped dead at the age of 41 and I can't help but wonder if I am a ticking time bomb.  Am I also likely to suffer an aortic dissection?  Am I going to die within the next ten years?  Will I widow my husband and orphan our young son?  Perhaps this is why I haven't been able to bring forth another child?  Maybe the strain of pregnancy will kill me?  Will my friends and family have to suffer because I'm called home at a young age?  Am I going to die soon?

My mother and my uncle were talking about family this past week and a few important things were revealed.  I was somewhat aware of this, but my maternal grandfather died at age 50.  Yes, I said 50.  Even in 1976, dying at 50 was very young.  However, I was much more interested in learning about my great-uncle's death.  My grandfather's brother died in his 40's.  He wasn't feeling well, went home, sat in his favorite chair, and then he died.

Is there some curse that afflicts the men in my family?  I haven't heard that the women die all that early, but we've identified three men who died at unnaturally young ages from "natural" causes.  Does this affliction skip generations?  My uncles, my mother's brothers, are both in their 60s so I would have to assume that they lucked out.

Since my brother was taken so soon, does that mean that perhaps my son has a free pass?  Will he be safe from aortic dissection?  Of course, since my brother was taken and we are (were) so very similar, I can't help but worry that I might be the next one with a ticket to punch.  I think it's clear that there has been a dark cloud hanging over me and I wonder if it's Death's shadow.  I wonder if I'm next.  Macabre, I know, but there you have it.

I don't fear my own death.  Well, I kind of do because I don't think I'll like making the journey all by myself, but I don't worry about what will happen to me because I am sure that I'll end up in the best place ever.  However, I do worry about my family and I ache specifically at the thought of my husband and son suffering over my loss.  And I don't think my parents could handle losing another child.

I've been beside myself thinking these dark thoughts.  My husband suggested that worrying about it isn't going to give any answers and it will just continue to freak me out.  He asked me to make an appointment with my doctor and undergo a physical (I'm due for a pap too, darn it!) and find out if there are any tests that can be conducted to determine if I have any weak spots in my blood vessels.  It's practical advice and I have scheduled an appointment.

I don't know if I have a ticking time bomb in my body.  I don't know if it would even be helpful to know.  All I can do is live each day as if it's my last because, for all I know, it might be.  I guess that's all anyone can do.

It Had to be Orlando

I'm home with my two favorite people right now.  The kitchen is somewhat picked up, dishes are washed, laundry is running, and my bags are unpacked.  My son is snoozing (in his own bed!) and my husband is snoozing in his favorite chair.  I should wake my husband and we should go to bed, but I know that I won't sleep just yet.

A lot of things have changed in a short period of time.  Until this trip, I have never slept even one night away from my husband since we were married.  Before I flew out of LAX on the 10th, the longest time that I have been away from my son is four hours.  Prior to last week, my brother was living.

I tried so hard to be strong this week and I know that I failed miserably.  At times my heartbreak felt so strong that I thought there might be something physically wrong with me.  The hardest was watching the flag presentation at his service.  And seeing his body.  Seeing my mother's tears, comforting her much as I would my little son.  I couldn't help but sob when I heard Taps softly playing while a sailor respectfully stood before my brother's body.  I know that he was already gone, but it just drove home the finality of his death.

I'm sure that everyone is sick of hearing about my grief, but this is truly the most painful loss I have ever suffered and I just don't know when I'll be over it.  I don't know that I'll ever be "over it."  I thought my best friend's death was hard and I thought my grandmother's death three weeks later was even harder, but they didn't come close to delivering the same level of agony that I'm feeling with my brother's death.

We expect our parents and grandparents to die.  We expect the old and the sick to pass on before us.  We don't expect healthy 41-year old men to die; I sure didn't expect that it would happen to my brother.  But it did. 

For most people, the longest relationship they'll ever share is their relationship with a sibling.  Parents die, spouses come in adulthood, but siblings were there from a very early age and they remain throughout your life.  In an ideal world, they'll be there much longer than any other person in your life. 

I wish that I was given more than 35-years with my big brother.  My brother and my sister had their situation, but I tried hard to let them resolve their differences between themselves.  I couldn't pick one over the other because I love them both so much.  And now I only have my sister.  My sister and I are without a brother. . .

Your siblings shape the person who you grow up to become.  Due to the longevity of the relationship and the depth of love, losing a sibling is like losing a part of yourself.  It's a part that can never be replaced.  There will always be something, someone, missing.

No, I can't say that I'll ever get over this.  I may work through the stages of grief.  I may stop crying one day.  I may smile and laugh.  I may appear to have moved on.  But he's gone and I'll continue to miss him.

* * *

On the way home, I had a three hour layover in Orlando.  It had to be Orlando.  I couldn't help but think that my brother had flown to Orlando in 1986 when he first enlisted in the US Navy.  And there I was, kicking around Orlando on my way home from my brother's funeral service in 2010. 

It would have made me laugh if it didn't make me cry.

Wasted Time

There are many stages of grief and I am in Anger right now.  I'm so damned angry that I can hardly see straight.  The weird thing is that I'm not angry at God or anyone who had anything to do with my brother's death.  I'm angry at entirely different people for a completely illogical reason.  But I am angry nonetheless.

Save our honeymoon and business-related trips, my husband and I have only gone to the exact same  destination for every vacation we have taken in the last seven years.  The way I see it now, that makes several of my vacations that weren't spent with my loved ones.  You know who I mean by "loved ones," right? 

Loved ones are family members who actually demonstrate genuine love and care toward each other.  Family members aren't snakes in the grass, looking to strike whenever they think they have an opportunity.  Family members aren't ugly toward each other and don't spew forth venom from their forked tongues.  The loved ones who I specifically wish that I had spent my vacations with for the last seven years are my family members who have passed away - my Grandmother and my brother. 

But every fucking time we were able to take a vacation, we spent it in the same bullshit destination.  Do I sound angry?  Bitter?  I am angry.  And I sure as heck am bitter.

Things have happened in this last year that essentially freed up our vacations forever.  We were free to go wherever we wanted for vacation.  My husband and I were talking about going to New Jersey this year to see my brother and his family.  Thanks to never-ending bullshit at home, we never made it to New Jersey.  We never spent the time with my brother and his family.  And now my only brother is dead. 

My only brother is dead and we never spent our vacation with him.  I missed out on fun times with family who actually loved and cared about me.  For that, I place the blame solely at the feet of those people who I was always obligated to spend my vacation with these last seven years. 

I am furious that I wasted my valuable vacation time with people who, as it turns out, weren't even worthy of me on any level.  Since they revealed their true nasty selves via their own poison-penned e-mail to me, I can say that they never should have been given my time or effort.  I just have no space in my heart for such cruel and evil people.

Like bandits in the night, they stole my time.  They are the worst kind of black-hearted thieves.  They stole the one thing that is irreplaceable.  My time.  Even worse, they stole my time from people who I can no longer spend my time with. 

I could have spent my time with people who were part of my genuine, kind-hearted, loving family.  You know, people who actually behave like family members should toward each other.  But I was obligated elsewhere with people who, as it turns out, are not the same quality of person and that is chewing me up inside.

I burn with a hot fury toward those thieves who stole my time.  And I am enraged that good and honest people like my Grandmother and my brother are gone.  Why is it that the best kind of people are always gone too soon?

I'd like to say that I will never forgive those people for the valuable time they stole from me, but that's just not who I am.  I know I'll forgive them one day.  But I will never forget their lies and their vile accusations toward people who are blameless and innocent.

I know that anger and bitterness do not suit anybody and they certainly aren't emotions that I want to hold.  I have felt nothing but vomit rising since being cloaked in this fury.  I feel like I am going to explode at any moment, my emotions are leaving me quivering with cold rage as I type this post.

I want to scream, shout, punch, and kick.  I want to claw at myself and physically punish someone, anyone.  I want to run, run so far away from all of this.  I feel like I'm going to crack from this pressure.  Please join my prayer that I am free from this stage of grief soon.  I don't even care if I go back to denial, I just have to release this blinding fury and bitterness from my own heart and get wrapped up in peace.

Running on Faith

I wish this was a lighthearted post about an Eric Clapton song, but it isn't.  My faith has been the only thing keeping me going.  And I'm clinging to that faith, clinging desperately so that I don't just let go.  I can't let go.  I won't let go because I have a husband and a son who need me.  It is my duty to put one foot in front of the other and let life go on, no matter how badly I want to sit and wallow in my grief.

I became a Christian in 1999 and shortly after my conversion, I chose Proverbs 3:5 as my life verse: 

Trust in the LORD with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;

It has been impossibly difficult to trust in the Lord lately.  I don't question my faith or my God, but at times it has been really tough to trust.  Those very close to me know all the turmoil that 2010 has rained down upon my entire family.  I thought 2006 was a rough year, but 2010 has been devastating.  However, this year has also brought two miracles for a loved one and I praise God for that.

Christians are told to give thanks for everything.  This was wonderfully illustrated in the book The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom.  If you've never read it, I highly recommend it.  I know it sounds ridiculous to a non-believer, but that's what's written in the good book.

I don't know why my brother is gone.  I can't make any sense of the situation.  My faith tells me that it's not my place to make sense.  Christians might not grieve the same as non-Christians (a belief in Heaven is a great comfort), but Christians do grieve.  Even Jesus wept.

Today I weep.  Someday, somehow, I will find a way to give thanks.

* * *

A friend dropped off a very kind note at my doorstep sometime last night or this morning.  She shared something that gave her comfort when her grandmother passed.  It touched me and I'd like to share it with all of you.  I feel it's particularly fitting as my brother was a Navy man and he put in 20 years of service to this country.

The Little Ship

I stood watching as the little ship sailed out to sea.

The setting sun tinted his white sails with a golden light and, as he disappeared from sight, a voice at my side whispered, "He is gone."

But the sea was a narrow one.  On the farther shore, a little band of friends had gathered to watch and wait in happy expectation.

Suddenly they caught sight of the tiny sail and, at the very moment when my companion had whispered, "He is gone," a shout went up in joyous welcome, "Here he comes!"

I don't doubt that my brother was welcomed by all of our grandparents, including the grandfather whose name he bore.  A name that my own son shares.  I'm thankful that he had a personal welcoming committee to Heaven.  And I'm thankful that one day, one day far in the future, I will see my brother again.  And he will welcome me to Heaven.

This Isn't a Bad Dream

Thanks to the wonder that is Tylenol PM, I was able to get my never-ending headache under control and finally fall asleep last night.  My rest was deep, mostly dreamless.  But sometimes I would dream that I was resting in the shade on cool grass beside a quiet stream.  It was so peaceful and quiet.  Tranquil.  A place that offered calm comfort.  It was a place that doesn't even remotely resemble my life these days.

The phone ringing jolted me awake late this morning.  My son was still snoozing beside me and, for one crazy moment, I thought that I had a horrible nightmare.  I dreamed that my brother died yesterday.  But this wasn't just a bad dream. 

My only brother did die yesterday.  My only brother did die yesterday.  He was only 41 and he died yesterday.  I don't want to believe it, it's too horrible to believe, but seeing it in print makes it so much more real.  And all the crying, hoping, and praying can't bring him back.  It hurts so bad that I can't remember what it feels like not to hurt.

I can't remember the last time that I've cried so many tears.  It would still hurt if he he been old or sick, but it would have been somewhat expected.  I can't wrap my head around a 41-year old man being struck down so young.  Certainly not someone as wonderful as my big brother.  He was a good man and a great brother.  I miss him so much already.  I wish I could hear him say, "love ya little sis," just once more. 

Why him?  Why now?  I can ultimately accept that he's gone, but why?

21-Years Later and I Still Hurt

Before going to bed last night, I turned the page on my wall calendar since today is the first of the month.  Specifically, it's the first of July.  I felt a sharp pang of sadness when I noticed the date because I realized that it has been twenty-one years since I witnessed the death of my beloved grandfather.  I wish that was an exaggeration, but I literally saw him breathe his last breath.

Twenty-one years.  Man, that's a long time.  It seems impossible that it's been so long.  I feel so young, how is it even possible that I was a teenager twenty-one years ago?  It's hard to believe.

Prior to marrying my husband and having our son, the time I spent with my grandfather was the happiest I've ever been in this life.  At one time, my grandparents lived nearby, but they had moved to Washington state and I missed them so much when they were gone.  I'm so thankful that my parents sent me to spend several weeks with my grandparents one Summer.   

That Summer, my mother was going to be gone on a training class for a couple of months.  For several years prior, it felt like my sister drifted in and out of my life and my brother was already gone in the Navy.  I guess that I was basically an only child by then.  With all the other kids gone & grown, my folks had a little extra money and they bought me plane tickets to go visit for a few weeks.

This was my first plane trip and, for some reason, it made sense to wear kitten heels on the plane.  Um, okay.  I've always had odd fashion sense!  My Aunt, my Grandma, and my Grandpa all met me at the airport.  I RAN into their arms - I was so happy!

The Pacific Northwest may not sound like an ideal place for a young girl to vacation, but it was!  We settled into a nice routine, my grandparents and I.  Early in the morning, the three of us (and sometimes my Aunt) would harvest whatever was ripe in the garden.  Then we'd eat breakfast, usually cold cereal with fresh-picked raspberries, milk, & sugar - YUM!  We'd watch television or go to the store.  My love of old television programs and game shows was lovingly nurtured in that house.  At 3:00 pm, Grandpa and I would do garden chores: planting, staking, watering, dividing, etc.  He tried so hard to teach me how to split wood, but I could never get the hang of it.  Grandma would do the washing and I would hang the laundry on the line to dry.  Grandpa taught me how to mow the lawn, but I never could get the lawnmower to start on my own.  I still can't.  Sometimes we'd all go fishing.  That was the only thing I didn't like because the slugs seemed to be everywhere good fishing could be found.  To this day I feel a little light-headed when I see a slug.  But best of all, they had a kitten waiting for me when I arrived.  A kitten!  Oh, how I wanted a pet growing up!  It was like a dream come true.

Nothing will ever taste as delicious as the green beans that I planted, grew, harvested, snapped, and cooked.  A fresh carrot, straight out of the garden, is one of life's delights.  Picking a raspberry and immediately popping it in your mouth is something that everyone should have the joy to experience.

As it always seems with good times, that Summer ended way too soon.  I flew home.  I wrote them letters about the goings-on of my life.  I missed them.

Something I guess I never realized was that my Grandpa was a sick man the entire time I knew him.  He took a drastic turn for the worse around May or June 1989.  I talked with him on the phone, maybe it was Mother's Day or Father's Day?, and I knew.  I don't know how I knew it.  I wish that I didn't hear it in his voice.  But I knew with certainty.  He was dying.  And he would be dead soon.

I sobbed on my father's lap that night.  In typical childish selfishness, I didn't stop to consider that my father was distraught that his own father was close to death.  But my father, bless him, he held me and told me that it was going to be alright.  His calm assurance was what I needed and he somehow found a way to give it to me though he was suffering too.

My parents and I drove up to visit.  It was unspoken, but I think we all knew that it would be our last visit.  We were set to arrive on July 1, 1989.

My mother insisted that we stop to eat before driving into town.  That was uncharacteristic as we'd usually eat after arriving to their house, but we stopped and filled our bellies.  For some reason I remember that I ordered lasagna. 

When I walked in their living room, I stopped short.  My Grandpa had tubes in his nose.  He was on oxygen.  He sat up to give me a hug and I mumbled something about how happy I was to see him.  I'm ashamed to admit that I was afraid.

I should add that I had never had a loved one die.  I'd never had a pet so I'd never had a pet die.  I never had to deal with grief or learn to heal after loss.  All I knew about death is that it was permanent.

At some point the entire family was assembled in the living room:  my Grandpa, my Grandma, my Aunt, my parents, and myself.  My maternal grandmother had taught me how to crochet some months earlier and I was busily crocheting on the couch beside my Grandma.  I remember that it was a grey mouse that could be made into a magnet.  Grey.  That was an appropriate since all color and light were soon to disappear.

Anyway, I was crocheting and I suddenly looked up.  My Grandpa and I met eyes for a moment.  I smiled at him and finally looked back down at my work.  He moaned and his head pitched forward.  He died.  Just like that.  He was alive in one second and he was dead in the next.

My Aunt and my Dad grabbed him and pulled him to the floor.  They began to administer CPR.  I stood there watching, totally impotent.  My Grandma & I were hustled out of the room by my Mom.  My Mom grabbed the phone and called 911. 

I don't know how long it took for an ambulance to arrive.  I don't even know how I got there, but I slowly became aware that I was sitting on the bench overlooking my Grandpa's garden.  It was drizzling.  That was fitting.  My Mom found me and put me in my Aunt's car.  The family followed the ambulance to the hospital.

We were ushered to a small waiting room when we arrived at the hospital.  It was very small and we were the only people there.  My poor Grandma. . .I can't even imagine how she felt in those moments.  A doctor finally arrived.  And, just like in the movies, he said, "I'm so sorry.  There was nothing we could do."  My Grandma cried out and collapsed into my Dad & my Aunt's arms. 

He had a massive heart attack and there was nothing they could do.  His heart stopped and my heart broke.

There you have it.  The memory that I can't help but relive every July 1st.  The only good thing that comes from remembering this pain is that I also remember the good times.  That one wonderful Summer all those years ago.

My Grandpa drank his buttermilk with salt & pepper.  He taught me how to chew tobacco and let me take a sip out of his Wild Turkey a time or two. He always wore a hat and suspenders. He favored flannel shirts.  He really knew how to fish and he caught the tastiest salmon.  He loved watching Elvira's show and he was kind to animals.  He was an expert at whittling wood and he was extraordinarily creative.  He was the best Grandpa in the world.  And, 21-years later, I still miss him and love him.

Living Well is the Best Revenge

I've been idly following the Phoebe Prince case. For those not in the know, Phoebe Prince was a young girl who was bullied by a group of vile kids from her high school. The harassment was so unbearable to her that she took her life at only 15-years of age.

A group of six teens have been indicted on various charges related to the case. I'm doubtful that any convictions will be reached, but I'm glad that her tormentors are being held accountable for their vicious behavior toward a fellow human being. And I hope that they are forever tormented by the tragic result of their despicable actions.

Tone doesn't come across very well with the written word and in case you didn't pick up on it, I was a major misfit in school. I wasn't well-liked by many kids and I never really fit in with any clique. I didn't have many friends or acquaintances. I was called all sorts of ugly names by nasty kids who seemed intent to make me pretty f*cking miserable in school.

It's sad that a group of kids bullied another kid so severely that she felt suicide was the only way out. It's even sadder that a 15-year old child was so miserable that suicide seemed to be the only way out of her torment. The saddest thing of all though is that this petty high school bullsh*t probably wouldn't have mattered at all to this girl in a few more years.

Generally speaking, the only people who really give a rip about high school once they hit true adulthood are life's losers who peaked in high school. Not everyone can make it in the real world and some precious little snowflakes melt when the heat gets too intense. Sucks to be them.

Being hassled in school inspired me to succeed at life. I accomplished some pretty impressive things at a relatively young age because I was intent to prove that I was better than my tormentors. I look back with a tiny bit of gratitude toward those who were so cruel toward me because they pushed me to be one of life's winners. Living well has been the best revenge.

What could Phoebe Price have accomplished had she been able to hang in there for a few more years? I hope Massachusetts throws the book at her tormentors.

A Tragic Loss

On April 7th, I solicited prayers for a young mother. Several months ago she delivered her premature baby and she ultimately ended up requiring a heart transplant. Other than needing a heart, she appeared to be significantly healed and was home with her family, which includes her husband, their six-year old daughter and infant son. Last week she experienced a brain hemorrhage, leaving her in a coma.

It is with a heavy heart that I write of Wendy Talarico's passing. She is resting with God, but I want to request intercessory prayer for her family. They are understandably grieving and hurting so much.

Please pray for her husband, Frank, who is left to raise their two children without his loving wife. Please pray for their daughter, who is old enough to remember her mother - and miss her. Please pray for their little son, who will never remember his own mother. And please pray for her entire extended family.

It's a true miracle that her family had these last several months together. Modern medicine was at a loss to explain why she recovered to the extent that she did. Perhaps God gave her family that final bit of time together as a gift.

Please keep this family lifted up in prayer. . .

My Biggest Fear

Some people fear public speaking above anything - even above death! As someone who likes having an audience in her hands, I find that hard to believe, but okay. Personally, I'm terrified of death. I'm not afraid of what will happen to me when I die, I'm remarkably unconcerned about that, but I am afraid of what will happen to my husband and my son. Being separated from my family is my biggest fear and I don't want to leave my husband to raise our son all alone. I'd imagine all parents have the same fear.

When my son was about 7-weeks old, I suffered migraines for a solid week. These weren't typical migraines. I mean, I can still find a way to function when my head hurts so bad that I can't function. No, these were much, much worse. One morning I woke up to discover that I couldn't intelligibly speak. I knew in my mind what I was trying to say, but I couldn't form the words and the only sound coming from my mouth was gibberish. I ultimately ended up totally losing the vision in one eye and losing most of the vision in the other eye. I was afraid that I was stroking out and thought that I might die, abandoning my sweet young son. But, no, they were just really horrible migraines. The good news is that the lochia finally stopped just days before the headaches began so at least I didn't have to deal with the baby, the pain (the c-section incision still hurt), and the crazy headaches while feeling like I was bleeding to death.

About a week ago, I told my husband that I'd want to follow him to the grave if anything happened to him, but I have an obligation to raise our son and that responsibility would keep me tethered here on Earth. I don't believe that I'd remarry because there is no way that I would ever find such a wonderful husband, or loving father for our son, ever again. I know it's important for boys to have a man around to emulate and I don't know how I would address that, but my son does have two uncles who leave nearby and I know that I'd be able to count on them when it comes to man-stuff that I just can't do or don't know about.

If anything happened to me. . .well, my husband didn't think that he'd remarry for reasons similar to mine. We're both 1-1 for marriages and the odds of experiencing another awesome relationship just aren't that great. I would want him to remarry though, I can't bear to think of him being lonely and sad. And I want my son to have a mother. I'd prefer it to be me, but if not, I would want him to have a loving step-mother.

Death comes to us all and you never really know when your time is up so it's best to make the most of the time you have. Be kind to your family, be generous with affection, let them know they are loved.

Even When Life is Long, It's Still Too Short

Some days I think that I'll go back to work and put my son in a daycare facility, but not for the reasons you might think. I don't need additional adult stimulation, I don't want to talk about things other than diapers, and we don't particularly need the money.

But I crave the thrill of the sales process. I loved helping people see that they needed what I was offering. And, for those who didn't agree right away, I also loved the follow up. On more than one occasion, I captured a student more than two years after they made the initial contact.

As much as I'd like to sell ice to Eskimos, I feel that staying home to raise my son is important and it is a gift. Infancy and toddlerhood don't last long and I just can't choose my own selfish desire for my career over my son. You only get one shot at raising your children and I don't want to miss out on doing it the way that I think is best for our family.

I've become very aware, sometimes painfully aware, of missed opportunities as I've aged. My life is full of plans that I wish I had made, trips that I wish I had taken, words that I wish I had said. . .

Where am I going with all this? Why am I so pensive tonight? I guess I'm considering life and the choices we make because I lost a very dear friend last night.

Edna Frazier had style. I don't know her age, ladies of a certain age don't discuss such matters, but I would guess somewhere in the late-70s or early-80s. She was always impeccably dressed. Her nails were always neatly manicured and her hair was always attractively coiffured. She always looked beautiful and put together.

She was a wonderfully kind woman. I can't think of a single time that I didn't see a smile on her lovely face. She was very generous and giving. She always complimented me on how handsome my son was, how much she liked his short hair cuts, how cute she thought I dressed him.

Edna holds such a dear spot in my heart because she and her daughter, Cindy, were the only two people at the hospital on "my" side on the day that my son was born. Sure, my husband and his entire family were there. But, for various reasons, no one from my family came to the hospital that day.

My son was scheduled to be born around 8:00 am and he didn't arrive until just shy of 6:00 pm. I have no idea how long Edna and Cindy waited, but it was around 8:00 pm when I finally came out of recovery and they were there.

Though I have two pictures of the first time I met my son in the OR, I don't recall the event. In my memory, the first time I met my son was when my husband brought him to my room. I held out my arms and began crying with joy at the sight of my darling boy. My MIL and my husband's youngest brother were there for just a few moments and left the three of us for the evening. I felt a tremendous rush of love in that moment.

That's when Edna and Cindy walked in my room with balloons, flowers, a personalized welcome sign, an outfit (the one he ended up wearing in his first pictures) & a football (!) for my son, and a baby bootie necklace for me. Perhaps it's because I was in the warm hormonal afterglow of childbirth, perhaps it's because no one else bothered to come, but I always think of Edna, Cindy, and my MIL when I think of that most joyous moment between my husband, myself, and our son. It was a magical moment and I'm glad that they chose to be there and share our joy.

I never told Edna just how special she was to me and I have no choice now but to add that to my list of life regrets. She was so well-loved by her family and friends and she will be sorely missed by all who knew her.

Cindy is an only child and my heart just breaks for her tonight. She was very close to her mother and I know that she must feel devastated. Edna had been ill and spent quite a bit of time in the hospital toward the end, but we're never really ready to say goodbye. Even when life is long, it's still too short. . .