Blueprint

I remember this pain. I remember this sadness, that permeates everything, that makes the sun less warm and the smiles confusing.

There are no cliches for murder trials. There was no blueprint of what-this-might-look-like when it's done. There aren't books to tell me how to get the crime scene images out of my head. There isn't an obituary in the newspaper that lets everyone know it's our tragedy, our time to grieve. We have to figure out this new pain, this re-run of our hearts shattering, this opened raw wound on our own. There isn't weeks to take off of work, there isn't a black armband to wear for a year, no black veil to let me people know to be nicer to us, to be quiet, to please be gentle.

I remember all the crying, the desperation, the unwillingness to accept the new normal and inability to comprehend the depth of the absence, the profundity of my loss. Laughter is tainted, everything feels heavy. I don't know if it should be better doing this now because it's familiar, but it feels worse, it seems so unfair to have to go through this again. I've said they can't kill him again, and they can't, but I am questioning my own spirits survival.

June Was a Big Month...

Which should explain why I only published three blogs over the month.

I was my best friends maid of honor and shared a magical weekend with her family, mine, and a group of some of the most wonderful people on the planet.  I loved taking charge and knowing what needed to be done without her having to tell me, I loved feeling like I was really helping her marry this man, whom I love too; I loved being around all the people, I loved the ceremony of it all, I loved the kids, I loved staying up until sunrise every night with her brother who became a man and a father in the eight years since I had last seen him, I loved all the music and drinking and food, all the quotations that only those of us who were around all weekend really get ("that's what she said"), I loved my sister being such a help to me and everyone and my parents being able to celebrate with us, I loved being around my oldest and best friends for days straight, and I love being included in everything this family that invited me in 20 years ago did.

I spent about 36 hours in Virginia for a wedding that most of this country would consider invalid.  The 'best-of-times-worst-of-times' year of my life was survived because of a small group of friends, a few of whom have survived in this group we call the Jager Girls.  (Yes, that Jager.)  That year in Fayetteville we drank a lot, we fought a little, we never got arrested, and together we survived what was for most of us the most difficult year of our lives.  They are the ones that didn't ask but just showed up after Brendan died; they cooked and brought liquor (Jager, duh) and cigarettes, distraction, tissues, hugs, and so much love.
Around that time two years ago Mel was about to leave the job she had held and excelled at for most of her adult life because they said she couldn't love Dawn and still do her job.  (They are proof, by the way, that that rule is bullshit.)  Dawn and Mel live together in Virginia now and as of early June are happily (and legally, thanks to the District of Columbia) married.  I got to be there to celebrate, help with a garter, drink a lot, cry a little, laugh more than anything, and love some of my favorite women (and some of their children) in the world.

My sister spent the last three years, arguably the most difficult of her life, working on a masters degree from a very important and very expensive school.  She'd argue the ivy is bullshit but damn if it doesn't have a nice ring to it.  She finished in May.  In June (the day I came back to Madison from VA) we had a nice little party for her.  Our sister from another mister gave us the theme, my mom and I brainstormed the map as guestbook, I found Dora napkins, and we had enough sparkling goodness that Megan had a full glass the whole night.  It was lovely.

The day after Megan's party was the day before the 2-year mark of our brother dying.  This year it rained, and there were fewer people, but it was just about perfect.  There was printing and drinking and crying and laughing.  Brendan was remembered, and toasted more than once.  This sting is so much less now than it was even a year ago, yet the absence is larger than ever.  It's been that much longer since I heard him laugh, since I heard him say "HI sister...".  I have some new shirts, and Solve has many more fans.  He'll never be gone, but my life will never be whole.

A few days later, I came back to California.  I wasn't as happy as I should have been to come home, but seeing Aunt and Uncle and the dogs (who helped Uncle pick me up from the bus stop, along with a cold beer hidden under an ice pack) made it warm and loving. 

Now I am moving forward.  Spending lots of time on things that feel good and spending enough time on things that I have to.  I am making decisions and sticking to them.  I am practicing trusting myself.  I am feeling loved.  I am feeling hope.  I am so excited for what's to come.  I am 10 days in to being 29, and it's going to be a great year.

Blowing In The Wind

On July 4th weekend two years ago I arrived back in California with my boyfriend Greg, who had packed me into his truck to carry me home after spending three weeks in Madison following my brother's death.

Today I had lunch on the porch at the farm, with my aunt and uncle and two friends, and I was staring absentmindedly at some laundry I had hanging to dry when I focused on a shirt that was just screen printed on the day we commemorated the two year mark of Brendan's death.  It's a print of his face from a photo where he had aviator shades and a cigar in his mouth that was shaped into a cocky smile.  He would have been laughing when the photo was taken.

The shirt was inside out blowing in the breeze.  Two years ago I was in the cab of a Toyota Tacoma curled up on the passenger seat wearing my brother's sweatshirt that still smelled so much like him.  I remember being hot and crying into it a lot and wanting to sleep and erase reality.  Today was a gloriously beautiful day, hot and sunny but breezy; we drank some tumblers of cold dry rose with lunch, and I watched a shirt with my brothers face on it blow in the wind. 

Today my brothers sweatshirt hangs from the back of a chair in my room and smells mostly like dust, but if you bury your face deep enough there's still a faint whiff of Brendan.  I guess I should wash it when I pack to leave here in a few months, as it's hard to justify not washing it for even this long.  I'll probably hang it on the porch to dry, as clothes dry so quickly in the dry heat we get here in the summer. 

C&R left early this morning for Mexico...

In the car on the way to the airport I told them about something that happened last night that was horrible and terrifying.  It was resolved, but such a scare left me in a bit of a haze. 
A few hours later I wrote them this email:

"So,

I have the most anxious dreams last night that consist of being late to a choir concert, to my best friends wedding, not having the dress altered, not having make up on, being locked out of the hotel room and when I finally get in finding they have taped over everything in the shower to fix something.
As I'm standing in the kitchen this morning looking at the oil and vinegar next to the stove (irl) I remember that part of the dream was also that you had turned around and come home from the airport because they wouldn't let you check everything that you wanted to.  (In the dream Colleen you were defiantly telling Ridge I'll make that same stuff without all this, you won't even know the difference.)
I'm so glad you weren't actually back home.  Not because I (and the pups of course) don't want you here but because you two of all the folks in the world deserve some sun on your bods and smiles on your faces - 2 things I think you'll be able to find on that Mexican beach.

So.  After one of the weirdest (horrible) nights, feeling such darkness and desperation, albeit briefly, last night, then with those dreams, then when I finally decide to pay attention to things around me and can handle whatever might be in the roll on the coffee table, then I read your note on it Colleen, and then I cry because I don't know what else to do.  Then I unroll Brendan's painting, and it is, and it's different then I remember, but more beautiful then I could ever imagine.

I don't know what planets are shifting or passing or setting, but in a completely weird moment I am so grateful for these dogs, so grateful to be here at this place, and so grateful for you.  (In no particular order.)

I love you,
Ole!
Caitlin"

'Tis...

Now is the moment, before the parties and the hugs and the reunions and all the things that I know I will be "on" for, when I question if I can do it, when I feel my most fragile and my most sad. 

I realize what I am in a room of people, be it three others that I know when or 50 that I may not, that I attract attention.  I have since I was a child although I've owned it since I was a teenager.  Usually I like the attention, I like the energy, I like that I can feel close to people fairly quickly with little more than a smile and a touch on the arm.

It has been a very busy two months and I have not taken almost any time for myself.  I don't know what this would have meant two years ago but now it means I haven't allowed myself to think too much about how much I miss my brother.  I realized that some nights ago when I found myself on the floor in a ball sobbing for I have no idea how long hoping it wouldn't hurt as much the next day.

So now is the lull; the busy push of our harvest and holiday season is over, and I am days away from being in Wisconsin then New York for a couple weeks, for the purpose of seeing my family, some friends, and having a good time.  Now is the morning when I wake up wondering how I am going to make sure there is a smile on my face for Christmas with my family here, for Christmas with my family there, for the party at my parents house we've turned into an annual event, for dinners, for reunions with friends in New York...  These are all things I've been looking forward to for months, and I know I will get there, but I have to find my way. 

Today I shall be quiet.  Today I will let it be ok for me not to be anything for anybody else.  Today I have no obligation and no pressure.  Today I can cry whenever I want to.  Today I will look forward to Christmas however I am moved to, be it enjoying the ridiculously Jesus-y carols or scowling at people as they cheerfully shop.

Aftershocks

I have spent a couple of months not thinking about my brothers absence.

My group grief counseling ended some months ago and I have not sought out more. The group sessions were a mostly pleasant and vaguely helpful exercise, but I don't know if I could name any lasting effects. (Other than everyone confirming that it must be much harder to lose a brother to murder than an elderly parent to age.)

There are shows happening in Madison, a tribute downtown by other artists and a show in our high school of his own work. Other things are being planned, his dear friends are continuing their work in spreading his legacy with the website, and so it continues.

It's hard to explain what I mean when I say I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about Brendan or his death in the last couple of months... I am always thinking about him in the sense that he, or his memory, is always present somewhere in my mind, just as I don't technically forget that he's dead. But it's almost like I've taken a vacation from grief, and frankly it really hasn't done me any good.

I've found myself thinking of his murderer as I fall asleep, not just at night but when I try and take naps. It's the subject that is most painful and difficult to face so when my guards and consciousness are most relaxed it confronts my mind. I wake up feeling unsettled and tense, like something is wrong and you can't figure out what it is nor can you fix it. In this case I do know what it is, but I certainly can't fix it.

The sadness and anger hits me harder now, and more suddenly. I feel like the best way to describe my state is functionally devastated. More than a year has passed since Brendan died so if there was one, the official period of mourning would be over. I talk to his friends less and less, we've passed all the holidays and birthdays at least once, and it's just not new anymore for most people...
To us, it's Always new.
I wish I could describe it more accurately but I don't know how.
The pain, while duller, is just as painful. The absence is just as large if not larger. The things that remind us how much we miss him are more numerous the more days that pass. As I accept how much I want my own children one day I grow equally angry they won't get to know their Uncle, and that he won't get to know my children. It is devastatingly unfair that he won't get to have children and that I won't get to know my nieces or nephews.

So while my brother is always on my mind, I'm not thinking moment to moment about what I'm missing. These days rather than a steady absence, I will remember suddenly, at the deepest part of a deep breath, that Brendan's not coming back; rather than a constant numbness it's short and brutal.

I am exhausted.

Dreamsharer/Go With It

I love telling people about my dreams.

I especially love telling people when they played a role it the dream. In fact, I wish I knew more about me showing up in other peoples dreams. I can't remember the last time that anybody told me about one. In fact, I can't remember the last time anybody told me about a dream period.

Is sharing your dreams with people a social faux pas? I know your own dreams are never as interesting to someone else as they are to yourself, but I just find them fascinating. A glimpse into our unconsciousness that's unavailable through any other avenue. Why not share?

I feel like my dreams have gotten closer and closer to my waking thoughts in the last couple of years. I used to have dreams that had characters in them that were ostensibly people I knew in real life but were so ludicrous and physically impossible that they wouldn't really affect me much beyond thinking I had a funny dream.

My anxiety dreams alwas used to be about calculus. Usually centering around not knowing where a final was or having a final and not having opened the book nor attending a class all semester. (By the way I haven't been in a math class since first semester freshman year in college. So, almost a decade.) These days I dream about things that have concrete connections to my real life. For example, my sister and I spent many hours planning a 40th wedding anniversary party for my parents last month. In the week before I flew home, I had a very vivid dream that I was in my parents house as I realized not only was our entire neighborhood starting to burn, but that our house was on fire. The only thing I could think was that I had to save my parents wedding photo album.

I've found also that my dreams have a weird way of being a reality check for me. That house burning dream forced me to admit, although not out loud, that I was really stressing out about the planning and worried about all the things that could go wrong. I tend to dream about men that I'm attracted to, whether or not there is actual sexual content in the dream, and I wake up having to own up to it to myself. Which is a good thing actually, but can be really frustrating when in the dream I was cuddled up to a man-friend but when I wake it's a teddy bear.

This is not to say that I think my unconscious thoughts are truths that I need to face up to. I had a dream that involved my ex, who in real life just had a baby with his new wife, and his mother and me, and I really wanted to tell him how much I cared about him and was happy for him. In real life, while I wish him no harm, I certainly don't have anything I need to say to him.

I know I've considered more seriously dreams since Brendan died, which from what I understand is pretty standard in grief. Dreams took on a new meaning for me last summer, when things were still so sharp and so very painful, and I had some dreams with and about Brendan. In the dreams I felt him alive, and that of course made it that much more difficult to wake up. The one I remember most vividly was one night before I was traveling home for a weekend. In the dream it was present tense, we were walking around I think Chicago, and I was explaining to Brendan what had happened and why he'd been gone for a few months. I skipped the part about him dying, because he couldn't have, because I was talking to him. At the end of the dream we were just sitting somewhere and I really had to pee. I told him, "I'm not going to go. I'll hold it. I'll stay asleep, so don't go anywhere. I'm staying asleep." That was the hardest dream to wake up from.

One of the better words of advice and comfort I've received from anyone was from one of my grief counselors. I was telling her about this dream and saying how badly, how desperately I wanted it to really be Brendan, how much I felt that this was him somehow but I didn't know if it was or if it felt like it was because I wanted it to be so badly. Her response? "Who cares?" I hadn't thought about it like that. She pointed out that whatever it was, why question it? Why diagnose and analyze it? It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.

It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.

When it rains...

My sister and I are planning a 40th wedding anniversary party for our parents. Since they happened to be married 39 years and one week exactly before their youngest child was killed, this has turned out to much more of an emotional enterprise than it might normally be.

My head is spinning - the planning of everything (anniversary party, somehow marking Megan's 30th although she is trying to pass it off, and then commemorating Brendan on the anniversary of his death) is taking a lot more time and energy than I bargained for. It's all happily spent and well worth it, but I am exhausted. I fly back to Wisconsin in two days and am preparing to strap in and enjoy the ride.

It's always the best and the worst of times, isn't it? A huge happy milestone so intrinsically intertwined with tragic loss and heartbreak. I am ready to celebrate and commemorate, and then I will be ready to take a big breath, and a long nap.

p. 188

"Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with lost. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be 'healing.' A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to 'get through it,' rise to the occasion, exhibit the 'strength' that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to seel ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heard of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself."

-Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking, Ch. 17

Loss

Eight years ago today I woke up to my parents ringing the bell at my apartment on Carroll Street, my sophomore year in college, it was a Saturday. They had come to tell me that my cousin Ellen had been killed in a car accident the night before, where she lived about an hour outside of Madison.
She was 15, and was a passenger in a car with three schoolmates who were also killed.
She was a singer, she had an older sister by two years and a brother who is my age, five years older.
We called her Ellie and she was beautiful.

Some hours later, late morning I think, I was sitting with my roommates and some friends when we got a call from one of our best friends, who is still one of my closest. His voice was not steady when I answered, and he said, "It's Carlos. They don't think he's going to make it." Carlos was his younger brother, a freshman at our college, who had fallen from a balcony at a party late the night before, and was now in the ICU at the hospital.
They called Carlos "The Golden Child" and I think he set some sort of record for the amount of visitors in that room. Everyone who knew him loved him. He was his parents youngest child and Tommy's only sibling.

I came home from Ellen's funeral that Wednesday to find out that they had pronounced Carlos dead. His funeral was that following Saturday.

I think of Ellen and Carlos often. In fact, some weeks after Brendan died it was a moment of pure comfort when I realized how often I think of them... that means that they don't just disappear, which was my fear. I know it is a habit to accentuate the good of people who have passed on, but in these cases I don't think we did. I believe they all actually shined that bright.

I have no big insights to share with you even considering my new perspective on loss. Don't try to imagine it; it's worse than you can imagine and your imagining doesn't help you or anybody, so spend that energy maybe lighting a candle, saying a prayer if that's your thing, or just taking a deep peaceful breath and enjoying it.
And tell the ones you love that you do.

In One Moment

It is becoming more beautiful and warm every day here in wine country, feeling more and more like a new season - it's light when we wake and when we finish dinner, and we can walk around outside barefoot. It's a happy time, a transformative time.

I have thought a lot in the last week or so about death and grief. The weekend before last, four police officers in Oakland were murdered by a man who was then shot and killed by police. It was a shockingly violent event, even though we have become accustomed to hearing about hatred and violence and general disregard for human life.

That same day there was a private plane crash in Montana that killed three young families from here in Northern California. Three whole families were gone in an instant as their plane nosedived to the ground. Two of them had two children each and one had three. It is difficult to wrap my mind around what that scale of death means because, while we hear about intense violence every day from other parts of the world, these families lived mere hours from me. Their photos looked like photos of my family 25 years ago. I can relate to what their lives were like before they got on that plane, and that makes what happened after harder to comprehend.

This past Wednesday I went to the second weekly meeting of my 8-week group grief counseling program, where I sit for two and a half hours with other people in various stages of grief. This last time I felt like I actually started to get to know, and like, some of the other group members, although our backgrounds and "grief stories" are all drastically different. I think my participation in these sessions might be able to explain how I've been processing this recent series of sudden, local, and publicized deaths. I've found myself pondering much more the ones left behind - the sister, wife, and father of a policeman who died, the siblings or colleagues of the families on the plane, the mutual friends of those families, the police officers who were in the same units as the ones who were killed, and the family of the man who killed the police officers.

How does one process shock and the early stages of grief when it is seems so collective? The funeral for the policeman in Oakland more than filled the arena where it was held (that normally houses basketball games or massive concerts); so much so that there was overflow into the adjacent coliseum. News reports of the plane crash are still in the paper and on the air. While the public has moved on to dissecting the why's and the hows (Why was this man out on parole? Why did the plane change its destination at the last minute?), I know those who grieve for the ones gone are still just trying to survive each day.

The way I processed the juxtaposition of spring, with all its glorious sunshine, warmth, and blossoms, with the darkness of the violent deaths of my Northern California neighbors was as an observer. I do not grieve for the ones who died yet neither do I feel completely outside of the experience. I felt like I was standing back and watching two different screens of reality put on top of one another to create a completely different image, but yet the images and I are within the same warm bright pocket that is spring. For me it was a new sensation; rather than just feeling or thinking it was an interesting combination of the two.

I hope for the families of all those that were killed that even for just a moment they have been able to turn their faces upward and feel the warmth coming from above.