I am getting nostralgic. Yes, you read that correctly. For all of Eric’s academic accomplishments, there are some under-achievements that will always make me laugh. Like when he told us he was feeling nostralgic. I tried to put that in as a quote in my high school yearbook, but the editors “fixed” my apparent typo.
Then there was the time we were driving down the highway and Eric wanted to go to a store he saw. It took us a while to realize that he meant the furniture store Ethan Allen because he was saying it with a short e. Once he realized it was a furniture store he didn’t want to go anymore.
Another time we were in Friendly’s (a great ice cream store, one thing I truly miss about the Northeast), and Eric spotted a type of ice cream he thought he might want to try. It was green and he had always liked that color. He asked for some Pistach-I-o walnut.
The best mispronunciation, however, took place when we were visiting Epcot Center at Disney World in Florida. I think I was around 10, so Eric would have been around 7. We had dinner in the “Spain” restaurant. It was really well done. We knew we were inside, but it looked like we were outside. The ceiling was painted black with recessed fairy lights twinkling like stars. The wait staff was all dressed appropriately and the menus were in Spanish. It had been a great day at Disney World and we were all still getting along and having a nice family dinner.
At some point during dinner Eric had to go to the bathroom. When he came back to the table he announced in his high little voice boy, loud enough for almost everyone in the restaurant to hear, “Mom, you’re a damn ass.” There was a long moment of silence before someone figured out he meant damas, the Spanish word for lady, that he had seen written on the door of the ladies room.
The laughter that followed has been repeated at many a family get together as we told and re-told that story and the others.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
#65 Eric's way
I've been thinking about what this blog would be like if Eric were writing it. First of all, it would be a lot funnier as evidenced by the last post. It would also have cost a lot more money. I am doing this very low tech. I write my posts in a word document on my almost three year old laptop, then transfer them to blogger, a free service. My tech support and editing are provided by my husband who charges a very reasonable fee. Nothing.
Eric would have first had to buy a new computer. Clearly his old computer would not have been up to the task, he would need the latest and greatest, preferably Mac, with all the bells and whistles.
Then he would have needed to go back to school and get a degree in web design and/or blogging.
After that he would have to hire a web designer, because he would have other things to do with his time and would need someone else on it full time.
He would have had to buy a domain name.
Next he would have hired a consultant on content. Only the most unique topic would do, something that everyone would want to read.
Then would come the editor and creative team to help craft the perfect piece on the perfect content.
There would have to be pollsters and market researchers, and possibly a patent attorney if he came up with something truly different.
Finally there would be the PR and Marketing teams to get the blog out there.
Eventually that would lead to the clothing line and the movie and Eric would need a whole host of other people for that.
Eric never did anything halfway, and he always hired the best.
It’s a good thing this blog is mine and not his; otherwise I’d never be able to afford it.
Eric would have first had to buy a new computer. Clearly his old computer would not have been up to the task, he would need the latest and greatest, preferably Mac, with all the bells and whistles.
Then he would have needed to go back to school and get a degree in web design and/or blogging.
After that he would have to hire a web designer, because he would have other things to do with his time and would need someone else on it full time.
He would have had to buy a domain name.
Next he would have hired a consultant on content. Only the most unique topic would do, something that everyone would want to read.
Then would come the editor and creative team to help craft the perfect piece on the perfect content.
There would have to be pollsters and market researchers, and possibly a patent attorney if he came up with something truly different.
Finally there would be the PR and Marketing teams to get the blog out there.
Eventually that would lead to the clothing line and the movie and Eric would need a whole host of other people for that.
Eric never did anything halfway, and he always hired the best.
It’s a good thing this blog is mine and not his; otherwise I’d never be able to afford it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
#64 In the present timeframe
“Still kind of waiting for my Nevada Day cards
I will be very hurt if you-all forgot (again).”
This is the only email I still have from Eric. I’m kind of compulsive about cleaning out my email inbox. I don’t like there to be unread messages, they make me anxious. I will only leave a message unread if it is to remind me to do something. Every few weeks or months I go through and delete old messages and threads that I don’t need anymore. I like it if my inbox can fit on one screen. That means I have lost so many funny emails from Eric.
The above was pretty funny and totally unprovoked. Who even knew there was a Nevada Day? It was the only email from him I had not already deleted, and now I never will.
I have been having technical difficulties for days trying to watch a video the hospital system has added to its credentialing requirements. I have been on the phone with tech support multiple times. I finally managed to watch the first of the two, one hour videos in its entirety, and now I can’t get the quiz to work. This should not be this hard.
It reminded me of Eric’s master’s program. He was taking courses online and would get email assignments. Some of them had such poor grammar, you literally couldn’t figure out what you were supposed to do. Some of them had the wrong due dates on them leading to inadvertent late filings. Eric would share the best of these with me. Unfortunately I no longer have these emails or I would share them with you.
I miss Eric’s spontaneous omnipresent humor. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t see the lighter side of, and there were few times he couldn’t make me laugh.
Humor about Eric is still painful. He wouldn’t like that. He would want us to joke about him, so I try, even though it sometimes falls flat. Maybe someday it’ll be easier, but then again, maybe not.
At least I still get a smile when I see my email about Nevada Day.
Addendum: After I wrote this and passed it by my editor (my husband) it came to pass in the present timeframe that my editor is not so anal about cleaning out his email inbox. Here is the email from Eric that I was talking about. I dare you not to laugh while reading it.
The following is an assignment from Master's program. It is eight
sentences long.
"History shows that there was a catastrophic occurrence of a casino
property in Las Vegas."
Really? Few Las Vegans would argue that the "occurence" of a casino
property is catastrophic. We tend to work at casino properties. As
an aside, did you learn English yesterday?
"Specifically, there was a devastating fire of the MGM Grand
Hotel/Casino on the Las Vegas strip."
Apparently so. How about a devastating fire "at" the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino?
"There needed to be reconstruction of that property in the previous timeframe."
This reads like something google automatically translated from
Vietnamese...sometime in the "previous timeframe." Either that or
I've joined the cast of "Back to the Future IV." Marty! We must
restore the previous timeframe!
"Compared to that previous timeframe there needs to be reconstruction
of that property in the current timeframe."
Compared to that previous timeframe I had more respect for my Master's
program than I do in the current timeframe.
"1. You are currently the CEO of the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino strip
property in Las Vegas.
2. You have the responsibility to direct your Vice President of
Planning and Operations to form an Executive Team with the purpose of
formulating a proposal plan for dealing with catastrophic events such
as fire (as occurred with the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino previously)."
Did your Mom write these sentences for you in the previous timeframe?
Be honest.
"3. The Executive Team is charged with researching the process of
reconstruction conducted by the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino from the
previous timeframe."
Again with "the previous timeframe." You keep using the phrase. I do
not think it means what you think it means...assuming it means
anything.
"4. Lastly, the Executive Team is charged with preparing a detailed
comparative proposal plan analyzing the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino
previous process of reconstruction versus a current and improved
process of reconstruction for the current MGM Grand Hotel/Casino in
case of a catastrophic fire occurrence."
Ughhh....you get the point.
I will be very hurt if you-all forgot (again).”
This is the only email I still have from Eric. I’m kind of compulsive about cleaning out my email inbox. I don’t like there to be unread messages, they make me anxious. I will only leave a message unread if it is to remind me to do something. Every few weeks or months I go through and delete old messages and threads that I don’t need anymore. I like it if my inbox can fit on one screen. That means I have lost so many funny emails from Eric.
The above was pretty funny and totally unprovoked. Who even knew there was a Nevada Day? It was the only email from him I had not already deleted, and now I never will.
I have been having technical difficulties for days trying to watch a video the hospital system has added to its credentialing requirements. I have been on the phone with tech support multiple times. I finally managed to watch the first of the two, one hour videos in its entirety, and now I can’t get the quiz to work. This should not be this hard.
It reminded me of Eric’s master’s program. He was taking courses online and would get email assignments. Some of them had such poor grammar, you literally couldn’t figure out what you were supposed to do. Some of them had the wrong due dates on them leading to inadvertent late filings. Eric would share the best of these with me. Unfortunately I no longer have these emails or I would share them with you.
I miss Eric’s spontaneous omnipresent humor. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t see the lighter side of, and there were few times he couldn’t make me laugh.
Humor about Eric is still painful. He wouldn’t like that. He would want us to joke about him, so I try, even though it sometimes falls flat. Maybe someday it’ll be easier, but then again, maybe not.
At least I still get a smile when I see my email about Nevada Day.
Addendum: After I wrote this and passed it by my editor (my husband) it came to pass in the present timeframe that my editor is not so anal about cleaning out his email inbox. Here is the email from Eric that I was talking about. I dare you not to laugh while reading it.
The following is an assignment from Master's program. It is eight
sentences long.
"History shows that there was a catastrophic occurrence of a casino
property in Las Vegas."
Really? Few Las Vegans would argue that the "occurence" of a casino
property is catastrophic. We tend to work at casino properties. As
an aside, did you learn English yesterday?
"Specifically, there was a devastating fire of the MGM Grand
Hotel/Casino on the Las Vegas strip."
Apparently so. How about a devastating fire "at" the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino?
"There needed to be reconstruction of that property in the previous timeframe."
This reads like something google automatically translated from
Vietnamese...sometime in the "previous timeframe." Either that or
I've joined the cast of "Back to the Future IV." Marty! We must
restore the previous timeframe!
"Compared to that previous timeframe there needs to be reconstruction
of that property in the current timeframe."
Compared to that previous timeframe I had more respect for my Master's
program than I do in the current timeframe.
"1. You are currently the CEO of the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino strip
property in Las Vegas.
2. You have the responsibility to direct your Vice President of
Planning and Operations to form an Executive Team with the purpose of
formulating a proposal plan for dealing with catastrophic events such
as fire (as occurred with the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino previously)."
Did your Mom write these sentences for you in the previous timeframe?
Be honest.
"3. The Executive Team is charged with researching the process of
reconstruction conducted by the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino from the
previous timeframe."
Again with "the previous timeframe." You keep using the phrase. I do
not think it means what you think it means...assuming it means
anything.
"4. Lastly, the Executive Team is charged with preparing a detailed
comparative proposal plan analyzing the MGM Grand Hotel/Casino
previous process of reconstruction versus a current and improved
process of reconstruction for the current MGM Grand Hotel/Casino in
case of a catastrophic fire occurrence."
Ughhh....you get the point.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
#63 Absence
The loss of a person is so hard to comprehend. It’s hard to define an absence.
As a neuro-ophthalmologist I see patients with visual field defects. These come in many shapes and patterns, but some of the hardest are the homonymous hemianopias. This is when the patient loses half of the vision out of each eye; for example the right half of the right eye and the right half of the left eye. For this person all of the peripheral vision to the right is gone. Some of these patients don’t realize how extensive their visual field loss is until I point it out to them. After all it’s not like they see a big black cloud where they used to have vision, they just don’t see something on the right until they’ve already bumped into it. This is why they can’t drive. It can be hard to notice the absence of vision until someone points it out to you, as strange as that seems.
I grew up with a girl who was born hard of hearing. I was fascinated by sign language and we became good friends for a time. I was initially surprised when I asked her if she missed hearing and she said no. Then I realized you can’t miss what you’ve never had. For her sound wasn’t an absence, it just wasn’t anything.
Life would be easier if I had never had a brother; then I wouldn’t be feeling all of this pain. But I don’t wish that. I’m glad we got to grow up together, to play and fight together. I’m glad he got to know my husband and my children and that they got to know him.
It’s still sometimes hard for me to realize that he is really and truly gone. After all he wasn’t in my life in person often. We communicated mostly over the phone and through email. The absence of his physical presence was almost a norm already.
The absence of phone messages and emails can sometimes be swallowed by the busy work day or the demanding children or the need to make dinner.
Sometimes his absence is just too huge to deal with. I’m afraid if I lose it, I’ll never get it back.
The pupil is the structure in the eye, that isn’t really a structure. It’s a hole that lets light in to the eye. If this hole were covered with tissue, you wouldn’t be able to see.
Eric is the part of me that no one else can see. That’s all I have left of him. But if you take that away, I wouldn’t be me.
As a neuro-ophthalmologist I see patients with visual field defects. These come in many shapes and patterns, but some of the hardest are the homonymous hemianopias. This is when the patient loses half of the vision out of each eye; for example the right half of the right eye and the right half of the left eye. For this person all of the peripheral vision to the right is gone. Some of these patients don’t realize how extensive their visual field loss is until I point it out to them. After all it’s not like they see a big black cloud where they used to have vision, they just don’t see something on the right until they’ve already bumped into it. This is why they can’t drive. It can be hard to notice the absence of vision until someone points it out to you, as strange as that seems.
I grew up with a girl who was born hard of hearing. I was fascinated by sign language and we became good friends for a time. I was initially surprised when I asked her if she missed hearing and she said no. Then I realized you can’t miss what you’ve never had. For her sound wasn’t an absence, it just wasn’t anything.
Life would be easier if I had never had a brother; then I wouldn’t be feeling all of this pain. But I don’t wish that. I’m glad we got to grow up together, to play and fight together. I’m glad he got to know my husband and my children and that they got to know him.
It’s still sometimes hard for me to realize that he is really and truly gone. After all he wasn’t in my life in person often. We communicated mostly over the phone and through email. The absence of his physical presence was almost a norm already.
The absence of phone messages and emails can sometimes be swallowed by the busy work day or the demanding children or the need to make dinner.
Sometimes his absence is just too huge to deal with. I’m afraid if I lose it, I’ll never get it back.
The pupil is the structure in the eye, that isn’t really a structure. It’s a hole that lets light in to the eye. If this hole were covered with tissue, you wouldn’t be able to see.
Eric is the part of me that no one else can see. That’s all I have left of him. But if you take that away, I wouldn’t be me.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
#62 Compartmentalization
My emotions have been like a roller coaster lately. One day I’m down, the next I’m not. Sometimes it changes in an hour or less. How can I write a blog that makes me cry one moment and then go see a patient the next? How can I be missing Eric fiercely one moment and then the next moment not be thinking about him at all? I don’t know, but I can.
I think I compartmentalize really well. For the most part I can leave my personal life at the door of the exam room and focus on the patient inside. Sometimes I break through, when a patient shares a story that touches me or frustrates me to the point of wanting to run screaming from the room, but most of the time I can do better than just hold it together. I’m definitely doing better than I was a few months ago when it was all I could do to walk to the exam room and even thinking about seeing a patient totally exhausted me.
I have always had the ability to compartmentalize, but I’ve never had to hold something this big at bay. Some days I think it’s amazing I can do it at all.
If I didn’t, I’d go totally crazy, but knowing that I do can seem wrong. How can I not be thinking about my brother? I don’t want him to fade away and become part of the past. I’m scared that if I compartmentalize too much, I’ll lose him more than I already have.
It’s moments like this, thinking about this, when it all seems fresh again. And yet not, somehow. Time heals. But what if I don’t want to be healed? I don’t want to move on and only create memories without him. I don’t. But I have to. And so I compartmentalize. Because I can’t break down when I’m treating a patient. And I can’t break down when I’m picking my sons up from school. And I can’t break down when I’m driving or out with friends or at the pool.
So I do it in small increments. I let it out here, to you. I think about him as I fall asleep and when I wake up. I think about him when I’m drinking my coffee on my back porch. In the quiet moments. When I can.
I think I compartmentalize really well. For the most part I can leave my personal life at the door of the exam room and focus on the patient inside. Sometimes I break through, when a patient shares a story that touches me or frustrates me to the point of wanting to run screaming from the room, but most of the time I can do better than just hold it together. I’m definitely doing better than I was a few months ago when it was all I could do to walk to the exam room and even thinking about seeing a patient totally exhausted me.
I have always had the ability to compartmentalize, but I’ve never had to hold something this big at bay. Some days I think it’s amazing I can do it at all.
If I didn’t, I’d go totally crazy, but knowing that I do can seem wrong. How can I not be thinking about my brother? I don’t want him to fade away and become part of the past. I’m scared that if I compartmentalize too much, I’ll lose him more than I already have.
It’s moments like this, thinking about this, when it all seems fresh again. And yet not, somehow. Time heals. But what if I don’t want to be healed? I don’t want to move on and only create memories without him. I don’t. But I have to. And so I compartmentalize. Because I can’t break down when I’m treating a patient. And I can’t break down when I’m picking my sons up from school. And I can’t break down when I’m driving or out with friends or at the pool.
So I do it in small increments. I let it out here, to you. I think about him as I fall asleep and when I wake up. I think about him when I’m drinking my coffee on my back porch. In the quiet moments. When I can.
Friday, June 25, 2010
#61 Stop the world I want to get off
Life is relentless. It drags you forward whether you want to go or not. Sometimes you kick and scream, sometimes you joyfully float on its current, but you always move forward.
There are times when doing something new feels like a betrayal of Eric. Then there are times when I don’t even think about it and it hits me later. And that feels worse.
I know I have to go on. Life gives you no choice. The days keep coming, the hours keep moving and you have to keep up. Much as I want to I can’t even slow it down, let alone make it stop.
My kids keep growing and learning and changing. They constantly say crazy things that I wish I could share with Eric. I hate that he is missing them.
I want to freeze the world, just stop and chill and pause. Like a DVR for real life. I just want to catch my breath before the world rips it from me again.
There are too many things to do, to schedule, to orchestrate and too many things to feel. There is never enough time and never time to process. One task leads to another and another and then collapse and do it all again the next day.
Did I feel this so much before? I don’t know. I’m so conscious of the time that’s passing, of the time without Eric. The time that’s making my children older, me older. The time that’s wasted in mundane details like laundry, or dishes or work.
Time is a gift, a constant, a chore, a hamster wheel. Time is life. Life is relentless
There are times when doing something new feels like a betrayal of Eric. Then there are times when I don’t even think about it and it hits me later. And that feels worse.
I know I have to go on. Life gives you no choice. The days keep coming, the hours keep moving and you have to keep up. Much as I want to I can’t even slow it down, let alone make it stop.
My kids keep growing and learning and changing. They constantly say crazy things that I wish I could share with Eric. I hate that he is missing them.
I want to freeze the world, just stop and chill and pause. Like a DVR for real life. I just want to catch my breath before the world rips it from me again.
There are too many things to do, to schedule, to orchestrate and too many things to feel. There is never enough time and never time to process. One task leads to another and another and then collapse and do it all again the next day.
Did I feel this so much before? I don’t know. I’m so conscious of the time that’s passing, of the time without Eric. The time that’s making my children older, me older. The time that’s wasted in mundane details like laundry, or dishes or work.
Time is a gift, a constant, a chore, a hamster wheel. Time is life. Life is relentless
Thursday, June 24, 2010
#60 Splash!
It’s amazing how many things in life remind you of other people. It doesn’t faze me when something makes me think about my husband, or a friend, or a parent, but due to his loss, there’s always a pang when it’s Eric.
Last week we visited my in-laws and took the kids to the town pool. This is always one of the highlights of our summer visits. They have a fabulous town pool. The pool starts at zero depth and gradually gets deeper so even the littlest toddlers can feel safe and secure at some point. There is a water slide for little kids, of which my 3 year is still afraid, and one for big kids which my 6 year old mastered. There is a deep area for swimming and some shady mushroom like overhangs, right in the shallow end, for Moms. There is even a little splash area in the shallow end.
My 6 year old can swim well although he initially hated the water. Now he loves it and really needs minimal watching at the pool. My 3 year old loves and fears the water all at the same time. He has taken swimming lessons, but still hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet. On this visit, he discovered the splash park next to the pool. Here was an area where he could get wet, but not have to submerge. Somewhere he could run into and out of quickly and without Mommy’s help. Apart from being splashed in the face (which he hates) it was heaven for him. Independence and cool water toys; what more could a 3 year old want?
It occurred to me that Eric would have loved the splash park, both as a kid and as an adult. Eric and I grew up in a town with a lot of lakes. We both took swimming lessons in those lakes and Eric hated them. My mother has pictures of him crying in those lessons. He eventually did learn to swim, and swim well, but it was a process. My memories of going to the “beach” (a lake in our town) growing up were of me swimming and Eric digging in the sand. Although it ultimately turned out that the Chinese were safe from his digging efforts, they might have felt a lot more comfortable had we had a splash park.
Even as an adult I can see Eric liking the splash park; or at least liking playing with my kids there. We have a smaller splash park at our pool (we have a cool pool too, but not as cool as my in-laws’…) and I’m sure Eric has played with my kids there. Only I can’t really picture it. I don’t know if it’s something I’m imagining or something that really happened but I just wasn’t paying that much attention. I didn’t know I needed to.
Thinking of Eric at the splash park brightened my day. Sometimes thinking of him makes me sad, or angry, but that day, it made a good day even better.
Last week we visited my in-laws and took the kids to the town pool. This is always one of the highlights of our summer visits. They have a fabulous town pool. The pool starts at zero depth and gradually gets deeper so even the littlest toddlers can feel safe and secure at some point. There is a water slide for little kids, of which my 3 year is still afraid, and one for big kids which my 6 year old mastered. There is a deep area for swimming and some shady mushroom like overhangs, right in the shallow end, for Moms. There is even a little splash area in the shallow end.
My 6 year old can swim well although he initially hated the water. Now he loves it and really needs minimal watching at the pool. My 3 year old loves and fears the water all at the same time. He has taken swimming lessons, but still hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet. On this visit, he discovered the splash park next to the pool. Here was an area where he could get wet, but not have to submerge. Somewhere he could run into and out of quickly and without Mommy’s help. Apart from being splashed in the face (which he hates) it was heaven for him. Independence and cool water toys; what more could a 3 year old want?
It occurred to me that Eric would have loved the splash park, both as a kid and as an adult. Eric and I grew up in a town with a lot of lakes. We both took swimming lessons in those lakes and Eric hated them. My mother has pictures of him crying in those lessons. He eventually did learn to swim, and swim well, but it was a process. My memories of going to the “beach” (a lake in our town) growing up were of me swimming and Eric digging in the sand. Although it ultimately turned out that the Chinese were safe from his digging efforts, they might have felt a lot more comfortable had we had a splash park.
Even as an adult I can see Eric liking the splash park; or at least liking playing with my kids there. We have a smaller splash park at our pool (we have a cool pool too, but not as cool as my in-laws’…) and I’m sure Eric has played with my kids there. Only I can’t really picture it. I don’t know if it’s something I’m imagining or something that really happened but I just wasn’t paying that much attention. I didn’t know I needed to.
Thinking of Eric at the splash park brightened my day. Sometimes thinking of him makes me sad, or angry, but that day, it made a good day even better.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
#59 It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to
Today is my birthday. The first one without Eric since I turned 2. That little interloper came, and stayed and wrecked the perfect life I had going on. I even asked my Mom when he was going home, but never really got a satisfactory answer.
We used to have to lock my closet doors because he would get in there and open up my games and throw the pieces all over my room.
In my memory he had the bigger room in the house where we lived when he was born, but my Mom assures me this isn’t true. We moved when I was 4, so I guess I’ll just have to trust her.
He continued to mess things up for me after we moved too. There was another child my age who lived behind our house and he and Eric never could get along. My Mom always made me take Eric’s side of the argument.
He used to try and follow me when I would leave to walk to school and once again got all of Mom’s attention as she barricaded him into the house. Although it was kind of cool that he wanted to be like me.
As we grew he would make fun of my hair and my outfits and my attitude. He had no respect for the teenage girl that I had become and he made no effort to hide it.
When it came time for me to look at colleges he complained that all of the dinner conversation was about me and insisted on sharing his day as well.
Finally when I stretched the geographical limits my parents imposed on me by going to college in Chicago, he got to move to Bangkok with them to finish high school.
He lived in places too exotic and far away to visit. He showered my kids with inappropriately huge and sugary gifts. He called me every Friday afternoon at 3:00 as if maybe that day I wouldn’t be working then.
Then he left me.
And it’s wrecking my life.
We used to have to lock my closet doors because he would get in there and open up my games and throw the pieces all over my room.
In my memory he had the bigger room in the house where we lived when he was born, but my Mom assures me this isn’t true. We moved when I was 4, so I guess I’ll just have to trust her.
He continued to mess things up for me after we moved too. There was another child my age who lived behind our house and he and Eric never could get along. My Mom always made me take Eric’s side of the argument.
He used to try and follow me when I would leave to walk to school and once again got all of Mom’s attention as she barricaded him into the house. Although it was kind of cool that he wanted to be like me.
As we grew he would make fun of my hair and my outfits and my attitude. He had no respect for the teenage girl that I had become and he made no effort to hide it.
When it came time for me to look at colleges he complained that all of the dinner conversation was about me and insisted on sharing his day as well.
Finally when I stretched the geographical limits my parents imposed on me by going to college in Chicago, he got to move to Bangkok with them to finish high school.
He lived in places too exotic and far away to visit. He showered my kids with inappropriately huge and sugary gifts. He called me every Friday afternoon at 3:00 as if maybe that day I wouldn’t be working then.
Then he left me.
And it’s wrecking my life.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
#58 Free Wireless!
When someone dies, people always talk about how they reach for the phone to call them before they remember. The same can be said for email. I keep waiting for this to happen to me, but it hasn’t so far. Then I saw the newspaper. There was an article about Starbucks making their Wi-Fi free for customers and I thought how excited Eric would be. He always hated that he had to pay for wireless at Starbucks, and would sometimes go elsewhere just on principle. I saw the article, thought about telling Eric, realized I couldn’t, thought about telling the people I was with and realized that would just depress everyone.
How long until I can have a conversation about Eric and not depress everyone? My parents and I can do this, my husband and a few friends and I can do this, but that’s about it. Death becomes the elephant in the room and people start looking at you funny. They treat you carefully.
It’s not that I don’t want care; it’s just that I need for Eric to still be a part of my life. I don’t want to feel like I can’t bring him up. I actually talk about him quite a bit. Usually I’ll just say “my brother” and people can either let that go, or if they don’t know me that well, might think I have another one.
It’s the people who know me well but I don’t see that often where this is most often an issue. Condolences must be paid, awkward silences must be endured.
Why is this so hard? I think it’s because we don’t know what other people are thinking and how they want us to react. For me a simple statement of sorrow is enough and then lets move on to the rest of our conversation. And when his name comes up, just let it go. Let it be about the topic we’re discussing, not about death.
As far as Starbucks goes, I’ll think about him when I use the wireless there, but I won’t announce how he missed out.
How long until I can have a conversation about Eric and not depress everyone? My parents and I can do this, my husband and a few friends and I can do this, but that’s about it. Death becomes the elephant in the room and people start looking at you funny. They treat you carefully.
It’s not that I don’t want care; it’s just that I need for Eric to still be a part of my life. I don’t want to feel like I can’t bring him up. I actually talk about him quite a bit. Usually I’ll just say “my brother” and people can either let that go, or if they don’t know me that well, might think I have another one.
It’s the people who know me well but I don’t see that often where this is most often an issue. Condolences must be paid, awkward silences must be endured.
Why is this so hard? I think it’s because we don’t know what other people are thinking and how they want us to react. For me a simple statement of sorrow is enough and then lets move on to the rest of our conversation. And when his name comes up, just let it go. Let it be about the topic we’re discussing, not about death.
As far as Starbucks goes, I’ll think about him when I use the wireless there, but I won’t announce how he missed out.
Monday, June 21, 2010
#57 Delayed vs Instant Gratification
Every Mom’s challenge is to get their kids to eat healthy food--even if they don’t actually complete this activity themselves. Yes, I know I’m a huge hypocrite. Luckily, my children both have a huge liking for red bell peppers. Every night with dinner they get red and green bell peppers, because the store sells the two together and I’m not going to waste the green ones. They have to eat these before they can get dessert. I was watching them eat a few nights ago and realized that my oldest eats the green ones first so he can save the best for last, and my youngest gobbles up the red ones first and then dawdles through the green ones. This reminded me of Eric and me.
Growing up, Sunday mornings were for time with Dad. He would take me and Eric out to get the Sunday New York Times, fresh bagels and SUNDAY CANDY! My Mom has always been very health conscious and there were never a lot of sweets around the house. Sundays, Eric and I were allowed to pick one piece of candy each from the stationery store. It was our favorite time of week. I would always go for the candy I thought would last the longest or had the most in it; Necco Wafers and Fun Dip were favorites. A candy bar would be gone way too soon. I would eat mine slowly and try to make it last all day. Eric would get whatever he wanted and gobble it as soon as he got it.
I think we were like this in most respects. I work before playing, I save before spending and I analyze before acting. Eric was much more spontaneous. He did what he wanted and bought what he wanted. He wasn’t a spendthrift, he wouldn’t buy what he couldn’t afford, but he spent his money. My husband has to make me spend money. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to spend the money we’re saving, even to get that new bathroom I desperately want.
Eric had so many different experiences in life. In part, he was better able to do this than me because of the career paths we chose. It’s hard to explore the world and do crazy things when you’re studying your ass off in medical school, working it off in residency or watching it expand after having children. He was also braver than I, ready to go off to a foreign country on a moment’s notice, spend the time and money, and usually get everything he wanted and more from the experience. He was a risk taker. I play it safe.
I like my comfortable, settled, life; but I think it’s time I take a few risks, fulfill a few dreams. If I don’t live now, when will I?
Growing up, Sunday mornings were for time with Dad. He would take me and Eric out to get the Sunday New York Times, fresh bagels and SUNDAY CANDY! My Mom has always been very health conscious and there were never a lot of sweets around the house. Sundays, Eric and I were allowed to pick one piece of candy each from the stationery store. It was our favorite time of week. I would always go for the candy I thought would last the longest or had the most in it; Necco Wafers and Fun Dip were favorites. A candy bar would be gone way too soon. I would eat mine slowly and try to make it last all day. Eric would get whatever he wanted and gobble it as soon as he got it.
I think we were like this in most respects. I work before playing, I save before spending and I analyze before acting. Eric was much more spontaneous. He did what he wanted and bought what he wanted. He wasn’t a spendthrift, he wouldn’t buy what he couldn’t afford, but he spent his money. My husband has to make me spend money. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to spend the money we’re saving, even to get that new bathroom I desperately want.
Eric had so many different experiences in life. In part, he was better able to do this than me because of the career paths we chose. It’s hard to explore the world and do crazy things when you’re studying your ass off in medical school, working it off in residency or watching it expand after having children. He was also braver than I, ready to go off to a foreign country on a moment’s notice, spend the time and money, and usually get everything he wanted and more from the experience. He was a risk taker. I play it safe.
I like my comfortable, settled, life; but I think it’s time I take a few risks, fulfill a few dreams. If I don’t live now, when will I?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
#56 To My Father
Father's Day
To My Father, On This,
The Occasion of his Unemployment
Shall I compare thee to an ATM?
Thou art more wealthy and more generous.
While some do scheme and hoard and claim, (Liz)
Their actions should not the good child shame.
For to a son raised well and true,
You’re more than just a cash-drive-thru.
Your awesome virtues are many and great,
Your achievements so numerous birth to date,
So well known are you, your primacy prime,
That to touch on you here’d be a waste of good time.
Let’s focus instead on the dutiful boy,
The one you call “your pride and joy”,
Whose happiness lies only in serving his Dad,
Unlike that other, oh well, too bad.
Only one child is keeping your name,
Unlike some who one might blame,
With deserting us all for Iowaness,
(Hint hint, think pricey wedding dress.)
But let’s not get bogged down, I digress.
This poem’s for you on this day of lament,
(Not many words rhyme with retirement.)
Not yours of course, but Exxon’s see,
(Nothing rhymes with Exxon, gee.)
Not yours of course, but ExxonMobile’s
(No words, just a prefix, think -actics, profil-)
Not yours of course, but Standard Oils’
Which brings us of course to the kid and the moils.
(Yeah, well it sounded better than “kid with the boils”)
Remember him to his Mother dear,
He’s off spreading happiness, joy and cheer,
On this your final day of work,
When you start reaping that final perk!
Which reminds me now of a bit of advice,
Passed from son to father since the age of ice:
Enjoy your new life,
Fill’t with ease and plenty,
Make the most of your days,
Make them joyous and heady.
Live to the fullest, you’re young and you’re ready.
Spend your days at the pool,
Sipping Scotch ‘neath the fronds,
And for Mom’s sake go easy on trophy blonds.
And when time’s past and you’ve lived all you’re gonna,
Remember your son, not the Iowa-shoguna,
And when you shuffleboard off that mortal coil,
Remember I still need the fruits of your toil.
So make sure you leave the number, Dad,
Of the guy not to call,
(Though morally bad)
And what not to tell him,
So I know how to keep,
Those pension checks coming,
Week after week.
Love,
Julius Augustus Romulus
(which I know you would have named me if Mom hadn’t gotten in the way)
The Occasion of his Unemployment
Shall I compare thee to an ATM?
Thou art more wealthy and more generous.
While some do scheme and hoard and claim, (Liz)
Their actions should not the good child shame.
For to a son raised well and true,
You’re more than just a cash-drive-thru.
Your awesome virtues are many and great,
Your achievements so numerous birth to date,
So well known are you, your primacy prime,
That to touch on you here’d be a waste of good time.
Let’s focus instead on the dutiful boy,
The one you call “your pride and joy”,
Whose happiness lies only in serving his Dad,
Unlike that other, oh well, too bad.
Only one child is keeping your name,
Unlike some who one might blame,
With deserting us all for Iowaness,
(Hint hint, think pricey wedding dress.)
But let’s not get bogged down, I digress.
This poem’s for you on this day of lament,
(Not many words rhyme with retirement.)
Not yours of course, but Exxon’s see,
(Nothing rhymes with Exxon, gee.)
Not yours of course, but ExxonMobile’s
(No words, just a prefix, think -actics, profil-)
Not yours of course, but Standard Oils’
Which brings us of course to the kid and the moils.
(Yeah, well it sounded better than “kid with the boils”)
Remember him to his Mother dear,
He’s off spreading happiness, joy and cheer,
On this your final day of work,
When you start reaping that final perk!
Which reminds me now of a bit of advice,
Passed from son to father since the age of ice:
Enjoy your new life,
Fill’t with ease and plenty,
Make the most of your days,
Make them joyous and heady.
Live to the fullest, you’re young and you’re ready.
Spend your days at the pool,
Sipping Scotch ‘neath the fronds,
And for Mom’s sake go easy on trophy blonds.
And when time’s past and you’ve lived all you’re gonna,
Remember your son, not the Iowa-shoguna,
And when you shuffleboard off that mortal coil,
Remember I still need the fruits of your toil.
So make sure you leave the number, Dad,
Of the guy not to call,
(Though morally bad)
And what not to tell him,
So I know how to keep,
Those pension checks coming,
Week after week.
Love,
Julius Augustus Romulus
(which I know you would have named me if Mom hadn’t gotten in the way)
Saturday, June 19, 2010
#55 Sibling Envy
Parenthood, according to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary, is “the state of being a parent; specifically: the position, function, or standing of a parent.” It is also a show on NBC. The show spotlights the Bravermans, a large family in California, and the issues they go through. The Bravermans consist of two parents, four grown children, and their lives, spouses (or lack there-of) and children. I find this show touching, funny, interesting, heartbreaking and compelling. I am also really jealous of those four fictional siblings.
Every time I watch this show I think about those 2 sisters and 2 brothers. They are so lucky to have each other. They don’t always get along, but they eventually come around and have each other’s backs. Yes, it’s television, it’s idealized and fake, but it looks oh so nice.
I had one sibling, and now I don’t.
I have lost a part of myself. The part that remembers things slightly differently than I do. The part that helps me to understand my parents. The part that conspires with me. The part that fights with me.
I know people who have siblings they don’t get along with. This is so sad to me. The relationship with a sibling is unlike any other in life. It’s the first person you have to learn to get along with. It’s the person who challenges you and complements you. It’s a peer who knows you better, and will always know you better, than any other. Even a spouse. It’s someone you can always count on. It’s incredibly difficult to explain.
It’s a relationship I never particularly examined before. I took it for granted. Why wouldn’t I, when he was always there? Luckily, I had a good relationship with Eric and not too much to regret. I wish I had visited him more as an adult. I wish he had felt more able to confide in me. But most of all, I wish he were still here.
When I watch NBC’s Parenthood sometimes I get caught up in the story lines like everyone else. Sometimes I get caught up in the abundance of sibling relationships. And I miss Eric even more.
Every time I watch this show I think about those 2 sisters and 2 brothers. They are so lucky to have each other. They don’t always get along, but they eventually come around and have each other’s backs. Yes, it’s television, it’s idealized and fake, but it looks oh so nice.
I had one sibling, and now I don’t.
I have lost a part of myself. The part that remembers things slightly differently than I do. The part that helps me to understand my parents. The part that conspires with me. The part that fights with me.
I know people who have siblings they don’t get along with. This is so sad to me. The relationship with a sibling is unlike any other in life. It’s the first person you have to learn to get along with. It’s the person who challenges you and complements you. It’s a peer who knows you better, and will always know you better, than any other. Even a spouse. It’s someone you can always count on. It’s incredibly difficult to explain.
It’s a relationship I never particularly examined before. I took it for granted. Why wouldn’t I, when he was always there? Luckily, I had a good relationship with Eric and not too much to regret. I wish I had visited him more as an adult. I wish he had felt more able to confide in me. But most of all, I wish he were still here.
When I watch NBC’s Parenthood sometimes I get caught up in the story lines like everyone else. Sometimes I get caught up in the abundance of sibling relationships. And I miss Eric even more.
Friday, June 18, 2010
#54
I write and I write and I write and I still can’t believe that Eric is really gone. This should not, could not have happened. We just haven’t been able to connect on the phone lately; just keep missing each other, right?
How could my baby brother be gone? How can it be that I am never going to hear his voice again? Never going to be annoyed by him again? Never going to be excited, worried, enthralled for him again?
This is not right.
I was in line at airport security with my family at 5:00 in the morning and I said to my husband, I really want a cup of coffee. My 6 year old said, “No, you really want your brother.” And he’s absolutely right. I really want my brother. I want him to call me on his way home from work demanding “entertainment”. I want him to whine to me about how he isn’t fulfilled at his job. I want him to email me the crazy homework assignments he gets from his master’s program. I want anything but this. This, I cannot accept.
Who will help me to remember my childhood? Who will help me to care for my parents? Who will bring up my most embarrassing moments at the most inopportune times?
Who will tell me to get over myself and have the years of knowing me to back it up?
I don’t want to do this thing called life without him. It isn’t supposed to be this way.
I have been very carried away by this blog lately. I have been caught up in the creative act of writing it. I have been amazed by the response and excited about getting it out there to help others with their grief. I forgot it’s supposed to be helping me with my grief. This is not supposed to be me as writer, but me as devastated sister. I know I can be both, but the primary purpose of this blog is to help me heal. Not to offer up my emotions in posts I hope will appeal to the masses. Not to cure the world’s ills. Not to generate a following or an income. If it does all that, I will welcome it, but most of all, I want to be able to cope again.
I miss my brother. I don’t know how to get beyond that.
How could my baby brother be gone? How can it be that I am never going to hear his voice again? Never going to be annoyed by him again? Never going to be excited, worried, enthralled for him again?
This is not right.
I was in line at airport security with my family at 5:00 in the morning and I said to my husband, I really want a cup of coffee. My 6 year old said, “No, you really want your brother.” And he’s absolutely right. I really want my brother. I want him to call me on his way home from work demanding “entertainment”. I want him to whine to me about how he isn’t fulfilled at his job. I want him to email me the crazy homework assignments he gets from his master’s program. I want anything but this. This, I cannot accept.
Who will help me to remember my childhood? Who will help me to care for my parents? Who will bring up my most embarrassing moments at the most inopportune times?
Who will tell me to get over myself and have the years of knowing me to back it up?
I don’t want to do this thing called life without him. It isn’t supposed to be this way.
I have been very carried away by this blog lately. I have been caught up in the creative act of writing it. I have been amazed by the response and excited about getting it out there to help others with their grief. I forgot it’s supposed to be helping me with my grief. This is not supposed to be me as writer, but me as devastated sister. I know I can be both, but the primary purpose of this blog is to help me heal. Not to offer up my emotions in posts I hope will appeal to the masses. Not to cure the world’s ills. Not to generate a following or an income. If it does all that, I will welcome it, but most of all, I want to be able to cope again.
I miss my brother. I don’t know how to get beyond that.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
#53 Motivation
I have a motivation problem. If this could happen to Eric, this could happen to anyone, at anytime. Why then, should I go to work? Shouldn’t I be out there enjoying life to its fullest just in case this is all I get? I should be spending more time with my children (which can sometimes be classified as enjoyment), spending more time with my husband, doing the things I love to do. Shouldn’t I?
Yet, if I did that I couldn’t pay my mortgage, couldn’t put food on the table, couldn’t pay for gas, clothing or any of the million and one other things my family needs and wants. So I guess I have to go to work.
Why should I try to be healthy? Eric was very healthy, in good shape and yet look where it got him. Theoretically I should eat well and not smoke or drink too much. I should exercise and take the proper supplements. But I could also be hit by a bus tomorrow. You see where I’m going with this?
It’s hard to take the long view when thinking about a life that has been cut so tragically short. It’s hard to give up the instant gratification for something that may or may not happen in a future that may or may not come. It’s not practical to live as though there is no future, but it might be more fun. And if it all ended now, would you be happy with what you’ve accomplished?
Eric had some major accomplishments. He lived and worked on three continents. He was a certified and experienced scuba diver. He had a law degree and was working on a master’s in hospitality. He had an amazing girlfriend whom he planned to marry. He was working on a book of poetry. Was it enough? How much is enough?
I wonder, if I didn’t have kids, if I would still be able to get up in the mornings. They are too needy to ignore. But without them keeping me going, making me get them ready for school, I might just lay there and contemplate life and wonder what it is that I truly have to do that day.
Life is a balance between have to and want to and I guess I’m just trying to find the place where the scales are still.
Yet, if I did that I couldn’t pay my mortgage, couldn’t put food on the table, couldn’t pay for gas, clothing or any of the million and one other things my family needs and wants. So I guess I have to go to work.
Why should I try to be healthy? Eric was very healthy, in good shape and yet look where it got him. Theoretically I should eat well and not smoke or drink too much. I should exercise and take the proper supplements. But I could also be hit by a bus tomorrow. You see where I’m going with this?
It’s hard to take the long view when thinking about a life that has been cut so tragically short. It’s hard to give up the instant gratification for something that may or may not happen in a future that may or may not come. It’s not practical to live as though there is no future, but it might be more fun. And if it all ended now, would you be happy with what you’ve accomplished?
Eric had some major accomplishments. He lived and worked on three continents. He was a certified and experienced scuba diver. He had a law degree and was working on a master’s in hospitality. He had an amazing girlfriend whom he planned to marry. He was working on a book of poetry. Was it enough? How much is enough?
I wonder, if I didn’t have kids, if I would still be able to get up in the mornings. They are too needy to ignore. But without them keeping me going, making me get them ready for school, I might just lay there and contemplate life and wonder what it is that I truly have to do that day.
Life is a balance between have to and want to and I guess I’m just trying to find the place where the scales are still.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
#52 A long reach
Do you ever wonder if people can pass on their traits from beyond the grave? I’m starting to think it’s possible.
When I learned to drive it was like a fish learning to swim. I took to it very naturally, it kind of felt like I’d always been doing it. You couldn’t say that about Eric. There was nothing natural about him behind the wheel of a car.
When he had his learner’s permit and my mother was teaching him, he once drove straight through a stop sign. When my mother pointed this out to him he said, “I’ll get it next time.”
I think it was a good thing that my parents moved out of the country and Eric didn’t get a driver’s license until he graduated from college. A teenage Eric with a license would have been truly scary. Even so he was perversely proud of the fact that at one point he had a speeding ticket from every state he’d ever driven in.
When he came to visit me once in Philadelphia he drove me on an errand in his bright yellow Nissan Xterra. It was like being in a NY taxi stuck at a red light where the driver is constantly inching up and slamming on the brakes; only we were just driving down the open road. It made me sick.
Lately, I feel as if my driving skills have not been up to par. A few weeks ago I was backing out of my driveway and backed right into my neighbor’s car that was parked across the street. At the time I blamed it on the screaming 3 year old in the backseat who was taking all of my attention.
A week later, while parallel parking (a skill I perfected while living in Philly) I lightly tapped the bumper of the car behind me. That is not something I usually do--and I have a reverse camera in my car!
I don’t think it could possibly be my own lack of attention that is causing these problems. I think its Eric reaching out from the grave. It would be just like him to do that. Now what else can I blame on him?
When I learned to drive it was like a fish learning to swim. I took to it very naturally, it kind of felt like I’d always been doing it. You couldn’t say that about Eric. There was nothing natural about him behind the wheel of a car.
When he had his learner’s permit and my mother was teaching him, he once drove straight through a stop sign. When my mother pointed this out to him he said, “I’ll get it next time.”
I think it was a good thing that my parents moved out of the country and Eric didn’t get a driver’s license until he graduated from college. A teenage Eric with a license would have been truly scary. Even so he was perversely proud of the fact that at one point he had a speeding ticket from every state he’d ever driven in.
When he came to visit me once in Philadelphia he drove me on an errand in his bright yellow Nissan Xterra. It was like being in a NY taxi stuck at a red light where the driver is constantly inching up and slamming on the brakes; only we were just driving down the open road. It made me sick.
Lately, I feel as if my driving skills have not been up to par. A few weeks ago I was backing out of my driveway and backed right into my neighbor’s car that was parked across the street. At the time I blamed it on the screaming 3 year old in the backseat who was taking all of my attention.
A week later, while parallel parking (a skill I perfected while living in Philly) I lightly tapped the bumper of the car behind me. That is not something I usually do--and I have a reverse camera in my car!
I don’t think it could possibly be my own lack of attention that is causing these problems. I think its Eric reaching out from the grave. It would be just like him to do that. Now what else can I blame on him?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
#51 Two for me, one for you
For years, probably for as long as we have been old enough to understand the concept, Eric and I have joked about who would inherit what. Well, actually we joked about who would inherit and who would not. He was always trying to get me out of the will.
When he helped my parents move my great-grandmother’s enormous (and gorgeous) breakfront into their house, he decided it was so heavy that he never wanted to move it again; so I could have it. I think that’s the only thing he’s ever willingly given up. He did claim all the china inside.
He would try and call first on my parents’ birthdays and would always tell them flat out that he loved them more. He had no qualms about that at all.
Six years ago my father’s mother died. He and his sister had to go through her apartment and decide what to keep and what to donate. This past fall my mother’s mother moved to an assisted living facility. Again, her apartment had to be sorted. This time some of her things went to her, some to various family members, and some to donate.
My grandmother had an old set of Wedgewood china that she adored, but had no use for anymore. She offered it to me, but I already have a set of china that I never use from when I got married. She sent it to Eric. Now I have it.
My parents and Eric’s girlfriend and I had to go through his apartment. He didn’t have as many years to accumulate stuff, but he still had plenty. It was a task we never thought we would have to take on. We donated his suit of armor (miniature—and also from my grandmother) to a middle school that had a collection of armor. We could find no use for his theatre chairs, so they too were donated. We also took a lot of stuff, probably too much, but we couldn’t help ourselves.
Someday, hopefully not for a very long time, I’ll have to go through my parent’s house. If I want it, it will all be mine.
This is not how I wanted to cheat him out of his inheritance.
When he helped my parents move my great-grandmother’s enormous (and gorgeous) breakfront into their house, he decided it was so heavy that he never wanted to move it again; so I could have it. I think that’s the only thing he’s ever willingly given up. He did claim all the china inside.
He would try and call first on my parents’ birthdays and would always tell them flat out that he loved them more. He had no qualms about that at all.
Six years ago my father’s mother died. He and his sister had to go through her apartment and decide what to keep and what to donate. This past fall my mother’s mother moved to an assisted living facility. Again, her apartment had to be sorted. This time some of her things went to her, some to various family members, and some to donate.
My grandmother had an old set of Wedgewood china that she adored, but had no use for anymore. She offered it to me, but I already have a set of china that I never use from when I got married. She sent it to Eric. Now I have it.
My parents and Eric’s girlfriend and I had to go through his apartment. He didn’t have as many years to accumulate stuff, but he still had plenty. It was a task we never thought we would have to take on. We donated his suit of armor (miniature—and also from my grandmother) to a middle school that had a collection of armor. We could find no use for his theatre chairs, so they too were donated. We also took a lot of stuff, probably too much, but we couldn’t help ourselves.
Someday, hopefully not for a very long time, I’ll have to go through my parent’s house. If I want it, it will all be mine.
This is not how I wanted to cheat him out of his inheritance.
Monday, June 14, 2010
#50 No escape in sleep
I dreamt about Eric all night last night. Not happy childhood memory dreams or fantasy dreams where Eric just happened to appear, but dreams about Eric dying. In different ways. Over and over.
In one dream he was in hospice, dying from cancer and I was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand, unable to stop my tears. I told him I wasn’t ready for him to go and he told me that he was. That made me cry harder, but also made me feel better.
In another dream he was trying to board a boat to Siberia (I think) and my parents and I were trying to keep him from boarding because we knew he didn’t have a lot of time left and we wanted to spend it together. We kept taking his luggage off the boat.
The rest of the night was a mish-mash of replays of these dreams or others with an undertone of sorrow. I cried more in my sleep than I have in a long time, perhaps since it first happened.
I think I was reimagining Eric’s death to try and say goodbye. We never had that chance. We never got to sit down and tell each other what we meant to each other—although I know we both knew it. We never got to acknowledge that there would be a last conversation, a last hug, a last anything.
We all know that teenagers think they are immortal. Most of us can recount dangerous stories from those times in our lives when we thought nothing could ever happen to us. Drinking, smoking, promiscuity; there’s a reason alcohol and tobacco companies try to market to minors.
In my 30s, I thought I had acknowledged the possibility of my mortality. After all, I’m a doctor; I’ve seen young people die. I have a will and life insurance. I cringe any time my kids go within a foot of the edge of the sidewalk.
I wasn’t ready though. I never thought this could happen. I never thought I would be here without Eric. He has been a part of my life since I was 2 ½ years old, sometimes for better and sometimes not, but always there. It’s hard to comprehend his absence.
In one dream he was in hospice, dying from cancer and I was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand, unable to stop my tears. I told him I wasn’t ready for him to go and he told me that he was. That made me cry harder, but also made me feel better.
In another dream he was trying to board a boat to Siberia (I think) and my parents and I were trying to keep him from boarding because we knew he didn’t have a lot of time left and we wanted to spend it together. We kept taking his luggage off the boat.
The rest of the night was a mish-mash of replays of these dreams or others with an undertone of sorrow. I cried more in my sleep than I have in a long time, perhaps since it first happened.
I think I was reimagining Eric’s death to try and say goodbye. We never had that chance. We never got to sit down and tell each other what we meant to each other—although I know we both knew it. We never got to acknowledge that there would be a last conversation, a last hug, a last anything.
We all know that teenagers think they are immortal. Most of us can recount dangerous stories from those times in our lives when we thought nothing could ever happen to us. Drinking, smoking, promiscuity; there’s a reason alcohol and tobacco companies try to market to minors.
In my 30s, I thought I had acknowledged the possibility of my mortality. After all, I’m a doctor; I’ve seen young people die. I have a will and life insurance. I cringe any time my kids go within a foot of the edge of the sidewalk.
I wasn’t ready though. I never thought this could happen. I never thought I would be here without Eric. He has been a part of my life since I was 2 ½ years old, sometimes for better and sometimes not, but always there. It’s hard to comprehend his absence.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
#49 United in grief
Every morning as we get ready for work, my husband and I have CNN on in the bedroom. In between showers and hair dryers and getting the kids ready we try to stay updated on the state of the world. This week they have been talking about a new feature on the CNN website, “Remembering the fallen”. This is an interactive tool which places maps of Afghanistan or Iraq side by side with a map of the US. Each map has lots of little dots on it. Each dot in Afghanistan or Iraq represents a place where a soldier has died. Each dot in the US represents the hometown of a soldier. If you click on a dot in Afghanistan or Iraq it will list the names of soldiers killed there. If you click on a hometown in the US it will bring up the name and cause of death of the soldier from that town. There is also a place to share memories and messages. It is incredibly powerful.
It has made me realize how much grief there is in the world at any one time. Each of these soldiers has an extended network of family and friends, as does Eric. Each of them is experiencing loss to one degree or another. How many of us are walking right by each other right now?
Grief is one of those things that’s almost impossible to share. I think that’s why I do it here where I don’t need to look any one in the face or worry that they’re getting sick of me talking about it already. It’s easier to talk to someone about it if they are also grieving. This is probably why support groups can work so well.
I wonder if it’s any easier for the loved ones of these soldiers to accept their deaths given what they did for a living. It’s no secret that these men and women place themselves in harms way, for us, everyday. Everyone knows death is possible. My guess is that it doesn’t make the initial reaction any better. A possibility is infinitely different from the stark reality. After a time, maybe knowing that the person you loved died in service to his or her country probably does help. They knew what they were doing and chose to accept that risk. It’s still a tragedy, each and every one is a tragedy, a loss of a life and future generations. But it was a known risk.
Eric never made a choice to put himself in harm’s way. He had a pretty risk-free lifestyle. But in the end that didn’t matter.
Grief is grief, but I’ll bet there is comfort when there is a reason. It may be minimal, but it’s there. Some people would say there is a reason for Eric’s death; we just don’t know it yet. I’m not there.
I would recommend that you check out CNN’s website and remember the fallen. I am helped everyday by knowing you are reading about Eric. I would like to help other grieving families by remembering their loved ones.
It has made me realize how much grief there is in the world at any one time. Each of these soldiers has an extended network of family and friends, as does Eric. Each of them is experiencing loss to one degree or another. How many of us are walking right by each other right now?
Grief is one of those things that’s almost impossible to share. I think that’s why I do it here where I don’t need to look any one in the face or worry that they’re getting sick of me talking about it already. It’s easier to talk to someone about it if they are also grieving. This is probably why support groups can work so well.
I wonder if it’s any easier for the loved ones of these soldiers to accept their deaths given what they did for a living. It’s no secret that these men and women place themselves in harms way, for us, everyday. Everyone knows death is possible. My guess is that it doesn’t make the initial reaction any better. A possibility is infinitely different from the stark reality. After a time, maybe knowing that the person you loved died in service to his or her country probably does help. They knew what they were doing and chose to accept that risk. It’s still a tragedy, each and every one is a tragedy, a loss of a life and future generations. But it was a known risk.
Eric never made a choice to put himself in harm’s way. He had a pretty risk-free lifestyle. But in the end that didn’t matter.
Grief is grief, but I’ll bet there is comfort when there is a reason. It may be minimal, but it’s there. Some people would say there is a reason for Eric’s death; we just don’t know it yet. I’m not there.
I would recommend that you check out CNN’s website and remember the fallen. I am helped everyday by knowing you are reading about Eric. I would like to help other grieving families by remembering their loved ones.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
#48 Looking for laughs
Eric was seriously funny. I have tried to describe that here, but without his wit and facility for words, I can only fall short. He always saw the humor in things, and could make you laugh even in tense situations. You know those times, hours after a conversation, when you come up with the perfect funny response? Eric did that in the moment. It’s hard to live up to.
Eric wouldn’t want us to sit around and mourn. He would have jollied us up and made us laugh and helped us to move on. But he can’t do that for us now. When I’m with my parents I feel a need to try and take on that role, but I’m not very good at it. Eric could get away with outrageous behavior that I can’t even imagine. Who else would have put a baby in a pot on the stove to take a picture? Who else would have worn footie pajamas at age 32? Who else would have decided that the offered dessert wasn’t good enough and melted Milky Ways and goldfish together in the microwave? Who else would have wanted to?
As we get closer to that one time of year when my whole family gets together, Thanksgiving, I worry about who will make us laugh. Admittedly, we have months to go yet, but I know every member of my family is worrying about this. That holiday will probably be harder than the actual anniversary.
I want to fill the holes that Eric left behind and be everything to my parents. But this is one role I’m just not qualified to take on.
It will help to have my kids there; they provide comic relief just by being 6 and 3. Still, it will be hard to find that balance between remembering and grieving, celebrating and crying.
It is hard for me to look out into the marsh in my parent’s backyard where we scattered some of Eric’s ashes. Still, I think it will help knowing he is there. And who knows? Maybe inspiration will strike and I’ll find my inner comedian. If I do, I know I’ll have Eric to thank.
Eric wouldn’t want us to sit around and mourn. He would have jollied us up and made us laugh and helped us to move on. But he can’t do that for us now. When I’m with my parents I feel a need to try and take on that role, but I’m not very good at it. Eric could get away with outrageous behavior that I can’t even imagine. Who else would have put a baby in a pot on the stove to take a picture? Who else would have worn footie pajamas at age 32? Who else would have decided that the offered dessert wasn’t good enough and melted Milky Ways and goldfish together in the microwave? Who else would have wanted to?
As we get closer to that one time of year when my whole family gets together, Thanksgiving, I worry about who will make us laugh. Admittedly, we have months to go yet, but I know every member of my family is worrying about this. That holiday will probably be harder than the actual anniversary.
I want to fill the holes that Eric left behind and be everything to my parents. But this is one role I’m just not qualified to take on.
It will help to have my kids there; they provide comic relief just by being 6 and 3. Still, it will be hard to find that balance between remembering and grieving, celebrating and crying.
It is hard for me to look out into the marsh in my parent’s backyard where we scattered some of Eric’s ashes. Still, I think it will help knowing he is there. And who knows? Maybe inspiration will strike and I’ll find my inner comedian. If I do, I know I’ll have Eric to thank.
Friday, June 11, 2010
#47 Small moments
We had a thunderstorm Sunday night. After we put the boys to bed my husband and I were sitting on the couch decompressing from our busy day. The boys and I had gone to Starbucks for breakfast and play that morning (we meet another family there on Sundays) and then the afternoon was spent at an end of the year pool party for my older son’s class. The Moms out there will understand that I am heartbroken that kindergarten is over and 1st grade is nearly upon us.
Both kids were exhausted which of course led to whining and tantrums and misbehavior, but we were finally able to get them to bed and grab some quiet time. It was really cozy to be sitting in our living room listening to the rain. It hit me then just how much Eric is missing. I have already thought about (and blogged about) the big things he missed such as marriage and kids. But he will never again enjoy the simple majesty of a thunder storm.
It somehow seemed right to be mourning in the winter. Even in North Carolina the leaves were off the trees, the sky was gray and bleak; the weather was cold and dreary. It matched my mood. As I watched the trees bud and the leaves grow and spread, I realized Eric wouldn’t be watching it this year. I love that fleeting time when everything is growing and changing and nothing is the same day to day. If you don’t pay close attention, it’s easy to miss. On days I don’t work I like to sit out on my back porch with my morning coffee and watch the world. This year it’s been a chronicle of things Eric will never see again.
Life is made up of moments big and small. We tend to move from big to big and forget about the small. A wedding, the birth of a child, a graduation. I hurt for Eric that he won’t experience any more of the big moments. I also hurt because he’ll miss the small ones. Watching the world awake from winter, that first sip of coffee in the morning, listening to a thunderstorm with a loved one while you are inside cozy and warm.
Both kids were exhausted which of course led to whining and tantrums and misbehavior, but we were finally able to get them to bed and grab some quiet time. It was really cozy to be sitting in our living room listening to the rain. It hit me then just how much Eric is missing. I have already thought about (and blogged about) the big things he missed such as marriage and kids. But he will never again enjoy the simple majesty of a thunder storm.
It somehow seemed right to be mourning in the winter. Even in North Carolina the leaves were off the trees, the sky was gray and bleak; the weather was cold and dreary. It matched my mood. As I watched the trees bud and the leaves grow and spread, I realized Eric wouldn’t be watching it this year. I love that fleeting time when everything is growing and changing and nothing is the same day to day. If you don’t pay close attention, it’s easy to miss. On days I don’t work I like to sit out on my back porch with my morning coffee and watch the world. This year it’s been a chronicle of things Eric will never see again.
Life is made up of moments big and small. We tend to move from big to big and forget about the small. A wedding, the birth of a child, a graduation. I hurt for Eric that he won’t experience any more of the big moments. I also hurt because he’ll miss the small ones. Watching the world awake from winter, that first sip of coffee in the morning, listening to a thunderstorm with a loved one while you are inside cozy and warm.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
#46 Memories
Lately when I try to think about growing up with Eric my memories appear more like a slide show than a coherent story.
I think about the time he hit me over the head with a snow shovel filled with fallen leaves; orange and yellow and red cascading down over me.
I think about him in his camouflage “army man” outfit that he wore for years.
I think about him in zip up, footie pajamas in the summer telling us he “transcends climate.”
I think about when we walked home from school and found the front foyer crawling with our annual termite infestation and Eric was too scared to come into the house. I had to get the vacuum cleaner and suck them up for him. It was the one time I’ve been less afraid of a bug than someone else.
I think about Eric throwing army men out his second story windows as he played war.
I think about when he came home and put his backpack on the bump on his bed, and the bump moved. The bump turned out to be a squirrel and we had to have a friend of the family come over to catch it because he and my Mom and I were way too scared.
I think about the clubhouse we made in his closet, how we drew all over the walls with marker and thought we were so cool.
I think about how he wore a stick-on eye patch for years and everyone in school knew my little brother was the one with the patch; even before he was in school.
I think about how he forgot his key one day and broke a window in the front door. He wouldn’t admit it and even though my parents knew it was him they called the police to make a point. He never did admit to it.
I think of him building with his cardboard bricks. He loved them so much we all thought he would be an architect. Much later, he bought them for my boys.
I think of him reading and doing his homework in the bathtub.
I think of him watching the Indiana Jones and Star Wars movies over and over and memorizing every word.
There are so many little memories that I’m afraid I’ll forget over time. There are so many I’m sure I’ve already lost. It used to be I could rely on Eric to help me remember. Now I have to get them all down before they’re gone for good.
I think about the time he hit me over the head with a snow shovel filled with fallen leaves; orange and yellow and red cascading down over me.
I think about him in his camouflage “army man” outfit that he wore for years.
I think about him in zip up, footie pajamas in the summer telling us he “transcends climate.”
I think about when we walked home from school and found the front foyer crawling with our annual termite infestation and Eric was too scared to come into the house. I had to get the vacuum cleaner and suck them up for him. It was the one time I’ve been less afraid of a bug than someone else.
I think about Eric throwing army men out his second story windows as he played war.
I think about when he came home and put his backpack on the bump on his bed, and the bump moved. The bump turned out to be a squirrel and we had to have a friend of the family come over to catch it because he and my Mom and I were way too scared.
I think about the clubhouse we made in his closet, how we drew all over the walls with marker and thought we were so cool.
I think about how he wore a stick-on eye patch for years and everyone in school knew my little brother was the one with the patch; even before he was in school.
I think about how he forgot his key one day and broke a window in the front door. He wouldn’t admit it and even though my parents knew it was him they called the police to make a point. He never did admit to it.
I think of him building with his cardboard bricks. He loved them so much we all thought he would be an architect. Much later, he bought them for my boys.
I think of him reading and doing his homework in the bathtub.
I think of him watching the Indiana Jones and Star Wars movies over and over and memorizing every word.
There are so many little memories that I’m afraid I’ll forget over time. There are so many I’m sure I’ve already lost. It used to be I could rely on Eric to help me remember. Now I have to get them all down before they’re gone for good.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
#45 Hope
Hope is like an empty swimming pool. This image came to me in a dream last night.
When I was in high school our senior class picture was taken in our school’s empty indoor swimming pool. I remember climbing in there with the rest of my class and standing on the blue and white striped surface. It was a surreal experience. Before we climbed down the ladders, fully clothed in our collared shirts and tailored pants (yes, it was private school), I remember looking at the empty expanse of pool. It looked like it was waiting.
It looked like I felt during that long flight to Las Vegas. I had spoken to the neuro-surgeon twice by the time I got on that flight. I knew the surgery that he was about to perform was not likely to change what was going to happen, but was the only chance Eric had. I also knew it might kill him. And I had to sit still for 5 hours with no communication with the outside world and no one around me knowing what I was going through.
There was a yawning chasm of emotion inside of me. There was the hope I would not allow myself to have. There was the grief I wasn’t ready to feel. There was the anger and uncertainty and confusion. There was an empty space I couldn’t fill with anything yet. Like that swimming pool.
I tried listening to music, but every song reminded me of Eric. I tried sleeping, but every time I closed my eyes I was subject to the cycle of my thoughts from despair to hope to reality. The only thing I could do was read. With supreme concentration I could transport myself from one world to another where someone I loved wasn’t dying or dead already. Every time I tried to take a break from the book, or my eyes closed involuntarily from exhaustion, I was immediately catapulted back into my hope and need; emotions I couldn’t deal with on that plane. My book was my savior. Anything to keep me from thinking. Anything to keep me from feeling that aching need, that empty space waiting for permission to exult in a miracle or collapse in unbelieving sorrow.
Katie and her mother met me at the airport and I found out that Eric had, technically, survived his surgery. It wasn’t until I saw him at the hospital, wrapped in white gauze, still as he never was in real life, that the empty space began to fill. I gently lifted his eyelids and saw his blown pupils and I knew.
Waves of grief washed over me. I called all the religious people I knew and asked them to pray, but I knew. I awaited my parent’s arrival an hour after mine and wondered how I was going to tell them. I knew. The empty space was gone but it was replaced by another. A hole where Eric used to be.
When I was in high school our senior class picture was taken in our school’s empty indoor swimming pool. I remember climbing in there with the rest of my class and standing on the blue and white striped surface. It was a surreal experience. Before we climbed down the ladders, fully clothed in our collared shirts and tailored pants (yes, it was private school), I remember looking at the empty expanse of pool. It looked like it was waiting.
It looked like I felt during that long flight to Las Vegas. I had spoken to the neuro-surgeon twice by the time I got on that flight. I knew the surgery that he was about to perform was not likely to change what was going to happen, but was the only chance Eric had. I also knew it might kill him. And I had to sit still for 5 hours with no communication with the outside world and no one around me knowing what I was going through.
There was a yawning chasm of emotion inside of me. There was the hope I would not allow myself to have. There was the grief I wasn’t ready to feel. There was the anger and uncertainty and confusion. There was an empty space I couldn’t fill with anything yet. Like that swimming pool.
I tried listening to music, but every song reminded me of Eric. I tried sleeping, but every time I closed my eyes I was subject to the cycle of my thoughts from despair to hope to reality. The only thing I could do was read. With supreme concentration I could transport myself from one world to another where someone I loved wasn’t dying or dead already. Every time I tried to take a break from the book, or my eyes closed involuntarily from exhaustion, I was immediately catapulted back into my hope and need; emotions I couldn’t deal with on that plane. My book was my savior. Anything to keep me from thinking. Anything to keep me from feeling that aching need, that empty space waiting for permission to exult in a miracle or collapse in unbelieving sorrow.
Katie and her mother met me at the airport and I found out that Eric had, technically, survived his surgery. It wasn’t until I saw him at the hospital, wrapped in white gauze, still as he never was in real life, that the empty space began to fill. I gently lifted his eyelids and saw his blown pupils and I knew.
Waves of grief washed over me. I called all the religious people I knew and asked them to pray, but I knew. I awaited my parent’s arrival an hour after mine and wondered how I was going to tell them. I knew. The empty space was gone but it was replaced by another. A hole where Eric used to be.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
#44 Inhouse technical support
Until I got married, Eric was the technical wiz in our family. VCRs, answering machines and computers were all new when I grew up and Eric was an early adopter. He could figure them out with seemingly no effort at all. And he would belittle the rest of us when we couldn’t. I was still writing out essays by hand to be later typed into the computer when Eric had a modem and was dialing into bulletin boards. I’m still not sure exactly what he did there, but it took up a lot of time.
The task of teaching my mother to use the computer naturally fell to Eric. Let it be said, in the gentlest way possible, my mother is not an early adopter…or really an adopter at all.
Eric made a check list of steps for her to follow if she wanted to use the computer. This was taped to the wall behind the computer desk. It started with “plug computer in”. Next was “turn computer on”. You get a sense of how basic this was.
Our computer room was on the third floor of the house, next to my bedroom. It was not uncommon to hear “ERIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed in extreme frustration from that room as my mother tried to use the computer. It got to the point where Eric and I tried to leave the house if we knew Mom was going up there. Sorry Mom.
My husband eclipsed Eric in tech geek knowledge and has become the help desk of the family. He has since banned my mother from ever being treasurer of an organization after having to create spreadsheets for her three Thanksgivings in a row. I think being a son-in-law gives him more ability to do that then being a son or daughter. We’ve never been able to ban her from anything.
Eric was always trying to upgrade my parent’s home technology. I can remember him installing a wireless network and buying them a DVD player.
He would be happy to know that my Dad has used his Mac to create a home sound system. Now if we could just teach my mother to use it.
The task of teaching my mother to use the computer naturally fell to Eric. Let it be said, in the gentlest way possible, my mother is not an early adopter…or really an adopter at all.
Eric made a check list of steps for her to follow if she wanted to use the computer. This was taped to the wall behind the computer desk. It started with “plug computer in”. Next was “turn computer on”. You get a sense of how basic this was.
Our computer room was on the third floor of the house, next to my bedroom. It was not uncommon to hear “ERIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed in extreme frustration from that room as my mother tried to use the computer. It got to the point where Eric and I tried to leave the house if we knew Mom was going up there. Sorry Mom.
My husband eclipsed Eric in tech geek knowledge and has become the help desk of the family. He has since banned my mother from ever being treasurer of an organization after having to create spreadsheets for her three Thanksgivings in a row. I think being a son-in-law gives him more ability to do that then being a son or daughter. We’ve never been able to ban her from anything.
Eric was always trying to upgrade my parent’s home technology. I can remember him installing a wireless network and buying them a DVD player.
He would be happy to know that my Dad has used his Mac to create a home sound system. Now if we could just teach my mother to use it.
Monday, June 7, 2010
#43 Technical difficulties
Blogger, the service I use to publish my blog has been down all day. The blog is visible, but I can’t post anything. I have today’s entry ready to go, but you can’t see it.
What are you thinking as you check for it? Do you wonder if the pressure of a daily blog has finally gotten too much for me? Has my family life gotten too busy? Have I stopped grieving so intensely that I no longer need to revisit it daily? Absolutely not.
The failure of Blogger is causing a mini-crisis in my life today. I want to post about Eric. I need to post about Eric. I need you to know that I have not forgotten or gotten too busy or run out of words. I don’t want to disappoint you and I desperately don’t want you to think I’m done and stop coming by. I want this blog to grow, not shrink. I know technical difficulties occur, and in fact this one has already inspired another blog post about technical difficulties in my family, but I am having a hard time with this.
Are other bloggers having the same issues I’m having? Are they as attached to their stories? My guess is they are. Once I’ve written something I’m eager to get it out there, to see what you think, to give it life. I’m sure other writers feel the same way.
I am not really a big reader of blogs. I have a few that I like to read, mostly written by people I know. I am not a facile web user. My husband can spend hours online doing I have no idea what. I can’t. I check my few favorite sites, my email and then I’m done….unless someone else emails me. I can do a decent search, but my husband can do a better one. I have not once found a blog I just want to read without it being recommended by someone. I wouldn’t even know how to do that.
I want my blog to grow, but I don’t really know how to make that happen either, besides telling everyone I know to read it. (Psst—tell your friends!) Not being able to post today is really cramping my style. Or is it? I’ve written four posts for the future including this one.
Thanks Blogger for helping me find a creative streak, but I’m really, really ready to get back to publishing what I’ve written.
What are you thinking as you check for it? Do you wonder if the pressure of a daily blog has finally gotten too much for me? Has my family life gotten too busy? Have I stopped grieving so intensely that I no longer need to revisit it daily? Absolutely not.
The failure of Blogger is causing a mini-crisis in my life today. I want to post about Eric. I need to post about Eric. I need you to know that I have not forgotten or gotten too busy or run out of words. I don’t want to disappoint you and I desperately don’t want you to think I’m done and stop coming by. I want this blog to grow, not shrink. I know technical difficulties occur, and in fact this one has already inspired another blog post about technical difficulties in my family, but I am having a hard time with this.
Are other bloggers having the same issues I’m having? Are they as attached to their stories? My guess is they are. Once I’ve written something I’m eager to get it out there, to see what you think, to give it life. I’m sure other writers feel the same way.
I am not really a big reader of blogs. I have a few that I like to read, mostly written by people I know. I am not a facile web user. My husband can spend hours online doing I have no idea what. I can’t. I check my few favorite sites, my email and then I’m done….unless someone else emails me. I can do a decent search, but my husband can do a better one. I have not once found a blog I just want to read without it being recommended by someone. I wouldn’t even know how to do that.
I want my blog to grow, but I don’t really know how to make that happen either, besides telling everyone I know to read it. (Psst—tell your friends!) Not being able to post today is really cramping my style. Or is it? I’ve written four posts for the future including this one.
Thanks Blogger for helping me find a creative streak, but I’m really, really ready to get back to publishing what I’ve written.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
#42 Word association
Although my children have lost one amazing Uncle, they still have another one. Uncle Steve is my husband’s younger brother and truly wonderful with my boys. The last time he visited I really enjoyed watching them play together in the backyard. It’s clear that he likes being with the kids as much as they like being with him. This can sometimes be hard to watch, because, of course, I’m thinking about all the time they won’t get to do this with my brother. I try not to dwell on that though, and just stay in the moment.
Last weekend my kids got to talk to Uncle Steve on the phone. He and my 6 year old had a normal conversation (for a 6 year old anyway). When my 3 year old got on the phone the first thing he said was, “Uncle Eric died today.” Time is relative when you’re 3. We have these moments fairly often, and we just acknowledge that yes, Uncle Eric died and it’s sad, and move on. I don’t want my kids to attach sadness to the position of Uncle though.
I don’t want Uncle Steve to be burdened by the memory of Uncle Eric. It’s not fair to him. He shouldn’t have to be grief counselor because of his title.
I don’t know how to separate this for my kids. I hope that as the little one gets older, he will do that for himself. In the meantime I guess we will just keep stumbling through these little blips in conversation.
I hope Uncle Steve knows that none of this is a reflection of him as Uncle. Missing Eric doesn’t make him any less of a great Uncle. In fact, Eric would say that it gives him an opportunity. With lack of competition, he can slack and win the title of best uncle with minimal effort.
I know he won’t do that though.
Last weekend my kids got to talk to Uncle Steve on the phone. He and my 6 year old had a normal conversation (for a 6 year old anyway). When my 3 year old got on the phone the first thing he said was, “Uncle Eric died today.” Time is relative when you’re 3. We have these moments fairly often, and we just acknowledge that yes, Uncle Eric died and it’s sad, and move on. I don’t want my kids to attach sadness to the position of Uncle though.
I don’t want Uncle Steve to be burdened by the memory of Uncle Eric. It’s not fair to him. He shouldn’t have to be grief counselor because of his title.
I don’t know how to separate this for my kids. I hope that as the little one gets older, he will do that for himself. In the meantime I guess we will just keep stumbling through these little blips in conversation.
I hope Uncle Steve knows that none of this is a reflection of him as Uncle. Missing Eric doesn’t make him any less of a great Uncle. In fact, Eric would say that it gives him an opportunity. With lack of competition, he can slack and win the title of best uncle with minimal effort.
I know he won’t do that though.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
#41 True professionals
As a doctor, taking care of people is my job. Like all jobs, it can get repetitive and mundane. It’s easy to forget that it’s not mundane to the patient. When I’m talking about the same disease entity for the third time that day, to a brand new patient, I have to remember that it’s all new to her. I can’t rush through it; I can’t dismiss her concerns just because I’ve heard them all before. My attitude makes a difference in that patient’s care.
I work mostly in outpatient ophthalmology, but the same is true in inpatient care, or any type of medicine. If you are phoning it in, your patients will know.
The doctors and nurses in Las Vegas were amazing. They were not phoning it in. By the time my parents and I got there, Eric was essentially gone. Machines were breathing for him and medications were trying to keep his blood pressure up and his intracranial pressure down, but for all intents and purposes he wasn’t there anymore. It would have been easy for the staff at the hospital to treat him like another piece of furniture. They didn’t. He had one-to-one nursing care, the whole time he was there. For those of you who don’t know what that means, he had a dedicated nurse, in his room, all the time. She had no other patients. Her name was Marisol and she took care of us as much as she took care of him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t that much to do for him. She made sure we were as comfortable as we could be and found us a private place to make phone calls. She contacted doctors when we needed to speak to them. In this day of cutting back on medical expenditure I find it amazing and wonderful that the hospital dedicated her to us.
My brother’s neuro-surgeon, Dr. Blum, was also great. He performed heroic surgery trying to save Eric even knowing there wasn’t much chance. He explained this over the phone to both me and my parents separately. After surgery we spoke to him both on the phone and in person and he never rushed us, never shirked from answering a difficult question. Or answering it again.
Both of these professionals helped us to accept what was going on. I wrote them a thank you note when I was able, but that was inadequate to communicate how much their dedication meant to us. Eric was beyond their help, but they never made us feel that they begrudged us their time.
Eric was an organ donor so we had to keep him alive until the teams were ready to take his organs. We said goodbye to him in his room before they took him to the OR. Once they got him to the OR they disconnected the machines and let him officially die. After this happened the teams went to work. Marisol went with him to the OR and then came to the waiting room to let us know that he was really gone. She cried with us. That’s uncommon dedication.
I have worked with many wonderful and not so wonderful nurses and doctors. I now have a new appreciation for what the time that we put in means to our patients and their families. Although inside, my patience may be gone, I try never to show this. I try to give back what I got.
I work mostly in outpatient ophthalmology, but the same is true in inpatient care, or any type of medicine. If you are phoning it in, your patients will know.
The doctors and nurses in Las Vegas were amazing. They were not phoning it in. By the time my parents and I got there, Eric was essentially gone. Machines were breathing for him and medications were trying to keep his blood pressure up and his intracranial pressure down, but for all intents and purposes he wasn’t there anymore. It would have been easy for the staff at the hospital to treat him like another piece of furniture. They didn’t. He had one-to-one nursing care, the whole time he was there. For those of you who don’t know what that means, he had a dedicated nurse, in his room, all the time. She had no other patients. Her name was Marisol and she took care of us as much as she took care of him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t that much to do for him. She made sure we were as comfortable as we could be and found us a private place to make phone calls. She contacted doctors when we needed to speak to them. In this day of cutting back on medical expenditure I find it amazing and wonderful that the hospital dedicated her to us.
My brother’s neuro-surgeon, Dr. Blum, was also great. He performed heroic surgery trying to save Eric even knowing there wasn’t much chance. He explained this over the phone to both me and my parents separately. After surgery we spoke to him both on the phone and in person and he never rushed us, never shirked from answering a difficult question. Or answering it again.
Both of these professionals helped us to accept what was going on. I wrote them a thank you note when I was able, but that was inadequate to communicate how much their dedication meant to us. Eric was beyond their help, but they never made us feel that they begrudged us their time.
Eric was an organ donor so we had to keep him alive until the teams were ready to take his organs. We said goodbye to him in his room before they took him to the OR. Once they got him to the OR they disconnected the machines and let him officially die. After this happened the teams went to work. Marisol went with him to the OR and then came to the waiting room to let us know that he was really gone. She cried with us. That’s uncommon dedication.
I have worked with many wonderful and not so wonderful nurses and doctors. I now have a new appreciation for what the time that we put in means to our patients and their families. Although inside, my patience may be gone, I try never to show this. I try to give back what I got.
Friday, June 4, 2010
#40 Unfinished business
Eric and I were very close. You can probably tell that easily by reading this blog. We had our fights and our sibling rivalry moments, but I don’t remember a time when we weren’t close. I’m glad we didn’t waste the time we had together, but there is one outstanding issue that we never did get to discuss.
I have hinted about it in other blogs, but today I’m going to try and talk about it.
Eric and I were raised Jewish. We weren’t particularly observant, but we went to Hebrew school, had our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and Eric even went to a year or two of Hebrew High. Two years before he died, Eric became a practicing Christian. He was baptized and he attended church once or twice a week. He helped his girlfriend lead her youth group at her church. He had an area set up in his apartment for Bible study.
He never told me.
I knew Eric had been searching for a spiritual home for a long time. Despite putting in his years of Jewish education, Eric was never comfortable being a Jew. I think there were many reasons for this, but I’m not going to put words in his mouth. Even as a child he argued with the Rabbi about the existence of God.
As an adult Eric flirted with Mormonism and other religions. I knew he had done a lot of reading and research, I didn’t know he had settled on an answer.
The week before Thanksgiving last year, Eric informed my parents about his religious affiliation in an email, and my Mom told me. I was angry and hurt that he hadn’t confided in me. I always thought we could talk about everything. I thought I would have plenty of time to bring it up and I was waiting for the right time to talk about it with him.
I don’t know why Eric didn’t feel that he could talk to me. I’ll never know. I have my speculations. It could be that while he was discovering his Christianity we were living in Oklahoma and definitely put off by the rampant Christian atmosphere. As he was joining a church, my husband and I were growing more and more leery of organized religion as a whole. Still, I hope he would have known that I would have supported his choice.
I don’t care that Eric was Christian, he could have been a moonie and I would still have loved him. I care that he didn’t share it with me. It was clearly an important, daily part of his life. I wonder if I really knew him as well as I thought I did.
I have hinted about it in other blogs, but today I’m going to try and talk about it.
Eric and I were raised Jewish. We weren’t particularly observant, but we went to Hebrew school, had our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and Eric even went to a year or two of Hebrew High. Two years before he died, Eric became a practicing Christian. He was baptized and he attended church once or twice a week. He helped his girlfriend lead her youth group at her church. He had an area set up in his apartment for Bible study.
He never told me.
I knew Eric had been searching for a spiritual home for a long time. Despite putting in his years of Jewish education, Eric was never comfortable being a Jew. I think there were many reasons for this, but I’m not going to put words in his mouth. Even as a child he argued with the Rabbi about the existence of God.
As an adult Eric flirted with Mormonism and other religions. I knew he had done a lot of reading and research, I didn’t know he had settled on an answer.
The week before Thanksgiving last year, Eric informed my parents about his religious affiliation in an email, and my Mom told me. I was angry and hurt that he hadn’t confided in me. I always thought we could talk about everything. I thought I would have plenty of time to bring it up and I was waiting for the right time to talk about it with him.
I don’t know why Eric didn’t feel that he could talk to me. I’ll never know. I have my speculations. It could be that while he was discovering his Christianity we were living in Oklahoma and definitely put off by the rampant Christian atmosphere. As he was joining a church, my husband and I were growing more and more leery of organized religion as a whole. Still, I hope he would have known that I would have supported his choice.
I don’t care that Eric was Christian, he could have been a moonie and I would still have loved him. I care that he didn’t share it with me. It was clearly an important, daily part of his life. I wonder if I really knew him as well as I thought I did.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
#39 Another, Another use for foreheads
Eric had a very hard head. And by that I don’t mean that he was stubborn, though he was. I mean that he had a very hard head. And he liked to use it.
He used to head butt my Dad when they would wrestle together. This continued into adulthood. He also would use his head as a combat device with me; when he wasn’t biting me, of course.
One Thanksgiving he and my kids invented a new game. Head wrestling. This also led to the creation of back wrestling and foot wrestling.
No one ever accused Eric of not using his head.
He used to head butt my Dad when they would wrestle together. This continued into adulthood. He also would use his head as a combat device with me; when he wasn’t biting me, of course.
One Thanksgiving he and my kids invented a new game. Head wrestling. This also led to the creation of back wrestling and foot wrestling.
No one ever accused Eric of not using his head.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
#38 Everybody's working for the weekend
Do you ever find yourself wishing your life away? You’re probably thinking no, of course not, but think about it. Do you wish the work week would move quickly so you can get to the weekend? Do you wake up hoping the day will fly by so you can get to what you have planned that night?
It’s only natural to enjoy some aspects of life more than others and to look forward to the more enjoyable parts. I’m trying to find some pleasure in the less enjoyable parts too now.
I am on call this week. In my practice we take call a week at a time starting on Friday morning. Call is very unpredictable. Sometimes it’s really light and sometimes it’s incredibly busy. Usually it’s both depending on the day. I hate being on call. I have learned that I am not that spontaneous; I like to know what my day will hold. As much as I caution myself not to get annoyed by the calls, I still do. Sometimes my annoyance is justified, for example when a patient calls me at 10:00 Saturday night for a problem that’s been going on all week. Sometimes it’s not, and I have to learn to get over myself. I found myself wishing this holiday weekend full of beautiful weather away, so my call would be over.
I really do want my call to be over, but I don’t want to wish my time away. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that we never know how much time we have.
The nature of call seems to be that if I plan something, that’s exactly when a patient will call who needs to be seen. So I don’t make plans when I’m on call. This leaves me a lot of unstructured time, especially on a 3-day weekend, something I don’t usually have.
Sunday afternoon, my husband and I tried to take the family on a walk through the neighborhood. Between children needing to go to the bathroom at inopportune times, and phone calls from the answering service, that didn’t work out so well. But at least we tried.
That night we succeeded in having a lovely dinner on the back porch and then playing with the kids in the back yard. The weather and the patients cooperated. If my wish of being done with my call had come true, I would have missed that.
That would have been a shame.
It’s only natural to enjoy some aspects of life more than others and to look forward to the more enjoyable parts. I’m trying to find some pleasure in the less enjoyable parts too now.
I am on call this week. In my practice we take call a week at a time starting on Friday morning. Call is very unpredictable. Sometimes it’s really light and sometimes it’s incredibly busy. Usually it’s both depending on the day. I hate being on call. I have learned that I am not that spontaneous; I like to know what my day will hold. As much as I caution myself not to get annoyed by the calls, I still do. Sometimes my annoyance is justified, for example when a patient calls me at 10:00 Saturday night for a problem that’s been going on all week. Sometimes it’s not, and I have to learn to get over myself. I found myself wishing this holiday weekend full of beautiful weather away, so my call would be over.
I really do want my call to be over, but I don’t want to wish my time away. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that we never know how much time we have.
The nature of call seems to be that if I plan something, that’s exactly when a patient will call who needs to be seen. So I don’t make plans when I’m on call. This leaves me a lot of unstructured time, especially on a 3-day weekend, something I don’t usually have.
Sunday afternoon, my husband and I tried to take the family on a walk through the neighborhood. Between children needing to go to the bathroom at inopportune times, and phone calls from the answering service, that didn’t work out so well. But at least we tried.
That night we succeeded in having a lovely dinner on the back porch and then playing with the kids in the back yard. The weather and the patients cooperated. If my wish of being done with my call had come true, I would have missed that.
That would have been a shame.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
#37 Support
The week before we actually got the call saying Eric was hurt, I got another call that made me think that might be the case. I was at work and I got a message to call Dr. T in Las Vegas. The only people I knew in Las Vegas were Eric and his girlfriend so immediately my mind went to them, imagining a car accident or something similar. I did think it was a little weird that the call would come to me and not my parents though, and I thought the doctor’s last name sounded familiar.
So I called him back. It turns out he’s a guy I knew from college. He had been on our alumni website, realized we were now both ophthalmologists, and called to re-connect. We had a really nice phone call. He hadn’t been in Las Vegas long, but was enjoying it, and he was also married with kids. I enjoyed catching up and we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and promises to keep in better touch in the future.
The Sunday the actual call came I was busy striking a show I had performed in that had just closed. It was the first show I had been in since college and it was a great experience. My parents had seen it the night before and were on their way home. We did our Sunday matinee and then took down the set. As I was about to leave I got a call from my husband saying Eric was in the hospital, he was stable, but he had collapsed during a race and I needed to come home.
Needless to say I ran out of there. I managed to keep the tears at bay until I was two blocks from home. I told myself I was crying from the shock, it was not necessary to be that upset, after all Eric was stable. I pulled into the driveway and pulled my keys out of the ignition and my key ring broke. Keys flew everywhere. All I had left in my hand was my car key and that wasn’t going to get me into the house. I lost it. I sat there crying and cursing and frantically trying to find my keys. I can’t remember if I honked or if my husband came out of the house on his own and found me like that. He brought me inside and helped me calm down. He went to gather the keys while I called Katie, Eric’s girlfriend. Talking to Katie and Eric I was greatly reassured. I wanted to go out there that night, but my parents persuaded me to wait until the morning. It would have been tight to get a flight out that night anyway and I would have arrived at midnight.
I called Dr. T to see what he thought of the hospital. As an ophthalmologist I know I can’t often answer that question, but my parents wanted me to call and I thought it was worth a shot. Dr. T didn’t really know, but said it was new and was supposed to be good for trauma. He did offer to go over there and see Eric. That was really sweet, but unnecessary and I told him so.
We all know what happened next. The horrible phone calls this time came from a nurse and a neurosurgeon. Eric didn’t really make it through the night and by the time my parents and I arrived in Las Vegas, he was being kept alive by machines only.
Dr. T called me the next day to follow up as well. I felt badly laying all of that on him; after all it was the 3rd time we had talked in 11 years or so.
Before we left Las Vegas we had a memorial service for Eric at Katie’s church. It was extremely well attended. After the service there was a reception at the church. I turned around and there was Dr. T. It meant so much to me to see him there. I had several old friends drive and fly in from far away places and that also meant the world to me. Although I didn’t spend a long time talking to Dr. T, his presence helped.
Recently a friend of mine’s father died. He was ill for a long time and was in hospice care when he passed. The visitation was on a work-night, about half an hour from my home. I was tired and wanted to spend the time with my kids, but I remembered how much it meant to me to see my friends, old, new and in between at Eric’s service. I went, and I’m glad I did. It really does make a difference.
So I called him back. It turns out he’s a guy I knew from college. He had been on our alumni website, realized we were now both ophthalmologists, and called to re-connect. We had a really nice phone call. He hadn’t been in Las Vegas long, but was enjoying it, and he was also married with kids. I enjoyed catching up and we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and promises to keep in better touch in the future.
The Sunday the actual call came I was busy striking a show I had performed in that had just closed. It was the first show I had been in since college and it was a great experience. My parents had seen it the night before and were on their way home. We did our Sunday matinee and then took down the set. As I was about to leave I got a call from my husband saying Eric was in the hospital, he was stable, but he had collapsed during a race and I needed to come home.
Needless to say I ran out of there. I managed to keep the tears at bay until I was two blocks from home. I told myself I was crying from the shock, it was not necessary to be that upset, after all Eric was stable. I pulled into the driveway and pulled my keys out of the ignition and my key ring broke. Keys flew everywhere. All I had left in my hand was my car key and that wasn’t going to get me into the house. I lost it. I sat there crying and cursing and frantically trying to find my keys. I can’t remember if I honked or if my husband came out of the house on his own and found me like that. He brought me inside and helped me calm down. He went to gather the keys while I called Katie, Eric’s girlfriend. Talking to Katie and Eric I was greatly reassured. I wanted to go out there that night, but my parents persuaded me to wait until the morning. It would have been tight to get a flight out that night anyway and I would have arrived at midnight.
I called Dr. T to see what he thought of the hospital. As an ophthalmologist I know I can’t often answer that question, but my parents wanted me to call and I thought it was worth a shot. Dr. T didn’t really know, but said it was new and was supposed to be good for trauma. He did offer to go over there and see Eric. That was really sweet, but unnecessary and I told him so.
We all know what happened next. The horrible phone calls this time came from a nurse and a neurosurgeon. Eric didn’t really make it through the night and by the time my parents and I arrived in Las Vegas, he was being kept alive by machines only.
Dr. T called me the next day to follow up as well. I felt badly laying all of that on him; after all it was the 3rd time we had talked in 11 years or so.
Before we left Las Vegas we had a memorial service for Eric at Katie’s church. It was extremely well attended. After the service there was a reception at the church. I turned around and there was Dr. T. It meant so much to me to see him there. I had several old friends drive and fly in from far away places and that also meant the world to me. Although I didn’t spend a long time talking to Dr. T, his presence helped.
Recently a friend of mine’s father died. He was ill for a long time and was in hospice care when he passed. The visitation was on a work-night, about half an hour from my home. I was tired and wanted to spend the time with my kids, but I remembered how much it meant to me to see my friends, old, new and in between at Eric’s service. I went, and I’m glad I did. It really does make a difference.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)