Humans are, by nature, competitive. Whether competing for food, mates, jobs, grades or trophies, it’s what we do. My ophthalmologist friends and I try to top each other’s crazy patient stories, my parent friends and I try to top each other’s crazy kid stories. In almost everything in life there is at least a hint of competition.
Even in tragedy.
A co-worker and I were just talking about the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. This is a true environmental disaster. He was talking about all of the animals being killed by the oil, and I’m not insensitive to that, but in my head I’m thinking, it’s not a person. It’s not like Eric. Why do I have to go there? Clearly his intent was not to compare the two, but I did.
I think it just shows how pervasive a loss Eric was to me. I can’t even think about birds and fish dying, without thinking of Eric.
I also compare other human deaths though.
Sometimes I feel justified in the depths of my grief, thinking losing Eric is worse than losing a parent or grandparent who was old, ill and clearly at the end. In those moments I have to force myself to remember that loss is loss and age and illness don’t make it any easier. The finality that is death is still there. It may be a more expected loss, but it’s still a loss nonetheless.
Other times I feel guilty at the amount of my grief and the effects it has on me. Like when I hear about the loss of a child, or a spouse.
Is there a hierarchy of grief? Does a child count more than a brother? And if so, who’s counting?
No, of course there isn’t. All loss is horrible. Everyone deals with grief differently and there are no right or wrong answers. So why can’t I stop comparing things in my head?
I do this with everything, not just with Eric. I compare clothing and nail polish colors and hair styles. I compare what our kids wear, what we drive, what we eat, where we live. Constantly. Does everyone else do this? Or at least the women out there? Or is it just me?
I think we have a need to know where we stand in the world. As if there were some huge list and we need to find our place on it. To do this we look around and see where we fit. It’s why we try to keep up with the Joneses.
In some ways this is a good thing. It keeps our lawns looking neat and our children in bicycle helmets. But surely it doesn’t need to be applied to everything. Eric’s death, any death, is what is it is and there are no comparisons. Each one stands on its own.
Maybe one day my overactive brain will get it.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
#35 Another use for foreheads
Wouldn’t it be nice if people came with mood indicators? It could be like those color-changing mood rings, only on our foreheads, broadcast for the world to see. Red could mean, “Kids, don’t you dare come near me right now!”. Green would be “Calm, centered Mommy ready to take on the world.” Mine probably wouldn’t be green very often. Black would be how I often feel lately.
For some reason this last week or two has been really difficult for me. I haven’t been thinking about Eric any more often (I don’t really think that’s possible), but those thoughts have been making me sadder than they did the week before. I’m really actively missing him. I’ve cried a few times this week and hadn’t done that in weeks. This doesn’t really upset me, but I have been wondering why now? Nothing significant has changed. We are approaching 6 months without him, but that doesn’t change anything, it’s just time.
I feel badly for the people in my life who unwittingly walk into my mood. Most of the time I put a brave face on things. Someone commented the other night that I’m always smiling. I can temporarily put my feelings away at work. I put them away during social interactions too, for the most part, because I don’t know how to bring them out. It’s hard for the other person and for me. Then my husband tells me he’d like to start running again and I’m a crying mess. Or my kids do something they’ve done a million times before, only this time I really fly off the handle.
If I only I had an early warning system, we all might feel a little safer. I could let the kids and my husband know they were swimming in dangerous waters when they came around me. The kids might be too little even for the traffic light forehead system, but it could help my husband at least. He has pretty good intuition for a guy, the other night when I came home after work with the kids; he had dinner on the stove and sent me away until bedtime. He could tell I was nearing my breaking point. I REALLY appreciated that. But sometimes I’m so good at hiding how I feel, even from him, that there’s no way for him to know.
I don’t know why I have such a hard time showing emotion, but I do. I hate crying in front of others. I can remember my mother telling me “Never let them see that they’ve hurt you” in response to catty teenage girls, or boyfriends who broke up with me. That shouldn’t translate into never let you’re loved ones know you’re in pain though. If I can’t do that, how can I expect them to help me?
Maybe the reason I need this blog is not just lack of time to grieve, but lack of ability to grieve, at least in front of anyone else.
I’m going to work on letting the people in my life into my emotional life a little bit more. In the meantime I may have come up with a forehead sparing warning system. Yesterday I had my toenails painted black.
For some reason this last week or two has been really difficult for me. I haven’t been thinking about Eric any more often (I don’t really think that’s possible), but those thoughts have been making me sadder than they did the week before. I’m really actively missing him. I’ve cried a few times this week and hadn’t done that in weeks. This doesn’t really upset me, but I have been wondering why now? Nothing significant has changed. We are approaching 6 months without him, but that doesn’t change anything, it’s just time.
I feel badly for the people in my life who unwittingly walk into my mood. Most of the time I put a brave face on things. Someone commented the other night that I’m always smiling. I can temporarily put my feelings away at work. I put them away during social interactions too, for the most part, because I don’t know how to bring them out. It’s hard for the other person and for me. Then my husband tells me he’d like to start running again and I’m a crying mess. Or my kids do something they’ve done a million times before, only this time I really fly off the handle.
If I only I had an early warning system, we all might feel a little safer. I could let the kids and my husband know they were swimming in dangerous waters when they came around me. The kids might be too little even for the traffic light forehead system, but it could help my husband at least. He has pretty good intuition for a guy, the other night when I came home after work with the kids; he had dinner on the stove and sent me away until bedtime. He could tell I was nearing my breaking point. I REALLY appreciated that. But sometimes I’m so good at hiding how I feel, even from him, that there’s no way for him to know.
I don’t know why I have such a hard time showing emotion, but I do. I hate crying in front of others. I can remember my mother telling me “Never let them see that they’ve hurt you” in response to catty teenage girls, or boyfriends who broke up with me. That shouldn’t translate into never let you’re loved ones know you’re in pain though. If I can’t do that, how can I expect them to help me?
Maybe the reason I need this blog is not just lack of time to grieve, but lack of ability to grieve, at least in front of anyone else.
I’m going to work on letting the people in my life into my emotional life a little bit more. In the meantime I may have come up with a forehead sparing warning system. Yesterday I had my toenails painted black.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
#34 I love you Eric
When I was in first grade I can remember my teacher telling us to always say “I love you”, to those we loved, and to stand up straight. One of those things sunk in more than the other.
Since then I have always been a stickler for making sure my loved ones know how I feel. I try to end phone conversations with those three little words, and pepper them in elsewhere when appropriate. I especially do this with my little boys, I need them to know that even when they are in trouble, I still love them. They need to know that I will always love them, no matter what, and I need to tell them.
It always struck me that, for a guy, Eric was pretty good at this too. I noticed in our conversations over the last couple of years he was usually the first to say it when we were getting off the phone.
After Eric’s race he was stable in the hospital for the rest of that day and evening. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times as did my parents. He was his usual, funny self. He sounded a little groggy, but we figured, if you’ve been shocked twice and put on pain meds, you’re allowed to be a little groggy. He assured us he was feeling fine and put on a brave face, although I’m sure he was scared. He sang to me from Fiddler on the Roof, “Chavaleh, Chavaleh, how could you let me run that half-marathon, Chavaleh?”. He was in good spirits and had Katie there with him. I was a wreck after hearing the news, and this helped to put me more at ease. It wasn’t until much later I realized that in none of these conversations did I tell him I loved him. I didn’t know it would be my last chance.
The next day I took the long flight out to Las Vegas by myself. He was in surgery when I left, but the prognosis wasn’t good and I pretty much knew what I was going to find when I got there. He was in a hospital bed, white bandages around his head, machines all around keeping him alive. I’ve seen lots of people like this, just not people I know and love. I remember thinking he was surprisingly warm. I told him I loved him over and over. I don’t know if he knew we were there or not, but that didn’t keep any of us from speaking to him.
I know Eric knew that I loved him. I still wish I had said it in that last conversation.
Since then I have always been a stickler for making sure my loved ones know how I feel. I try to end phone conversations with those three little words, and pepper them in elsewhere when appropriate. I especially do this with my little boys, I need them to know that even when they are in trouble, I still love them. They need to know that I will always love them, no matter what, and I need to tell them.
It always struck me that, for a guy, Eric was pretty good at this too. I noticed in our conversations over the last couple of years he was usually the first to say it when we were getting off the phone.
After Eric’s race he was stable in the hospital for the rest of that day and evening. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times as did my parents. He was his usual, funny self. He sounded a little groggy, but we figured, if you’ve been shocked twice and put on pain meds, you’re allowed to be a little groggy. He assured us he was feeling fine and put on a brave face, although I’m sure he was scared. He sang to me from Fiddler on the Roof, “Chavaleh, Chavaleh, how could you let me run that half-marathon, Chavaleh?”. He was in good spirits and had Katie there with him. I was a wreck after hearing the news, and this helped to put me more at ease. It wasn’t until much later I realized that in none of these conversations did I tell him I loved him. I didn’t know it would be my last chance.
The next day I took the long flight out to Las Vegas by myself. He was in surgery when I left, but the prognosis wasn’t good and I pretty much knew what I was going to find when I got there. He was in a hospital bed, white bandages around his head, machines all around keeping him alive. I’ve seen lots of people like this, just not people I know and love. I remember thinking he was surprisingly warm. I told him I loved him over and over. I don’t know if he knew we were there or not, but that didn’t keep any of us from speaking to him.
I know Eric knew that I loved him. I still wish I had said it in that last conversation.
Friday, May 28, 2010
#33 Numerology
33
Uncharted territory. The age Eric never got to see. He had less than a month to go in his 32nd year when his story ended. Or at least he stopped being the protagonist. I hope I’m still moving his story forward.
33 is also the atomic number of arsenic. I remember watching the movie “Arsenic and Old Lace” with Eric in black and white. If you haven’t seen it, you should, it’s a classic. And because my Mom loves it so much and rented it from the library every time Eric or I stayed home sick from school, I’ll also recommend another black and white film, “Some Like it Hot”.
If you use the Newtonian temperature scale, 33 is the temperature needed to boil water. This may explain Eric’s failures at Fettuccine alfredo. Knowing him, he was using this scale and found his thermometers inaccurate.
Eric and I practiced different religions. You may have noticed in past blogs that he celebrated Christmas with his girlfriend and Chanukah with his family. I’ll probably get into that in another blog, when I get up the courage, but for now, 33 has important symbolism in both religions. Jesus died at age 33 and performed 33 miracles. 33 is the numerical equivalent of the Star of David and Amen.
A 33 is a long playing record. Eric certainly didn’t get to play for nearly long enough.
33 is the number of Larry Bird’s Celtics jersey. This would mean nothing to Eric; I’m just throwing a bone to my husband, a huge fan of both the Celtics and Larry Bird.
33 years is considered the coming of age of a hobbit in J. R. R. Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” a book and movie that Eric loved.
It is also the international pre-fix for France, a country Eric loved.
Eric was not Jesus, or Larry Bird, or a hobbit. But he was undeniably an amazing human being. And all humans have 33 vertebrae in their spines.
He may not have gotten to see his 33rd year, but he certainly got to experience the number 33. I’m sure he knew that 33 is the eighth distinct semiprime comprising the prime factors (3 • 11). Its aliquot sum is 15; itself a discrete semiprime (3 • 5) in the following Aliquot sequence 33,15,9,4,3,1,0. (Note 33 is the 8th composite number to descend into the prime number 3, the others outside of this sequence being 30,26,16,12) Since 33 is a semiprime with both its prime factors being Gaussian primes, 33 is a Blum integer.
And even if he didn’t know that, I’m sure he would have liked to know that Messier object 33 is in the constellation Triangulum otherwise known as the Triangulum Galaxy.
Halfway through what would have been Eric’s 33rd year, I learned that according to Egyptian Islamic scholar Al-Ghazali, the dwellers of Heaven will exist eternally in a state of being age 33. Maybe he didn’t miss it after all.
(Thanks to Wikipedia for the information on the number 33)
Uncharted territory. The age Eric never got to see. He had less than a month to go in his 32nd year when his story ended. Or at least he stopped being the protagonist. I hope I’m still moving his story forward.
33 is also the atomic number of arsenic. I remember watching the movie “Arsenic and Old Lace” with Eric in black and white. If you haven’t seen it, you should, it’s a classic. And because my Mom loves it so much and rented it from the library every time Eric or I stayed home sick from school, I’ll also recommend another black and white film, “Some Like it Hot”.
If you use the Newtonian temperature scale, 33 is the temperature needed to boil water. This may explain Eric’s failures at Fettuccine alfredo. Knowing him, he was using this scale and found his thermometers inaccurate.
Eric and I practiced different religions. You may have noticed in past blogs that he celebrated Christmas with his girlfriend and Chanukah with his family. I’ll probably get into that in another blog, when I get up the courage, but for now, 33 has important symbolism in both religions. Jesus died at age 33 and performed 33 miracles. 33 is the numerical equivalent of the Star of David and Amen.
A 33 is a long playing record. Eric certainly didn’t get to play for nearly long enough.
33 is the number of Larry Bird’s Celtics jersey. This would mean nothing to Eric; I’m just throwing a bone to my husband, a huge fan of both the Celtics and Larry Bird.
33 years is considered the coming of age of a hobbit in J. R. R. Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” a book and movie that Eric loved.
It is also the international pre-fix for France, a country Eric loved.
Eric was not Jesus, or Larry Bird, or a hobbit. But he was undeniably an amazing human being. And all humans have 33 vertebrae in their spines.
He may not have gotten to see his 33rd year, but he certainly got to experience the number 33. I’m sure he knew that 33 is the eighth distinct semiprime comprising the prime factors (3 • 11). Its aliquot sum is 15; itself a discrete semiprime (3 • 5) in the following Aliquot sequence 33,15,9,4,3,1,0. (Note 33 is the 8th composite number to descend into the prime number 3, the others outside of this sequence being 30,26,16,12) Since 33 is a semiprime with both its prime factors being Gaussian primes, 33 is a Blum integer.
And even if he didn’t know that, I’m sure he would have liked to know that Messier object 33 is in the constellation Triangulum otherwise known as the Triangulum Galaxy.
Halfway through what would have been Eric’s 33rd year, I learned that according to Egyptian Islamic scholar Al-Ghazali, the dwellers of Heaven will exist eternally in a state of being age 33. Maybe he didn’t miss it after all.
(Thanks to Wikipedia for the information on the number 33)
Thursday, May 27, 2010
#32 You look good nude
Growing up I was more often than not Eric’s unwilling straight man. He was always funny. I would say he was born funny, but most stories of Eric as a baby involve him crying from a series of ear infections, so I guess it started a little later in life.
Many times my Mother was Eric’s accomplice in practical jokes. Or was it the other way around?
I am the only person in my family who values sleep. The early bird gets the worm, and who the hell wants a worm? I’d rather have a dream, or 2, or 20. In this case, the early birds played practical jokes on the worm. Wait, did I just call myself a worm?
Once my Mom sewed my pajamas to the bed while I was sleeping in them. I’m not sure how I didn’t wake up, but I didn’t. Eric didn’t actually do the sewing--thank you Mom for not letting him near me with a needle--but I’m sure he was involved somehow.
My Mother also short-sheeted my bed. Luckily, she also taught me how to do this which came in handy in summer camp.
Another time when I was sleeping in as teenage girls do, my mother sent Eric to wake me. He did it from behind a chair, lion tamer style.
There were other jokes that didn’t involve me sleeping. When I was in high school we finished the third floor of our house. There were 3 rooms and a bathroom up there, and I moved into one of the rooms. Eric and my Mom got Rain-X and with it wrote “You look good nude” on my bathroom mirror. Imagine my surprise when I got out of the shower.
Apparently my Mom also made a checkerboard on her bathroom mirror, but my Dad got so mad she had to fix it. As far as I know, my bathroom mirror is still complimenting the current owners.
As an adult, Eric was the funniest person I knew. For Mother’s Day last year he made a plaster cast of his hand, painted it and sent it to my mother; just like he did in pre-school. He even labeled it, “Eric, age 32”. It was hysterical. It was, of course, a joke, but now it is also a bit of a memorial. Who knew he would never make it past 32?
Many times my Mother was Eric’s accomplice in practical jokes. Or was it the other way around?
I am the only person in my family who values sleep. The early bird gets the worm, and who the hell wants a worm? I’d rather have a dream, or 2, or 20. In this case, the early birds played practical jokes on the worm. Wait, did I just call myself a worm?
Once my Mom sewed my pajamas to the bed while I was sleeping in them. I’m not sure how I didn’t wake up, but I didn’t. Eric didn’t actually do the sewing--thank you Mom for not letting him near me with a needle--but I’m sure he was involved somehow.
My Mother also short-sheeted my bed. Luckily, she also taught me how to do this which came in handy in summer camp.
Another time when I was sleeping in as teenage girls do, my mother sent Eric to wake me. He did it from behind a chair, lion tamer style.
There were other jokes that didn’t involve me sleeping. When I was in high school we finished the third floor of our house. There were 3 rooms and a bathroom up there, and I moved into one of the rooms. Eric and my Mom got Rain-X and with it wrote “You look good nude” on my bathroom mirror. Imagine my surprise when I got out of the shower.
Apparently my Mom also made a checkerboard on her bathroom mirror, but my Dad got so mad she had to fix it. As far as I know, my bathroom mirror is still complimenting the current owners.
As an adult, Eric was the funniest person I knew. For Mother’s Day last year he made a plaster cast of his hand, painted it and sent it to my mother; just like he did in pre-school. He even labeled it, “Eric, age 32”. It was hysterical. It was, of course, a joke, but now it is also a bit of a memorial. Who knew he would never make it past 32?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
# 31 Denial
Some people go to medical school and become alarmists about every little symptom, real or imagined. Others become calmer, and tend to ignore symptoms until they can’t be ignored anymore. I went through both of these stages. As a medical student, it seemed like every new disease we talked about, I had. When we learned about DVTs, my lower legs hurt. Every mole looked like melanoma. Every headache was a brain tumor. Thankfully, I grew out of that.
I am now in a more relaxed, laid back state. I didn’t go to the doctor when my back hurt until it started sending shooting pains down my left arm. Luckily, I just had a pinched nerve. I made light of my son’s stomach ache until we ended up in the ER with a severely constipated child. Waiting, with these symptoms, wasn’t really harmful it just postponed the resolution. Will I know to react faster in more important situations?
When my Dad told his doctor about Eric, the doctor recommended that I get a scan to look for calcium in my heart. I have not done this.
A few nights ago I was out with a friend who is a pediatrician and she recommended having the kids evaluated by a pediatric cardiologist. This never even occurred to me. I asked the docs in Las Vegas if they thought what happened to Eric was hereditary and they said no and that was good enough for me.
Am I in denial? Am I too complacent? I don’t want to be the hyperactive, hypochondriac Mom who is constantly seeing doom in the shadows. But I also don’t want to leave my boys open to harm through inaction. And I should probably take care of myself as well. After all, if I don’t do it, who will?
There has to be a middle ground here. A way to protect us and not alarm us. I think its time for a heart to heart with my doctor and our pediatrician. When I get around to it.
I am now in a more relaxed, laid back state. I didn’t go to the doctor when my back hurt until it started sending shooting pains down my left arm. Luckily, I just had a pinched nerve. I made light of my son’s stomach ache until we ended up in the ER with a severely constipated child. Waiting, with these symptoms, wasn’t really harmful it just postponed the resolution. Will I know to react faster in more important situations?
When my Dad told his doctor about Eric, the doctor recommended that I get a scan to look for calcium in my heart. I have not done this.
A few nights ago I was out with a friend who is a pediatrician and she recommended having the kids evaluated by a pediatric cardiologist. This never even occurred to me. I asked the docs in Las Vegas if they thought what happened to Eric was hereditary and they said no and that was good enough for me.
Am I in denial? Am I too complacent? I don’t want to be the hyperactive, hypochondriac Mom who is constantly seeing doom in the shadows. But I also don’t want to leave my boys open to harm through inaction. And I should probably take care of myself as well. After all, if I don’t do it, who will?
There has to be a middle ground here. A way to protect us and not alarm us. I think its time for a heart to heart with my doctor and our pediatrician. When I get around to it.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
#30 30 Days does not a month make
It’s been a month. Ok, if it were February it would be over a month and if it were May (which it is) it would be under a month. Eric would definitely call me on that. Since I’m not going by the calendar I’m just going to call 30 days a month. Ok Eric??
With this entry I will have shared my grief, my stories, my pain and my gratitude with you 30 times. I know some of you find this too painful to read (and therefore aren’t reading this either), but most of you have expressed positive reactions. I know this has been a huge positive for me.
I owe Eric for helping me rediscover that I like to write. And that I’m ok at it.
I owe Eric for making me look back and pull out our childhood memories and set them down for all time. I’m not done with that by any stretch.
I owe our family and friends for also helping me revive memories that I had already forgotten.
I owe my husband for editing and cheerleading.
I owe spell check a lot.
I owe you for reading.
I hate the need for this blog, but I’m glad I’m doing it and I’m glad you’re reading it.
When I was in elementary school we wrote stories and bound them and “published” them. I don’t remember what mine was about, but I know the resolution involved the protagonist waking from a dream. (Wow, that’s definitely a sentence I couldn’t have written in elementary school.) I always think of that as the “Wizard of Oz” ending. Even then I knew it was a cop out, but couldn’t think of any other way to end the story. I wish that could happen now. I wish I could wake up and have Eric back. I would give up a lot to make that happen. But of course, I can’t.
Looking for silver linings in this death is crap. There is no silver lining. Eric had too much to offer and left too much undone. Still, since I’m not going to wake up to my life as I want it, I’ll take this blog. And a million dollars if you’re offering.
With this entry I will have shared my grief, my stories, my pain and my gratitude with you 30 times. I know some of you find this too painful to read (and therefore aren’t reading this either), but most of you have expressed positive reactions. I know this has been a huge positive for me.
I owe Eric for helping me rediscover that I like to write. And that I’m ok at it.
I owe Eric for making me look back and pull out our childhood memories and set them down for all time. I’m not done with that by any stretch.
I owe our family and friends for also helping me revive memories that I had already forgotten.
I owe my husband for editing and cheerleading.
I owe spell check a lot.
I owe you for reading.
I hate the need for this blog, but I’m glad I’m doing it and I’m glad you’re reading it.
When I was in elementary school we wrote stories and bound them and “published” them. I don’t remember what mine was about, but I know the resolution involved the protagonist waking from a dream. (Wow, that’s definitely a sentence I couldn’t have written in elementary school.) I always think of that as the “Wizard of Oz” ending. Even then I knew it was a cop out, but couldn’t think of any other way to end the story. I wish that could happen now. I wish I could wake up and have Eric back. I would give up a lot to make that happen. But of course, I can’t.
Looking for silver linings in this death is crap. There is no silver lining. Eric had too much to offer and left too much undone. Still, since I’m not going to wake up to my life as I want it, I’ll take this blog. And a million dollars if you’re offering.
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