Being Strong

Today, I choose to be strong instead of weak. I choose to get out of bed, to shower, to be a functioning human being. It would be great to take the day off of life -- have a personal day. This would be weak and slightly pathetic. And I refuse to be pathetic. Yes, today will be tough. But Shane was a strong person and so am I. And I will continue to be strong in his absence.

There are Different Ways a Soldier can Come Home

Shane's brothers-in-arms are coming home soon. I'm happy that they're coming home safely. On Facebook, I see a lot of updates from the men themselves, their wives, and family. All of these updates are happy, as they should be. Their loved ones are coming home.

But.

My brother came home in a box.

Edible Arrangements

 After Shane died, my parents and my best friend and I were gathered at home, preparing for a day at the funeral home or maybe one of the days right before the funeral home. Everyone was in pajamas, if I remember correctly, except for my best friend, who was put together and making sure that we were at least semi-functioning. There was a knock at the door. My best friend appeared to go answer the door and then came into the room where I was, muttering something slightly undiscernible and suggesting that I needed to go answer the door. 


At the door was a man with the widest smile I've possibly ever seen. He was wearing orange and purple and holding and obscenely large bouquet of fruit. So large that he was struggling to keep it upright. 


"HELLO!"


I stared back in disbelief. What was this strange little man doing at the door? What was this bouquet of fruit? Why was he so happy? Would I ever be that happy again? Was I ever that happy to begin with? Probably not. Could I even fake being that happy? Probably not successfully. Seriously, was this man on medication? Did he have a head injury? These are the thoughts that flew through my head as I stared at the man, unable to form proper words. 


Finally, I answered, "How can I help you?"

"Well, I have an Edible Arrangement for you! And boy, is this one special because it even has special chocolate sauce! And I've never gotten to deliver one with special chocolate sauce before! So this must be a very special delivery! Now, if you can just take this, I need to run back to the car so that I can get a little signature from you and give you one of our wonderful calendars!"

The man somehow placed the Edible Arrangement into my arms and, in the memory I've kept of the moment, skipped off to his delivery van to get a calendar and something for me to sign with a "little signature." 


I must have managed to hand off the arrangement to someone else, collect the special chocolate sauce and calendar from the man, and give him a little signature. He was smiling the entire time. Couldn't he see our misery, I thought to myself. Didn't he read the card? 


"Have a great day!!" The man trotted back to his van and drove out of our lives. 


I turned around to face my family and friends. And something magical happened. We all started laughing. Real laughter. Not forced, conversational laughter. But real, honest, doesn't-make-you-sound-attractive laughter that comes from deep down in your belly. 


That moment proved for me that life does, in fact, go on. Sometimes it starts to go on during a time when we least expect, like when you're minding your own business, attempting to be miserable and grieve in your pajamas. Life forces you to have moments of happiness and laughter, even if it then thrusts you into four miserable days of funeral homes and funerals and burials.


I don't remember who sent the Edible Arrangement, I think it was a friend of my mother's. It was excessively large and took a long time to disassemble but it gave us fresh fruit to eat. And it gave us laughter. Throughout the rest of that week, we kept seeing Edible Arrangements trucks and making jokes about special chocolate sauce and happy deliverymen. To whomever sent that, I don't think anything else my family was given during that time frame brought us more genuine happiness during a time of absolute misery, so thank you very much. 


Not so long ago, I saw that deliveryman again and took the opportunity to thank him. I don't think he remembered me, but when I told him that we still talk about how happy of a person he was and how he brought my family so much joy with our Edible Arrangement he smiled wider than I thought possible, even for him. 

The Last Christmas Present

The things that remind me of Shane always seem to surprise me. Yes, I think about him almost every minute of the day in one way or another. There are photographs of him all over where I live and I can't speak to either of my parents without thinking of him. Almost all music reminds me of him in one way or another. None of these things ever creep up on me; they're expected and so I deal with the emotions that they bring accordingly. 

It's the unexpected things that manage to take my breath away and choke me up. Today, I drove down Woodward Ave., passing the Detroit Artists Market. I drive past DAM at least a couple times a week. But today was the first day that there was snow on the ground. So it wasn't until today that I remembered that Shane and I had done Christmas shopping there for our parents last year. Shane and I visited the Market on a day much like today. Slush in the streets, a gray sky, biting cold air. I remember that I conscientiously didn't put enough money in the meter and left a ticket to chance. We spent about an hour in the Market, walking around, looking at all the art, most of which we couldn't afford. We purchased a handblown glass vase for our mother. We verbalized to one another that it was perfect for her because it was in shades of blue and reminded us of the water. And for our father, we got a painting of a lone wolf with its back to the viewer, staring off into the distance. Shane made a joke about a wolf pack and The Hangover, but from the amount of time that he spent looking at the painting, I know that there was a lot more going on behind his selection. 

After picking out gifts for our parents, I took our selections to the desk and realized that Shane wasn't with me. I went back onto the main floor of the Market, finding Shane staring, contemplating, at a photograph. It's entitled "Extraordinary Light" and was taken in Michigan Central Station. The photographer printed the photo on metallic paper, so it has an aged, almost magical quality to it. It's a beautiful photograph that I will not attempt to further describe with words because there are simply things that do not translate between mediums. I didn't say anything to Shane at first, instead watching him stare at the photograph. At the time in December 2009, Shane rarely did things like this. He didn't take quiet moments for himself to reflect, and I knew that I was lucky to be getting to see him like this. That was probably one of the last times I saw him like that -- contemplative, thoughtful, lost in his head. When I look back on it now, I feel like I stole a little piece of him that day. He didn't know how long I was standing behind him. Maybe a few minutes passed, but it felt like much longer. I asked him if he was ready to go and he said yes.


I returned the next day and purchased "Extraordinary Light" for him. That was my last Christmas present to my brother, and I just now realized that. I'm looking at the photograph right now. It resides on top of a chest of drawers in my bedroom, across from my bed. It's one of the first things I see when I wake up in the morning and one of the last I see when I go to sleep at night. Shane was supposed to take it with him to Fort Campbell, but he left it at home, claiming that it would only get damaged with moving around. And he was probably right. So I ended up keeping his last Christmas present for safekeeping, until he would return from his deployment. 

And I suppose that I will continue to hold on to it for safekeeping. That's one of the only pieces of comfort I take from Shane being killed in action. For me, I think he will always be deployed. He will never age and we will never grow apart. We just won't have spoken for awhile because, in my mind, I can allow him to just be out on a mission, unable to write or call. Maybe that's all the afterlife is, just not speaking to the ones we love for an extended period of time. Maybe they're always there, always right around a corner, just out of earshot. Maybe they're in our dreams, residing in that thin veil between reality and the unknown. I suppose that, for right now, while the rest of us are still living, they can live where ever we imagine them. Every time I look at photographs from Afghanistan, I imagine that Shane has somehow evaded the camera. That he is right outside of the frame, with his brothers, in his uniform, slightly slouched, making a half smile or grimacing his eyebrows, depending upon his mood. That's where Shane lives for me.

“Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.”

I had an (almost) normal day today. I wore earrings and jeans instead of a pair of Shane's sweatpants and a hoodie. I went to school. I talked with some professors. Walked in the rain to lunch with two of my friends. Felt actual hunger. Ate food without feeling like I was going to vomit. Laughed at jokes because I thought they were funny, not because I was abiding by social cues. Talked on the phone with another friend without mentioning Shane. Actually studied for a final exam instead of pretending that shuffling through papers is sufficient. 

And now, as the day is coming to a close and I sit in my apartment alone, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt over this almost normal day.  I feel guilty that I wasn't mourning all day. I feel guilty for not thinking of Shane non-stop. I feel guilty that I got to be alive today to have an almost normal day. I feel guilty for feeling guilty, because I know that Shane wouldn't want me to waste my time feeling this way. Shane always told me that I needed to stop worrying so much, that I needed to not be in my head so much. And I'm really trying to still follow his advice. But as I sit here, I find it impossible to follow. I recognize that I need to find a way to live an actual life without an overwhelming sense of guilt every night. But I also know that it's been less than a month since Shane was killed, and that for now, it's okay to feel guilty.

Vulnerable

vul·ner·a·ble \ adj \ˈvəl-n(ə-)rə-bəl 

1. capable of being physically or emotionally wounded 

2. open to attack or damage

Examples of VULNERABLE

1. She was very vulnerable after her brother died.
2. Her brother was in a vulnerable position when he was killed.
3. Her heart is now undefended and vulnerable.

"Grief is itself a medicine." from William Cowper's "Charity"

I didn’t realize it until now, but today is the first day that I have had a chance to truly mourn Shane. Up until today, my family and I have been busy with paperwork, funeral home arrangements, funeral arrangements, burial arrangements, receiving 100s of messages, letters, and phone calls, etc. Today, there are still some cards in the mail and, as I lay in Shane’s bed typing this, I can hear the phone still ringing. But that’s the thing. I’m in bed. I cannot bring myself to shower. I cannot bring myself to change my clothes. I feel the emptiness and darkness consuming my heart and now my mind. And these things – the emptiness, the darkness – are what comfort me today. 

Right now, I have no desire to be happy. I want the emptiness and the darkness to stay with me for the time being. Not forever, but until I’m ready to tell them to go. I have had very dark moments in my life before this. But those dark moments were with my inner demons and something that I had the power to conquer. They were things that would pass, that I could tuck into the back of my mind. Before Shane’s death, whenever I felt weak, I would think how I overcame my dark moments and how I wasn’t going back to that place.

This dark moment, this new place, this one I am powerless against. I cannot summon my inner strength to make everything go away. I cannot take a pill to balance my seratonin levels and norepinephrine levels because that’s not really what Shane’s death is about. There is no pill which, after 4-6 weeks of proper usage, will make me feel like normal people feel. Because I am no longer capable of feeling normal. Shane’s death has forever marked me.

In the Jewish faith, a practice known as shiva performed when someone dies.Those within 7 degrees of the decreased mourn for 7 days, they cannot bathe or change their clothes, among many other restrictions.

As I lie in Shane’s bed, surrounded by all of the little things he felt were important enough to have in his life, I feel as if I am practicing my own form of shiva. I do not want to change my clothes. I do not want to eat. I do not want to move. I do not want to listen to anything but sad music. I want to peel my skin off. I want to scream but do not have the energy. I want to somehow be consumed by the sheets and blanks and pillows, to be surrounded by safeness and the quiet. I want to disappear.

So I will continue to mourn. I know this mourning will not last forever, but I am holding on to it tightly until it ends.

 

Funeral Home Phrases

Phrases that I never want to hear again:

• I'm so sorry for your loss.
• Things will get better.
• How are your parents? 
• How are you doing? 
• You are so strong.
• Let us know what you need.

Does this make me sound ungrateful to most of the people who attended the funeral home over the past 2 days? Absolutely. Am I really ungrateful? Definitely not; the outpouring of love and kindness has been overwhelming. But hearing these same phrases and questions on loop from family, friends, strangers, etc. mean that the questions and my responses begin to lack meaning. I felt like I was stuck on repeat. I know that everyone means well, but maybe we need to come up with some new funeral home catch phrases to mix things up.


The most meaningful comments were when I was told that this would not get easier, that it would get harder. That the pain never really goes away. That this sucks, is awful, etc. Or even silence.

I am exhausted after the past 2 days, and my family and I have 2 more long days ahead of us. I will write more after things have calmed down and I am able to get more than 2 hours of sleep a night.  

Everything suddenly seems very real and I want to crawl into bed for 100 years and wake up as a new person.

No One Tells You How Draining Death Is

Death is exhausting.


It's phone calls. Emails. Facebook. Text messages. Visitors. Opening cards. Paper cuts. Talking to reporters. Looking at pictures. Remembering. Forgetting. Worrying about forgetting. Lasagnas. Being asked questions I don't want to answer. Asking questions that don't have answers. Accidentally looking in mirrors. Not recognizing myself. Looking awful. Feeling guilty for caring what I look like. Not caring what I look like. Having too much gray hair. Watching clumps of my hair fall out. Realizing that I'm an only child. Shopping for clothing I will never wear again. Wearing RayBans indoors so no one can see my eyes. Making everyone in public uncomfortable by letting them see my eyes. Telling people thank you when I really want to say fuck off. Telling people that I will not have a good weekend because my brother is dead. Being happy that I've made people uncomfortable. More lasagnas. Refusing to smile. Faking a smile. Comforting others. Being strong. Not crying. Crying. Being comforted. Saying I'm okay when I'm really not. Trying to convince myself that I'm okay and failing. Turning music on. Turning music off. Making funeral home arrangements. Believing in God. Not believing in God. Driving to places I don't remember. Silence in the car. Screaming in the car. Being coddled and hating it. Being coddled and liking it. Saying things that aren't appropriate. Saying things that only Shane would have appreciated. Laughing. Feeling guilty for laughing. Feeling guilty for being alive. Feeling guilty for feeling. Feeling a type of pain I didn't know existed. Not feeling. Thinking I'm not capable of feeling. Wanting to vomit. Not being able to breathe. Wanting to crawl out of my skin and into someone else's. Pretending this never happened. Telling people I love them. Being told that people love me. Wondering what that means. Being told that Shane loved me. Knowing I won't love anyone more than I loved him. Trying to think of what Shane would have wanted. Not knowing what Shane would have wanted. Waiting for a body. Not knowing how my brother fucking died. Not knowing myself. Thinking this could still turn out to be some sort of nightmare. Wondering how all of this is going to end. 

I Feel You in the In-Between

The in-between. It's what I call the time between first waking and actually being awake and cognizant. I relish the in-between every morning, even though it doesn't last very long. It's a time when nothing is really wrong, nothing is really right, everything is a little fuzzy.

Shane has been dead for 6 days. And for the past 6 mornings, for those few fleeting seconds in the in-between, I am in a world where Shane is alive. Far away and in a dangerous place, but alive and connected and eventually coming home. For a few seconds each morning, I feel Shane's presence in the in-between and everything is going to be alright.

And then, as quickly as it came, the in-between goes. Something yanks me back to reality, the in-between becomes distant and the realization of Shane's death becomes palpable.

I wish I could find a way to stay in that place for just a few seconds longer. I'm afraid of the morning that I wake up and he is not in the in-between. 

But for now, he is there. And it is enough.

We All Die Alone

I just want to wake up from this nightmare and find out that all of this has been some sort of cosmic cruel joke. That we're just being punked. That there's been a mistake and Shane is alive and well and still out there taking names and kicking ass.  

I keep thinking about his autopsy. How he would have been sliced open on a cold slab. How his organs would have been weighed and then placed back inside with care, in a methodical and scientific manner. How he is now alone in a cold box. How I want to rip my heart out of my chest and give it to my brother so that he doesn't have to be in a cold and sterile box. How we all die alone. 

"Every living creature on earth dies alone."
-- Donnie Darko