This blog is about the death of my baby brother George Raymond Van Ry who was taken from us at the age of 24 by three brain tumors. We lost him on May 2, 2010. Writing is my way of coping and sharing is my way of reaching out to others who may be grieving as well.
I was in a crap mood all day today. It's difficult not to be on a day when most people in the area are preparing for a celebration and I'm grappling with the memory of putting my brother in a box in the ground. Who buries their brother on Cinco de Mayo, anyway? Well, when he dies on May 2nd and everyone's bereavement leave is running out, you do what you have to. I would have just spent the day as a shut-in, but Daryll had an appointment with the neurologist to test his neuropathy and then I had a date with the endocrinologist. I dreaded the thought of anyone asking me if we had plans for the holiday, because I honestly didn't know how I would answer. Fortunately, no one did. As it was, I had a hard time with anyone asking me the polite “How are you, today?” The answer was something like “I'm doing well”, when the voice in my head was really saying, “I planted my brother a year ago, today. How do you think I'm doing?” That's not fair, though. That's not nice.
If it's any consolation, I had a really good gluten-free chicken quesadilla with soy cheese, salsa, re-fried beans and soy sour cream. Not exactly authentic, but It's what I had access to and I have food allergies. I did make sure to pelt it heavily with Tabasco...not for Cinco, for George. He loved the stuff. We put a bottle in his casket with him, alongside his favorite childhood teddy bear, making sure Fuzzy (the bear) got a warm hug from each of us first. God, just typing those words makes me want a George-hug more than anything in the world. I wish his grave wasn't so far away. I know it's just his body in there, but it's something I could be close to. It's simpler to grasp...and yet, more difficult. At least with his iPod sharing his tastes in music with me, here at my computer, I can imagine his spirit close by. There is something of him here...I just can't touch it in the same way I used to reach out and squeeze his warm, soft shoulder and then go in for a hug. They were the best hugs in all the world. My giant, squishy marshmallow. He was so full of love and I am so full of empty when I think of those hugs being gone forever.
I miss his visits. I miss battling it out as Jiggly Puff against whatever random characters on his Nintendo. I miss cooking for him when he'd stay for a week (which wasn't often enough as it was). I miss Mario and Luigi. I miss random, crazy posts on Gaia. I miss emails. I only have three saved in my yahoo in-box. I'll never delete them. I miss George. I miss George.
I miss you, Baby Boy.
A year ago today, we put your body in the ground. When it starts to haunt me, I remind myself that it's not really you in that box. You are free and can go anywhere...I hope you come see me again, soon. I promise to tell the baby all about Uncle George.
"Sometimes I don't want to face life
Sometimes I feel empty inside
But every moment is precious
And everyone will turn to dust
Dust myself up and I scream at the sky
It's been so hard but I can't let it die
Turn my head up, looking at the stars
So many years, I still wonder where you are?
Dust myself up and I scream at the sky
It's been so hard and I ask myself why?
Turn my head up, looking at the sun
Waited so long, it's time to move on, move on
Look at the sun, look at the sky
Another day, another sign
And every moment is precious
And everything will turn to dust
Dust myself up and I scream at the sky
It's been so hard but I can't let it die
Turn my head up, looking at the stars
So many years, I still wonder where you are?
Dust myself up and I scream at the sky
Every day I ask myself why?
So much pain pouring from inside
Above me I feel the spirit fly"
I should be going to bed. It's been a strange day. I cried a little bit this morning, or was it early this afternoon? There was a dull ache hanging over the day, much like the gray clouds outside the window. Just like the day you died. Actually it would be yesterday now, as I look at the time. I guess that makes it officially more than a year since you left...even if just by a smidgeon. One year. Somewhere in the back of my head, I've been dreading this day. I've been dreading the distance. More time means more distance. More time means you're farther away. Of course, I'm seeing time and distance in very mortal terms. Part of me doesn't want to heal. I sometimes fear that if I heal too much, you'll think I won't need you anymore. I'll always need you. I'll always miss you.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not wallowing day in and out. I know you wouldn't like that. I'm going through the motions, as well as the emotions. Moving on as best I can, because I know that's what I'm “supposed” to do and it's happening whether I want it to or not. Honestly, it's like being tied to the back of a train. I'm moving on and leaving you behind but not because I consciously chose to. Sometimes, the warmth of the engine lulls me to sleep and I forget the pain for a time. Then, I snap into consciousness and look back, silently horrified at the distance and I reach out. Nothing could keep you from dying and I know nothing can release me from the forward-cycle of time and emotion. Still...if I could only grieve a little longer, maybe you'd seem a little closer. I know...it doesn't work like that. Besides, you'd be pissed at me if I did that.
George, I'm sorry. I'm not this sad all the time, I promise. But if you're still peeking in, I'm sure you know that. Please don't stop visiting me...not yet. I know it's selfish, but I need you so. Whether it's apparent or not, you're in almost everything I say or do. You are in the direction my life is taking. I know Daryll and I would not be having a baby if it wasn't for you. I hope you come to visit the baby. I'll be sure to tell him or her all about Uncle George...especially if it's a boy. I'm giving him your first name. I hope you don't mind. It it's a girl, well...no.
Well, I'm out of things to say at the moment. I'm very tired and I hurt. Don't worry, I'll feel better soon, really. I'll keep working hard. I'll keep moving toward a better life, I promise. I miss you George, and I love you...very, very much. Well, I guess I'd better go to bed. Somehow, a year suddenly seems like an eternity and a second all in one. I think that means I need to go find where the dreams are. Good night, baby brother.
The last song his iPod played before I called it a night.
It's been a year since I received the call from my mother on a sunny Friday afternoon to tell me that there was no longer a cure for my brother's brain tumors. Now it was about keeping him comfortable for as long as possible, but there was still a lot of time left. To say it broke my heart was an understatement, but I knew the best I could do was to make plans to visit sometime that summer. Really, what else can you do? I thought back to the last conversation I'd had with him on the phone. At that time, I knew the tumors were growing again and that more aggressive treatment was needed. I told him I expected him to keep me updated and that I was going to try to visit, soon. He sounded like his usual chipper self, like this was all no big deal and everything was fine. I told him I loved him and he said he loved me too. He knew he was dying, but he said nothing about it. Knowing George, I suspect he just didn't want to bother us with it. He wouldn't have wanted us to start grieving before he was gone. That would be silly.
But in a way, I had been grieving. I was watching my baby brother go through the most horrific illness. Only the year before, he had undergone surgery to have a sixth of his brain removed. Yes, horrific was the word that pounded against my psyche. This was horrific...and unbeknownst to any of us, it was soon to get worse. This man, who was six-foot-five and 315 pounds was still in many ways, that chubby, sunny baby who's diapers I had changed, who's little footy-pajamas I'd clothed him in. I'd fed him, played with him, held him and when he was just too fussy (which wasn't often), I'd just let him cry it out in his crib. He may have been my brother, but he was also my son. My funny, sunny son. Larger than life and part of my heart.
I did a lot of crying, that evening. They were those silent waterfall-tears. I sat at my computer, doing I forget what, letting them flow and wanting to be there with him. I went to bed later than I intended, but still earlier than usual on a Friday because I had to work in the morning. I don't remember how long I lay awake before falling asleep, but at 1:30 am, whatever kind of sleep it had been was shattered by the sudden ringing of my cell phone. This was an especially odd thing, since I always turned my ringer off at night. Not this night, however. This phone call was not meant to be missed. It was my mother. Things had taken a sudden and very unexpected turn for the worse. In only a few hours, George had gone from not getting better, to dying very quickly. Radiation had only served to anger the beast in his head and it was killing him rapidly and without mercy. He was not expected to last the weekend. We had to get to Utah, right away. Feeling both cold and numb, I woke Daryll and made arrangements to leave in the morning.
Morning turned out to be early afternoon, as we'd had to wait on other people before we were able to leave. With each passing hour, I grew more and more frantic. All I wanted was to be with my brother. All I wanted was to hold his hand and tell him I loved him. I prayed to whatever may or may not have been listening that we weren't too late.
As we finally began our bizarre trip, the lines between reality and dream could no longer be defined. There was no pause to consider the details. Even as the sun glittered on spring leaves, the wind and trees themselves seemed to motion us forward as if to say go...go...there is no time. Hurry.Mayday, Mayday...
There is no time.
Daryll drove the first part of the trip from Vancouver, Washington to Salt Lake City, Utah. As April was making its exit, and May 1st had set in (Mayday, Mayday...), the most lovely spring I can recall in recent memory was fully taking over. It wasn't what one would expect at the start of such a dark journey and only served to enhance the surrealness of it all. I had already notified work and sent emails to my college instructors. The cats had a sitter, the dogs were at Daryll's parents' house and we were on the road. It all happened without thought or planning. It just happened, because that was all that could happen. Although we were aware on some subconscious level that we were spending rent to do this, it was of no importance and scarcely existed at all. Moving somewhere between the speed of light and a snail's pace, what was solid and understood began to blur with the passing of buildings, cars, trees and rocks. Away from home, past Multnomah Falls and into the Columbia River Gorge. I began to separate from myself and meld with the journey, as if it too was a living creature whispering to me as I traversed its dream-scape. Mingling with childhood memories were so many of the stories I've read and movies I've seen in which the characters are in a race against time to complete a task of monumental import. Failure would be nothing short of earth-shattering. Failure was not an option. We too, were in a race against time. But what would be the success of this journey? We were not racing to avoid catastrophe but to meet it. Failing was not an option, but success...success was where it all became so twisted. Under the brightest blue sky, past the unmatched beauty of nature and with the wind moving us forward, we were racing toward unimaginable tragedy. We were racing to watch my brother die. Even in the warmth of the day, its coldness sank in like microscopic needles of ice all throughout my body.
To rush toward the death of someone you love is almost like twisting parts of yourself backward. I felt very much like Stephen King's Gunslinger. As lush landscape turned barren and as lovely spring gave way to dark and cloud, we ventured onward with no thought of return. Our purpose was grim, but we could not turn away from it. We were on a mission and although its only conclusion was despair, it was vital.
The drive was long and exhausting. We stopped as little as we could and took turns behind the wheel. I had my cell phone and took pictures along the way...strange, random things. Lovely scenery or a cold, abandoned building. Sometimes it was the way a ray of light shone through a rain cloud or it was the tail lights of cars ahead in the looming dark on a long stretch of lonely highway. I'm still not entirely sure why, but for some reason, it was very important to document the journey. I took pictures the whole way there, took them during our stay and on the way back. I still have them saved on my computer, unsure what to do with them. I forget what time exactly, we arrived in Salt Lake, but it was sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning. We stayed with my dad and sister in their tiny apartment. We slept on a mattress on the floor...George's bed. We would get a few hours of sleep and go see him in the morning.
I wore my funny narwhal shirt to the hospital. I thought George would find it amusing. I don't remember for certain which car we took, or who was driving, but I had my phone ready, snapping-snapping pictures as we went. The hospital was large and foreboding....lots of concrete perched on a hill, framed by cloud and sky. My brother is dying in there. The picture-taking stopped when we went inside. I didn't want pictures of this. I didn't want to capture what I was about to see...my brain did that just fine.
Parts are hazy, parts as clear as day. Daddy was in the room, George was on a respirator. There had been talk of removing it, since he seemed to be breathing on his own. Taking it out meant if he crashed again, there would be no reviving him. There would be no reviving him. I took his hand. I told him I loved him. Daddy told him who was there to make sure he knew. Ian and Gin weren't there yet. Dickie was still in Oregon. There was static for a moment between my parents. I saw it upsetting George and tried to get both of them to knock it off. I ended up leaving the room, with my mother and Daryll trailing behind me, feeling the explosion of pain moving upward, upward and out as I made it to the hallway, collapsed against the wall and fell apart. I wasn't about to let my baby brother see me like that. I wasn't about to allow bad feelings in that room...not on my watch. Seeing him like that hurt so much. It was like claws rending, like teeth gnawing, like a whole world turned to nightmare. Horrific...horrific.
I remember calming down in the cafeteria. I think there was food. Maybe coffee. It gets hazy after that. At some point in the day, the respirator came out and we were all back in his room. We held his hand, we talked to him. He talked back...in a slow and labored rasp. Daryll gave him Reike from behind me and I gave him a little. We knew it was only to help him pass. Ian and Gin had arrived by that point and we all got in what we could. He thanked us for “failing to suck”. When we asked him what he wanted, he said “to die”. I clutched and kissed his hand and told him that it was okay and that it was what he needed to do. I told him that we were going to miss him but that he could come and visit any time he wanted once he reached the other side. That stands out a lot... and the way he kept reaching for my hand. His was so warm and soft and large. He was so large...and cramped in that little hospital bed. George didn't like being uncomfortable and he was ready to let that all go. He just wanted to hold out long enough for us to see him. I think he was trying to wait for Dickie too, but we told him it would be a long wait, as he had a long way to travel, yet.
All the love, all the pain, all the words exchanged in that little room. No brand of wording, no amount of skillfully-worded metaphor can describe it. Staff came in and out. A woman came to talk about plans for hospice. I thought it was strange, but I guess it was just in case he held on longer. He grew restless and the nurses had to tend to him. At that point, we decided to get out of the way and go have dinner with a family friend. We told George we loved him, and that we would be back, soon. My mom wanted to stay behind, but Daryll said we all needed to leave. He knew we shouldn't be there. We traveled in shell-shock to the home of our long-time family friend and super hero, Quentin. He and his wife had dinner prepared for us. After a few moments of chatting in the living room, we sat down at the table and served ourselves...then someone's phone rang. I believe it was my mom's cell. The hospital called to say “there's been a change”. We hadn't eaten yet and Ian and Gin were still on the road from the hospital. We called them, ate a couple bites and filed back into our cars.
“There's been a change.”
What did that mean? I had horrible visions of pain and violent convulsions. I was terrified of the idea that he might be suffering. Arriving back at the hospital, we rushed toward the entrance under a sky that had become dark-gray. A magpie waited nearby and Daryll fell behind as we all filed inward in a frantic, heart-thumping scramble to get there for...what? Was he suffering? Was it over? We were stopped in the hallway outside ICU by a handsome young neurologist on a cell phone. He said a few words, got off the phone and turned to us, saying something that didn't register. I asked if he was gone. He said yes. He told us that it was quick. George had asked a nurse for something and when she turned to get it and look back, he had left...just like that. Ian and Gin had been first to arrive and were already in the room with him.
I was the first of our little group to make it in the room. Ian and Ginny looked up at me, their faces fixed in a state of grief and shock. Gin's expression rings the most clearly. I knew that she was familiar with this pain from the loss of her sister years before. Entering that space was like entering an alternate dimension. I saw their faces, then I saw George. He was dead...he looked dead. Silent, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His lips were blue against the white shell that had contained my baby brother for twenty-four years. He was really gone..and the sound of a family's grief filled the room.
There is nothing like it, that sound. I find it interesting that even though we were mourning the same person, the grief was still so personal and lonely. We were crying together, but still so alone in it. It was cold and strange...like my spirit walking some chilled and barren landscape where all my grieving family members cried in black and white...their sobs silenced by memories ringing in my ears.
It's amazing how it completely removes you from the normal world. Almost like moving through water. All interactions become like something from a dream. There was no waking up from this. I felt like I was drowning. My body shook, my mind seemed to split apart and my heart dug at itself until it bled. I remember falling against the wall as it overwhelmed me and Ian reached out to hold onto me...a flash of color in the pain. Wiggy had collapsed by the window. My parents were in pieces. Eventually Daryll came into the room and I clung to him. I knew that he had been giving us a little space.
There's no telling how much time passed. I think time is irrelevant in that space. We cried ourselves out and Daryll and I decided to take a break. We left the room and stared out the window at the clouds for a time. I think we went back in for a while and then took another break. Walking the hospital hallways was a remarkable experience. I've described it before:
The day that George died, the sun took a break. Spring and all its shining gave way to cloud and gray. The birds were silent, or so it seemed, and the flowers and trees mellowed their hue. Even had the sun dared to shine on that day, its light would have paled in comparison to the brightness and all-encompassing force of my baby brother's spirit leaving his body. Six-foot-five and three-hundred fifteen pounds was still a space much too small for such a beautiful soul. After witnessing the horror of his lifeless body and drowning in the sounds of a family suffering, I left that room filled with people, but still so empty...only to be surrounded by him on the other side of the door. On the other side...but still here. He filled the halls of that sprawling hospital. He was everywhere. I could sense him in the footfalls of passers-by, their voices, my own breathing and heartbeat. At the entrance where a man played the piano, George danced within the music. Every single note was him. No, the sun had no place, that day. It was George who warmed and lit up the world as he stretched, free from his shell.
His ambient presence is what kept me alive at that time, or so it seems. We cried all we could for the moment. We had touched his skin before the last of its warmth left him cold. Important members of my family's church came by, including Quentin. We stood over his body, talking about him, making plans for the funeral and joking as we could...it's what the Van Ry clan does. The neurologist came back to talk with us. He referred to George's tumors as “the behemoth” that they still can't figure out. This was “the one” that eludes them. After some time, I stated that I was done looking at him. Everyone agreed and his head was covered by the sheet...it was too short for him, leaving his feet sticking out of the bottom. We laughed about it later.
The rest of the day was spent in a private room that had been set aside for us. We cried, told stories and laughed our asses off long into the night. Dickie was still on the road, so we had to keep the news from him to ensure that he made it safely. My mother was riddled with guilt over lying to him, but I reminded her that she had already lost one son that day. She contained herself while we struggled to come up with the best way to tell him once he arrived. This was Ian's time to shine...I believe hand puppets were one suggestion. We laughed harder and harder. Fortunately, by this time, there was little to know staff about to hear the hysteria through the walls. We laugh. We joke. It's what we do. By the time Dickie and his wife reached Salt Lake, we met them back at Daddy and Wiggy's (and George's) place. After all that agonizing, he took the news with a surprising calm. I guess he had been expecting it.
The funeral was much more difficult for Dickie. Seeing George's body in a casket was almost as awful as seeing him freshly dead. Actually, I think it disturbed me more with his makeup and frozen half-smile. The service was simple...the way he would have wanted it. The eulogy was split between myself, my siblings and our spouses. Then we buried him with his favorite childhood teddy bear and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. As of this writing, there is still no headstone as my family cannot afford it. We'll get one eventually. George was never one to be in a hurry, so I guess it's alright.
Losing George has changed everything. The whole world is different. I am different. I feel his presence from time to time, especially when I listen to his iPod. It's been a while since I last did that. Perhaps tomorrow, on the year-mark of his leaving, I'll take some time to do that. I miss my baby brother. There is nothing like that pain. I have spent this last year doing my best to learn and see the gifts that he has left me with. My whole life has changed course. I realized that nothing is guaranteed...nothing. I left my miserable job under an abusive boss to change my part-time student status to full-time. I started creating art again...even sold a piece in a show. I write more. And at long last, a gift that I feared would never be mine...I'm going to be a mother. I would not have given up George for anything, but since I had no choice, I choose to embrace this direction. I embrace the changes that would not have come if he hadn't left, because it's what I've got and it's worth holding onto. George's love and life and memory are worth holding onto. I sometimes shudder to think of his body in a box in the ground but then sometimes I feel a warm embrace that could only be him and I know that what he left behind is nothing compared to what he has...whatever it is.
I love you George...always, always, always.
The house where George "comed in the night" 24 years before
As we grow closer to the year-mark of your leaving, I am astounded at how life goes on. Sometimes, I miss the grieving because it felt like you were closer, even though you were “gone”. Here I am, moving forward, moving on, moving....away from the everyday pain. It does visit at times, dropping in unexpectedly. Brief moments, when it comes back with full force. The pain of losing you. The indescribable, unimaginable pain. Even having lived it, I marvel at the sheer magnitude of that anguish. And I marvel at the life-giving lessons you left me with.
Just today, as I was showering with my little cell phone propped open, playing my collection of mp3s, a shaft of light caught my attention as I was thinking of you...a small streak of brilliance shining over the surface of my little phone. As I stepped out of the shower, mystified by this little beam of light...of life...the song that reminds me of you the most came on.
“How many years since you found yourself
staring at an endless sky?”
~VNV Nation
As I stood transfixed on the idea of light and the song that brings me back to you, I realized something that had been escaping me until this point. In every shaft of light that streaks across my consciousness, in every particle that shines and brings wonder, you are there. You are light dancing, my sweet, wonderful brother. You are that beam of truth, that glimmer of remembrance, that transformation. Even as I sit astonished at these things, life and truth grow within me, soon to become my child. Life goes on and love goes on...it just changes shape. There will always be tears and there will always be dancing shafts of light. And you, George, will always live on in both. You are not so far away, it seems. You are right here, shining your reminders, sending lessons and realizations that I would never have seen without you. I miss you and I love you and while I would give anything for just one more hug, I know it is these blessings you embrace me with. I will take them as I journey onward. I will pass the love on to this new life growing. I love you, baby brother. Always.
I thought today was going to be more difficult than it was. That doesn't mean it didn't hurt. It hurt. But through the hurt, I felt you there. Did you see the cheese enchiladas I made for you? No sour cream. Not a drop. They were spicy, too. We didn't have any candles and there was no cake, but there was a celebration of you. Last night was pretty hard. I rode home from Daryll's parents' house in the dark and in silence. Daryll chattered away as VNV Nation played in the stereo. I was thinking of you. I was missing you. “Endless Skies” is my favorite. From the time I first listened to it on your iPod, it has become a permanent part of my soul...just like you. Last night was different, though. Daryll went silent and we listened as the night passed by us on our weary way home. I listen to that song, and sometimes it brings me to tears. Tears did come, but they accompanied a different thought. As I marveled at the beauty of the song's meaning, I found myself wondering what it must be like to listen to it, knowing that you're dying. It changed the meaning, or perhaps just added to it, sending it deeper into my heart. What a huge and bizarre thought. I wondered and I still wonder what it was like to know that time was growing short. I guess it's one of those things, like losing your baby brother, that you can't begin to imagine until it happens. I hope my time won't be any time soon, but when it comes, I wonder if I'll finally understand what you did. I'm sure I'll think of you.
There have been so many lessons since you left. There has been the obvious, indescribable pain and there has been triumph and joy. Uncertainty is a constant. It lingers above my head, even as I type this. That's the amazing thing. Nothing ever really is certain and nothing is guaranteed. Some would take this as as bad thing. I just take it for what it is and I try my best to extract the lessons. I try my best to be strong while allowing myself room for occasional weakness. I think that's important. You can't have strength without weakness. You have to allow for it, or it blindsides you. Then you're curled up on the floor, shaking like a leaf. But then, even when that happens, there is a lesson there as well. I've actually changed how I see lessons. I used to think there was a reason for everything as if the divine power had specific lessons for us to learn...like something from a teacher's manual. I don't think that way so much, these days. Sometimes, I think things happen for no reason at all. No planning behind it, no great meaning intended. That's not to say that we can't find the lessons on our own. What happens, will happen and what I learn from it is up to me. I like that thought so much better. It means that no matter what happens, however wonderful or awful, I can choose the lesson. I choose to learn from this. I choose to find the importance, the truths, the meanings in these seemingly senseless events. I choose to find divinity in it, because we all harbor some form of divinity and we translate it as best we know how. I'm doing the best I know how and I'm learning every step of the way. Sometimes it hurts. God, it hurts. I miss you so deeply and I love you so very much.
You would have been 25 today. It's been a quarter century since you “comed in the night”...in that little white house in Salt Lake City, Utah. It's been a quarter century. It's been no time at all and yet the absence feels eternal. Happy Birthday, George. I am so proud of you.
Last night was rough. Revisited by the familiar days of insomnia, I didn't think I would sleep at all, at first. Eventually I did sleep but it was in brief intervals between bouts of tossing and turning. Yes...just like the old days. The thing that made it new and strange was that each time I dozed off, I dreamed of you, George. For the first time since you died, I dreamed of you. Each time I woke, I thought the dream was over, but as weariness called me back into sleep, the story continued as though the Sandman himself had hit some sort of cosmic pause button on his entire realm, so that I wouldn't miss a moment with you. Very kind of him, considering our tumultuous history.
You were dying, baby brother. Only in this world, we all knew it before you were saying your goodbyes in that hospital bed. We knew we were losing you and much like we would have done had we known its magnitude in the waking world, we had already begun to mourn you. This time, Dickie was there...with puffy, wet eyes. We were all rather distraught, really. I mean...you were dying. How could we not be in pain? I guess that's why, in the waking world, you kept the terminal nature of your disease to yourself. We knew you were sick. We just didn't know you were dying...not so soon, anyway.
I wonder why, my gentle giant, you chose the form of your younger and smaller self, last night. Was it to give me distance from the way you looked just before you left us? A sanity-buffer? Perhaps it was simply so I could wrap my arms around you entirely. We knew you were an adult, but didn't seem to question your form. No matter your dream-age, it was so good to hug you. It was so good to see that young face bearing a quiet peace and wisdom that can only come from seeing what comes after. Can'ma has shown me that expression in dreams and now I've seen it on you. You sat quietly, with your hands in your lap, on a metal folding chair and watched us cry over you.
I hope you don't think I'm angry with you for not telling us. I'm not angry. No amount of knowledge or lack thereof would have spared your life and you were so humble. So private. You didn't want to trouble us, I'm sure. I hope you're not mad at me for hurting so much. I'm really doing a lot better than I thought I would. Learning to live with this is going to take a while. I'm sorry, kiddo...I don't think it will ever stop hurting. I'll just have to press on, anyway. I'm being good. I'm letting myself do this so it doesn't just eat me. I listen to your iPod because it keeps you close. I haven't read your writing yet, because I'm not sure I can handle it yet. I'm so proud of you for doing it, though. I remember telling you to write. I didn't think you actually did! When I'm ready, I'll journey to that part of your world. In the meantime, I hope you still visit. Awake or dreaming, either way is good. I don't want to trap you here, I just like it when you're around.
Well, it's late. I need to get some drawing done and go to bed. I'm trying not to get Daryll's cold, but it may be too late for that. I hope you can come to the next art show. You can do that, right? Oh, and something I forgot to tell you when I was hugging you, last night...I'm lactose intolerant. That means no more sour cream. I thought you'd find that amusing. I love you, George.
"How many years since you found yourself staring at an endless sky?" ~Vnvnation
As today comes to a close, I am stricken. Stricken with thought, emotion, wonder and loss. There is gratitude and pain. There is art, music, laughter and such deep sorrow. My mother called me, today. She was crying. I've witnessed her tears many times, over the years and she has witnessed mine. Today, the hurt came through in its most raw and genuine form. There is nothing and I mean nothing like the sound of a mother grieving for the loss of her youngest son. Six months, today...half a year.
The day that George died, the sun took a break. Spring and all its shining gave way to cloud and gray. The birds were silent, or so it seemed, and the flowers and trees mellowed their hue. Even had the sun dared to shine on that day, its light would have paled in comparison to the brightness and all-encompassing force of my baby brother's spirit leaving his body. Six-foot-five and three-hundred fifteen pounds was still a space much too small for such a beautiful soul. After witnessing the horror of his lifeless body and drowning in the sounds of a family suffering, I left that room filled with people, but still so empty...only to be surrounded by him on the other side of the door. On the other side...but still here. He filled the halls of that sprawling hospital. He was everywhere. I could sense him in the footfalls of passers-by, their voices, my own breathing and heartbeat. At the entrance where a man played the piano, George danced within the music. Every single note was him. No, the sun had no place, that day. It was George who warmed and lit up the world as he stretched, free from his shell.
He's okay. I know he is. Sometimes, he comes to give me hugs and often times, I talk to him. Knowing this, it may seem silly that it still hurts so deeply. Grief is such a selfish thing, but a necessary thing. As the days, weeks, months go by, functioning becomes a little easier. I cry less and my body is no longer wracked with the pain that held me in a state of half-living. It's like starving, really. Even now, when I get really hungry, I think to myself that this feels like death. Grief is so strange. It's like another world. You go about your day, doing what you typically do, but nothing is the same and the real world seems light years away. As the months go on, I get closer and closer to that world. However, I am not always comfortable with it. As I move from that place of pain, I sometimes feel like I am moving farther away from George. I know I have to move on. I know I have to heal...but I don't always want to. In those mornings just after he left, I would sit at my computer with my coffee and his iPod, feeling him close by. In that place, that realm, that half-alive existence, I felt closer to him. As I move through the process and heal the way I'm supposed to, I sometimes feel like I'm losing him forever. I don't want to lose him. I don't want to move on. Still, it's happening anyway, and I know it's what I must do.
George was love...he was and is pure love. So much has changed over the past six months and life is taking me in directions that astound me. I want to call him and tell him how well I'm doing. I want to tell him about the art show I'll be in, this week. I want to share everything with him. So...sometimes, I just say it out loud. I talk to him. Sometimes I do it through tears, sometimes it's silently in my head. Sometimes...all the time, I just want to give him a hug and tell him how much I love him. That is why, in everything good that I do, George is there. Everything is about him. Everything.
