They Come... and They Go

My brother in 1970 something waiting for My Mom to pick him up from daycare.

I am the new kid on the grief block.

I have been to plenty of funerals, but thankfully, for 28 years, I have never loved the person that I came to say Goodbye to.

That is, until I said Goodbye to my big brother.
Now here I am navigating completely uncharted waters, without so much as a map to guide me.

This week has been tough.

I have been drowning in memories of my brother - from the significant to insignificant. I am remembering him teasing me with my husband for something silly I said, to him moving me into my very first apartment in DC, to him wheeling me up to NICU to see my son after my c-section. I am wishing I could relive my memories and look at him a little harder - study the way his face moved when we talked or the hear his voice just one more time. It was as familiar as my own... saying hello on the other side of the phone, yelling at me to stay away from his stuff when he was a teenager, and telling me of how tough of a cop he was, kicking criminal butt on NYC's mean streets.

If only, but...

...it's quiet now.

Grief has a still.

In the beginning, there was so much to do.

Make sure my mother ate. Call friends and family. Pick out his casket with my dad and brother. Plan the funeral program. Pick out and dry clean his suit for the wake.

And the people.

On the phone, at the door, in the mail... It was like an assembly line of mourners.

They came in categories:

The feeders: who brought shit loads of food as if your grief had a big mouth and insatiable appetite. Bagels and donuts seemed to be the food of choice.

The believers: the Christians, the Jews and the spiritual, all armed with bibles and literature, reminding you of God's infinite plan and that if you can just see passed your pain, you will see, that it is all better now and that you, too, will also die one day, and your loved one will be waiting.

The cryers: the people who yelled, cried, and balled their eyes out.

"How could this happen?" they yelled.

"He was soo young," they cried.

These are the people I ended up comforting

"Its okay," I reminded them.

"We will all see each other again," I said convincingly. (I am a believer too).

And finally, the mutes: These are the people that sit around and say nothing. They eat the food the feeders brought. Watch TV in your living room. And say nothing more than, "I'll probably stop by again in a day or two" when they leave.

They were EVERYWHERE.

Then they stopped.

You know that feeling you get when you have been spinning?

Isaiah and I sometimes spin.

I lift him up and we dance and twirl and spin until we are so dizzy we collapse onto the floor in giggles.

I feel like I have collapsed but I am not laughing.

I am left with bewilderment and I am dizzy and confused and I am not quite sure what just happened.

This is alot. And admittedly, this is a pretty heavy post. Its funny, I have made new friends since my brother passed but I have also lost a few. I am not sure if it was their shortcomings or my expectations but either way they weren't what I needed during this time and frankly, I don't think they really had desire to be. I have tried not to be too hard on those people. Pre-joining the grief club, I am not sure I would have known how to be a friend to me either.

Not that I am particularly difficult.

In fact, I think most people see me and probably think, I have been handling it all quite well. But when you know someone, there are different expectations. You are supposed to hold them when they cry... until they cry, listen to them rationalize the irrational and be there... no matter how uncomfortable. I am not sure if I could have been that to someone had I not felt this pain.

My new friends seem to have an ease with me. They listen when I talk about my brother, laugh with me when I am not and check out me... without me feeling like I am being observed. I often wonder if as our friendships progress I will hear their stories. I have already heard a few. My son's teacher's father died during 9/11... a woman I spoke to just about everyday finally told me she lost her son when he was six years old... one of my classmates in law school who was a close friend of my husband told me she lost her sister just a few months before I lost my brother. Suddenly, I am in this secret society of grievers and I am hearing stories of their first goodbyes..

So, anyway, I am the new kid on the grief block.

But, as lonely as it is... as hard as it is... I know I am not alone.