A Weekend in the Desert

Last weekend, I attended my first annual conference of The Compassionate Friends, a national group founded for bereaved parents, with a growing subgroup of grieving siblings. I've been attending regular meetings in NYC for nearly a year and have made some wonderful friendships among my fellow bereaved siblings. They understand my pain in a way few can. They've lived it.

The conference was an incredibly healing and transformative experience for me. I'm still absorbing it all. I learned a great deal about how to navigate this path and move forward and, more importantly, how to remember, honor and celebrate not only Amir but also Jason in a way that feels right to me.

One anecdote: conference attendees wore lanyards with ID badges stating their name, the name of their loved one and whether they were a parent or sibling. Many people wore buttons with photos of their loved ones. A friend pointed out that her brother would have found that utterly ridiculous and I laughed that Amir would have felt the same. But I did it anyway. I proudly wore a button with his photo even though he would have said something along the lines of, "Please take that stupid fucking thing off."

Along with attending workshops and panel discussions, I thoroughly enjoyed the comfort and camaraderie of other bereaved siblings and parents. The time I spent with fellow siblings was so gratifying and fun and invaluable to me. I'd already found a home with my group in NYC; at the conference, I had the pleasure of meeting siblings from across the U.S., with whom I felt that immediate connection that comes with shared loss. They get it.

I listened and talked freely, sharing memories of Amir and Jason as much as possible. Walking around the hotel grounds or along the hallways linking the conference rooms, I felt as though I was among friends--these fellow travelers on the grief journey. The air was heavy with compassion; the genuine care people showed for their fellow bereaved parents and siblings made my heart swell. Often I found myself fighting back tears just witnessing the love, compassion and friendship soaring around me. It breaks my heart that so many people are so deeply grieving, but I'm so appreciative of TCF for helping them (and me) along the way.

One workshop attendee noted, "I have a hard time socializing with non-bereaved people." Damn. This resonated so much with me. I often feel awkward around people, which is why I isolate myself so much. I'm not depressed or "wallowing in it"--I just feel more relaxed when I'm alone. When I'm with people, I zone out or drift off easily, making conversation difficult. I have a hard time focusing. I can be hit with a memory unexpectedly, causing a wave of sadness when I was otherwise enjoying myself. I want to talk about Amir and Jason but don't want others to feel awkward or sad. I'm no longer the person I was before November 22, 2014, and that's very hard to face.

One of dozens of "memory boards"
around the conference, where I shared
Amir & Jason with everyone

Still, the conference was not all about grief and sorrow. In fact, I had a fantastic time. I laughed heartily, I ate and drank well, I swam, I relaxed, I breathed deeply and took it all in.

I'm thrilled to have met and enjoyed the company of some truly special fellow siblings from all over the country. I hope to get more involved in helping others who are grieving. All of this can only aid in my own grieving process and help me heal and move forward from the losses I've endured.

I talked about Amir and Jason every chance I got. They were with me at every turn, as they are every day. I posted numerous photos of them on the "memory boards" lining the hallways in the conference center, along with details of who they were. They both deserve to be remembered every single day.

Not Worthy

That was my thought upon waking up this morning. How am I worthy of still being here on this earth when so many incredible people are not? I mean, I know that's bullshit and we're all just insignificant animals in the grand history of this universe. And yet it hurts so badly when certain of those animals are taken from us. Some people may think it's time I got over it and moved on and I'd like to tell those people, from the bottom of my heart, to FUCK OFF. There is no "over it." Yes, I have good days. I laugh and smile and enjoy myself as much as possible--in fact, I seek out simple joys more than I ever have before. But underneath the surface is a deep, lingering ache that never goes away. It contracts and expands, depending on the day or the hour or the circumstance, but it's a tumor on my heart that has no chance of disappearing.

One excellent description of this ache comes from my friend Jordon, a fellow grieving sibling who lost his brother in 2002. He says: "For years, I have likened this loss to having lost a leg, and people are surprised that I am still limping."

How fucking true that is! I feel like I'm limping through life on a daily basis.

Jordon also passed along a quote from writer C.S. Lewis, who wrote about losing his beloved wife:

Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he's had his leg off is quite another.... He will probably have recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it.... His whole way of life will be changed.... At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again.

Shit, I know how that feels. And yet I'm very proud of myself and my family for pushing ourselves every day, for making a conscious effort to seek out simple joys, for embracing people and experiences that make us smile and breathe and enjoy our brief time here.

Deep grief is life-altering in ways I never could have imagined. And yet, as my sister pointed out when we had a fabulous time together at a wedding two weeks ago, it has motivated us to relax and to "go with the flow" more easily, to enjoy ourselves more and to not take life so seriously. Of course, this presents a conflict in my confused mind, particularly at times when everything feels overwhelmingly serious due to the horrific losses I've been through. But I try, try, try!

We are coming up on a year since Jason's death and I am in the early stages of moving forward. I miss him desperately and I miss him and Amir more and more every day, as the gap between them being here and them being gone stretches wider and wider. But I find reasons to smile each day--even when a memory shoves itself into my mind unexpectedly and my heart sinks, I push myself to turn a moment of sad remembrance into a smile. Though tinged now with melancholy, the inside jokes and funny moments are STILL funny and I try hard to embrace that.

Managing grief is a huge effort every day. It's no wonder I'm exhausted every night and fall into bed as if I'd spent the previous 14 hours doing strenuous labor. It's an exhaustion of the mind. And even though it has not let up, I force myself to squint into the future, at the bright light that is most certainly ahead, albeit dimmer because of who's missing from it.

So... I wake up every morning, shake off the dreams of Amir and Jason that visit me every night and conscientiously push myself closer and closer to that light.

Gentle and Jaded

I recently heard from Amir's friend Amanda, who met him when he was in his late 20s:

Amir would leave me funny, pithy notes at work, made me amazing CDs of his favorite songs that I thought I should know and love. He gave me an amazing love letter in his neat and distinctive handwriting, at turns funny and heartfelt, with references to Madonna, Heart and Cheap Trick songs.

In 2013, we met up for dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant Amir chose. He looked great, healthy, and he seemed happy (in his way). Even though I hadn't seen him in years, the conversation came as easily as if we had never not been close. He listened as I told him about my fucked up life. He had this way of listening and responding that was simultaneously gentle and jaded. He made me feel like he really heard me, he understood, he could relate, he cared.

We walked around the neighborhood and talked about music and his job at the athletic club, about our cats, our families, his girlfriend. We ate gelato and smoked a cigarette. He walked me back to my car, gave me a hug, and we said, "Let's do this again soon." That was the last time I saw Amir.

I miss know that I could always send him a text asking him the name of that one Chicago song, or what he thought about the recent Super Bowl halftime performance, or what did Meatloaf mean when he said he wouldn't do "that," or did he see this awesome article from The Onion? Even when our friendship went dormant for years, I liked knowing that he was out there in the world somewhere.

I hate that this is no longer true, that we are now living in a world with no Amir. It feels unbelievably wrong.

Thanks, Amanda. I wholeheartedly agree.

All Good Things, They Say, Never Last

Am I the weaker man
Because I understand
That love must be the master plan?
Prince - "Diamonds and Pearls"

I have adored Prince since the first time I heard "I Wanna Be Your Lover" on the radio when I was 8 or 9. We flew back and forth between New York and L.A. several times when I was a kid and my favorite part of flying was the little analog radio dial in the arm-rest. They played mostly current pop and rock hits, which I'd listen to for hours while staring out the window at the Earth below. "I Wanna Be Your Lover" was on one of those loops and, to this day, I associate that song with flying cross-country as a kid.

I once drove to the original Penny Lane Records in Venice Beach to buy a rare, expensive vinyl copy of Prince's "Black Album." In the audience at his "Lovesexy" tour in 1988, I marveled at how his energy never waned during a nearly 3-hour set. And Yael and I had a blast dancing together at his "Jam of the Year" tour at the Hollywood Bowl in the mid-'90s.

Amir enjoyed and appreciated Prince and we had many a discussion about his genius. He even indulged me in watching Under the Cherry Moon (a crap movie but its soundtrack remains my favorite Prince album). Still, I don't connect or associate Prince with Amir as much as I did David Bowie, though I know Amir would be saddened by his death as we all are.

The song "Sometimes it Snows in April" holds incredibly deep meaning for me, going back to when I was about 15. It's an intensely personal song about friendship and loss that has touched me since the first time I heard it, prompting tears on almost every listen. In 1986, my friends and I would sit on the floor in my bedroom, with lights out, eyes closed, listening to that song and not speaking the whole time it was on. Sounds sappy, but the song evoked that kind of reverence, even in a bunch of teenagers.

Even before Amir died, I often skipped it when shuffling through my music because it evoked too much emotion. But since Amir's death, I have associated the song with him. Amir was born in April. It will always be his month. Hence, I have not listened to that song since Amir died. I simply cannot do it. Yael and I have talked about it and (whaddaya know?) she feels the same.

Understandably, the song has been played a ton since Prince died. Starting Thursday afternoon, my local public radio station, WFUV, played Prince songs back to back through the evening. Naturally, "Sometimes it Snows in April" featured in the line-up. As soon as I heard the opening chords, I had to yank out my earbuds. Who wants to start crying at their desk at work?

Prince's music touched my heart and soul on so many levels. He made me dance, he told vivid tales of characters and places, he made me want to fall in love, he taught me that sex was beautiful and fun and vital, he made me think about my own spirituality and sexuality. His songs were the backdrop for so many moments and realizations in my life.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to listen to "Sometimes it Snows in April" without the emotion welling up inside me uncontrollably. Amir was born in April. Prince died in April. It's too much.

Another Birthday

40 years ago today, Yael and I got the wonderful gift of a baby brother. And our little worlds changed forever and for the better.

Our beautiful Amir would have, SHOULD have, turned 40 today. The mere thought of him not reaching 40 makes my heart physically hurt. It aches. He should be here, we should be celebrating with him, he should be following Yael and I into a new decade, with all of its ups and downs. He should have reached middle age. Hell, he should have lived to be an old man, still pondering the meaning of everything, reading every book in sight, making us laugh and offering sarcastic, witty pearls of wisdom only Amir could have offered.

Summer 2005

I remain utterly heartbroken that he's not here, that we've been deprived of his gentle presence in this world. I'm angry that he was cheated out of so many years. I miss him so much that I want to scream to the heavens to reverse history and bring him back. I revisit history in my mind every day and night, thinking about his 38 years on Earth, what they meant to everyone who loved him and how important that time was to me--the time I had a brother who was also a playmate, a sounding board, an encyclopedia, a books-and-music recommender and, most importantly, a trusted friend and confidant and amateur psychoanalyst.

Today, I am pondering and longing for Amir at 40--who he might have been, where he'd have been in his life and who he'd have been working toward becoming. I will do my best to celebrate and honor him today, as I do in smaller ways each day. I encourage all of you to celebrate him in your own way today.

Amir, I wish I could tell you how much we love you and miss you, today and every day.

Reflecting on Photos

I have several childhood photos of Amir on display around my apartment. They bring me comfort and make me smile in spite of missing him and wanting so badly to go back in time. I especially enjoy studying childhood photos of Amir, Yael and I together--smiling, laughing, playing, teasing each other and growing older and taller alongside one another.

Yet, as much as I can handle looking at childhood photos, I often find it difficult to look at more recent photos of Amir. I visualize his death looming and it hurts to not see in his eyes what we could not have known was coming. The same is true for Jason. Photos from the last few years of their lives are particularly hard for me to look at.

Someone (sorry, I don't recall who!) recently sent me this photo of Amir and Jason in 1988 or '89, when they were about 13 and 14.

Dueling mullets, 1988 or '89

Such innocence and optimism in those boyish faces! Here were two incredibly bright, sensitive kids, so curious about the world and just starting to experience their lives beyond the cradle of childhood. Both Lakers and Dodgers fans. Both itching to learn and explore, sharing interests in girls, musical theater, sci-fi, sports, music, performing and making people laugh. And, of course, the carefully-tended '80s mullets they were so clearly proud of.

I still cannot fully grasp the reality that they are gone. Some days, I find it hard to believe the sun continues to rise each day and the world continues to turn without these two beautiful souls, so deeply loved by so many. My own world has been thrown so far off course by their deaths that I struggle every day to find the right direction in which to move forward without them.