In recent months, I've noticed that Vans sneakers have become quite popular again, particularly the slip-on variety. (Well, I suppose they’ve never really gone out of style completely, but it seems I’m seeing them far more frequently lately.) Of course, they’re just one of a quadrillion little things that make me think of my sweet brother Amir every day.
Why Vans? Well, in spite of his advanced intelligence, Amir was slow to learn how to tie his shoes. (Ya think maybe because he had two older sisters who constantly did it for him??) Anyway, because of his having yet to acquire this skill, and probably due to the ubiquity at the time of slip-on Vans partly because of the popularity of Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Vans being Spicoli’s sneaker of choice, Amir insisted on wearing slip-ons for much of his early childhood. That is, until later in the 80s, when high-top Nikes became the sneaker du jour for basketball-obsessed kids like my teenage bro. (And when Yael and I migrated to high-top Reeboks or LA Gear. Oh, but we were a stylish bunch.)
At back-to-school time, we’d pile into the station wagon and head to the miniature Vans store on Topanga Canyon that we all loved because it looked like a little surf shack. We’d squeeze into the tiny shop, where I’d choose the two-tone, lace-up Vans and Amir always made a beeline for the slip-ons. Then, like all the hip kids of the day, as soon as we brought home our pristine new sneakers, we all promptly colored in the waffle-like squares on the soles with different-colored pens. We were cool that way.
[I'm on the hunt for photos. Stay tuned.]
29 September 2016
16 August 2016
Olympics Wrap-up, Amir Edition
Browsing through some Gmail chats between Amir and I today and I found this gem from July 2012, in which we discussed and reviewed the opening ceremony of the London Olympics:
me: What'd you think of opening ceremony?
Benny Hill! I'll never hear that goofy sax theme without thinking of Amir. We giggled like loons at that show when we were kids, though roughly 67% the jokes went over our heads. Amir never, ever failed to make me laugh, even in the shittiest of situations. He always had a witty, sarcastic or genuinely hilarious comment and he could snark with the best of them. I miss our silly banter and joking so much that I often comb through old emails and chats just to get a taste of his singular humor. I can only imagine the fun he'd have had with this crazy election cycle. (Oh, the Bernie jokes. I can almost hear them.)
prizant76: Bombast.
me: Nicely put.
prizant76: Mary Poppins was a nice touch.
me: Yes!
And Mr. Bean.
prizant76: They should have done a tribute to Grand Moff Tarkin.
me: Ha!
prizant76: Or a sequence with Hugh Grant and a bunch of dancing hookers.
me: George Michael in a restroom stall?
prizant76: Benny Hill.
me: A friend of mine joked that they should have had a Benny Hill hologram light the torch.
prizant76: A sped-up hologram backed by that goofy saxophone music.
me: They also should have had some kind of Monty Python tribute.
prizant76: Absolutely. Ministry of Silly Walks: Olympic Edition.
me: Or what was their Olympics-like thing? All-Git Olympics?
prizant76: Upper Class Twit of the Year. One of my faves.
me: Don't forget SNL's "All-Drug Olympics" from the 80s
prizant76: Or Martin Short as the synchronized swimmer.
03 August 2016
The Journey
Today marks one year since my sweet love Jason left this world. I started this blog because I was desperate to make sure Amir was remembered for all the wonderful things he was. I intended this blog to be a place to remember and honor Amir, never anticipating it would become a home to grieve Jason as well.
What a year. I have learned so much about grief and the way the mind (or at least my meshuggene mind) works in this strange and difficult mode. I always believed (or assumed, since I'd never really been through it) that grief was merely the physical and emotional manifestation of missing someone you loved. It meant feeling sorrow and emptiness over your loss, feeling sorrow for what might have been. It meant missing that person at family gatherings and on holidays and birthdays and anniversaries.
But I always thought grief was relatively short-lived, something that got easier with time as you moved forward and missed the person less and less. The grieving process would go on longer for people who were dearer to you, but I believed it was a finite process.
I have learned that I'd been wrong all my life about what grief was. Not due to any fault of my own--I was fortunate enough not to know better until I was 43 years old and lost my beloved brother. True, I'd lost grandparents and a couple of uncles I loved. I cried for them and I missed them, but the sense of loss diminished as the months went on. That's what I thought grief was.
What I did not understand before was how grief would change me. I am not just grieving two people I loved very much, I'm also grieving the loss of myself. I am a different person from who I was before and I am actively grieving the woman I used to be. I miss her every day. I look at pictures of myself from before and I feel a sense of loss--I miss that woman who was untouched by grief and sorrow. She was much more relaxed, more focused and centered, more outgoing and easygoing, more fun to be around, less anxious and awkward. She had more love to give.
But now, she's more human. I'm more human having been through the most universal of human experiences--death and loss. I relate to others who have been through loss and I have a difficult time relating to those who haven't. I used to be them and now I envy them. How I wish I didn't.
I'm sure there are people who think I spend too much time thinking about my grief and that's why I'm not "moving on" (whatever the fuck that means) as I should. But they're wrong. I don't think about my grief. I think about the two beautiful human beings who are no longer here and what a fucking tragedy it is that their lives were cut so painfully short. I think about where they'd be right now, what they'd be doing, who they'd be, what they'd think of the election and world news and the heartbreaking thing that happened in season 4 of Orange Is the New Black (that's for Jason--he insisted I'd love the show and he was right, as usual).
It's a gorgeous day in New York today and I'm going to spend it with Jason. If that sounds weird, I don't care. I'm going to make the most of today because I'm here, I'm alive and, in spite of the heartbreak, I am optimistic and ready to start taking steps forward. One day at a time, right?
What a year. I have learned so much about grief and the way the mind (or at least my meshuggene mind) works in this strange and difficult mode. I always believed (or assumed, since I'd never really been through it) that grief was merely the physical and emotional manifestation of missing someone you loved. It meant feeling sorrow and emptiness over your loss, feeling sorrow for what might have been. It meant missing that person at family gatherings and on holidays and birthdays and anniversaries.
But I always thought grief was relatively short-lived, something that got easier with time as you moved forward and missed the person less and less. The grieving process would go on longer for people who were dearer to you, but I believed it was a finite process.
I have learned that I'd been wrong all my life about what grief was. Not due to any fault of my own--I was fortunate enough not to know better until I was 43 years old and lost my beloved brother. True, I'd lost grandparents and a couple of uncles I loved. I cried for them and I missed them, but the sense of loss diminished as the months went on. That's what I thought grief was.
What I did not understand before was how grief would change me. I am not just grieving two people I loved very much, I'm also grieving the loss of myself. I am a different person from who I was before and I am actively grieving the woman I used to be. I miss her every day. I look at pictures of myself from before and I feel a sense of loss--I miss that woman who was untouched by grief and sorrow. She was much more relaxed, more focused and centered, more outgoing and easygoing, more fun to be around, less anxious and awkward. She had more love to give.
But now, she's more human. I'm more human having been through the most universal of human experiences--death and loss. I relate to others who have been through loss and I have a difficult time relating to those who haven't. I used to be them and now I envy them. How I wish I didn't.
I'm sure there are people who think I spend too much time thinking about my grief and that's why I'm not "moving on" (whatever the fuck that means) as I should. But they're wrong. I don't think about my grief. I think about the two beautiful human beings who are no longer here and what a fucking tragedy it is that their lives were cut so painfully short. I think about where they'd be right now, what they'd be doing, who they'd be, what they'd think of the election and world news and the heartbreaking thing that happened in season 4 of Orange Is the New Black (that's for Jason--he insisted I'd love the show and he was right, as usual).
It's a gorgeous day in New York today and I'm going to spend it with Jason. If that sounds weird, I don't care. I'm going to make the most of today because I'm here, I'm alive and, in spite of the heartbreak, I am optimistic and ready to start taking steps forward. One day at a time, right?
23 July 2016
Legs on a Snake
As one of Amir's friends recently wrote me, "He was so damn good with words." Yes, he was. Though he never studied writing, Amir had a gift for language and for conveying his thoughts most profoundly. I've provided some examples here on this site. Here's yet another, in the form of an email exchange from 2009, after Amir's friend described how she prayed for patience and clarity and trusted that she would be guided to do the right thing. Amir's beautifully-written response:
"What you are describing is a phenomenon commonly known as 'faith.' It not only requires trust in something bigger than yourself; it also cannot be reconciled with or explained through our classical rationale-based thinking. The Buddhists know this--they refer to this kind of neurotic thinking as 'legs on a snake,' totally irrelevant. The scientific method, and Western thinking in general, has no place for this intuitive way of living.
I have understood for many years that God, as I know him, is both imminent and transcendent, within and without. There is no dualism in my mind with regards to this fact. However, I am also well aware that Psychology, as a science, can shed much light on my errors in thinking--'cognitive dissonance,' as it were. The realization is that there is a middle path that incorporates both a rational and spiritual approach to self-improvement. The trick is not letting the pendulum swing too far in either direction.
As you said, you have to know when to turn your brain off so as to avoid spinning your wheels and freezing out any possibility for change. Similarly, despite any overarching spiritual principles, you have to remember that the brain is a machine, and that faulty wiring, manifesting itself in dysfunctional patterns of thought, must be repaired from the ground up. Precisely why I referred to this work as 'tricky business.'
Oh, how dearly I wish Amir had figured out a way to turn off his own brain, as he advised his friend to do. That was one of the things he struggled with the most--I know because it's a struggle he and I shared and talked about openly and often. I'm lucky to have learned how to manage my overactive brain, most of the time. Amir was always searching for ways of calming his mind and quieting his own neurotic thinking and cognitive dissonance. How I wish both he and Jason had achieved that sense of peace. I think they both found it briefly, at different times in their lives, but they struggled to hold on to it, as countless others do. My heart aches for all of them.Fierce lions guard these inner gates to liberation, and old habits do indeed die hard. A little effort goes a long way..."
16 July 2016
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.
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.
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 |
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.
11 June 2016
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:
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.
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.
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