Co-Conspirators

"My siblings were my first co-conspirators in the harvesting of my imagination." - Patti Smith

I fucking love this quote and I have for years. Not only were Amir and Yael my very first co-conspirators, they were the most present and persistent harvesters of my imagination and, for that, I'm eternally grateful. I could not have asked for two more exceptional co-conspirators, collaborators and friends.

April has begun, a month always difficult and bittersweet. Amir would have, should have, turned 43 on April 7. How I wish I could clearly visualize my brother at age 43. He was 38 when he died, still partially a child in my mature eyes. Would he always have seemed like a child to me, as his older sister? He will always be 38 - a fact that I will never be capable of grasping fully. The brutal unfairness of his absence still blows my doors off every fucking day.

And I don't believe in unfairness. I don't believe fairness is promised to anyone, anywhere. I have seen little reason to believe in karma. I don't believe people get what they deserve, be it good or bad. I believe that sometimes good, deserving people get dealt atrocious fucking blows in life while undeserving, garbage humans win at everything. Naturally, I don't believe it should be that way. That's the rational side of my brain speaking, the side that nearly always speaks the loudest.

Last night, I dreamed that my sister Yael and I were engaged to marry the Princes Harry and William. (I could not possibly hazard a guess as to why.) In this curious dream, we were in Buckingham Palace, sporting obscenely gigantic diamond rings and discussing wedding details with the princes. Amir was there, laughing his face off and snarking hard at the notion that his goofy sisters were to become princesses. He suggested Yael was excited about her royal bethrothing, while I dreaded being in the spotlight, forced to live in some cold, sterile castle, raising joyless potential heirs.

Even stranger is that Jason was there, asking me if I thought I'd be happier with Prince Harry than I was with him. (My response: "No fucking way.") Odder still is that Jason's family was there, including his deceased mother and stepfather, who congratulated me excitedly in spite of Jason's disapproval. Hours later, I am still furrowing my brow over what that shit was supposed to mean. No fever or drugs were involved in the conjuring of this bizarre scene.

Any time Amir or Jason visits me in a dream, I awaken disoriented and frustrated. When they occupy my mind during those hours I'm awake, it's because I invite and implore them to step to the forefront and to be present during my daily doings and musings. I suppose I subconsciously invite them into my nocturnal mind as well, longing to interact with them, to hear their voices, to be near them again, if only for a few precious minutes.

Amir would be turning 43 on Sunday. I will turn 48 this year, meaning I'll have had a full decade longer on this earth than my darling brother was granted. 10 years more of experiences, good and bad, of adventures and travels and laughter and hardship. 10 more years of life. How have I used those years to honor him? This question inspires and motivates so much of what I do and how I live. How am I honoring him? How am I honoring both of them?

Amir's iPod

Changing the calendar over to 2019, I realized this year will mark five years since Amir's death. Five fucking years of a deep heartache that never lets up and never will. As one friend puts it, grief gets "softer" but not easier. That will never change.

A year or so ago, Amir's girlfriend Joleen was kind enough to send me his iPod. Amir had owned an iPhone, but he preferred the old click-wheel iPod for cataloging his music. Once I could procure an old 30-pin USB cable to charge it, I eagerly scrolled through his music library, nodding familiarly at most of the artists, but surprised by some others and, subsequently, crestfallen that I wasn't aware he liked these particular artists because (a) I like them, too, and we could have discussed their merits; or (b) I'd never heard of them and wish he could have told me more about them; or (c) I wish he could have explained to me why certain songs were meaningful to him. Now I'll never know and that fucking sucks, to put it rather ineloquently.

Eventually, I turned over Amir's iPod to Yael so that she could pull his music and add it to her own. Soon after, she and I got to discussing Amir's music library--the oddities, the surprises, the memories. Nearly every song prompts some emotional response, be it nostalgia, sadness, amusement or a momentary tick of joy. We talked about his love for Queen and pondered what his reaction might have been to the film Bohemian Rhapsody. Yael reminded me how Amir pulled us into his room to spin A Night at the Opera, demanding our specific attention to this extraordinary song that blew his little-kid mind. (These days, I dread hearing it, partly because it is so overplayed, but also because I hear Amir's boyish voice singing "Gal-i-leeeoo!" and it just eviscerates me.)

Years ago, during a time when Amir had been going through a breakup, he and I talked nearly every day, sometimes very late into the night, until I physically could not stay awake any longer (at which time Jason often took over as his counselor in those post-midnight hours while I attempted sleep.)

During one late-night call, Amir and I were discussing the distinct soul-crush of listening to certain songs during a sad time. As Amir noted, putting music on "shuffle" mode during a time of heartbreak could be likened to playing Russian roulette. Exactly, I'd responded. We singled out our revered Elliott Smith, Lou Barlow and Jeff Tweedy as embodiments of songwriters who know precisely which heartstrings to tug until they howled. (I'm looking at you, Barlow - Amir and I concurred that "Soul and Fire" is a 4-minute machete to the chest.)

Four years after Amir's death, listening to music on shuffle mode still elicits an unending range of emotional reactions. (Even tedium like "Dust in the Wind" [not found on Amir's iPod, lest you admonish his musical taste] affects me in a way that stirs contempt.) Every time one of his favorite artists releases new work or announces a tour (or dies), my heart sinks into my stomach. He won't be here to experience it. He won't be here to discuss it with. He is missing out on so much and, as long as I remain breathing, that horrific fact will never cease to devastate me.

Four Years, Part Deux

Please read my last post (November 15) for context. Here are more excerpts of messages from Amir's coworkers as well as SAC members:

“Amir and I had a shared sarcasm and his sharp wit and biting sense will be greatly missed. We had joked together about what a (joyful) pain in the butt some of the players here could be. I’ll miss his smile and his voice on the phone. It breaks my heart knowing how much life he had left, but I know he had a positive impact on many.”

"Amir was a part of our community and now there is an empty spot that can't be filled. He never did convince me that baseball isn't the most boring sport ever, but he definitely tried his best."

"I have known Amir for the past year. He was great. He was my go-to guy for information and always an ear to talk to. We often talked about office politics, but he always said nice things. He always kept such an even keel and it seemed he couldn't be bothered by anything."

"I worked with Amir and had a chance to listen to some of his heartaches. He was really a sensitive man who loved and was loved much. I am glad I had the opportunity to meet him. He will be missed."

"I will miss Amir's kindness and sense of calm. A very good man who always interacted with quiet respect and touched our lives. He will be fondly remembered."

"I always enjoyed chatting with Amir. He was always patient with my questions. He struck me as a sweet, gentle person and I will deeply miss seeing him every week. SAC was a brighter place with him here."

"Amir was a good, lovely man. He always had a kind word."

"Amir was a sweet, always-helpful man. It was always reassuring to see him."

"Amir was a special person. I truly enjoyed his company and friendship. He was a good person."

"Amir was the best man to ever work at the tennis desk. I've known him personally for over four years. Amir meant a lot to me; we watched many Blazers games together and we would talk for hours. Amir will always be close to me and I'll never forget the person he was."

"Amir was a wonderful person. I used to chat with him a lot; he was very interesting and nice."

"I had the pleasure of training with Amir a few weeks ago. He was so helpful and patient and I really enjoyed getting to know him better. He had a great sense of humor, too. We will all miss him."

Indeed, we will and we do. Every day.

Four Years

Next week, November 22, will mark four years since the day our beloved Amir died. Some days, I still cannot believe he is not here and, on top of that disbelief is the disbelief that I'm still in disbelief. If you can't quite wrap your brain around that, imagine how senseless it seems in my own mind. I miss him terribly every fucking day and as I navigate this life without him, his absence reverberates in countless ways.

I'll be spending the 4th anniversary of Amir's death in Europe (Prague, this time). I am anticipating another bittersweet journey -- I'm excited and grateful to explore a new city and country, while I'm pained to recall how badly Amir wanted to see the world beyond his own and how heartbreaking it is that he never got the chance. He was robbed of so many other chances as well. (Of course, if I start enumerating all of those, I won't get around to what I'd intended to write here.)

As November 22 nears, I want to share the heartfelt and remarkably complimentary things people wrote about Amir immediately after he died. The health club where he worked for several years (SAC) held a well-attended memorial service, at which they circulated a guest book. I'm proud and humbled to share the wonderful tributes SAC's members wrote about Amir*. Some are lengthy, but I hope you will read them and, in doing so, expand and enhance your sense of who Amir was.

First, a note from his boss:
"Amir was an amazing person. He worked hard for me and the club. The members will miss him; they were his friends and SAC was his home. We will forever remember him. He always took care of us. I read an excerpt from Amir's writings. It was an amazing bit of literature that described himself and life. He will always be in my heart and mind and in the hearts and minds of everyone at SAC."

Notes from club members:
"SAC has been a better place because Amir brought a quality forward that is hard to find. A kind and honest spirit that everyone loved."

“He was indeed Amir (which means ‘rich’ in Hindi) – in his talk, dealings and helping others. He was one of my favorite friends at the tennis desk. May he continue to touch others.”

“[He was] a bright star and sharp wit and always so grateful.”

“Amir will be missed for his dependability, level-headedness, insightful thoughts and all. He was a pleasure to know.”

"Amir was a fine man and we really enjoyed talking to him. We were impressed with his maturity and integrity and we will miss him."

"Amir was a great friend. I loved discussing music with him. He was intense and cultured. We talked a lot. The last CD we discussed was Caetano Veloso and David Byrne at Carnegie Hall. He liked talking about his parents and how great they were. He pointed at the fact that mixing cultures was always a plus. I will miss his friendship. He is one we all liked."

"Amir was the kind of guy that took some effort to get to know, but that is what was delightful about him. Through our conversations, I discovered that Amir had lots of layers. One was his dry sense of humor. We were forever teasing one another and he seemed to be always having the last laugh, so quick and witty. We talked of sports, his love of writing, politics and religion. I learned through our conversations how important family was to him. He told me once his guidelines for dating and the one that stood out was that she had to have a good relationship with her family. This was a true example of his kind spirit, unselfishness and soundness of character. There was so much more to Amir than people realized that was hidden because of his quiet nature. But his compassion for life, honesty and strong principles soon became clear as you got to know him. Amir positively affected other people and brought such joy to our lives."

“I always enjoyed chatting with you and discussing basketball. I remember you as a very kind and cheerful person.”

“I will miss our chats. I will miss your dry sense of humor. I will miss your patience with us members.”

“You were my secret friend. You helped me through the darkest period of my life, simply by being you. For months, I would come to string racquets, just to have something to do other than obsess about my circumstance. I was always glad when you were here. Even our long periods of quiet in that small room were never uncomfortable. I knew we could pick up a conversation where we left off any time. You got the play by play. You knew my secrets. You were wise, tolerant, patient. I truly treasure that time spent with you. You weren’t perfect. You had flaws like we all do. But you were the perfect person at the perfect place at the perfect time – for me. I will miss you, secret friend.”

*These comprise only a small selection of the tributes in the guest book. Please stay tuned... I look forward to posting more soon.

"Found Treasure"

I have not posted anything in several months, as I've been doing more private writing lately, leaving me with 5-6 drafts I want to post here eventually. Nearly four years after his death, I am still adding to my collection of notable tidbits to share with those of you who knew Amir and savored his unique wit and sense of humor.

Another Labor Day has come and gone, a holiday that each year prompts me to reflect on my most recent time spent with Amir. Labor Day weekend 2014 was the last time I would ever see my sweet brother. We created some great memories that weekend, talking, drinking, taking long walks and relaxing with our parents. Fortunately, we had the chance to spend a few precious hours talking alone, during which we covered some important ground. I will always be grateful to have had that time together.

At the close of our lovely weekend together, I hugged Amir goodbye at the airport and watched him walk away from me, his tall, lanky, backpacked frame breezing through the automatic doors and disappearing into the terminal.

"Terminal" seems a sadly appropriate word now, doesn't it?

A few weeks ago, Amir's friend Ian sent me an email he titled "Found Treasure," in which he excitedly reported his recent discovery of some ink drawings Amir had created when he was 18. Fittingly, Ian labeled the series "Human League Hangman," which I imagine Amir would find entirely appropriate. After all, I can't think of any subject Amir would have been more inclined to designate for a round of hangman than "Musical band."

Upon opening Ian's email and checking out the photos, the first thought that occurred to me (as I smiled) was that I'd fucking forgotten Amir could draw so well.

How the fuck could I have failed to remember this one of his many talents? I need to search my own archives for more of these priceless objets d'art!

"Signed original!" Ian exclaimed in the email, declaring Amir's drawings among his most treasured possessions. And now they are among mine, as well.



Post-script: In spite of its user-friendliness, Blogger doesn't provide many options for tweaking the page layout so that photos appear the way you want them to. So be it.

April 7

April 7 was Amir's birthday. I wrote this piece at the time but decided to keep it to myself for a while.
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My dearest brother, today, you SHOULD be 42. But you are not here to turn 42. That fact never gets easier to believe or write or say or think. The shocking sadness of that first year or two has subsided into a dull, relentless ache that sits on my chest and doesn't demand much in the way of grief. Sometimes it feels as though it will never truly sink in for me that you are not here. How is it possible? Fuck, you'd be so disappointed in yourself and the universe for letting you slip away so young and sharp and full of countless items left to check off your ever-growing "To Do" list. Like me, you'd feel fucking cheated and indignant at the world for stealing so many years from you.

The other night, I began thinking about how many regrets you'd have had you known your life would be cut short. I've thought a great deal about regret over the years and I have always tried to live my life such that, when my end comes, I have precious few true regrets about how I lived, loved, learned and treated other people. Still, as much as I've thought about regret in my life, I've never considered it more than I have since you died. What regrets did you have? What would you have changed, in haste, if you'd known your days were numbered? What would you have told me? What would you have written down or recorded for those of us who love you to find?

One thing that brings me peace in thinking of you is how proud and happy you were to have been able to be a confidante and counselor to me over the last year of your life. After years of frequent leaning on Yael and me for guidance and support, you had entered a period of stability and maturity in your life that allowed you to be there for us -- a welcome flip of the playbook, as you put it. You talked with me for hours, offering advice and support, and I know you felt proud that your guidance was trusted and helpful. Just two months before you died, the last time I saw you, you confided in me about some issues that had arisen in your life. In retrospect, I realize you may have admitted these things to me in the hopes that I could help or guide you, though I don't know if you'd have accepted help. I don't know if you actually needed help, nor whether you'd have realized it if you did. You wanted my advice about your girlfriend and your job, throwing in a confession about your having recently "dabbled" in some pills to help with your anxiety. You told me it was a minor sidestep off your chosen "clean" path and that you weren't willing to jeopardize your health, job or relationships to fall back into the inviting haze of self-medication, however much it beckoned you.

Amir, you were one of the most intelligent, funniest, brightest, sharpest human beings I have ever known. Those things mean nothing when it comes to susceptibility to anxiety, self-doubt, unease, overthinking and self-medicating. In fact, your brilliant mind and unique outlook on the world likely contributed to your inability to quiet the racing thoughts in your head when you needed to. Why isn't that a skill taught in school? Wouldn't the ability to quiet your mind and its relentlessly-swirling chatter be more valuable in terms of life skills than fucking algebra or chemistry? Why not teach children and teens the much-needed skill of calming their anxiety via meditation or journal-writing or deep breathing or even exercise? As someone who often falls victim to racing thoughts and endless brain chatter, I'd certainly have benefited from training in self-calming methods that don't rely on drugs or alcohol. I would wager there are few people who wouldn't benefit from such training.

Yet, there's still a horrible stigma around mental-health issues, no matter how slight, including the common misconception that it's a personality or character flaw. I have decided I need to make an effort to help people suffering from mental illness or addiction in any way I can. You'd be intrigued by my occasional toying with the idea of becoming a therapist or counselor, but you'd also relate to my uncertainty and agree that it may not be the best path for me. You would also likely support my longing to help people in other, smaller capacities, which I'm focusing on now. I have a unique and rich perspective on relating to people struggling with mental-health issues, including addiction. I can empathize with their battles and I believe that empathy, along with compassion, will get me farther than years of schooling and training to be a certified counselor. I know you would encourage me and support me in my efforts, limited as they are for now.

Back to you, brother. It's your birthday today and you should be here. You are so terribly missed. You might not have believed it had you known just how many people miss your presence in this world. Your absence is voluble every single day. I often wonder what words of wisdom you would impart to me? How would you guide me? What hilarious emails and texts would you send me daily to keep me laughing? How would you be celebrating your birthday? How much contempt and scorn would you muster for the absurdity of our political landscape?

On your birthday, I will listen to music you loved, read things that spoke to you or made you laugh, talk about you and celebrate you, as I do on so many days that are not April 7.