Six Months

When Carlos arrived home from work on October 9th, 2013 he walked inside, his face stricken with pain. I immediately asked him what was wrong, and he said we needed to sit down. I remember him frantically guiding me to the couch, his hands holding mine. We sat together while the words seemed to take forever to come.

Finally, he said "Anna, David died."

My heart stopped. My breath was taken from me. 

Immediately I replied, "David, David who??" 

Carlos replied, "David, your brother." 

The memory of the gut-wrenching "NO" that exclaimed from my mouth moves me to tears as I write this. The violent opposition that I felt to losing my brother was instantaneous. 

It is all a haze after that: talking to my parents, speaking with my siblings, frantically packing my suitcase and that horrific 4 hour drive home to Iowa. It was a nightmare, a tragic seemingly never-ending nightmare. 

Now, 6 months later I sit on that same couch and reflect. 6 months later I'm working at a new job, newly accepted to graduate school, doing projects around our apartment, and preparing for my aunt's wedding. It has been 6 months since losing David, and somehow I've begun to live again. 

It's ironic because I know that the Anna I was October 9th, is so very different from the Anna that I am today. When David died, a piece in all who loved him also died. When I lost my brother, I lost myself. 

This is grief. This is true loss. It is the most intimate un-veiling of who you are. Everything is stripped away and you must decide how to re-build. It's an opportunity for re-birth and renewal, in a beautiful sense it is your loved ones parting gift, until you meet again. 

I can never be who I used to be and when I try to describe how I am different, I really can't. Maybe I'm more serious, more introspective, more mindful or conscientious? I also feel more appreciative, creative, loving, and hopeful. 

What I do know is that I'm more sure of myself now than I was then. I know what is important to me, and recognize the necessity to show appreciation. David's death has challenged me to be better. 

David's absence in our world has highlighted his presence in my heart. 

Today I close with the message of a incredibly beautiful person: my, and David's, mother. The following thoughts have been adapted from a letter written by Ram Dass to his friends who lost their child to a violent death.

"For David's family and dear friends,

David finished his work on earth, and left the stage in a manner that leaves those of us left behind with a cry of agony in our hearts, as the fragile thread of our faith is dealt with so violently. Is anyone strong enough to stay conscious through such teaching as you are receiving? Probably very few. And even they would only have a whisper of peace a midst the screaming noise of their grief, horror and desolation.

I cannot take away your pain with any words, nor should I. For your pain is David's legacy to you. Not that he or I would inflict such pain by choice, but there it is. And it must burn its purifying way to completion. For something in you dies when you bear the unbearable, and it is only in that dark night of the soul that you are prepared to see as God sees, and to love as God loves.

Now is the time to let your grief find expression. No false strength. Now is the time to sit quietly and speak to David, and thank him for the time you shared, and encourage him to go on with whatever his work is, knowing that you will grow in compassion and wisdom from this experience.

In my heart, I know that you and he will meet again. And when you meet you will know, in a flash, what now it is not given to you to know: Why this had to be the way it was.

Our rational minds can never understand what has happened, but our hearts– if we can keep them open to God – will find their own intuitive way. David came to all who love him here to do his work on earth, which includes his manner of death. Now his soul is free, and the love that you can share with him is invulnerable to the winds of changing time and space.

'We feel that this piece - with its core message - was brought to our attention just in time to share for the six month anniversary of the world's great loss of David. Many times and in many ways we have felt that David is walking beside us on this journey. We pray that God will continue to hold us all as we go forward.

Love,
Val Lucas - David's Mom'"

Thank you to my Mom for sharing this beautifully impactful message. 

David's place in my heart is sending love to all his loved ones tonight. 

  

April Fool's Day

Today is April 1st:  April Fool's Day. It's a fitting title for how I feel today. I feel like this has all been one big prank. Nearly 6 months of walking in someone else's shoes: shoes that my feet could slide into, but rubbed in the most painful way.

In fact, David even came back to me in my dream last night. Our whole family was together and we tried to not overwhelm him with our excitement. Slowly we filled him in on all that's happened these last 6 months, our words overshadowed by our great relief that it was only temporary.

In my dream I shared with him that I had begun writing. I told him about "Loving David" and commented it was going to be a very interesting twist now that he had returned. We discussed options for the future of the blog and David offered to co-write with me: him sharing about his experience, and me sharing mine. Eventually maybe we would get it published in a book. It would document this great experiment of many people's reality: many people's reality, but definitely not ours. 

I woke up this morning and laid awake in bed for awhile. Replaying the events of the night over in my head, remembering David's presence in my dream and the great excitement we shared for our new endeavor together. 

I am missing my brother tonight. I feel sad that I will never get the opportunity to be with David again. We aren't able to have a conversation, much less write a book together. It's amazing that after what feels like an eternity, it doesn't get any better. It simply changes to be more manageable and less consuming. It is a reality that will most likely never feel real. It's a story that will never feel my own, much less my brother David's. 

Riding home from work today, the words "David is gone, David is gone" played through my head. It was as if they were an old plot of a story I read long ago, or a recognizable tune, to a song whose lyrics I no longer knew. 

Tonight, like most, I am missing my brother David: I'm holding tight to my memory of him and sending him all my love.

Playground of Grief

Immediately, 

it was shock and raw pain, 

alternating like a seesaw: 

up and down and up and down.

Back and forth 

like a game of tug-o-war 

you were pulled.

You're caught in the middle 

of the hula hoop, 

going 'round and 'round 

as emotions and feelings 

came upon you like a tidal wave.

Treading in a pool of hardship, 

paddling to stay afloat.

You bobbed and bobbed, 

every time coming back up for air.

Knowing every time that the tears would stop 

and the pain would melt away.

David's Birthday

David's birthday is approaching: this Friday he would have turned 28. My emotions are very conflicted and I don't know how I feel. Even more, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. Typically in life, you know which emotions are appropriate or suspected to arise on special days and events. Happiness is typical in times of achievement, progress, and success, and sadness in times of disappointment, loss, or defeat.

February 21st is the day that David came into this world. Throughout his life it was a day he enjoyed and loved to share with those he loved. For this reason, I want to celebrate David's birthday. I want to have a party and see all of those who David loved. In an effort to honor David's spirit and his energy for life, I want to dance and laugh and be happy.

Contrasting this, is the sheer devastation that he's gone. He's not turning 28 on Friday and he's not in this world the way he used to be. Does his birthday matter to him anymore? What does matter to him now? Will he feel honored by my acknowledgment of what once was? How can I show him my love?

These questions, and so many more, cycle through my mind and into my heart, and then back to my mind. I simply don't know. I don't know their answers, and I don't know how they even make me feel. There is no "how-to" book on learning to live after this sort of loss. There's no checklist that will mend my heart or bring me peace.

David has passed on to the next phase and is experiencing life in a different dimension. I miss hearing about his life and sharing mine. I miss his voice and his laugh. It's hard to feel so disconnected from someone you love so much. It's difficult to not know what his world is like now. It's hard that on his birthday, the day you've celebrated with him every year (even if not together physically) he's not here in the way you wish he was.

This grief is really a never-ending test, and one that is impossible to ace. Every situation produces a new riddle and even though none of the options sound appealing, you must choose one. You must choose your version of the best answer, and then somehow continue on to be stumped again.

This weekend, despite my anxiety and emotions tonight, I look forward to celebrating my brother. I hope he's able to be with all who loved him, and give us a little sign that he's doing alright.

4 Months

The 9th of the month is a good time for me to do a personal check-in. I think of David throughout each day; though on the 9th, I feel an additional responsibility to spend time with him, right in my heart. Since today is Sunday, the majority of this time was spent lounging around. The warmth and comfort of our home required an incredible amount of willpower to leave, to attend a 5:00 church service tonight.

The message at mass was focused on our ability to be a source of light and joy. It discussed our responsibility to serve others and opportunity to be self-less in whatever we do. I took this especially personal tonight. For the last four months, I have been grieving: I've been struggling to survive and looking forward to each days' end. The message at church tonight reminded me my intentions of yesterday. The desire I had, and somewhere still have, to be of service to others.

Losing David has grounded me in a way I could have never imagined. In the last four months, I have changed and in many ways I have grown: I have become more appreciative of family and more certain about the things that matter to me in my life. In other ways, losing David has stunted my growth. I've become so intensely in-touch with my own needs, that it's become more difficult to look at others'. I've become so engrossed with death and loss, that at times the living in my own life goes missing.

Grieving is a balancing act. It's an internal struggle of what was, and what needs to be now. It's learning to live with something that you'll never understand and requires making peace with something that brings you pain. My goal for the next month is to fill my life with life; I want to live in a way which honors David.

Self-expression is something that brought me an incredible amount of healing, and life, these last few months. Whether it is writing, putting artistic touches on my apartment, or even cooking, I feel comforted and happy when I am able to create with my heart. A couple months ago, I shared a photo Carlos had taken of me standing on the beach, a single seagull caught in the frame. This symbolic image brings me comfort. I love the idea that David is gliding above; just far enough away from us to be shielded from life's difficulty, but close enough to send and receive our love. This week, I saw this image again, and was immediately inspired with these words:

This image, and these inspired words, bring me peace and joy tonight. As my journey of healing continues, I hope to someday be a source of peace and joy for others. Sending my brother David, and all of you, love, gratitude, and peace tonight.

Broken Night

My heart feels especially broken tonight
This marathon of grief leaves me breathless, gasping for air
defeated and downtrodden
hurt and empty
The missing and longing is too much to bear
It's too heavy, too painful
Intensely mine and intensely yours
Shared and not shared
Understood and misunderstood
Spoken and unspoken

My words fall short and tears fill my eyes.
My heart feels especially broken tonight.

Our Relationship Now

It is interesting for me to think of David and my relationship now. It is different, and of course it is difficult, but most importantly, it exists. David is such an essential part of my present existence. In some ways, I have more of a relationship with him now than I ever did.

The last few years we were very close and spoke at least once a week, but now he is on my mind throughout each day. I laugh at his memory, cry at my loss, and am comforted knowing he feels peace. The greatness of his 27 years inspires me to be better every single day. It is a very bizarre relationship in that even though we can't speak, hug, or spend physical time together, we're inseparable. David has truly become a part of me. 

 I would trade this intimacy now, in a moment, for the way it used to be. Since I cannot, I am so thankful for this feeling of companionship with my brother. David is living on in all who love him. The beauty of his soul is no longer contained in one body. Instead, he's with us all: inspiring us, making us laugh, and even making us cry.

I know that David is very available to us now, since he lived his life making himself available to others. He was always there to listen, share, and offer advice or support. Whether his role was teacher, student, friend, son, or brother, David always did the best he could do. I like thinking of his potential as limitless now, without daily struggles and commitments, he is able to foster the goodwill he wished upon others as a force for positive change in our world. 

David was incredibly empathetic and I know that he must understand our pain now. He cares about us too much not to know. He doesn't feel our pain, because he's so filled with peace and joy, but he can truly understand. He showers us with love and healing as a preview of what he feels. I believe the moments of peace we feel are gifts from his spirit to ours. 

The last couple weeks have been very difficult. As the time continues to pass, the longing for David grows, just as the healing and peace we so desperately need. It's an internal struggle of yearning for what was and what we need now. This tug-of-war leaves me feeling overwhelmed with emotion, and often exhausted.  

It's difficult to accept that it will never again be how it was, especially because of how wonderful it was. I'm trying to re-focus on what I can do in this moment to make it a great one. I am trying to open my eyes and ears a little wider to be more perceptive of the ways in which I can be better. How can I be a better wife, sister, daughter, and friend? How can I appreciate this moment more fully and transform it into something more meaningful? 

I'm so thankful for the opportunity to share these ideas and thoughts. I hope that some of the things which bring me comfort, will also comfort others. Thank you for reading, and most of all, thank you for caring. 

Missing Him

I felt like I was making progress in finding peace. For a moment I lost sight of my grief,
and when it came back a couple days ago, it completely knocked me off of my feet. 

It's like my pools of tears have been re-filled and are ready to over-flow at any moment. 

My breath escapes me with the recollection of my heart.

 I've been snapped back to the reality of missing him, and this sadness that is all encompassing.

As time goes on, the events of October seem more and more surreal; 

I must remind myself David's gone multiple times a day. 

Sometimes this memory is accepted calmly, but other times it hits me with the velocity of that first night. 

It is difficult knowing that I will always miss David, and this pain will always be with me. 

It is impossible to think of him as gone forever; it just hurts too much. 

Unlike most things in life, there is no solution to fix this.
In an instant, this sadness became a part of my "new normal."

                     _____________________________________________________________________

David's life was so much more than the crisis that took him. His life was so much greater than his death. 

In some weird way you think that that means his life should somehow win. 

It seems like death's punch should be dodged with the force of his life. 

It doesn't seem possible that something could take that away from him. 

I know David. I know that he would have kept fighting. Why didn't he get the chance? 

Why was the strike of his illness so powerful? How did it escalate out of control? 

David was a fighter. 

He was also a lover, a thinker, and a giver. 

He brought my life joy, support, and love. 

I just miss him. 

I miss hearing his voice. 

I miss hearing his laugh: sometimes boisterous, sometimes a soft chuckle. 

I miss his eyes, beautiful brown eyes which he proudly credited to my mother. 

I miss his walk, 

the way that he moved for here to there with the coolest stride that I never could emulate quite right. 

I miss his dance moves, and his complete lack of inhibition on the dance floor. 

I miss his energy and his enthusiasm for all experiences and all people. 

I miss my brother. 

All I want is to give him a hug. 

That is all for tonight: tonight I am missing him and I am loving him. 

The Third Month

Today is the 9th of the month. Since October, the 9th has become the anniversary of the day my brother left this earth. This was the day he last spoke, thought, or felt. This is the day that David last lived. 

Every month since October, the 9th has been a difficult day. Being re-acquainted with the events which happened just one month before, two months before, and now three months before is difficult. These are frequent milestones which painfully remind us that time cannot be re-wound, sometimes there isn't a second chance. 

This month, the 9th has a different feeling to it. This feeling is hard to communicate but it shows progress. 

This month, I feel stronger and I feel proud. 

I feel proud because I am surviving. All of those who loved David, we are surviving. We have felt pain, sadness and utter despair. We have pleaded with ourselves, God, and even David, yet the pain persists. I feel stronger because I am living this sorrow, yet I am persevering. 

The most difficult moments allow a view into David's feelings that day, October 9th. The pain felt from David's passing has allowed me to understand his feelings more than any words he could speak. Through this understanding, I feel closer to him. Not in the way that we used to be close, but in a different, more intimate way. 

This January 9th, I'm thankful that while I experience this pain, I am also able to see the light. There are still many moments where I feel that darkness, but I am able to open my eyes wider, so that the light may enter in.

My mom sees David's light in in the sky: the beautiful rise and set of the sun. David also appreciated the beauty of the sky. This summer he posted photos of  two different Iowan sunsets, one of the captions read, "Iowa has some of the most beautiful sunsets in the summer." 

This holiday break, I too was awestruck with the sky's beauty. The winter sunset captured below illuminated the sky, casting beautiful hues above David's place of eternal rest. 

Bankston, IA

No matter where these beautiful winter sunsets are coming from: whether it is David painting the sky for us, God showing his beauty and promise for the world, or even if it is just David opening our eyes a little wider to appreciate this light, this is something I am thankful for.

This January 9th, I am grateful that we are still here. I am thankful for every person who has offered support, understanding, and love. I am thankful most of all for my immediate family. I feel blessed to have become more closely united to them through this tragedy. After three months, I feel like I can, and we will, endure. 

The fact that the sun rises and sets, the same way it always has, is comforting. 

The fact that it does so so beautifully, fosters hope. 

The worst days will end, and with each morning comes a new opportunity to start fresh. Each new day is a gift given to us to do what we choose. We are able to appreciate nature's beauty, embrace opportunities, and love one another. Every day is one to cherish, in an effort to honor and remember David. 

Some days memories of David draw tears, other days they make me laugh. Always, they make my heart flutter with the vulnerability of loving someone so much. 

This 9th of January, I know that I can do it. I know that we can survive. I hold David in my heart especially close this day, and as it flutters in his memory, I imagine his smile and his joy-filled soul. 

With anticipation, I imagine our reunion. 

Thoughts for the Day

"From our very first breath we enter and trust the cycles of life. As infants we trust our parents to tend to our needs. As children we trust the good in those around us. We are taught that if we are good to others, they will in turn be good to us. Soon we become adolescents who are taught cause and effect. We are taught that if we eat nutritionally and take care of our bodies they will serve us well for years. And we grow into adulthood, where we continue to trust these basic cycles. We trust that the sun will rise each morning and set each evening; that our children will outlive us; that there will be many days to cherish those we love. 

Then, in a split second, with the news of a loved one's sudden death, the world changes forever. The orderly world of predicable cycles ends. We are thrown into an abyss with few tools at hand. No time for preparation. No time to gather what we will need for our journey. No time for unfinished business or goodbyes. 

Physically we may be composed of cells and genes and skin and bones, but emotionally we are composed of thoughts and feelings and memories and pieces of the people we have touched, and of those who have touched us. The death of the person we love creates a gaping wound. We have somehow changed. Our cyclical structure has been eternally disrupted and we find ourselves wandering through the broken pieces of yesterday's foundation. 

Grief brings that moment when you look into the mirror and no longer recognize the eyes staring back at you. Though the sun still rises and sets as it always has, everything looks just a bit different, a bit distorted. Grief casts far-reaching shadows around us." - I Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye

Days pass on and the world continues to go 'round. Some days are good and I feel peace but the cycle of grief continues to circuit. The passage above encapsulates so completely the struggle I've had losing David and the confrontation I've felt with the reality of life and death. 

I miss my brother. I miss talking to him and laughing together. I miss witnessing his antics and hearing his thoughts. I miss being challenged and supported by him. 

I find peace in remembering that death is a part of life. I am comforted by the idea that what seems like an end to us, is really only a beginning. 

"What we call the beginning is often the end. To make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." -T.S. Elliot

David lived a great life. I wish it had been longer, but I am thankful for all it was.

"God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference" 

We Are Here Now

In our busy lives, it often takes extrinsic motivators to inspire self-reflection. It is nice to have certain days throughout the year to constructively assess where you have been, where you are, and where you are going. New Year’s Eve is really the grandest of them all.

December 31st, marks the milestone of another completed year. Tomorrow is the first day of the next year: a symbolic fresh start or clean slate.

Reflecting on 2013 is difficult for me. It was an eventful year with my wedding and the loss of David: it has been a year filled with highs and lows. There has been excitement and heartbreak, happiness and despair.

The emotions are painfully contradictory. How can love be so pure, and pain be so raw, at the very same time?

I am not sure if feeling happiness first makes the pain more severe, or if the pain is made more bearable with the memory of joy. Either way, it's difficult to look back at this year and see these polar opposite experiences so close to each other.

2013 has opened my eyes to real pain, real loss, and real questions. It is a year that has shaken the ground upon which I stand. I have been confronted with the honest reality of life: created in an instant, developed over years, and gone in a moment.

Doesn't it seem impossible? It is counter-intuitive that something that requires so much work, perseverance, and patience, can end in the blink of an eye.

This year, I have learned that there are questions that will go unanswered, there are actions left undone, and words left unsaid.

There is no promise of tomorrow, but there is today. There is only this moment for certain, there is this breath and this thought. Life is delicate, fragile, and fleeting but we are here now.

2013 will forever hold the most recent, most dear memories with my brother David. It will house the memories of my wedding and the joy that was felt. It will hold the sorrow of losing my brother.

2013 will be a changing point, no doubt; a clear fork in the road of my life’s journey. This year holds experience and growth that I wish I never had to experience. Since I did, I am thankful for the ability to endure. 

Holding this close to my heart always, I will move forward to 2014.

As the new year draws near, I breath in and breath out, thankful for this moment. Thankful for the year's end and hopeful for the new year's beginning.

This coming year, I hope to be better. Following David’s example, I hope to be more compassionate, more loving, more grounded, and more curious. Inspired by his spirit, I will strive to do my best every day.

It Loves

Really missing David today. 

I haven't written poetry for quite a few years. I used to really enjoy it so thought jotting down my ideas would maybe bring me some peace tonight: 

It Loves

broken heart

broken apart

pieces here 

pieces there

broken heart 

broken apart

hurts so badly 

yet can still love

eyes fill with tears and 

chest with pain

but heart does love

it hurts and it loves

it cries and it loves

it hopes and it loves

broken heart 

broken apart

somehow it loves

Processing Grief

Today is Monday, the first day of the week and the second day of December. It's hard to believe it is December already. David died in October. How could that already be almost two months ago? Time is the strangest thing: on one hand it feels like those two months were an eternity ago. On the other, David's memory is so alive in my mind that it feels like we just spoke yesterday.

David would be nearing the end of his semester at the University of Minnesota. Otherwise, if he decided not to continue with his program he would be job searching. Maybe he would have already found a job by now. Who knows?

I still catch myself hanging on to the hope of David's return. Anything is possible, right? I snap myself back to reality with the memory of saying goodbye to David's physical body. That memory feels fake, like I really really didn't live it.

I've been thinking of so many things: suicide, depression, death, afterlife, etc. My mind works on overload, processing and reprocessing details, ideas, and questions.

Today was the first morning that I woke up and my first thought was not the heart-wrenching memory that David is gone. This morning, my alarm went off and I was searching for excuses to stay in bed and hide from the chilly morning. I'm not sure how many minutes went by until I thought of David, probably not too many. I wonder if this will continue. Maybe over time, the once instantaneous memory, will become triggered after minutes, then hours. How will my grief change over time?

I feel conflicted about this. I want to hold on to my grief as it's the way that I am able to hold on to David.

One Sunday in mass the priest explained that grieving is our mind's way to form a more concrete, living memory of the person that we lost. By going through each memory you share with that person and experiencing the painful sorrow of your loss, you create a more clear image of that person and relationship.

I really like this explanation of grief and I feel its truth in my own life.

I miss David for all that he was, and all that he was to be. I miss our times together, and wish I could re-live every one and savor each moment. I wish I would have discussed more about the future with him so that I could feel his guidance now.

With the recent tornadoes in Illinois, I thought of analogy. David's depression began as a cloud, but it quickly became darker and darker. The storm began and the wind picked up. David was sucked up in a tornado and taken away. All who love David were also picked up, only we were spit back out. We were thrown out of this storm with our physical houses un-damaged, but our emotional and spiritual homes leveled to the ground. We know we need to rebuild, as other storms could come our way. We need to heal.

The dilemma is rebuilding in a way that leaves a space for David.

Post-Thanksgiving

We made it through the first holiday. Our Thanksgiving weekend was filled with many emotions: highs and lows.

I haven't had Thanksgiving with David for the last two years. While he was living in Colombia, he came back for a long Christmas break. That probably made the days go easier than they would have otherwise, it's so easy for me to still think that David is in Colombia.

Despite this, there were still many tear-triggers. The first was seeing my husband and his two brothers talking together. I have never thought about Carlos being one of three brothers. It caught me completely off-guard.

The second was seeing a pumpkin pie. David LOVED pumpkin pie. He claimed in was his favorite. Now, if it really was his favorite or if he just was buttering up my Grandma I don't know. Either way, she eventually began making David his own personal-sized pumpkin pie each Thanksgiving. The love for her precious third child (third-born in the family like her) materialized in a miniature-sized pumpkin pie. David loved it! He would proudly polish the entire thing off, satisfying my Grandma with every bite!

These two triggers were ones I had not considered. Others I had prepared for and were not as affected by.

Spending time with my family is difficult. It's painful not to be with them, and it's painful to be with them. Everyone is grieving and feeling their individualized pain. We need to be gentle with each other, at a time when we are raw. Though there are difficult moments, I am thankful for this time. Each of our worlds have been turned upside down. There is no one who is able to understand my personal relationship with David or my mothers, fathers, etc. but we can most closely empathize with each other's loss.

I'm thankful that Thanksgiving is over and though I am not looking forward to Christmas like in years passed, I am looking forward to it in a different way. I am anxious to be reunited with my entire family, hug them, and make new memories together.

A thanksgiving-related memory:

Thanksgiving break my Freshman year of college, David invited me over to his apartment in Iowa City. He picked me up, we made a frozen pizza, and watched a movie. At the time David was making his way through a list of the top 100 movies of all time so we checked one off the list. I don't remember which it was. The entire night David was such a gentleman and made me feel really special. After the movie, he drove me back to my dorm. This was our first brother-sister date and served as the changing point in our relationship. I will forever treasure this memory.

One Conversation

David called my phone on October 8th at 12:58 pm. I was downtown Chicago at the time and the call did not register. I had been meeting a friend for lunch, and then wandered down to State street to do some browsing. I had a couple interviews coming up and needed to purchase a few things.

I went home that afternoon around 5:00 pm. My phone had been on silent while I was doing this shopping, and I had missed quite a few calls. Four different people had called me from Northwestern University, as well as multiple texts and voice messages. I'm not sure if this is why, but David's call did not show up. Most likely it was pushed down in the queue of missed calls and I just didn't scroll down to see it.

I walked to the train, took the train home, and listened to my messages/returned those who needed returning. I was feeling excited by all the potential opportunities and distinctly remember wanting to talk to David.

Since I had spoken to David for awhile on Saturday, I decided to wait to call him until Wednesday.

Wednesday, I finally followed David's encouragement and went to a yoga class. This was my first class in over a year, and I was feeling great! Since David asked me, every single time we spoke, if I had been working out, I was really excited to tell him!

I took a 3:00 yoga class and called David on  my walk home. His phone went straight to voice mail and I felt a little surprised. I thought, "Wow, what a good student. He must shut is phone off during class."

Less than three hours later, I learned the worst news I've ever heard in my life. My world stopped and changed completely, all at the same time.

I didn't know about that missed call from David until Thursday, when scrounging through my phone history looking for anything I could find. I learned Thursday that my brother had called me the day before he died, and I had missed it.

I have gone through many stages related to this incident. Initially, I remember feeling relieved that I had not known he had called. If I had seen it, yet purposely decided to wait to return the call, I would feel even worse. I thought maybe it was a blessing, what if I would have answered and told him I was too busy or said the wrong thing. I felt comforted knowing that David had received love and support from my parents and brothers, and he was not alone.

I know that this is nothing I can change, and I know that there is nothing I can do, but I can't help but think that I had a chance and I missed it.

Time and time again I've thought of what I would say if I could have that one conversation. The first night and the first couple days, the only thing I could say to David was that I loved him. Over and over those words came to my mouth, "David, I love you."

I imagine what that conversation would have been. I imagine what I would have said and what I would have heard.

I know now that David must have been incredibly scared. I know now that David was experiencing thoughts that were not his own. I know now that David was ill, more ill than he, or anyone who loved him, knew.

Knowing what I know now, these are some things that I would like to say:

"David, I love you. I am so sorry for this pain that you are feeling. I can't imagine what it is like and I know it must be terrifying. Remember that this is an illness. It is deceiving you to believe it is you, but it is not. Remember that this will pass, just like I said last year while you were in Colombia, this, too, shall pass. 

Today may be hard, but tomorrow might be easier. 

Please live. Fight. You are so incredibly loved. This world needs you. You have so much work left to do. I want to grow old with you. I want to live close to you, David. 

You are my best friend. You challenge me more than anyone in my life, I need that. I need you. I love you. I will do anything to help and support you.

Nothing matters but your well-being. Don't worry about school. Don't worry about where you'll live or what you'll do. Take care of yourself and those answers will come. 

Believe in yourself, because everyone believes in you."

This could go on and on. The harsh reality of the events which unfolded give me a clarity of the situation. I know now what he may have needed to hear. I know now what I should have said.

Since I cannot go back to that day and see that call. I have to find peace.

It's also possible that what I said to David may have helped him in on Tuesday, but that moment may have still come on Wednesday. The moment when all hope was lost and David's illness allowed him to see only one way to escape the pain.

This is an article from a Catholic priest who has laid a wonderful foundation of understanding related to suicide.

Now, much of what I wish I would have been able to tell David, I need to tell myself.

Most importantly: "This, too, shall pass. Today may be hard, but tomorrow might be easier."

The Good is Beautiful

I couldn't help but think of David today as snowflakes fell to the ground in Chicago. Neither him or I like the cold winter, but we both appreciate the novelty and beauty of the first snow.

There's something really peaceful about watching gigantic white flakes gracefully fall from the sky.

So many things in our world are beautiful. Everyday things like the sunrise and sunset, dew on the grass in the summer, colored leaves in the fall, and snow coating the world in winter. Things that we may appreciate, but don't really spend time thinking about.

Experiencing a great loss, especially when life is lost earlier than expected, it's very normal for belief systems to shift. Many of the things I held as certainties: "God is all powerful," "There is a plan," "Everything happens for a reason," these things that I believed as fact through faith, are suddenly turned to questions.

Trying times encourage you to step back from held certainties, and look through a different lens. My different lens is grounded in a more mature understanding of pain and suffering, yet it is still yearning for hope.

Today as I saw these big flakes fall to the ground, I couldn't help but smile.

Life is beautiful. Our world is beautiful. People and relationships are beautiful. There are blessings in every corner, if you can just see them.

I'm not sure what this means for my questions, but I feel hope in the good. I think that while my lens is grounded by this suffering, it is also more appreciative of life's beauty.

The bad can be overwhelming, but the good is beautiful.

Maybe that is God. Like an idea of yin and yang, the bad exists, because for some reason it has to, but the good exists too.

It's comforting to think that there's some greater plan. Some objective that is being achieved through this suffering, but maybe there isn't. That doesn't mean that we cannot create goodness from hardship.

I would trade all my growth and perspective in a moment if it could bring David back. But since it can't, at least it challenges me to be a better self. I'm challenged to find good, create good, and be good.

I am thankful for that.

We Remember Them

Today is International Survivors of Suicide Day. Events were held in over 300 locations around the world.

This was something that I really didn't want to attend (much like my support group and individual counseling) but I felt like I needed to go.

The event was nicely put together. It took place downtown Chicago on Michigan Avenue.

It's quite surreal walking into these things. There is an unspoken understanding in the room, without a word being spoken. People are there for a reason and even if you don't know their story, you feel a connection with them.

It is comforting to hear others' stories and empathize with their loss. It's nice to share your ideas and thoughts and hear other perspectives. It feels good to witness, learn, and share.

Though it was comforting to be there, it was a very emotional day for me.

It's funny that I say that because every day is a very emotional day. David has been gone for over a month now and yet it still doesn't feel real.

I dream of David, it seems like all night long. Only once has he spoken to me in a dream. That was a few weeks ago now, and his words were something like, "Wow, isn't that bizarre?!?" He said it in his unique David way and then walked away. Since then he's been present in my dreams, but more like a character who's not in the scene. I haven't seen him or heard his voice again.

During the day, I think of him every moment. I am obsessed with this grief. At times overcome by its intensity, other times dulled with its defense.

There are moments of shear pain, utter despair. In these moments, I feel empathetic to the pain that David felt. I feel like I have a glimpse of what it was like. This is the closest I can get to understanding his suffering.

These moments are suffocating. Energy and emotion intertwines forming an arrow, exploding through my heart and dissolving in tears.

Sometimes these moments come welcomed with open arms, I've been numb for too long and want to miss him again. Other times, they linger for too long. In these moments, I try to visualize the pain leaving my heart, the thoughts leaving my mind. I tune into my breath and close my eyes.

Every day is another day without David. What I need to remember, is that every day is another day of my life, too. It's important to live, even in times where my mind and heart are overcome with loss.

I will close with a poem that we recited today. It comes from the Jewish Book of Prayer. 

We Remember Them

In the rising of the sun and its going down,

We Remember Them.

In the bowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,

We Remember Them.

In the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring.

We Remember Them.

In the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer,

We Remember Them.

In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn.

We Remember Them.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends,

We Remember Them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,

We Remember Them.

When we are lost and sick of heart,

We Remember Them.

When we have joys and special celebrations we yearn to share,

We Remember Them.

So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are part of us.

We Remember Them.

Loving and remembering David J. today.

The Right Answer

Today I had an interview.

During the interview, I was asked "Do you have any siblings?" The question came out of no where and my mind began scrambling. It was a sense of panic. I couldn't formulate what I was going to say so I just began talking. I said, "Yes, I have three older brothers and a younger sister. We have a really great family. My oldest brother lives in Miami. My next oldest brother lives with his wife and daughters in Iowa, and my next oldest brother is David. David passed away just over a month ago."

That's where I stopped.

She interjected, "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. What happened?"

This is only the second time I've been asked this question by someone who didn't know.

The first time I was at a memorial mass and I simply said, "He battled depression." I said this while holding his candle and with tears running down my face. She immediately understood, asked his name, and told me she would keep him and my family in her prayers.

Tonight was different, when she asked "What happened?" I replied without a thought.

"He was in a car accident."

She said, "Oh, no! Was it at night?"

I said, "Yes, he lived in Minneapolis. The other driver was okay but my brother died."

I said this without thinking and I felt sad as the words came out of my mouth. Maybe I said them because I wanted to know if they would feel better. Would it feel any less sad if I lost David to a sudden car accident? Would it be any easier to say?

The answer is no. This lie rattled out and it felt worse than the truth.

Since David's passing, I have taken a vow to talk about it. Maybe if I share the truth, someone else will know it's okay for them to share theirs. If we don't start talking about it now, when will we? It will never be easy, but it will be the truth and that makes it right.

I feel guilty for my lie, but more than that, I feel sorry that David's gone. I miss him every day.

I am sad that people who didn't know David won't get to know him. I'm sad that his illness, just that one part of him, now defines his death and to those who didn't know him, somehow his life, too. David was so much more.

I think the right answer might be to add one sentence, "David is gone. David battled depression. He was an incredible person who I strive to be like everyday." 

I hope then they'll ask what he was like because that's a question I would love to answer.


***I decided to write her an email tomorrow explaining what happened when she asked about my siblings. I know that she will understand.

Quiet

I haven't been very inspired to write the last couple days. I've been cycling through feelings of sadness, frustration, anger, abandonment, helplessness, and quiet.

I feel the quiet right now. It's not an emptiness of emotion, it's tinted with sadness, but it's more like a sense of acceptance. It's almost a sense of peace.

This feeling comes infrequently, but when it does, I'm thankful for the break. It's a time to calm my mind and my heart, it allows me breathe deeply and relax for a moment.

I wonder if over time I will feel like this most of the time? Maybe that is the "new normal" I've heard about. Forever grounded in this loss, yet quietly grateful for my relationship with David.

Confusion

There are two conflicting ideas felt when you lose someone you love. Two opposing forces felt with equal intensity depending on the moment.

On one hand, you feel grateful. You feel so lucky to have had them for the time you did. You feel honored by their memory, inspired by their story.

On the other hand, you feel crippled with their loss. You feel that their death is unfair. It doesn't make sense and most of the time you just don't believe it.

Yet, you want to make them proud. You want to honor them with the life you have. You want to work hard and aspire to be half as great as they were.

But, if they couldn't finish graduate school, have a family, find a job they love, experience the joy of life, why do you? If they, in your eyes one of the best, most worthy people you've ever met, were robbed of these blessings, why weren't you?

You want them to know how much you love and miss them, and maybe the way they'll know that is by the despair you feel now. Maybe they'll see how loved they were and for a second you believe that that might bring them back.That doesn't last for more than a second when you realize that they are gone. They have passed on.

For some reason, they have passed on, and you're still here. You're here. Your body is here to take care of, your mind is here to challenge. You heart is here to feel and your loved ones need to be loved. You are here. The only part missing is them. The hole that they left.

You realize that the hole they left will not heal if you allow the outsides to soften and grow. They would not want that hole to over-take you. They would want you to do your best. They would want you to live.

After all, of all you learn when you lose someone you love, possibly most clear is how precious is life. The intimacy of each day. The fleeting nature of it all.

With that said, I decide to embrace the day, savor the gift. Feel comforted by the memories and empowered by their story.

That is what I decided yesterday, and what I'll decide tomorrow.