One Baby Step

It seems like as you get older, you become more accepting of death. Maybe it's because you've seen many people you love die, and you have no choice but to accept your fate. It could be that your faith gives you hope, and you're anxious to be reunited with those you love. Possibly it's due the the satisfaction you feel from your own life and your many happy and fulfilling experiences. Whatever it is, death is easier to face when it is expected or just makes sense.

I recently read the book, "My Sister's Keeper." This was a very popular book and movie, but I had never read it before Carlos picked it up for me at a second hand store. The story follows the experience of two sisters: Kate, who has a rare form of pediatric cancer, and her sister Anna, her perfect donor match. There is a scene in the story when the mother and Kate are together in Kate's hospital room. Kate has had a turn for the worse and they're all preparing themselves for what might be goodbye. There is a moment of silence, and Kate says, "I had a good one." Sara, her mom, replies, "The absolute best." They are, of course, referring to Kate's life. They're referring to the 16 years that she's gotten to live and love, the context reminding us that these were also 16 years that she's suffered tremendously and had to fight everyday. 

This exchange and these words hit me in a very raw place. Kate has made peace with her illness, she's grateful for all she's had, and appreciates that they've done all they can do. 

The belief surrounding suicide is that it is a highly preventable cause of death. The general assumption is that if only people would reach out in their moments of great despair, they wouldn't act on the impulse to end their pain. As much as I've told myself that David's death was the result of an illness, it's still very difficult to live with regret and the many what-ifs. This exchange in this book, and this acceptance of illness and death, opened a new door for me. It brought me some new "what-ifs." 

For example, I wonder if David came to peace with his illness. Maybe he thought it was his time to go. He had battled the illness, and lived with the pain. Maybe he had enough, just as cancer patients choose to stop receiving treatment, David chose to stop fighting. Maybe he was happy and content with his life, he had such a great life, maybe he felt his mission was complete. 

A warning sign of suicide is a transformation in mood: a sense of peace, calm, or even a happiness. What if this transformation in mood is the same sort of acceptance that Kate had in this book. A peace with what's to come, and a happiness that the pain is going to end. When the fear of living overshadow's ones fear of death, maybe that's when they know. When life has lost its appeal, and death brings hope, maybe that's the sign. 

I don't know what these new questions mean for me regarding my beliefs about suicide. They don't make me miss David any less, but they do bring me a little comfort in thinking that maybe it was his time to go. I don't see a difference between a cancer patient stopping treatment and David choosing not to fight anymore, and maybe that's all this does for me. 

I would do anything to have healthy David back in my life. I would love to talk with him and laugh. The difference is that I know I will never understand his pain and I wouldn't wish one more day of his suffering, for my happiness. 

Maybe this is a step toward making peace. Maybe it is a small baby step toward finding some understanding. We will never understand why children get cancer, just as we will never understand why people must suffer through depression, anxiety, or other mental anguishes. I guess the only thing we can do, is find our own peace, truth, and source of hope. 

As always, I am sending my brother David all my love 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. 

Two Months

Today marks two months since David's death.

In a sense, only two months while also two entire months. Do you understand what I mean?

Nothing in my life is the same anymore.

David changed my life through his presence, and now he is changing it through his absence.

David opened my eyes to a realm of new questions about life and death. He has taught me something each day.

Often times I learn from myself. When you think long enough, you begin see things in new ways and gain a deeper understanding. Eventually, you begin to teach yourself. In this counter-intuitive way, David is teaching me through my own thoughts and ideas.

David has always been my role model. Now he is an example in a different way.

He has made me more empathetic, understanding, loving, and also impatient.

I get very impatient with the trivial details of life. Impatient with the meaningless complaints voiced on social media or by people on the bus. I get impatient with myself when I am the one voicing these complaints.

It's amazing how after feeling real pain, I can still complain that my feet are cold. I feel so different and I am so different, but yet I am still human. Somehow, I am still alive. While my thoughts are wondering and contemplating, my person is here living: doing the best that I can do.

There are moments throughout the day when everything feels normal. I feel at peace mentally and occupied with other things: tasks, responsibilities, and ideas. These moments come and go, and are violently awakened with the memory of David. The memory of my new reality.

The abrasive memory of my loss causes a physical reaction. My feet stop walking, my head quickly shakes left to right, and my heart feels the now familiar stabbing pain.

Over and over I think, "this is not what David would have wanted." He would not have wanted to cause this pain. This is simply not David.

It is important to draw the distinction between David and the disease. David vs. Depression.

David is who I want to remember. David is who is with me now. He is in my mind through memory and he is in my heart through love.

I read this quotation today:

“We all want to do something to mitigate the pain of loss or to turn grief into something positive, to find a silver lining in the clouds. But I believe there is real value in just standing there, being still, being sad.” --John Green

I think that this is a good reminder today. Take time to remember and to celebrate. Become better people: more educated, more understanding, and more contemplative. Also, remember to sometimes just be sad. Be still. Sit with your grief and feel its pain. Allow it to push you. Allow it to heal you.

I am thankful today is over but I am thankful that it happened, too. Everyday is a gift and one day closer to being reunited with my brother David.

Sending love to him, and all who loved him, tonight.

The Big Black Dog

This is a wonderful video discovered by a close family friend. I felt I needed to share:

I wish David would have been able to embrace this same acceptance of the "Black Dog," though I understand that I cannot begin to imagine the fear and pain he was feeling.

I'm thankful for this man's creative ability to share the disease in such a relateable way.

The clinical studies showing that physical exercise and talk therapy can be equally effective as medication are very exciting. I remember feeling very empowered with this knowledge while studying psychology. Due to these findings, I was very opposed to medication. I believed very strongly in the body's ability to heal itself.

Through this experience, my opinion has changed. I now feel that there are instances when medication is necessary.

The tragedy is that there times when none of the above will work to alleviate depressive symptoms.

I imagine that sense of helplessness to be terrifying.

Sending love and understanding to my brother David tonight. Missing him.