Another of Fred’s friends told me a story about the last time he saw my brother. “We had lunch, three of us. We’d been back in touch. We lost touch for about twenty years and then recently started getting together once in a while. Well, Fred wouldn’t let us pay our way. He said because me and our other friend were the only ones who befriended him when he first came here to school from Italy, when no one else did.”
It continues to rain today. I hear him tell me that it’s a good day to get back to work. Ergo, get back to living.
I see a bright red cardinal outside my window. He has made that tree his home since early spring. Now, properly disguised by extra full branches, he can sing, be alone, as he wants to be, unencumbered by peering eyes like mine, jarring atrocities like loud boat sounds, and eerie long lenses attempting photos.
“I’m taking a mental picture,” he would say, his disdain of being photographed only rivaled that of some reclusive stars.
I hold back my nervous and fidgety attempt to fish out my camera.
He stays alone, singing, looking around then flies away.
(He ain’t heavy; he’s my brother.)
-END-
Monday, September 26, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Run for Your Life
One of my early memories of my brother involves sports. I rooted for the Mets just to annoy him; he liked the Yankees. I told him I knew they were in different “leagoos” (leagues). He would steal all my Spauldings to play baseball.
I interviewed some of the New York Yankees in college for a report, one of my most proud moments. Fred read my paper and told me he did not realize I knew so much about baseball. I learned so much from him.
I mentioned in the eulogy that I dislike football because Fred used to tackle me. To this day I wonder why he could not find anything better to do. Every time I heard him shout, “Tackle!” I would cringe. And down I would go.
And the irony is that he is the one who fell. Tackled by MS.
He ran 10 miles a day prior to his burden. He inspired me to love jogging. The day he told me about the M.S., I went out to run, not jog.
Had M.S. affected a less active man, the misery would not have been as profound. One of the final visits to his apartment, we witnessed wall paintings he had created, perhaps in an effort to express creativity, perhaps pain. Losing something of great value like one's independence certainly can take its toll.
But now my sister and I dream of him walking, even running. And the sisters and nurses by his side upon his moment of death say he passed away with a smile.
He ran into my parents’ arms. He runs again.
I interviewed some of the New York Yankees in college for a report, one of my most proud moments. Fred read my paper and told me he did not realize I knew so much about baseball. I learned so much from him.
I mentioned in the eulogy that I dislike football because Fred used to tackle me. To this day I wonder why he could not find anything better to do. Every time I heard him shout, “Tackle!” I would cringe. And down I would go.
And the irony is that he is the one who fell. Tackled by MS.
He ran 10 miles a day prior to his burden. He inspired me to love jogging. The day he told me about the M.S., I went out to run, not jog.
Had M.S. affected a less active man, the misery would not have been as profound. One of the final visits to his apartment, we witnessed wall paintings he had created, perhaps in an effort to express creativity, perhaps pain. Losing something of great value like one's independence certainly can take its toll.
But now my sister and I dream of him walking, even running. And the sisters and nurses by his side upon his moment of death say he passed away with a smile.
He ran into my parents’ arms. He runs again.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Something
So I stood in the Papavero Funeral calling hours hall, watching people I did not recognize file in, then realizing I recalled them from photos in the slide show my brother-in-law Rocco prepared. Friends. Rocco’s friends, my sister’s friends, and Fred’s friends.
Waves of memories from the early seventies invaded my mind. Yes, I did recall some of these men. It’s funny how the placement of a hand, the tilt of one’s head, are habits that never change. I recognized some of the past. “I remember you,” one of them said to me. “And you,” he pointed to my little sister, who has been 5' 8" for 30years, “You were this big.” He gestured to indicate that she was just larger than a doll. I suddenly remembered the way one of them looked at me when I was a kid. I think my brother told him to lay off. I remember my mother telling me I’d probably grow up and get together with one of his friends. She was right: I got together with him, as well as his other friends..I shook their hands as we said goodbye to Fred.
“His nicknames were ‘Bird’ and ‘The Boss’,” Rocco told me. “I guess ‘cause he was bossy,” he added. Process of elimination, since Fred was not a Bruce Springsteen fan, and Springsteen was the same age as Fred and not yet famous in 1968.
You know, he was a good leader, I am sure.
I knew about the ‘Bird’, having once seen it in magic marker on a cap Fred had. I thought it said ‘Beard’. Maybe I didn’t see it correctly, or perhaps someone could not spell.
My sister and Rocco went through Fred’s belongings shortly after his passing. They did not find much. They did not find the metal container with what was supposedly his book. They did find a small notebook with notes.
He kept a lot hidden. Perhaps he did not want us to know what exactly was in his book, though I would have loved to edit it and get it published posthumously. The last time I saw him, he said he had “something” to tell me and Fran. But he stopped short. Was it about his life insurance policy wherein he named his nephews? Or was it something more important, more person?
I may … nay, I WILL never know.
Waves of memories from the early seventies invaded my mind. Yes, I did recall some of these men. It’s funny how the placement of a hand, the tilt of one’s head, are habits that never change. I recognized some of the past. “I remember you,” one of them said to me. “And you,” he pointed to my little sister, who has been 5' 8" for 30years, “You were this big.” He gestured to indicate that she was just larger than a doll. I suddenly remembered the way one of them looked at me when I was a kid. I think my brother told him to lay off. I remember my mother telling me I’d probably grow up and get together with one of his friends. She was right: I got together with him, as well as his other friends..I shook their hands as we said goodbye to Fred.
“His nicknames were ‘Bird’ and ‘The Boss’,” Rocco told me. “I guess ‘cause he was bossy,” he added. Process of elimination, since Fred was not a Bruce Springsteen fan, and Springsteen was the same age as Fred and not yet famous in 1968.
You know, he was a good leader, I am sure.
I knew about the ‘Bird’, having once seen it in magic marker on a cap Fred had. I thought it said ‘Beard’. Maybe I didn’t see it correctly, or perhaps someone could not spell.
My sister and Rocco went through Fred’s belongings shortly after his passing. They did not find much. They did not find the metal container with what was supposedly his book. They did find a small notebook with notes.
He kept a lot hidden. Perhaps he did not want us to know what exactly was in his book, though I would have loved to edit it and get it published posthumously. The last time I saw him, he said he had “something” to tell me and Fran. But he stopped short. Was it about his life insurance policy wherein he named his nephews? Or was it something more important, more person?
I may … nay, I WILL never know.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Rain…Spaldings
It poured on and off the days of the calling hours and services. My sister said Fred loved rain and considered moving to Seattle. He considered Albany, San Diego, and wanted to visit Alaska. He never ventured out of the City.
“Okay, that’s enough, Fred,” Fran joked in the limo on the way back from the funeral. “Did you notice it didn’t rain when we were outside though?” she added.
I remember once, we had a driving rain, and he hadn’t come home from playing ball with friends. The only time I remember my father angry enough to strike, he did so when Fred finally came home. Fred cried. I couldn’t bear to watch.
Fred and I were talking once, after my father’s death. Probably about how he wanted to "borrow" more of my balls to go out and play. Then he suddenly was in his room. “Where did you go?” I wondered.
He was crying in front of his statue of St. Anthony. In pain, probably due to the realization that the pain of death knows no resolution.
I prayed in front of that statue once, too, after pissing off my father when he asked me to stop petting my cat, Katy, because she was getting upset. And I didn’t like that, and I ran and shoved my hands through a window. His glare caused me to seek out that statue of St. Anthony.
I prayed again, every night, probably for two years straight, when I was afraid Fred would die because of the sixties and seventies drug epidemic. In school, they scared us to death about the dangers of drugs. I recall a pamphlet featuring the Grim Reaper and a boy, in a drug-induced stated, attempting to jump off a roof.
He did live. Did my prayers help? He lived many more years, poured his efforts into education, pursuing a Master's degree in Education, and had a successful, drug-free, drink-free and smoke-free life in which he positively influenced many.
It rained heavily a few nights ago. The thunder seemed never to end. Hurricane Irene is socking us. I wonder if Fred would have evacuated his apartment if it were necessary? Probably not. He seemed not to want to ever leave NYC.
It's funny how rain, something Fred loved so, can conjure up so many feelings and memories for me, both good ... and bad. Even thinking of Fred, a good thing, can turn sour when I remember I can't call him to tell him about the thunderstorm and the hurricane, and to share another long conversation with him about the reasons we get emotional during rain.
“Okay, that’s enough, Fred,” Fran joked in the limo on the way back from the funeral. “Did you notice it didn’t rain when we were outside though?” she added.
I remember once, we had a driving rain, and he hadn’t come home from playing ball with friends. The only time I remember my father angry enough to strike, he did so when Fred finally came home. Fred cried. I couldn’t bear to watch.
Fred and I were talking once, after my father’s death. Probably about how he wanted to "borrow" more of my balls to go out and play. Then he suddenly was in his room. “Where did you go?” I wondered.
He was crying in front of his statue of St. Anthony. In pain, probably due to the realization that the pain of death knows no resolution.
I prayed in front of that statue once, too, after pissing off my father when he asked me to stop petting my cat, Katy, because she was getting upset. And I didn’t like that, and I ran and shoved my hands through a window. His glare caused me to seek out that statue of St. Anthony.
I prayed again, every night, probably for two years straight, when I was afraid Fred would die because of the sixties and seventies drug epidemic. In school, they scared us to death about the dangers of drugs. I recall a pamphlet featuring the Grim Reaper and a boy, in a drug-induced stated, attempting to jump off a roof.
He did live. Did my prayers help? He lived many more years, poured his efforts into education, pursuing a Master's degree in Education, and had a successful, drug-free, drink-free and smoke-free life in which he positively influenced many.
It rained heavily a few nights ago. The thunder seemed never to end. Hurricane Irene is socking us. I wonder if Fred would have evacuated his apartment if it were necessary? Probably not. He seemed not to want to ever leave NYC.
It's funny how rain, something Fred loved so, can conjure up so many feelings and memories for me, both good ... and bad. Even thinking of Fred, a good thing, can turn sour when I remember I can't call him to tell him about the thunderstorm and the hurricane, and to share another long conversation with him about the reasons we get emotional during rain.
Monday, June 20, 2011
As We Get Close to One Year
We are nearing that point: One year to the day my dear brother Fred fell, June 25, 2010. And one year to the day he passed away: July 9.
The following are some random thoughts from my dedication to him. I will post 4-5 more prior to or by July 9.
Sun King of Queens
“Look there, Logan,” I said to my son on the way back from the funeral. “You know the beginning of ‘King of Queens’? That’s the scene.”
“He always talked about the sixty-four World’s Fair,” said my sister.
And I longed to run home to write about this.
Fred worked for UPS, was a cab driver, worked in a grocery store, and then went on to teach. He visited Albany and other cities, with hopes that he would leave New York City at some point. But, 20 years later, Queens remained his home.
When I think of the silly laughter...
The dryness and rudeness of the sense of humor I inherited could, I swear, only be understood by Fred. I consider it intellectual humor, and I’m sure he did too.
Love (All You Need)
“I should have married Marta,” he recalled to my sister and our dear second cousin Kristie. Had he done so, would things have been different?
Marta, my age, was a woman Fred met while in his first few years of teaching. She taught music and has beautiful green eyes and brown skin. He wrote her a note in order to ask her out. She said yes.
She wrote me an email this week, indicating she would always have a special place in her heart for Fred. She only married recently, perhaps never forgetting the outstanding love they must have shared, by outstanding I mean as in a debt. It was never paid.
I feel lucky to have only lost a brother; Marta lost a love, and a long time ago.
The following are some random thoughts from my dedication to him. I will post 4-5 more prior to or by July 9.
Sun King of Queens
“Look there, Logan,” I said to my son on the way back from the funeral. “You know the beginning of ‘King of Queens’? That’s the scene.”
“He always talked about the sixty-four World’s Fair,” said my sister.
And I longed to run home to write about this.
Fred worked for UPS, was a cab driver, worked in a grocery store, and then went on to teach. He visited Albany and other cities, with hopes that he would leave New York City at some point. But, 20 years later, Queens remained his home.
When I think of the silly laughter...
The dryness and rudeness of the sense of humor I inherited could, I swear, only be understood by Fred. I consider it intellectual humor, and I’m sure he did too.
Love (All You Need)
“I should have married Marta,” he recalled to my sister and our dear second cousin Kristie. Had he done so, would things have been different?
Marta, my age, was a woman Fred met while in his first few years of teaching. She taught music and has beautiful green eyes and brown skin. He wrote her a note in order to ask her out. She said yes.
She wrote me an email this week, indicating she would always have a special place in her heart for Fred. She only married recently, perhaps never forgetting the outstanding love they must have shared, by outstanding I mean as in a debt. It was never paid.
I feel lucky to have only lost a brother; Marta lost a love, and a long time ago.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Mother Nature’s Son
I had the blessing of spending an extra few minutes with my son, Logan, this morning when the bus was late. On my way to work I thought about how lucky I was, and how much I value even a few extra minutes with him. We talked about boundaries, and fiction versus non-fiction. I can almost hear the sponge that is his brain soaking up the knowledge.
Fred wanted to be a gym teacher. Watching Logan in wrestling last night I could feel Fred coaching him, as he did better and better. Fred tried to practice teaching gym on my sister when she was little.
He became a 5th and 7th grade teacher and loved bestowing knowledge on kids; perhaps my sister was a muse. He told me that every school year, if he could reach out to just one kid, it would make him happy. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, and he told Fred he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
A parent of one of his former students contacted Fred for help with her son, just before he passed away. I hope she knows Fred did not ignore her. Because he most certainly would not have. And I truly hope he can assist that young man as he has been helping Logan, from the spirit world.
Fred valued reading and learning. Fran might have hated the gym tests and I, being tackled, but we both would give the world to hear him shout, "Jump!" again, even if we could hear his voice just one more time.
Fred wanted to be a gym teacher. Watching Logan in wrestling last night I could feel Fred coaching him, as he did better and better. Fred tried to practice teaching gym on my sister when she was little.
He became a 5th and 7th grade teacher and loved bestowing knowledge on kids; perhaps my sister was a muse. He told me that every school year, if he could reach out to just one kid, it would make him happy. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, and he told Fred he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
A parent of one of his former students contacted Fred for help with her son, just before he passed away. I hope she knows Fred did not ignore her. Because he most certainly would not have. And I truly hope he can assist that young man as he has been helping Logan, from the spirit world.
Fred valued reading and learning. Fran might have hated the gym tests and I, being tackled, but we both would give the world to hear him shout, "Jump!" again, even if we could hear his voice just one more time.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Help
I have been under a lot of stress lately, between work and a family illness. It seems the pain never goes away. And it only serves to remind me that my brother is not there anymore for me to call. He certainly would have had a solution to my problems or issues. He would have cared about my father-in-law.
I learned from Fred's passing that all three of us kids don’t like to ask for help. I think we just don’t want to seem helpless, as we grew up in a home where many felt for whatever reason, having lost our head of household and father, that we needed help. So we might have instead chosen to be stoic so as not to appear helpless.
My son has some of that in him. I have a better chance of seeing the unemployment rate suddenly drop than to get him to open up. He won't ask for help; he instead will act out in a fit of anger or frustration.
Like me.
So I walked into and out of Elmhust Hospital Center on July 3 and 4, 2010, two of last year’s hottest days. It is difficult to imagine that weather now that it is endlessly snowy and cold.
July 4, the day my new puppy Gracie was born, was the last time I saw my brother (sort of) alive. I talked with him for the last time, only this time, the extreme conversationlist did not respond. I told him about getting back in touch with Greg, and my other friends, and work. I prayed. And I scurried down the hall into my husband’s arms, crying uncontrollably.
Because it’s an intelligent person who knows to ask for help. I know that now.
I learned from Fred's passing that all three of us kids don’t like to ask for help. I think we just don’t want to seem helpless, as we grew up in a home where many felt for whatever reason, having lost our head of household and father, that we needed help. So we might have instead chosen to be stoic so as not to appear helpless.
My son has some of that in him. I have a better chance of seeing the unemployment rate suddenly drop than to get him to open up. He won't ask for help; he instead will act out in a fit of anger or frustration.
Like me.
So I walked into and out of Elmhust Hospital Center on July 3 and 4, 2010, two of last year’s hottest days. It is difficult to imagine that weather now that it is endlessly snowy and cold.
July 4, the day my new puppy Gracie was born, was the last time I saw my brother (sort of) alive. I talked with him for the last time, only this time, the extreme conversationlist did not respond. I told him about getting back in touch with Greg, and my other friends, and work. I prayed. And I scurried down the hall into my husband’s arms, crying uncontrollably.
Because it’s an intelligent person who knows to ask for help. I know that now.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Pioneer Dreams
I remember finding out Fred used to play drums when he hung out with his friends at the Bedford Street Club in the sixties and seventies. I picked up drums in 1999 and performed for a while, including at my own wedding.
Music was his friend. Fred loved the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Doors, and later, Steely Dan and even Frank Sinatra. I learned about music and even how to speak from early Beatles songs. I still know the words to most of the songs he played. He told me to “listen to the words”, which inspired me to love music and write lyrics. I love those very same artists.
Unbelievably, another thing we had in common is that we both constantly dreamt about Pioneer Supermarket, which has been a Banana Republic since 1985. We spent many a day in Pioneer as youngsters. I dream about the oil section, the cold cuts, dairy, produce, and the unique Italian products including that bitter liqueur-like flavoring whose name I cannot recall. I remember where everything was in that store. Where we received our nutrition, love, as Freud might say, in our formidable years. I dream of crossing the street near there, going back home. I remember when I couldn’t wait to shop for groceries independently, a chore I now disdain.
We both dreamt about Pioneer. I would visit it again, as a Banana Republic. But I cannot fathom sweaters in the place where the canned tomatoes that made Mamma’s wonderful spaghetti sauce used to live.
Music was his friend. Fred loved the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Doors, and later, Steely Dan and even Frank Sinatra. I learned about music and even how to speak from early Beatles songs. I still know the words to most of the songs he played. He told me to “listen to the words”, which inspired me to love music and write lyrics. I love those very same artists.
Unbelievably, another thing we had in common is that we both constantly dreamt about Pioneer Supermarket, which has been a Banana Republic since 1985. We spent many a day in Pioneer as youngsters. I dream about the oil section, the cold cuts, dairy, produce, and the unique Italian products including that bitter liqueur-like flavoring whose name I cannot recall. I remember where everything was in that store. Where we received our nutrition, love, as Freud might say, in our formidable years. I dream of crossing the street near there, going back home. I remember when I couldn’t wait to shop for groceries independently, a chore I now disdain.
We both dreamt about Pioneer. I would visit it again, as a Banana Republic. But I cannot fathom sweaters in the place where the canned tomatoes that made Mamma’s wonderful spaghetti sauce used to live.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tomorrow Never Knows
To me, Fred died the day he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The man lived for running, not letting anything stop him, ever, like the mail, through rain, sleet and snow. Ten miles a day, despite the near-attack of a fierce, loose dog and battery at the hands of some bored teen-aged boys with bats in 1984. He said he heard one of them say, “Oh, s*&^. This guy’s got muscle!” when they could not put a dent into him.
His body continued to be strong despite the MS. The nurses at Elmhurst Hospital Center rechecked the chart for his accurate age. “Fifty-nine? No way!”
“And such a handsome man!” another flirted, temporarily forgetting his comatose state.
He took care of his health and was probably the only person I’ve known never to gain weight, ever. He smoked when he was younger and just quit, stopping as soon as he decided to.
My sister said he’d always wanted to run on the beach.
It does not seem fair. It seems he had so much more to do. And we had so much more to tell him.
When I received my new job in May 2010, I emailed all my friends and called the one who does not have a computer. “Everyone else knows,” I told Lonnie. “Now I have to call my brother.” Fred was the other computer-less person I knew.
But I never called him.
My last long conversation with my brother was on his birthday in 2009, and it was about intelligence. He was one of the very few I know who value it and can be considered intelligent. We both thought that was our best conversation ever. We talked about how I was coincidentally covering the chapter on intelligence in my psych class that evening, about old friends, about the person's spirit I felt in a house I considered purchasing, about how one person’s life totally touches and influences many others.
As President Barack Obama said on January 12, 2011 at the Arizona Memorial in the wake of the shooting tragedy in Tucson on January 8: *“… let us use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy, and remind ourselves of all the ways our hopes and dreams are bound together.
After all, that’s what most of us do when we lose someone in our family – especially if the loss is unexpected. We’re shaken from our routines, and forced to look inward. We reflect on the past. Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in awhile but every single day?
So sudden loss causes us to look backward – but it also forces us to look forward, to reflect on the present and the future, on the manner in which we live our lives and nurture our relationships with those who are still with us. We may ask ourselves if we’ve shown enough kindness and generosity and compassion to the people in our lives. Perhaps we question whether we are doing right by our children, or our community, and whether our priorities are in order. We recognize our own mortality, and are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame – but rather, how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in bettering the lives of others."
Call in sick if it means accompanying your spouse to the dentist. It may seem silly to you that s/he is scared, but the fear is real to them. Pull over to the side of the road when your best friend calls you. Give them the time of day and don't tell them you'll call later. Your neighbor may stop by and and say, "Oh, I just wanted to see how you're doing." They may be asking for advice or help. Leave work early, turn off your TV, put down the sports magazine, and listen to your child telling you about the game they played in school. Perhaps you will learn more about that little person who sometimes seems so annoying to you. Perhaps you will learn that h/she is having difficulty in school and needs your support. Do it today. Tomorrow may never come.
*From: http://dailycaller.com/2011/01/12/text-of-president-obamas-speech-at-arizona-memorial-service/#ixzz1Bb7mP7Zb
His body continued to be strong despite the MS. The nurses at Elmhurst Hospital Center rechecked the chart for his accurate age. “Fifty-nine? No way!”
“And such a handsome man!” another flirted, temporarily forgetting his comatose state.
He took care of his health and was probably the only person I’ve known never to gain weight, ever. He smoked when he was younger and just quit, stopping as soon as he decided to.
My sister said he’d always wanted to run on the beach.
It does not seem fair. It seems he had so much more to do. And we had so much more to tell him.
When I received my new job in May 2010, I emailed all my friends and called the one who does not have a computer. “Everyone else knows,” I told Lonnie. “Now I have to call my brother.” Fred was the other computer-less person I knew.
But I never called him.
My last long conversation with my brother was on his birthday in 2009, and it was about intelligence. He was one of the very few I know who value it and can be considered intelligent. We both thought that was our best conversation ever. We talked about how I was coincidentally covering the chapter on intelligence in my psych class that evening, about old friends, about the person's spirit I felt in a house I considered purchasing, about how one person’s life totally touches and influences many others.
As President Barack Obama said on January 12, 2011 at the Arizona Memorial in the wake of the shooting tragedy in Tucson on January 8: *“… let us use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy, and remind ourselves of all the ways our hopes and dreams are bound together.
After all, that’s what most of us do when we lose someone in our family – especially if the loss is unexpected. We’re shaken from our routines, and forced to look inward. We reflect on the past. Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in awhile but every single day?
So sudden loss causes us to look backward – but it also forces us to look forward, to reflect on the present and the future, on the manner in which we live our lives and nurture our relationships with those who are still with us. We may ask ourselves if we’ve shown enough kindness and generosity and compassion to the people in our lives. Perhaps we question whether we are doing right by our children, or our community, and whether our priorities are in order. We recognize our own mortality, and are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame – but rather, how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in bettering the lives of others."
Call in sick if it means accompanying your spouse to the dentist. It may seem silly to you that s/he is scared, but the fear is real to them. Pull over to the side of the road when your best friend calls you. Give them the time of day and don't tell them you'll call later. Your neighbor may stop by and and say, "Oh, I just wanted to see how you're doing." They may be asking for advice or help. Leave work early, turn off your TV, put down the sports magazine, and listen to your child telling you about the game they played in school. Perhaps you will learn more about that little person who sometimes seems so annoying to you. Perhaps you will learn that h/she is having difficulty in school and needs your support. Do it today. Tomorrow may never come.
*From: http://dailycaller.com/2011/01/12/text-of-president-obamas-speech-at-arizona-memorial-service/#ixzz1Bb7mP7Zb
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Boy, You’re Gonna Carry That Weight
Some pain goes away. The incision from appendicitis surgery is relieved with codeine and rest. A week later the ordeal is forgotten. The pain suffered from the loss of a job, a friend, a home, is dulled over time and replaced with a new job, a new smiling face, and wonderful gardens surrounding a home on the river.
The discomfort of bills, a tepid work acquaintance, a traffic ticket, and the nuisance of telemarketers can be resolved. But the pain of losing a loved one to death knows no resolution. Knowing this is what gives birth to the infinite pain.
I exited the funeral home, my glasses cloudy from the conflict between the chilly air conditioning and the humid Queens July skies. I was elated that he had so many lifelong friends, and dejected by the fact that I did not realize that, and that he might not have known either. I didn’t get their names, but I intend to. There were about seven men, all around his age, all carrying the guilt and weight that comes from leaving religion behind and thinking you could have done more.
I carry that weight myself.
“You did all you could,” I said to one of the friends, before offering him to sign the guest book, so I could know who he was. I am typically bad with remembering names, and definitely not good at it while grieving. But I want to get to know who my brother was. But was I consoling him … or myself? Regretful that I did not get to see him last Christmas, that I last saw him a year and a half ago? Too wrapped up in my life, organizing a house sale and move. Too tired.
“I let him die,” I was shocked to overhear one of the friends lament.
“He’s with your parents now,” said a soothing voice emanating from one of my sister’s friend’s calming persona, creating a positive diversion as I wondered if I could have or should have done more. “This is when God wanted him,” said one of the sweet nuns who came to call, one of the two who had been with him when he departed. “This is what he wanted,” said the other nun.
When I last saw him, he started to say that he had something to tell my sister and I. But then he stopped short and decided it was not the right time for some reason. What did he want to tell us? Yet another mystery that is my brother.
So we all sat and grieved. Were we grieving our brother, friend, co-worker, teacher, confidante, or our dearly departed pasts, indicative of our own frailties, a reminder that we are fallible?
Funny how we don’t realize who cares for us or how much, and it’s ironic that we sometimes don’t know ‘til we pass on who really cared.
The discomfort of bills, a tepid work acquaintance, a traffic ticket, and the nuisance of telemarketers can be resolved. But the pain of losing a loved one to death knows no resolution. Knowing this is what gives birth to the infinite pain.
I exited the funeral home, my glasses cloudy from the conflict between the chilly air conditioning and the humid Queens July skies. I was elated that he had so many lifelong friends, and dejected by the fact that I did not realize that, and that he might not have known either. I didn’t get their names, but I intend to. There were about seven men, all around his age, all carrying the guilt and weight that comes from leaving religion behind and thinking you could have done more.
I carry that weight myself.
“You did all you could,” I said to one of the friends, before offering him to sign the guest book, so I could know who he was. I am typically bad with remembering names, and definitely not good at it while grieving. But I want to get to know who my brother was. But was I consoling him … or myself? Regretful that I did not get to see him last Christmas, that I last saw him a year and a half ago? Too wrapped up in my life, organizing a house sale and move. Too tired.
“I let him die,” I was shocked to overhear one of the friends lament.
“He’s with your parents now,” said a soothing voice emanating from one of my sister’s friend’s calming persona, creating a positive diversion as I wondered if I could have or should have done more. “This is when God wanted him,” said one of the sweet nuns who came to call, one of the two who had been with him when he departed. “This is what he wanted,” said the other nun.
When I last saw him, he started to say that he had something to tell my sister and I. But then he stopped short and decided it was not the right time for some reason. What did he want to tell us? Yet another mystery that is my brother.
So we all sat and grieved. Were we grieving our brother, friend, co-worker, teacher, confidante, or our dearly departed pasts, indicative of our own frailties, a reminder that we are fallible?
Funny how we don’t realize who cares for us or how much, and it’s ironic that we sometimes don’t know ‘til we pass on who really cared.
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