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.
Friday, February 25, 2011
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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Come Together
The value of loved ones was reinforced in my heart through Fred's passing. I try not to think about the mean client and idiot motorist who cut me off: They are not my priorities. The good love of family and friends is what life is about. Everything else is fleeting.
And, as I explained to my son the other day, that's what the holidays are about. Christmas is not about getting but about being with loved ones and watching their eyes as they receive something they cherish, something you gave them. Something you thought about.
Fred did not ask for much the past few years, and we did not exchange gifts most of our lives. The last Christmas gift I presented him with was homemade cookies. I know he cherished them.
I saw him last in January 2009, when so much was different in my life. I was at a different house, different job. I videotaped him conversing with my son. I am so thrilled to have that. That was Fred's gift to me, as he did not like to be photographed.
As I said in the eulogy, we will always remember burning chocolate candies at Christmas or perhaps Easter. We created that odd ritual/tradition as a team.
Fred's favorite holiday movie was It’s a Wonderful Life. Though for the past 16 or so years it might have seemed that Fred’s life was not so wonderful, I have to think that the time gave him pause. He returned to religion and poured his energies into writing his book.
I probably became a writer because I wanted to be like him. To me, my life has been more wonderful because of his presence. I know everyone whose lives he touched feels the same.
And, as I explained to my son the other day, that's what the holidays are about. Christmas is not about getting but about being with loved ones and watching their eyes as they receive something they cherish, something you gave them. Something you thought about.
Fred did not ask for much the past few years, and we did not exchange gifts most of our lives. The last Christmas gift I presented him with was homemade cookies. I know he cherished them.
I saw him last in January 2009, when so much was different in my life. I was at a different house, different job. I videotaped him conversing with my son. I am so thrilled to have that. That was Fred's gift to me, as he did not like to be photographed.
As I said in the eulogy, we will always remember burning chocolate candies at Christmas or perhaps Easter. We created that odd ritual/tradition as a team.
Fred's favorite holiday movie was It’s a Wonderful Life. Though for the past 16 or so years it might have seemed that Fred’s life was not so wonderful, I have to think that the time gave him pause. He returned to religion and poured his energies into writing his book.
I probably became a writer because I wanted to be like him. To me, my life has been more wonderful because of his presence. I know everyone whose lives he touched feels the same.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Dear Fred
This next series of blogs will be about and for my dear brother, Fred, who passed away suddenly on July 9, 2010. We will always love, miss and remember him, our dear brother, friend, uncle and teacher. The first installment is a copy of the eulogy I wrote for him.
Caro Fredi
He began his life as Ferdinando Lorenzo DeNicola, in Italy.
My last long conversation with my brother was on his birthday, 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.
My earliest memory of him is watching Saturday morning cartoons. I remember when the Flintstones started, and he very excitedly announced its arrival. My other early memory is 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 watch my son Logan at boxing lessons. It reminds me that Fred showed me how to box. Thankfully I never required that skill. And as for football, it is no wonder I dislike it, as he would tackle me. 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 once told me he regretted not being more of a brother to me. I don’t think he could have been a better brother. He was truly my inspiration.
And the inspiration of many, including his students. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, who told him he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
Fred valued reading, learning, and writing, and that’s probably why I became a writer.
Now Fred joins our valued team of spirits watching over us, adding to the intelligence in heaven.
We will always remember burning chocolate candies. Though the three of us kids still cannot recall if it was Easter or Christmas when we invented that. Actually we don’t know who invented it. It didn’t matter; we were a team. And Christmas was when we never fought, the four of us.
I want to tell a story one of his friends, a lifelong friend, recalled last night. He said he saw Fred for the last time a few months ago. They had lunch with another friend. Fred wouldn’t let them pay because, he told them, they were the only ones who befriended him in school when he first arrived here.
That’s Fred.
We love you, Ferdinando.
Caro Fredi
He began his life as Ferdinando Lorenzo DeNicola, in Italy.
My last long conversation with my brother was on his birthday, 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.
My earliest memory of him is watching Saturday morning cartoons. I remember when the Flintstones started, and he very excitedly announced its arrival. My other early memory is 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 watch my son Logan at boxing lessons. It reminds me that Fred showed me how to box. Thankfully I never required that skill. And as for football, it is no wonder I dislike it, as he would tackle me. 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 once told me he regretted not being more of a brother to me. I don’t think he could have been a better brother. He was truly my inspiration.
And the inspiration of many, including his students. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, who told him he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
Fred valued reading, learning, and writing, and that’s probably why I became a writer.
Now Fred joins our valued team of spirits watching over us, adding to the intelligence in heaven.
We will always remember burning chocolate candies. Though the three of us kids still cannot recall if it was Easter or Christmas when we invented that. Actually we don’t know who invented it. It didn’t matter; we were a team. And Christmas was when we never fought, the four of us.
I want to tell a story one of his friends, a lifelong friend, recalled last night. He said he saw Fred for the last time a few months ago. They had lunch with another friend. Fred wouldn’t let them pay because, he told them, they were the only ones who befriended him in school when he first arrived here.
That’s Fred.
We love you, Ferdinando.
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