brother’s death

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Death, Dying, and Remembrance Week

I took this past week off from work and did a deep dive into death work and what that might mean for me. I start an end of life doula course next month through the University of Vermont and my hope is that I’ll be able to retire from librarianship in 8 years and have a small business of helping people arrange for their death.

What does that mean? I’m not entirely sure. I have many ideas, including having a small home on my property where people can come to die. (Although we have the Death with Dignity law now in Maine–a person is allowed to receive a medical aid in dying, many folks who live in any kind of long-term care facility are not being allowed to die this way. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to provide a space folks can rent so they can die the way they wish?) I would like to be able to show people the options they have for funerals or burials. I’d love to sit with folks as they fill out their advance healthcare directives or living wills and answer questions they might have. I want to be able to show people that if they have a terminal illness, they can die the way they want to. Usually. And maybe even blend bibliotherapy with end of life care or grief or both.

So how do I begin? Well, I, of course, read. I’m already facilitating a “Grieving Through Reading” group at my workplace and for that group I’m always reading new memoirs or books on how to die well or novels about grief. I’ve honestly been doing this since before my brother died in 2017. Ten years ago, with the help of my then boss, Lyn, I wrote a grant to start a five-month library program with book discussions and presentations about the end of life. After Phil and my parents died, I started a new library program called “Death and Donuts” where we had speakers on a variety of topics including hospice, spirituality, grief and advance healthcare directives. I was really doing it more for me…or maybe for the me I was before they died. I wish I had known so much more before they died.

But now I want to DO more.

Many people think talking about death is morbid. But why? It’s the one thing every single person on this planet has in common. We will all die. If you talk about your own death or write a will, this does not mean you’re manifesting death. You get that, right? If you think more about the fact that there is an END to your life, then doesn’t that make you want to live more fully or live your best life, whatever that might mean to you?

I know that most folks find death frightening because it’s the unknown. My father, who believed in God and heaven, was very scared the day before he died. He had really turned his life around during the last 30 years of his life. He made amends for all the shit he had done while drinking (and not drinking). He had been an avid churchgoer and a true believer, but seeing him scared also scared me. Thankfully, on the day he died, Dad saw some of his loved ones–people that had already died–and seemed to find some peace and joy in that. I can only hope that they helped him get to where he needed to be.

Is it scary to think about my own death? Absolutely. Yet I think I’m more scared for my son. I want him to grow older with as much support as I can give him, whether that be emotional or financial support. And losing your mom at any age is a mind fuck. So I’d rather that not happen for a while, but I also know that he’s going to be such a fantastic man, even if I’m not around. Hell, he already is.

Funny enough, the day my week off began, my little family and I had to have a chat about how my son wanted to be notified when his father dies. This discussion began with me calling my son on a Friday evening. He was at his boyfriend’s house and I had a question for him. After we got off the phone, he texted me to say he legitimately thought I was calling to say his father was dead.

Well, shit.

Later, our family sat down and talked about how our son wanted to be notified if he’s away at college and his father dies. “Text me,” he said. Of course, I was appalled. He went on to say that he wants to be texted then immediately called, because then he’d be able to see on his screen that text before we say anything to one another. He’d rather read it then hear it?

I’m…mulling this over. What would I say then? “Pop is dead” or “I have some bad news” or a skull emoji?

But the best part of that conversation was my husband saying, “Boy, how many families have talks like this?” Our son said it was probably more than we thought, but I said, “I wish every family would have conversations like this.”

For the rest of my week off, I listened to death doula podcasts, co-facilitated my first bereavement group, visited my hospice patient/friend, gathered more titles of both novels and non-fiction books related to end of life, attended a regular meeting of the Funeral Consumer Alliance board I’m a member of, and visited the Rest in Peace Museum in Island Falls.

The day I visited this museum was the 8th anniversary of my brother’s death. Typically this is not a good day for me. But I started the day in a really good mood. I was driving 90 minutes to experience something new, which is what I try to do every July 23rd. My brother is no longer able to experience life on this plane, so I try to live it for him. And I know he’d love the Rest in Peace Museum with its tuberculosis caskets, real skeletons and the wide variety of embalming tools from the early 20th century.

Once I left the museum, however, my mood started to decline. The closer I got to home, the worse I felt. I had a good plan for the day, which included sushi with my husband and son and then “family time” due to my son’s request. He wanted us to watch a movie together or play a game and just make sure we spent the entire evening together. This all sounded great and honestly, it was. I just had a few hours where I was feeling how big that hole in my soul or psyche is. The loss of my brother will always leave shadows throughout my life until I, too, leave this planet.

But until that day is here, I will celebrate and talk about my big brother, Phil. This week I was fortunate enough to introduce my son to one of Phil’s best friends, Pat, who shared more stories about my brother that I didn’t know or had forgotten. It was such a gift to all of us.

So, my friends, get out that glass and toast your family and friends that have died. Say their names, tell their stories and then make a plan for your own death. Don’t let your family try to figure out what you want after you’re already dead. And if you’re not sure where to start, shoot me a message.

Hugs to you all. ❤

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All the Lies and Wishes

Sometimes a memory of your dead loved one will bonk you on the head when you least expect it.

I facilitate a book discussion group at my library called “Grieving Through Reading.” It was initially created by a volunteer but she never officially started the group due to a change in workplace. When I was asked to do this, I said yes before the question was fully formed. As you know, talking about grief, death and dying is what I enjoy doing. I guess it’s really the sharing of grief and being able to provide comfort is what really brings me joy.

This week, “Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End” by Dr. Atul Gawande was our book choice. There is an hour long documentary of the book that we didn’t have time to watch. So I started our discussion with a short clip from the film, where Dr. Gawande is discussing what his father’s doctor communicated to them regarding treatments for his cancer. The doctor was encouraging the father to take the chemotherapy and said, “Who knows? You could be playing tennis by the end of the summer.” This was absolutely ridiculous. As Gawande tells it, his father was weeks from being paralyzed. There would never be tennis playing again, yet the doctor tells this foolish and utter lie.

As my book group is in the room watching this clip, I suddenly get a flashback at what my brother’s cardiologist said to him just a month before he died. Phil was going to have surgery where a VAD (ventricular assist device) would be implanted to help his failing heart to pump blood to his body. Phil wanted to wait until early winter to do it. His doctor said that the surgery would prolong his life and he’d visit my brother and his partner on their anniversary in several years time.

What a bunch of horseshit.

As I sat in the room with my book group, watching this video for the third time (I literally watched it the day before), it dawned on me this interaction my brother had with his doctor is just like what Dr. Gawande described. Why it took 7 years for me to realize this and at this exact horrible moment, I don’t know. (I know I can be slow sometimes, but for christ sakes this is bonkers.) I was momentarily stunned and felt such an intense fury and grief, that I wasn’t sure I could do anything. I ended up missing the ending of the video, then snapped out of thoughts, shoved those emotions down deep, and went on.

I was in a pretty awful mood directly after the program and then just kept pretty quiet. My eyes and face felt like I had been crying, although I hadn’t. I felt deeply sad the rest of the day.

But I never cried, which is highly unusual for me. It’s like a put a stopper in my soul because this bit of grief and anger felt too big to deal with.

Today, however, it’s slowly seeping out. I’ve thought about Phil more and more these last few days. I want to figure out the name of Phil’s doctor and write him a letter, although the energy that would take at this moment seems too much. I had this sweet text exchange today with my former brother-in-law about my son and how proud my family would be of him. I mentioned it first, and my BIL said he didn’t want to say anything because he didn’t want it to land wrong. But after he saw my son a few weeks ago, he said all he could think of was how fucking proud Phil would be of him. I wept when I read that.

I’m angry that Phil’s not here to see this kid turn into a beautiful young man, but I’m mostly feeling bereft. I wish someone had been more honest with him about his chances. I wish I had been more honest with myself. Phil knew he was going to die and maybe he knew the doctor was full of shit. I wish I could ask him. I wish Phil was here to talk to my boy about the colleges he’s applied to, the amazing stories he’s written lately, and the political climate of our country. Phil would have many things to say about all of it. I still remember Phil telling me how good one of my son’s stories was when he was in 3rd grade. Phil could see that potential, and I’m so glad he did. I hope he had an idea of how his nephew would turn out.

I’m doing a lot of wishing and missing tonight, big brother. I love you. We all love you. And we miss you so fucking much. ❤

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And I live…

I took the day off to live. The anniversary of Phil’s death requires me to do so. I didn’t go ziplining or travel to Europe, although both are on my bucket list. I did what I had intended to do today. I visited the Farnsworth Art Museum, stopped by the Rockland Public Library, found a kick-ass coffee shop and drank ambrosia (the actual name of the coffee with espresso), people-watched, took a walk in the rain, and cried. Not necessarily in that order.

There were some amazing pieces by Jamie Wyeth, especially the screen door sequence. The last two photos here are of the first in that sequence, along with a description. “In capturing a fleeting moment, Wyeth reminds us that our friends and loved ones may be in our lives only briefly.”

So. Fucking. True.

And yes, I was one of those people who stood in front of a piece of artwork and wept.

So much of Wyeth’s work is quite dark, and I couldn’t help but think, “Man, Phil, you’d love this shit!” There were comparisons to some of his pieces and Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds” (a film I watched with my brother several times) as well as Kubrick’s “The Shining” (also saw with my brother, but only once because he scared the bejezus out of me.)

The Farnsworth not only features the Wyeths’ works, but also a variety of artists. There was this great display of collaborative artwork by students. The pieces that are in blue, one that features the gun with “why why why” all over it was a piece by a high school student, as well as the other bluish piece that had one line that got to me. “My biggest fear is I will be forgotten.” Right now that’s not my biggest fear, but forgetting my brother is.

I’m sure that’s part of the reason why I write about him so much, why I continue to grieve him. He was such a fun and weird and interesting human and I wish everyone I’ve ever known (or never known) could have met him. I need him to live on in some way. And I guess this is my way. Because now it’s 7 damn years without him on this planet, and it’s just…wrong.

So take a moment, and if you ever met Phil, think about him. His laugh, his morbid and off kilter humor, his love of horror films, his love of his family and friends. And if you never had the great pleasure of meeting my big brother, I’ve told you a lot about him. Here are a few photos, too. Just take a few seconds and think about him. Let him live for another few moments, would you?

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Grief Mode

This past weekend, I gathered beach items from my basement and my friend’s shed, picnic items from the depths of our fridge and cupboards, and along with my ailing husband off we went to my favorite state park. I have been waiting for this for weeks! Peaks-Kenny State Park is one of my favorite places in the world. It doesn’t look like much, but the memories I have there begin as a very young child and continue to memories from just two years ago. It’s a special place for me.

One of the best memories (and stories) I have is when I was maybe 5 (?) years old. My mom kept talking about this giant slide and playground at the beach. But my little ears heard “Giant’s slide”, which meant the Giant must live there, right? We drove up to the park, about a 30 or 40 minute drive (I thought it took FOREVER to get there) and as we climbed out of our car, I saw a boulder with a sandwich sitting on it. I ran to it and yelled, “The Giant left his sandwich!” My mother had no clue what the hell I was talking about. Eventually it was sorted out, and it became one of the most adored stories of my childhood.

Once my son was born, we visited this park most summers. I needed to show him where the Giants used to live! It’s a wonderful place to hang at the beach, play on the playground, go for a swim, picnic, and walk the trails. Although I knew my husband couldn’t do many of these things, he could still hang on the beach and we could have a picnic. But…for the very first time in over 45 years of visiting this park, when we got to the entrance we were told the beach was full and either we could wait in line with at least 6 other cars until some folks left, or just leave.

We sat in line for 30 seconds, and then I drove the hell outta there. I was devastated. I was angry. I was so damn sad! It just took SO MUCH to get to this point. I packed the chairs, the umbrella, and the cooler. I made the sandwiches and brought the bag of snacks (and bottle of wine, because come on!). I made sure we had towels and sun block and books. It felt a bit like taking my son when he was a toddler. I had to do everything, but I knew it would all be ok and it would be so fun. At least for me. My husband typically doesn’t walk well anymore and he honestly hates the sun, but he was doing this for me. It’s been the one thing I’ve asked him to do with me this summer that involved being outside. Just the ONE THING.

And that one thing was gone. I was “angry driving” at this point so I pulled over when we had cell service. I asked my husband to look for a beach somewhere near by because I was about to lose my shit. For a change, I didn’t cry. I was too pissed off at the world to do that. I knew if I had to drive home without some sun and swimming, I was going to sob for a long time and eat a carton of ice cream–and not that little pint bullshit but a half gallon.

Now, when I say I wanted to go to the beach, I mean a lakeside beach. We are in central Maine and the thought of driving to the coast on a Saturday in July is basically suicide. We would be one of 10 Maine cars with the hundreds of others all out-of-state vehicles. This is the only time we really have traffic here, and I’ll pass on that!

Amazingly, there was a beach 30 minutes away at Lake Hebron in Monson. I didn’t even realize Monson had a lake! I was still seriously glum, but I figured I had to try. I ate a tiny bag of sweet potato chips to get my blood sugar back up and then I was able to keep going. We joked about what kind of hell we might find at this public beach. “What’ll you do if it’s bad or super crowded?” my husband asked. I told him we’d get our sandwiches from the back and head back towards home, but hit up an ice cream stand before we got there. I was very ready to eat my feelings.

But instead we found this lovely place:

The beach was literally a large strip of dirt and a side patch of grass, along with several picnic tables, a changing hut and a porta potty. But it was just what we needed! There were only 6 people there, and 3 of them were children. The old man and I staked out a little corner of the grass, I went for a swim, we both ate lunch and read our books. And I drank two glasses of peach wine that just improved my mood. It was absolutely delightful.

Once we got home, after a stop at Dairy Queen, my husband wanted to feel useful and brought everything inside in one trip. Did he nearly fall to the ground? Yes. Could he catch his breath? Not at first. Did I yell at him? No, instead I spoke quietly which is typically worse for him. “Look, we just had a really good day, so maybe don’t ruin it by dying today, ok?” He set the bags down, caught his breath and we carried on.

Am I bummed that we didn’t go to Peaks Kenny? Yes. Very much so. I know that if I’m able to get there this summer, it will be by myself. I know I’ll still have a lovely time, but it would still be good to have another person. But I’m happy we took a chance to try out this little beach. We really didn’t have anything to lose at that point, so why not?

And I’m grateful for those few happy hours. You know, I’m sure my husband will live another 5, 7, or maybe even 10 years. But as I saw with my dear brother, nothing is certain. And after watching Phil slowly die over 9 years, I know the signs–the body not able to move well, the breathing difficulties, sometimes even the mind slowing down. I didn’t know the signs at the time, or I chose to ignore them. I didn’t want my brother to die, even though I knew he would long before me.

But Phil tried to squeak out little bits of living as much as he could. He’d buy and eat foods from other countries and regions because it was his way of traveling AND trying something new. He read “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo because he wanted to make sure he read the 1,400 page novel before he died. He played with his nephew, spent time with his family and partner–he made memories for US.

That’s what I’m trying to do with my husband. We have nearly 30 years of memories, many good and many awful, But why stop there? He’s never been a very outgoing person, but I’m grateful he’s trying to do a few things with me so I have those memories when he dies one day. He might drive me batshit crazy sometimes, but I’ll still miss him when he’s gone.

It might seem morbid to be talking like this when Wal, my husband, could live another decade. But tomorrow is the 7-year anniversary of my brother’s death. I am in full grief mode right now. I feel such a horrid sense of dread and loss.

I’m at my kitchen table writing this, and I just want tomorrow to come so I can leave the house. These are the times I had a she shed to escape to.

Each year on July 23rd, I try to live. I try to live for my brother, to do something I’ve never done. Some years it’s just been trying a new food, other times it’s traveling with my son. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m leaving my house early, by myself, and visiting the Farnsworth Art Museum, where I’ve never been. My lovely library has a free pass patrons can use, so I’m taking full advantage of it. Hopefully the rain won’t ruin a nice walk near the ocean, but it’s ok if it does. Walking in the rain can be life affirming sometimes. Or it will make me feel more miserable. And I might like that better.

Hug the people you love, friends. Tell them you love them. This life goes by in a flash.

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Your Success

Dear Phil,

Happy birthday, big brother. I miss you.

I continue to have conversations with you, but Phil? I’m scared. I’m not sure how you’d reply anymore. There are times when I think I’m forgetting you, forgetting what foods you liked or what you thought was funny and what was just ridiculous. But…it’s been 7 years so maybe your tastes and thoughts would have changed anyway. We all evolve, or hope to, right?

I’ve been watching the latest season of Bridgerton, and often wonder what you’d think about the show. You’d probably watch it since you got me into Downton Abbey, but this is much steamier and more diverse and just plain delicious! There’s gossip and sex and beautiful gowns and manipulation of pop tunes into classical dancing music. One of the latest storylines has a slightly larger than average sized woman as the romantic interest. You know how I love romance stories with larger women! I just watched the sex scene with the woman and her love interest, and yes, she’s rounder than your average actress, but for fuck’s sake! She’s gorgeous, flawless skin, beautiful breasts. Where are the women with back fat?!? I want to see a middle-aged or older actress, with rolls for a stomach, fat thighs and a cottage cheese ass. AND I want to see the man (or another woman, I don’t care) tell her how fucking beautiful she is. THAT is what the world needs to see.

*current rant over*

I can hear you laughing now. Agreeing with me, but laughing. “Calm down, Chuckles.”

Hey, the Bangor Pride Parade is this Saturday. The family is going–the kid and I, Bon, Am & Ky, too. Remember the last one we went to? It’s bigger now. The only thing I remember about that one in 2017 was that we needed a seat for you. You were gonna be there, one way or another, so I got out my lawn chair and my friend, Trish, helped get us settled or helped us leave. I don’t remember which now. I just remember being there with you, then getting grocery store sushi afterwards and eating at my house. Looking back, that was the day you tried to tell me you didn’t have a lot of time left. But I refused to believe it.

Anywho, did I tell you I’ve been going to Planet Fitness recently? I signed up with the boy in early May and I’ve been going faithfully 2-3 times a week. I’m not losing any weight, but I’ve gotten stronger and damn, I’m getting muscles! And talk about muscles?!? The eye candy at this gym is bananas. Plus the wide range of ages and shapes and sizes makes me happy. I don’t feel like a completely weak, old fat ass when I go there.

For my birthday I went out and bought clothes that I couldn’t afford but fit better. I’m sick of trying to fit into clothes that fit me a few years ago. Fuck it. I’m healthy and fit, so I might as well be comfortable and stop squeezing into things that make me feel fatter and more like a sausage than like the woman I am. Don’t you love that it’s taken me 51 years to finally get to the “fuck it” stage? But we both know it’s hard for me to hang onto that. Our self-esteem was always so wrapped up in our weight, both as kids and adults. I’m trying to shed that shit, but it’s not easy. I’ll keep trying though.

I was talking to one of my colleagues about you recently. I was telling her how sometimes I look at your Goodreads account to see what books you read that I haven’t. I want to read more of what you did, yet lately I’m reading mostly romances–straight, gay, lesbian, doesn’t matter. As long as it has good sex scenes and a happy for now (or forever after) ending, then I’m on it. There aren’t enough romances with middle-aged people, though. So many of them are people in their late 20s or early-mid 30s. We need more novels about people in their 50s who want to get laid or have their own happy for now ending. Most books with characters this age are dramatic or depressing. I don’t want a love story. That shit can mean a dead partner at some point. Too much reality. I want a friggin’ romcom with a woman who has the battle scars of a typical middle-aged woman–stretch marks, a possible c-section scar, tattoos, and all the mental and emotional baggage that comes with age. That has all the markings of a good romcom, doesn’t it?

So…I hate ending these letters, you know that, right? But I wanted to tell you something. I’ve told you about the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote that says, “…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. That is to have succeeded!” Much of the rest of the quote is about appreciating beauty and to laugh a lot and all of those other things that we try to do. But I wanted to make sure you know, and I hope, hope, hope you knew, that you were tremendously successful. You made so many of us laugh and feel loved and breathe easier. Honestly? I feel like I haven’t been able to take a breath since you left.

I love you, my favorite brother.

Hugs & sloppy kisses,

Holly

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Weighted to the Ground

This morning I drove to my hometown to get my hair trimmed. I go every 6-8 weeks and I often find it therapeutic. My dear friend, Lisa, has been cutting my hair for over 20 years. We were co-workers and friends before she began her shop with her business partner, Tanda. So when I get my hair cut and my eyebrows waxed, it’s typically a fun time–a time to catch up and a time for both of them to laugh as I swear and yell as Lisa rips my eyebrows off.

I was listening to my running playlist as I drove towards St. Albans. I had a pretty good run earlier and I wanted to keep my good mood going. Yet just 2 miles after I left my home, one of my favorite songs, “Little Bird” by Annie Lennox began to play. I’ve talked about this song before. It’s one that my brother added to one of two running cds he made me shortly after I started running 13 years ago, and we were both huge fans of both the Eurythmics and Annie Lennox. Since my brother’s death, it’s become a song that reminds me of him. I remember singing it with him in the car, and just this morning, I remembered how we would sometimes run our hands and arms out the car windows like a bird.

I had forgotten that little memory.

And since today is the eve of Phil’s death anniversary, it triggered the memories of that horrible day.

I was in his hospital room again, watching him trying to tear out his IVs so we wouldn’t see him hooked up to many machines. I was at the foot of his bed again with my sister, as we looked at the chart on his wall that showed how little he weighed–just 140 pounds at 6’5″. I was there again, holding his hand, telling him we came to say goodbye and that I loved him and my husband loved him and his nephew loved him. I was there once again, watching him nod his head over and over, like he was saying, “I know, I know.”

And then I was driving. I drove about 2 miles with no recognition this morning. None.

Needless to say, I sobbed much of the rest of the drive.

Yet just before I arrived at Lisa’s, I remembered my mother on that day. At one point Phil’s partner, Larry and I, went to talk to Phil, to convince him that it was ok not to live this way. It was ok to let go because we knew that was what he wanted, but it must have also been the scariest fucking thing to decide. (I remain steadfast in my knowledge that I saw the most courageous act that day when Phil made the decision to die.) Once he nodded his head and made that decision to be taken off of his life support, Larry and I went back to the private family waiting room. I remember my mother looking up at me with what I can only view as hope and saying, “What did he say?” I’m not sure what I replied exactly, but I think it was something like, “He doesn’t want to keep going.” But I do remember Mom’s face crumpling and shaking her head and lowering it to cry.

When I left Lisa’s, I just wanted to be with my mom. I went to her grave which is also in my old hometown. Once I got to the cemetery, I was jarred by the fact that the large, beautiful tree in front of the cemetery was cut down. “What the fuck?” I yelled. I realize the tree was probably dead or dying and would have toppled over and broken headstones. That better be why because it was really upsetting. Without that shade and just the glorious trunk, leaves and branches, the cemetery looks exactly like what it is–a field of stones. If a place like that is possible to get more depressing, it did.

I parked near Mom’s headstone, grabbed a blanket from my car, knelt down in front of her stone and wept. I talked to her, told her how much I missed her and Phil and Dad. I brushed off her stone and laid my forehead on it. I wasn’t there for very long. I just needed to see her name and pretend that she was there.

I stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home, feeling a bit dazed. I walked slowly in, bought dishwasher detergent and Tide Pens and left. As I walked across the parking lot, I saw this guy walking toward the entrance. I started to wonder if his day had been anything like mine. Did he spend part of the morning crying at his mother’s gravestone, laying his head on the warm stone, kissing her name? Did he wish she was there just for a few minutes to hold him, to listen to his worries and his frustrations?

I hope not.

But you never really know what others are going through, do you? Like Lennox’s “Little Bird,” some of those people you see each day may be “a troubled soul who’s weighted, weighted to the ground” and are just not able to fly.

Friends, in honor of my lovely brother, Phil, my “person,” I hope you take a little time this weekend and do something to feel like you are truly alive. Do something you absolutely enjoy, something to make you feel good. In Phil’s last few years of life, he couldn’t do much, but tried to live through food, whether it was making a fun international dish, or just enjoying whatever he ate or drank.

Tomorrow I will be hiking with two of my best friends. Typically, my son and I do something together, but now that he’s 16 with a job, license, and boyfriend, he’ll be working then hanging out with his lovey. We’ll both be spending time with some people that we love and that’s a huge part of what it means to live well.

Please, my friends, take a minute to hug, kiss, talk with or just touch someone you love this weekend, too. (With their permission, of course.) You won’t regret it.

Hugs and sloppy kisses.

❤

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Still Kickin’

It’s been over two months since I’ve sat down at my laptop and written with purpose. I’ve missed it. Since writing this blog is often a form of therapy, I ended up leaning on my friends more over the past few months and talking to my therapist about things I just can’t do here. But I’m ready to come back again.

The past few months have been a whirlwind. Here’s a quick and dirty list of what has transpired:

  • Started my new job as the Head of Circulation at the Bangor Public Library. It is seriously a fantastic workplace and job. I can’t begin to tell you how much I love it. Or I might do that in the coming weeks.
  • Discovered I had plantar fasciitis the same week I started my new job. It was so freaking painful and frustrating. Still working through it, but my foot is finally healing.
  • Won the Outstanding Library Advocate Award at the Maine Library Conference in May. It was a surprise and a surreal moment. I won it due to the backing of the Pittsfield Library community during budget season last fall, and because my colleagues are some of the most generous and kind souls that exist.
  • I turned 50 and went on a solo road trip with my goals being to have an adventure, and to be at the Christmas Story House on my birthday. Achievement unlocked! That trip will need to be a post all by itself. It was so dang fun.
  • I officially entered menopause. I’ve looked forward to this for years, and only recently started to dread it. I blame menopause on my body’s refusal to give up the 10-23 pounds I want to lose, but I am enjoying not bleeding every single month.
  • Many of my friends have just turned 50 also or will in the next 6-7 months. Because of this huge milestone in our lives, four of my dearest friends and I placed a deposit on a villa in Belize and will spend a (hopefully) glorious week there next year.
  • Continued to volunteer for both hospice and The Trevor Project. Both are getting a little more difficult, and I can already see myself stepping back from Trevor Project this winter. I don’t always give it the real time it deserves and if I can’t be truly present during my shifts, then I shouldn’t do it. I’m going to work on that this summer and hopefully will be able to continue for a lot longer.
  • My baby boy got his driver’s license and started taking an online college course in American Government. That has given me glimpses of his future and mine. It’s both scary and exciting.

What really has affected my mental health in the past few months has been my birthday. The number itself isn’t the problem. In so many ways I’ve loved turning 50. Heck, I talked to some folks from AARP at the Bangor Pride Festival, asking why I haven’t received anything in the mail yet!

I’ve referenced Sally O’Malley numerous times and listened to Molly Shannon’s autobiography, “Hello, Molly” when I began my road trip. I can, indeed, “kick and stretch and KICK!” Although I draw the line at wearing red polyester pants that would give me a camel toe. 😉

Fast forward to 1:30 to see this fantastic act. Watch the male actors try not to laugh at Shannon’s hilarity!

I’ve given gifts to a few friends that already turned 50 this year and look forward to celebrating next year with some of them. My husband and I bought a spectacular kitchen table and chairs for my birthday, too. Sounds like an odd gift, but one I desperately wanted. We’ll be paying for it for a while, but I’m ok with that. PB&J sandwiches are a-ok in my book!

My problem isn’t my age, it isn’t that I’m now a half century old. The issue is that my dear brother never made it here. He died 11 months before his 50th birthday. I absolutely HATE that I am older than him now. It’s wrong. It makes me angry and tremendously sad.

I don’t just grieve for the fact that I don’t have Phil around anymore to laugh with or to talk with or to read his stories. Nor do I just grieve for my son who battles depression that began with losing his uncle. I also grieve for my brother and everything that he didn’t get to do. To me, this is what a large part of grief is. It’s thinking about what that person lost. To be honest, when I start to think about what Phil lost, I can’t breathe. I start to panic and either take a walk or a run, move around the room, or just shut those thoughts down and think about something else. The latter never works so I usually eat something instead. (My go-to coping mechanism is to reach for food, something that I will probably work on in therapy for my eternity.)

He didn’t get to have a 50th birthday party. He didn’t get to see the Christmas Story House and I know he would have loved it. He didn’t get to see the fucking awesome display of George Carlin’s work at the National Comedy Center. Phil introduced me to Carlin so long ago and at that time I didn’t swear much. Carlin’s routine back then made me cringe and laugh and I thought it was incredible. Phil probably would have really liked to see the “Birthplace of Superman” in Cleveland, which is where Jerry Siegel, one of Superman’s co-creators, lived and created the character. My brother often said that he lived his life with the philosophy, “WWSD”–What Would Superman Do? You can still be good but a bad-ass, too. (Although Phil was really more like Batman. A decent person, but dark and would have lived in a cave if he could have.)

And the books Phil can never read? The stories he’ll never write? The films he’ll never see?

I AM STILL SO FUCKING MAD!

I will never be ok with the fact that my brother died at the age of 49. Never. I know it’s been said that we were all fortunate enough to get him for that long, because he was never supposed to make it to 18. But I don’t really care about that. I still want him here and you can’t tell me to feel lucky that I got to have him in my life for 44 years. It should have been longer. My parents certainly believed it should have been longer. I often wonder if both of my parents would have died just two years later if Phil had lived.

So….what now?

I keep on living, I guess. I will remain pissed off that Phil isn’t here, but I’ll also keep talking about him and re-telling stories to my son about his dear uncle, and about how much my boy is like him. I’ll keep reading books that I wish I could discuss with him, and I’ll continue to call Phil my big brother. He can’t be any other way to me, no matter my age or his.

And I’ll try to continue to “Kick, Stretch and KICK!” all without breaking a hip.

Hugs and sloppy kisses, friends.

❤

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Change=Grief

Tomorrow is my last day at the Pittsfield Public Library. I get a bellyache when I think about it. Am I excited for my new job at the Bangor Public Library? Yes. Absolutely. It’s like a career change! A larger library, new colleagues, new patrons, new policies and procedures and problems. It’s a new adventure for sure.

Will I miss my old job? Of course. My colleagues, my patrons, my friends, and honestly, being a big fish in a little pond can be fun. But I won’t miss the politics, the building maintenance, and a few other things and people that I won’t mention.

Two days ago, as I drove to work, I started to think about my brother. He had been a patron at Pittsfield–I have many memories of him there. As I got closer to the library, I started to cry. So much so that I couldn’t breathe. You know the kind of sobbing where you can’t catch your breath and you start to gulp for air? Yeah. That.

I feel like I’m losing Phil all over again. I’m losing another place that holds memories of him laughing and pointing out books he’s read or listened to or films he’s watched. I’m losing a place where he existed.

Once I got to work, though, I was able to calm down and just do my thing. The Friends of the Library threw me a farewell party, so I cried often throughout the day as people stopped by to wish me well.

You know…I feel a little lost. Working at a place for 17 1/2 years is a lifetime. I’ve watched so many kids grow up and have kids of their own. I’ve attended funerals of many of my beloved patrons, have given baby shower gifts to others. I will miss so many of these beautiful humans. I’m tremendously sad that I won’t see some of my favorite littles grow up, and this might sound odd, but I’m also upset I won’t see some of my favorite people die. I will no longer be a part of their lives and I’m having a hard time with that.

But, like the sweet notebook these folks gave me says, love is letting go. And it’s time I do that.

I’m trying.

So…if you’re reading this and you’ve been one of my Pittsfield Library patrons, I want to thank you for allowing me to be part of your lives. It’s truly been an honor and gift to be a part of your journey all these years. You’ve also been a part of mine. So many of you have watched my boy grow up, have been with me as I tried to live in a world without my dear brother and parents, have watched me struggle with my husband’s health, but also have watched me become a runner–something I wasn’t when I started at the Pittsfield Library. You’ve watched me lose over 50 pounds and gain nearly 20 since I became director. You’ve also seen a variety of hair lengths and styles and eyeglass frames. Thanks for being with me through so many of my life’s changes and being a witness to this latest one.

Keep reading, my friends, keep being kind, and please keep visiting that great library of yours. Continue to let the powers that be know how much the library and staff mean to you and your community.

And thank you, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for all the love. ❤

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The Letter

It’s been 5 years since I wrote my family’s annual holiday letter. Since my brother, Phil, died on July 23, 2017, I’ve had no desire to write a happy holiday letter, or any holiday letter at all. My favorite time of year became the time of year I dreaded.

I no longer dread Christmastime, but I also don’t look forward to it like I used to. I enjoy the music, the lights, the gift giving and receiving, the stories, and the movies (I’m an absolute sucker for holiday romance films). Yet all of those things blend with loss and longing for the people that are no longer here.

I’m currently in my kitchen typing this with cookies cooling on the counter and George Michael crooning a Christmas tune about heartbreak. This is my element, folks. Yet my stomach and chest are tight from all the withheld tears I just refuse to shed today.

Phil should be here right now. I should be slapping his hand as he tries to steal a cookie. We should be drinking tea at this very kitchen counter, gossiping about one of his friends or editing his latest erotica story. Instead, I keep looking beside me, just fucking wishing for him to appear.

*deep breath*

I do understand why I’m feeling this grief so intensely this week. Besides it being Thanksgiving (which my brother came over to my house every Thanksgiving), I stumbled across a bunch of photos from the last Christmas we had with Phil. At first, I was just in awe and was enjoying seeing his face. Then I became across this photo:

This is my then 9-year-old son, leaning over to kiss my brother on the cheek. They were both enthralled with the new Yoda my son received, and honestly, they both just loved each other fiercely. When I saw this photo, I gasped because I forgot its existence. Then I sobbed. And sobbed. I rocked my body and just sat in that feeling of immense, overwhelming grief.

I took a long break from looking at any photos, then I dove in once again last night. This time, I came across a few short videos of my son as a toddler and my brother’s voice or laughter is in them. There’s one video in particular that my entire family knows and we’ve all watched it probably countless times just to hear Phil’s voice and laughter. He’s reading to my toddler and it’s sweet and funny and wonderful. My now 15-year-old son came over to me as I started to go through the videos, and he asked to watch and listen to that one video a couple of times. “I haven’t heard his voice in years, Mom. But it’s like my chest lit up when I heard him!” This kiddo of mine then thanked me and asked for a hug. ❤ I’m a really lucky mom.

So….that letter? I really thought this was the year, but I guess it’s not. I’m realizing now that I may not be able to write it again. Each year I did a bit of a recap of what was happening in all of our lives, and although we’ve made some wonderful memories in the past 5 years, we’ve also suffered so much loss that it’s difficult to do an annual letter without talking about who or what we no longer have.

Maybe a January letter about what we hope to accomplish in the new year? Maybe.

Until then, enjoy these pics of my dear big brother. If you watch the video, I hope you can see why I miss him so much. (And you can see what an annoying mom I can be.) Phil brought us so much joy and I am certainly grateful we have at least this video to refer to so we can see and hear him whenever we want. Obviously, it’s not the same as having him here with us, but it’s something.

Hugs to you all, my friends.

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Take a Seat

For the past few weeks, my work has taken over my life–something I’m always telling other librarians NOT to do. But in this case, I was fighting for the library I work in and for the community it serves. It was a battle worth fighting and it looks like things might be ok. In another month the town’s budget will be voted on, and we’ll see how things turn out. The community has spoken and have shown their support for the library, its services and its staff. It was an amazing thing to see the community come together and show their love for this institution and for the work we do.

After this long, exhilarating yet exhausting week, I was looking forward to a weekend at home, reading a few books and getting some cleaning done. Yesterday morning I decided it was time to change things up. We have a sectional couch in our living room, and half of it has had some issues for some time. It was time to get rid of it.

As I pulled the cushions from the couch, I listened to Anderson Cooper’s podcast, All There Is. (Thanks, Anne.) Cooper begins the first episode of the podcast with cleaning out his mother’s apartment after she has died. This included finding some of his father’s and brother’s things. His father died of a heart condition when Anderson was 10, and his brother died from suicide when Anderson was 21. Most of the episodes talk to other famous people who have faced tremendous loss in their lives.

I had my earbuds in, listening to Anderson’s voice break when he discussed his dad, sometimes cry when he talked about either of his parents or brother. While I listened, I found myself really getting into tearing apart this couch. I took a sledgehammer to part of the wooden frame, I cut the fabric in places and other times I tore at it with my bare hands. At one point I found myself crying on the floor, thinking about my brother sitting on this very couch with me. How we would sit side by side and watch a movie and drink coffee together or talk about our latest read. I thought about my mom’s last Thanksgiving and how my son sat between us on that couch as we watched a Christmas movie together.

I was angry that my brother wasn’t there with me, helping me tear that fucking couch apart. I was angry that my mom wasn’t truly my mom for so many years before she died and devastated again that she had to die in a god damned nursing home.

And then….I wasn’t angry. Just achingly lonely. Although I have my family and my friends, sometimes the people I want are no longer here and I just feel so lonely without their presence, without their conversation and laughter and love.

Yet, what could I do at the moment? I could pound the shit out of that couch. So, I did.

This morning, though, as I drove my son to school, he turned to me and said, “You know what I realized this weekend? Right after I left work, my first job, I realized that I couldn’t share that first with Uncle or Grammy.” I nodded my head and sighed, “Yeah,” then rubbed his arm. We sat in silence the rest of the ride and told each other that we loved one another as he left the car.

As a parent, I celebrate so many of these firsts my son experiences–his first steps, first word (“no” by the way), his first ice cream cone, his first plane ride–and now I celebrate and grieve each of his firsts, and I have since my brother died 5 years ago. I just never realized that my bright, beautiful boy did, too.

When my brother, Phil, died, I was not available to my son. I thought I was to a point, but when I think about it now, and the fact that I didn’t realize that my kid would be missing his family just as much as me, I realize that I fucked up.

Yet I know I couldn’t have done anything different. During those dark days, there was a time when I was ready to die myself. I didn’t know how to live in this existence without Phil being here, too. To help my son was pretty much impossible at that time. I know I did try to listen to him and spend time with him, but once my mom moved in a few months later, my kid couldn’t count on me.

I truly hope that I’ve done better by my son since then. The amount of grief he’s had to experience would be insurmountable for some adults. He’s had to see me go through this loss while going through it himself, and literally having to pick me up off the floor. (I fainted after my mother’s funeral while he and I were home alone.)

I’ll do my best to keep the memory of my family in the present. We’ll keep acknowledging all of those firsts and talk about how proud the family would be, or what hilarious jokes my brother would tell. And I’ll keep taking my child and myself to therapy so we can continue to heal or at least function.

After all, we only have so much furniture we can tear apart.