my brother's brother

tomorrow will make 6 months since my brother died. sunday will make an entire year of living without my father in law. i found out this morning that one of my brother's best friends died yesterday morning. i'm not sure how much more pain my tender heart can take.

scottie had so many friends in so many groups in various parts of the country it was easy to forget some. or have your eyes glaze over when he told another tale about their asinine antics or reckless behavior. but ryan... he wasn't easily dismissible - in demeanor or appearance. he has beautiful super long, super straight hair that would drive any girl i know insanely jealous. he wore the same smelly, dirt dyed, threadbare bajas & shirts with the sleeves cut off that scottie liked to wear. he had the energy to match a puppy who'd been left alone all day. or a 17 month old toddler. he could talk the ear off of a deaf person. & my brother adored him. they enjoyed telling people they were brothers, & watch them as their eyes darted back & forth, trying to figure out if they were lying.

i saw ryan at rittenhouse the week after scott died at a vigil his friends were holding. i remember wanting to see him in particular. although he could be loud & irritating, he was so much like my brother that it was comforting. it's like those ratty pair of shoes you can't get rid of - they fit too perfectly & have walked so many miles with you. you can't bear the thought of throwing them out, even though you can feel the road because the soles are so worn. he walked over to me, with a bottle in a paper bag in his hand, & hugged me tight while I cried into his silky hair. we reminisced about my brother... our brother. i told him that i wanted him to always keep in touch with me, to in some way stay in sporadic contact, so that i would be able to be reminded of scottie tangibly. he smiled proudly & reassured me that he would. then i watched him walk to where the candles with lit in the cold, pick up a pile of snow, & sculpt my brother's nub - a permanent "hang-loose" hand - & leave it next to his empty 40 ounce beer bottle.

i recently saw ryan last month in rittenhouse during one of my visits there with my mom. he was super happy to see us & promptly made sure to put his shirt on before he gave us each a hug. he chatted with my mom while i zigzagged behind harry as he excitedly & clumsily made his way around the fountain. we eventually found our way back & ryan sweetly & sincerely doted on my son. somehow, it was like seeing scott take pride in his nephew. it was the last time i would see ryan alive.

yesterday morning, i woke up to find a facebook message from "sevenfingers arebetter thanten" - a name ryan had been using since my brother died in january. i hadn't heard from anyone about scottie in months, so receiving a thought from him was surprising & much appreciated. i wrote him back:

Thanks Ryan. Good to hear from you. It's almost like hearing from my bro himself. I hope you are happy & safe & staying cool. Much much love to you too. I guess I really needed your message thanks again

i thought about him a lot that day. & karen, scott's high school girlfriend who had also written to me out of the blue that morning - asking me how i was holding up. i told her it was a hard time, but it was nice to hear from her & ryan. she said she had seen ryan a few weeks ago & that they had bonded over scott stories & she would tell me about them next time she saw me. last night i was telling mike about how happy i was to read their notes. how hearing from ryan was like hearing from scottie, & it felt so nice to know that he was thinking of me. how strange it is to feel a bond with someone you don't know very well - but somehow, life is bigger than your unknowing.

i woke up to find out that ryan had been hit by a truck while tagging a sign soon after he wrote me that message yesterday morning. i took the news much harder than i ever would have anticipated. i cried to the point of barely being able to breathe. i felt like i was going to lose the breakfast i had just consumed. i felt like i was losing my brother all over again. i made this relative stranger into the physical reminder of my brother; someone, whom i could see on occasion, who could transport me back to feeling what it was like to be around my brother - even if it was in passing moments & fleeting glimpses. so quickly he was gone. my brother's brother. & i felt so utterly alone.

ryan's note reads just like something my brother would write. & maybe, in some cosmic way, scott prompted ryan to write to me, knowing how i felt about him, so that i would be able to feel his love one last time. if that's so, thank you ryan, for channeling my brother the past 6 months, for accepting him & loving him, for being the free spirit that you were made to me & writing me this beautiful message:

• • hang loose for life
  • may eternal love bless u and ur family...love yall forewver...gnight

cardboard paintings, chicken scratch & graffiti; pollution, light & love

my brother, at times, seems like he's slowly slipping away from me. i have yet to dream about him, which makes me wonder if there is some reason he isn't visiting me. i seldom expect him to show up at my front door anymore. or when some mystery number appears on my cell phone, my first instinct is to no longer guess that it's scottie calling from a random phone he borrowed, just to check in & say "hey." what always seems to get me, still, is when my mom tells me that she talked to my brother. my first instinct is to ask, "which one?" like i always used to do, out of some unconscious, unbreakable habit. i don't think i'll be able to say i have only one brother.

his death, although still so strange & surreal, is becoming more normal. i think about him often. i cry easily & quickly when i imagine seeing him in the hospital for the last time, not only 5 months ago. i fake a smile when harry points to his uncle scottie's pictures by the side of my bed, because i know that my son will only know him through those photos & the stories he will hear. & someday he can relive the day that his "scuncle" magically appeared at the birth center, or when he taught harry how to drum on the bongos in florida, or how we went to busch gardens & flea markets together. & although he may never see his uncle again, harry can be sure that he was beyond loved.

there are times i feel scottie's presence so strongly. like when we visit my father in law's gravesite. i feel this overwhelming sense that elliott & scott are together, wherever that is - i'm not sure. but i know they are next to each other, & happy, & without sickness of any kind. i see them taking care of each other. & watching out for the rest of the family, keeping us out of harm's way, as much as they are able to.

last august, when steve was visiting from china, my dad was up from florida, & scott was suffering from horrible hallucinations in my kitchen, mike & i had taken scott to a thrift store where we had bought him some clothes (because he hardly had any at that point). as we were leaving, i saw a small acrylic paint set & asked him if he wanted it, since the nice one i bought him for christmas was stolen by a former friend. i found those paints in his bag that he had brought back from florida in january. i went looking for them tonight. i was painting a card for a friend, & thought of how many times scottie & i painted on my back porch. i remembered wondering anxiously what he was going to do after he mangled his hand, but watching in utter amazement as he used his remaining fingers with such deliberation & determination. his art grew more creative, & became more haunted.

i cursed myself when i couldn't find those paints. i came across some of his brushes & an extra large crayon box. a pillowcase stuffed with pajama bottoms that he had left at my mother in law's house when he stayed there after elliott died. a disjointed poem in half chicken scratch & graffiti about pollution, truth, light & love. i smelled all of these priceless belongings, praying that a renegade molecule of scottie's smell would be left behind so that i could breathe him in.


then underneath my bed, i found dusty, hair-covered painting on a piece of cardboard. it was one of many scott had made for me over the years. some are lost, misplaced in moves or mistaken for recyclables - especially when painted on the back of pizza boxes. i'm not sure when scottie gave me this one - probably for christmas of 2009 or a recent birthday. this picture wasn't particularly my favorite. it's very busy with lots of sharpie tracing & paint on top of paint on top of paint. but discovering it tonight was like finding a missing wedding ring. especially when i turned the cardboard over & saw the message he had written:


SARAH & MIKE
I love you guys
& I love music
& I know you both do too...
Keep up the good work =)
LOVE
Scotty


along with his shred tag & other graffiti scribbles i couldn't decipher. i could hear mike faintly playing his guitar through his amp downstairs. & i felt my brother so near to me, listening along with me & drumming along approvingly.

i'm positive i'll find the paints when scottie wants me to. when he has something to tell me & i'm ready to listen.

from one super mama to another...

so somehow, my friend managed to have her baby before i got around to finishing my story... which was planned to help her (in some small way) through her own delivery. sorry, dear sister & newly fellow mama. i had all intentions of finishing my tale of labor before you bravely embarked on yours. but soon enough, if you haven't already, you will wake up in the middle of the night wondering how it suddenly turned into some june tuesday morning. & you forgot to take out the trash & recycling (for the second week in a row). & you haven't yet paid those bills (luckily you have a husband that manages to remember). & the floor is covered in equal parts dog hair & cheerio crumbs, but you can't bring to yourself to vacuum when the baby's asleep, to risk waking him up, or any other time because it's way too damn hot now. & meanwhile, you're waiting for the baby to wake up (again) & debating whether to push the dog off of your sweaty legs to go to the bathroom. somewhere in the midst off all this, the baby wakes up, as if on command, as if he heard you going over the list in your head from his crib in the room beside yours. you hope he will miraculously fall back to sleep, as if your breast milk was really just some magic sleeping aid, or wine (figuratively of course). but his whimpers inevitably turn into full on, throat expanding cries. & you sigh, glance enviously over to your sleeping husband beside you, kick & curse at the dog, & pick up the sweetest thing you've ever created to nurse back to dreamland. you realize sadly that what you've really missed out on these however many months is blissful reenergizing rest. & you desperately pray that it isn't your early morning shift in a couple hours.

becoming a mama has required me to moment by moment prioritize my life. with each precious second that isn't completely devoted to harry, i have to decide what i am going to accomplish... or allow to lie in wait. it started when i got pregnant & was initially overcome with first trimester fatigue. it was hard to give myself permission to lay in bed for most of the day when there were dishes to be washed or dinner to be cooked. or as my stomach stretched & my mobility became compromised, i had to give up feelings of guilt when i was unable to assist in lifting up the garbage bag (bummer!) or bringing all the dirty laundry down 3 flights of stairs just to take it all back up after it was cleaned. these little instances helped me to discover what was important at each moment after little harry was born. every day, i am faced with new decisions, usually dealing with my own selfish & necessary well being. like when harry naps, do i decide to wash the floors, or lie down in my own revere, hoping to catch up on my own needed slumber. or after an exhausting day of carrying a 25 pound bowling ball on my alternating hips, do i make this kick ass, super healthy, well balanced meal with all fresh, natural ingredients purchased from a the local coop or farmer's market, or heat up the frozen pizza & split the whole thing with mike. (i eat my half with absolutely zero guilt.) believe it or not, sometimes i choose the housewife, homemade direction. & i feel so proud & otherworldly, like wonder woman as a wife & mother (also with the killer body). but lots of times i opt for the rest that my body, heart & mind desperately require. sometimes i am unable to fall asleep for a short nap. but just allowing myself to not feel any obligations for a few minutes are sometimes just what i need in the middle of a tiring day. or when i finally put harry down at night, i find rejuvenation in watching a phillies game with mike while i paint my nails, or spending an absurd amount of money on a ballet class that brings me so much joy & confidence, or just going right to sleep, while letting the corners gather dust & the pesky weeds find happy little homes in the garden.

so tonight, i ate about 8,000 goldfish crackers & downed 2 (large) cups of tea cooler. harry's clothes are in the drier & another load was just put in the washing machine. mike is playing guitar with my legs propped up on his knees. i had planned on writing the third part of my delivery story, but it simply wasn't in the cards. someday, i'll get around to it, exactly when i'm supposed to share it. meanwhile, i brush whatever loose dirt i can from the black soles of my feet, climb the dusty stairs, wash my oily face & brush my gritty teeth, & happily fly into bed - the super mama that i am.

all before 10 pm.

"She discovered with great delight that one does not love one's children just because they are one's children but because of the friendship formed while raising them." - Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

for six or so months, from the day (specifically july 24th, mike's 32nd birthday) we finally told people that we were expecting (after getting approved for welfare health insurance, acceptance into the birth center, & our own growing excitement for our little weiss) until baby harry was introduced into the world, i was given lots of kindhearted advice & unnecessary warnings about how my delivery was probably going to take place. especially when it was disclosed that i was going to a birthing center, where it is understood that there is lots of hippie, pro-women mumbo jumbo & no epidurals of any kind. needless to say, i received a colorful array of responses, ranging from: "i don't know how you're going to do that. it's supposed to hurt like hell. like the worst pain ever. & you can labor for so long. so you could be in agony for days. & what if something happens with only a midwife there? no doctor?! can they handle everything? but hey, cool! congratulations! good luck!" to: "giving birth is orgasmic!" enough said.

contractions are little laboring episodes that cannot aptly & appropriately be described. it's like trying to make someone feel a migraine, who has never experienced the extreme tension in the temples, how even dim light & dull noise makes your head pound, how even the subtlest of movements can induce paralyzing nausea. but migraines, like contractions, are so easily dismissed & forgotten when they are over. the intense pain felt by the whole body with each cramp lasts only as long at the uterus contracts. then there is a brief & sudden period of euphoria, like a cold beer on a hot night at a phillies' game or sitting next to a hot wood burning stove while seeing the snow silently fall outside the window nearby. or like when a migraine dissipates, with the help of aspirin & caffeine, & i am able to blissfully go about my day, almost instantly forgetting i was crippled for most of the morning. the trick to handling the intense time within each contraction, according to the sweet, informative teachers of my birth class, was to concentrate, breathe through them & somehow find solace in knowing that, at most, they will last only 90 seconds. one exercise they had us do was squeeze ice cubes in our fists for increasing increments of time, resting an entire heavenly minute between each grievous grip. although melting ice cubes clutched in your hands isn't completely comparable to contractions, it was a remarkably relevant lesson in understanding how truly painful the cramps are when you are living in that moment, but also how much relief & rest there is when they are gone.

unfortunately, all that flies out the proverbial window when your uterus is hurriedly preparing your body for baby elimination mode. mike came back in the house after preparing our car for the drive to the suburbs in bryn mawr, about 1/2 hour drive from our house in west philly. i had just gotten off the phone with the midwife on duty at the birth center, & she had told me to come on in. i had also called my extremely excited & confused mother, who couldn't believe i hadn't warned her earlier so that al, her boyfriend, could dig out his car, & extra long driveway, & make it to the birth center from new jersey before the baby was born. i frantically explained to mike that we had to leave right then, that the baby was coming faster than i had imagined, that it really really hurt.

mike took my freshly packed birthing bag & gently lead me down & across pine street, which was covered in piles of snow. i don't even think our road had been plowed yet, a common courtesy of the city of philadelphia. i gingerly got in the passenger's seat, & i felt my body telling me not to sit down. it definitely wasn't a comfortable position for my laboring body. i moaned long & low through the pain, just like i was taught in the classes, which i think freaked mike out, a lot. he knew, at that point, that i was feeling some crazy shit. he pulled out of the parking spot cautiously but with quick determination. luckily, as we turned off of pine street, the other roads were cleared at least once over. & there was hardly anyone crazy enough to be driving under such dangerous conditions. he turned on the hazard lights, paused briefly at each stop sign & red light, & carefully proceeded through them. although mike was driving slowly, the infinite ice bumps on the road made the journey even more difficult. i remember trying desperately to half squat over the seat while bracing my right arm on the ceiling & the left on the rear of the seat so that my achy lower back & cushioned derriere wouldn't have to feel the added bounces.

we made it to the birth center in record time, considering the remnants of the recent blizzard. i was introduced to kathy, the midwife on duty, & my super pregnant nurse. besides mike & my mom, they would be the only other 2 people with me when i deliver. as kathy was showing me back to my room, she explained that there was only one other woman there that morning & that she was coming along excruciatingly slowly. she had been laboring since the previous day & hadn't progressed. ohhhh lordy! i thought. please don't let that be me!

so allow me to gush about the birth center for a bit: it's basically a large house down the street from the bryn mawr hospital. on the second floor, there is the office, waiting room, & check-up rooms where women go for prenatal, gynecological, & postnatal care. the basement consists of a large room where couples go for their birth seminars & the mandatory introductory class. the ground level most resembles a home. there are 3 "bedrooms" - distinguished by color - adjacent to full private bathrooms. each bathroom comes equipped with a large jacuzzi tub, which is the birth center's natural version of an epidural. towards the back of the building, there is a kitchen for parents & relatives to bring & store food, for those unforeseen long laborers. & beyond that, a dining area & living room, where extended family & visitors can wait, and celebrate, in the comforts of a home.

i surprisingly & happily got the blue room, which is what i had secretly hoped for since it is my favorite color. i immediately took off my pajama bottoms, that i hadn't gotten a chance to change out of, & kathy reached in & felt my cervix. i was dilated to 8 centimeters! which to those of you who aren't familiar with such birthing jargon, is only 2 centimeters from pushing time. which means i was really far along already. she asked if i wanted to get into the tub, & i thought that sounded like a pretty good idea. the contractions had been getting stronger, so allowing the warm, pulsating water to envelope my body was like getting a hug from your mama after falling off your bike as skinning your knees. i closed my eyes & let myself melt into the water. i tried to feel each moment of peace in it's entirety before the contractions shot through & terminated any sense of serenity. kathy told me that she was going to check in on the other unfortunate future mother & to let her know when it was time to push. i wrinkled my brow in confusion, felt my uterus prepare itself again for delivery & asked, "but how will i know?" she stopped at the door, turned & looked at me confidently, smiled & replied, "you'll know."

"He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves." - Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

my friend is due to have her baby this weekend. realistically, the likelihood of giving birth on her "due date" is somewhere around 4 or 5%. so unless she erupts into labor within the next few days, she'll become one of the many mothers who impatiently crosses off her assumed birthing day, her skin stretched beyond what seems comprehensible, her joints pulled to their limits, all the while having to simultaneously urinate & scarf down antacids to feel somewhat comfortable. growing up i had a rather skewed vision of pregnancy & the birth experience. i was five when my mom was pregnant with my youngest brother, scott. although we didn't know if the baby was going to be a boy or girl, we knew that it was going to be born on november 20, 1986, since my mom had undergone 2 prior cesareans with my brother & me. i remember being so excited, helping mommy organize all the baby's clothes, diapers, bibs, & toys. steven & i went to visit mommy & the new baby, which to my immediate dismay turned out to be another brother. but when i saw him, he was perfect. i recall seeing my mommy's scars from being cut open & having little scott david, the name we had all agreed on if he had turned out to be a 'he,' taken out of her belly. & for a long time, longer than i'd like to admit, i thought that cesareans were the norm. when i played with my barbie dolls, some of whom just happened to burst into pregnancy, their offspring were cut from their unrealistic frames. then barbie was sewed back up, put on her favorite tiny purple dress & mismatched high heels, & went on her merry way to live happily ever after in her homemade house with her eerily similar looking barbie friends. when i finally discovered how babies were supposed to be born, the way nature had intended it, i was shocked, sickened, & secretly hoped that my future baby would become stuck like i had so that i could have a cesarean & not have to push something so large through something so tiny.

when i found out i was pregnant with harry, mike & i were completely freaked out. we had just reunited after being separated for about 9 months, we didn't have health insurance, & probably most importantly, we had no idea what it meant to be parents. we were used to living for ourselves, doing whatever we wanted, having the future open to us without any obstructions. a baby would take us out of what we were used to, & at first we thought it was going to be a bad thing. a couple days after i took the pregnancy test (or 3 or 4 of them), we were going on a long tour with mike's band in a crowded, dirty bus across the country. we decided to keep the pregnancy between us until we got back from tour, found a doctor, & miraculously got on some kind of insurance plan. after endless reading & researching & finding out what it actually means to be pregnant, i slowly became excited & fascinated by the tiny little parasite growing inside of me. i grew to embrace my xx chromosomes, my extremely fertile uterus, my breasts that i could already feel growing full, & all the thousands of uniquely feminine characteristics that used to terrify me. i decided i wanted to deliver at the birth center, in bryn mawr, pennsylvania.

the midwives & nurses there were always encouraging me to trust & listen my body, which was something i had been channeling in my life during my counseling sessions. it was just like being in tune with my thoughts & feelings, & not being afraid of them like i had been for so many years. i was becoming empowered not only as a woman, but as 'sarah,' a person i hadn't necessarily liked was turning into someone i loved, had confidence in, & could trust. i also learned that if i couldn't have my baby naturally - if he came out too early or too late, if unforeseen complications arose, or if labor become much longer & harder than expected - i wasn't a horrible mother or terrible person. knowing your limits & graciously living within them has been very freeing & empowering for me.

my due date was set for february 8, 2010. i realize that in theory you're supposed to want your baby to gain weight & carry to full term. but the last month is so brutal. especially when it's the worst winter in philadelphia's recorded history & you are afraid to leave the house because you don't want to slip on the ice. & anyways you've been feeling like humpty dumpty who's always teetering on the edge of falling over. so i just nestled into the couch, trying to find any position that would be comfortable for more than 15 minutes before having to rock myself back off the couch & waddle up to the bathroom. & then repeat.

but i figured my little "boo" knew what was best. so i waited, through birth center appointments, multiple blizzards, & then my due date. i found myself convinced that i'd probably end up pregnant another 2 weeks, trying castor oil, spicy foods, pressure points & sex to induce labor. on february 10th, another epic snow storm hit philadelphia & the city was incapacitated. the next day i woke up around 7, after another miserable night's sleep, & went to the bathroom, as per usual. i had cramps, but i thought it was just my "morning ritual," if you know what i mean. but when i wiped there was blood on the the toilet paper & instead of the cramps going away, they grew in frequency & intensity. i guess this is it, i remember thinking. i went back to bed, believing that i would probably be in inactive labor (the first stage of giving birth) for another 12 hours. i nudged mike awake & said, "just so you know... i think i'm in labor." he smiled groggily & with surprising alertness, that i've rarely seen him possess so early in the morning, responded with, "i should go dig out the car." i told him not to worry about it yet, that i'd most likely be in labor for a while. but he rationally & quickly got dressed, put on his coat & boots, & shoveled the snow off of our nearly hidden volkswagen.

i tried to go back to sleep, to rejuvenate for my imminent delivery. but the pains were becoming too hard to ignore... & i remembered that i hadn't yet packed my "birth bag." i got up & gathered my rice-filled socks for my back, my extra clothes, the baby's first outfit, cds with laboring music. but i had to stop & brace myself frequently as the contractions came & went. it became evident rather quickly that my inactive labor wasn't going to be as long as i was told it could be. i started to time them & they were coming in at less than 4 minutes apart. at my birth class, i was told to call at 4-1-1, when my contractions were 4 minutes apart, lasted for a minute & had been going on for an hour. but i listened to my body & trusted it when it told me to call the midwife regardless. i managed to say something like this: "hi. i know i'm not supposed to call until it's 4-1-1... but my contractions are coming faster than 4 minutes & i've had them for about 30 minutes & i don't think i should wait." just by the sound of my voice, she told me to come right in.

let us die, let them live

when we were young, grown ups seemed to skirt around death, keeping it hidden on the same dusty out of reach shelf as sex & the creepy older neighbor that you were never left alone with. they never told us that each day we see to completion brings us closer to our own unavoidable & natural demise. when the dog is taken away to "live somewhere else," or the turtle mysteriously "ran away" never to be seen again, we took these stories as truths, because we didn't understand the idea of something not being anymore. we relied on consistency & permanency. when daddy went away on a business trip, we were scared that first night when he wasn't at the dinner table. "are you sure he's coming back mama?" & she was sure. so we believed her & took solace in her omnipotence. eventually he would always come back. when our ankle biting chihuahua mutt, logan, was put down after one too many nips at scott's fingers, my younger brothers were convinced he was simply in his favorite hiding place behind the couch, & never wanted to leave it.

my first close experience with death happened when my grandfather, my mom's dad, passed away suddenly when i was 12. a blood clot in his leg broke loose & traveled to his heart. he died while my grandma went home to shower & gather a change of clothes. my mom, dad, brothers & i took a flight out to chicago the following day. we met the rest of my mom's family - her mom, her 4 brothers & their spouses & children - & mourned the loss of our beloved patriarch. the funeral was full of sadness, but also songs of love & praise for having experienced such a caring, funny, creative person.

that first touch of mortality seemed to dictate all other sudden deaths i would experience. a year later, a month before my graduation from eighth grade, a friend of mine was hit by a drunk driver about a mile from my house. a group of my friends had asked me to go out with them but it was the night of my ballet recital. at home after the performance, my mom received a phone call informing her of shannon's accident. i could barely sleep. old people, like my grandpa, were supposed to die. but shannon? i kept thinking that maybe if i had been there... if only the dance recital had been a different weekend... i woke up knowing shannon was gone before the phone rang, before my mom knocked on my door & came into my bedroom with tears in her eyes. the man who had hit my 14 year old friend as she crossed the street & left her dying on the asphalt turned out to be a father of my brother's friend. my whole class spent the next month in disbelief & solidarity. we had tremendous love for even the least socially inept. we abhorred alcohol & the stupid things it made people do. we prayed & cried, & started the lifelong task of facing our imminent death. 16 years later, i can still picture shannon's bloated face in the casket. it took me that long to take another ballet class. i never danced in another recital again.

in high school, megan, who sat next to me in advanced biology, was killed when her friend, the driver of a car she was in, went on a joy ride & she was ejected from the vehicle. then 4 girls - angela who sat at my lunch table & megan number 2, the homecoming princess who knew & was loved by everyone - were killed while on vacation when a drunk lady, with a suspended license & previous dui's, ran a red light & annihilated the car they were driving. the only survivor, besides the woman, was a teenage boy from my town.

my grandma parker, my dad's mother, died suddenly sometime between christmas eve night & christmas day in 1999 during my freshman year of college. it was the second christmas after my dad left. he arrived in the morning to open up presents with us, to lessen the awkwardness of my parent's separation. our phone rang soon afterwards. it was a police officer asking for steven parker. my grandma was found dead in bed by my grandfather, whose brain was quickly deteriorating with alzheimer's. my family met my grandpa & uncle in florida. we had a small & brief remembrance for my thrifty, proud grandma, who had survived a lifelong battle with asthma & beat breast cancer at a time when it wasn't so commonplace. it was the last time i saw or talked to my grandfather. he went to arizona with my uncle, was put in a nursing home, & passed away a couple years later while i was on tour with my future husband's band. there was no service for him; it was as if he ran away & never came back.

death for me, as a grown up of nearly 30 years, has seemed to attack quickly & suddenly, with little sympathy or discrimination. especially in the last year with the unexpected & devastating passing of my father in law, elliott, & my brother, scott. with each dying i am forced to grieve again all of those who passed before. the wounds are reopened. & i can see grandpa olund in his backyard, shirtless, smoking a cigarette with one hand, & filling the kiddie pool with the garden hose in his other, so that all his grandchildren can keep cool in the humid chicaco summer air. there is shannon's slightly cocked head in her 8th grade yearbook picture- her signature red locks never to be marred by hair dye; her infectious & cheerful disposition never to be inhibited by bitterness & rejection. i hear megan teasing me about mike, who had an innocent high school crush on me, & angela discussing boys over brown bagged lunches. i can envision the other megan with her sweet smile, unencumbered by her braced teeth, befriending those who were often overlooked; her heart open & overflowing. i feel grandma parker's wrinkly skin, hear her unique cackle as she gasps for breath at one of dad's jokes, watch her tiny arched feet always squeezed into her dr. scholl sandals. i can see grandpa parker's squinty eye stare through me as he recounts his war stories that my brothers & i have heard about a hundred times before. i recall elliott's signature outfit: mesh shorts, "brotherhood" tshirt, & athletic sandals, all stained with the food he ate too quickly & diet soda that poured from his cup because of his fondness for large quantities of ice. i hear scottie's rapid drumming on the arm of the couch, smell his overpowering foot sweat mixed with cigarette smoke that always clings to his clothes, see the raised ringed scars on his arms from when he purposely burnt himself with cigarettes while in a drunken stupor.

in these memories i am hoping to keep these precious souls alive, if only for a moment, before i have to turn down the burner on the stove or change my son's soiled diaper. with each death, my departed friends & family are briefly & miraculously brought back to life. it is terribly tragic but utterly beautiful, & i am so very blessed to carry them with me & let them breathe again.

4 months in: life in a fantasy

tonight marks 4 months since my brother died. the first time. my mom & harry & i spent the day together, just like we did on january 19th. then we were waiting for scottie to get back from florida & were living in a state of panic, wondering if he would call us. what kind of state he would be in. if he could stay clean around his friends. in spite of all this, we had such a beautiful day together. today was an eerily similar day. we went to connect with scottie at rittenhouse square park. the sun was finally out, after days & days of rain. the eclectic gatherings of philadelphians were crowded on worn wooden benches, dangling off of wide concrete walls, scrunched on any available patch of dry grass, balancing on the edge the shallow wish-filled fountain. we parked next to my brother's "shred" graffiti tag, across from the concrete pond. as harry walked my mom over to the water, i dug 3 crusty pennies from the bottom of her purse. i gave one to harry, which he promptly flicked into the dirty liquid a few inches from the wall. "hi scuncle!" my mom called into the air as she tossed the bronzed coin. i lightly & apprehensively kissed mine, which left a metallic smell on my fingertips, & said "i miss you."

i sat on the ledge as my mom & harry traversed the stairs, chased the bobble headed pigeons, & fawned over each panting dog that walked by. i heard a man behind me grumble loudly about the cia. i turned around a find an overweight man in his thirties on a bench by himself. he couldn't stop talking, even though everyone that walked by quickened their pace & blatantly ignored him. he took a long drink from his iced tea carton & stood up. "my mama always said that if you don't want anyone to read what you've written... don't write anything down."

i thought of my brother & how he had been so afraid of the fbi & government & he was convinced that people were after him. i would listen to him with a mixture of shock, confusion, sorrow & anger. but i knew that although i couldn't necessarily understand the unfounded paranoia he was experiencing, it was very horrifyingly real to him. & how shitty it must have been for him - having his family tell him that we didn't believe him. of course we didn't say it like that. we wanted him to feel relieved & safe in knowing that no one was out to get him. that white cargo vans driving by where probably just work vehicles. that the chirping bugs, the fish in the gulf, & the vulture perched on top of my mom's house in florida were nothing more than the native wildlife. that the reason he was hallucinating was probably as a result of the tremendous amounts of drugs he had been taking, & his body & brain just needed some time to normalize.

but then i wondered - what if scott was never able to reach the balance that he needed? what if he was starting down a path that ultimately lead him to live a life like this man behind me? in my fantasies of my brother, i picture him growing old, somehow kicking his horrible habits, getting his mental illness under control, & starting a more decent existence. he someday has a family & they live nearby. & his children play hours on end with mine - like we had done with our own cousins. that we grow old together as friends, as brother & sister are supposed to do. my dreams didn't allow the reality of where scott was actually headed. not towards cleaning up with a job or family. but towards more drug abuse, the insatiable need for alcohol, his bouts of depression & mania becoming more & more pronounced. meanwhile his rational mind getting lost behind confusion & paranoia. it was sad to think that i may have been deluding myself all these months, well... these past couple years. that it wasn't as easy for my brother to flick the switch in his brain as i wanted it to be. & that expectation was something my brother knew he could never live up to.

walking home, as the skies turned grey & clouds gathered their ripe raindrops, my mom pointed out that 4 months ago scottie had been at the park the same time we had been there. my skin crawled a little bit & suddenly my mom gasped. she said she felt like someone was walking directly behind her & brushed against her arm, but when she turned around, we were alone. but somehow we both know that's never entirely true.

rebirth in west philadelphia...

yesterday evening, mike & i took our 15 month old son, harry & dog, penny on a walk through our neighborhood in west philly. this spring has been particularly beautiful & needed, after the seemingly endless & grueling winter. feeling trapped indoors with a baby at times made me feel like jack torrence, "all work & no play..." during this rebirth, trekking throughout the city with my precious little family is always such a blessing. to breathe in the blooming magnolia trees, newly planted annuals, & the stately sprouted bulbs. to admire the colorful houses, & the equally colorful families that inhabit them, who can now sit on their front porches with their sleepy but alert dogs, playful & barefoot children, & cool bottles of beer. we ended up at clark park, as we often do. it's a popular park in this section of the city, attracting the college kids that live nearby, passively studying & concentrating on tanning in the grass. the dog owners, who somehow know all canines' names but not the owners', congregate after work in the "dog bowl" & allow their beloved pets to run & sniff to their hearts' desire. the crusty punks with their long dreads & patchwork clothes, discreetly hiding their 40s in slender brown paper bags. the soccer, baseball, softball, frisbee, & football junkies carefully try to keep each game within the set parameters while determined to play through the unavoidable dog disruptions. the troops of parents that are dragged by their amped & anxious children to the playgrounds, hoping their energy will be appeased enough for a smooth bedtime. with spring comes the reappearance ice cream trucks, awakened from their long hibernation, along with the pretzel & water ice carts. on thursdays there's the amish farmer's market, & every few weeks people gather at the flea markets, where one man's junk truly can be another's perfect treasure, for the change left over from a small cherry water ice.

we arrived at clark park later than usual. harry had a late nap so most kids his age were probably getting ready for bed. but there was a good sized drum circle, whose reverberations echoed throughout the bowl. & the shirts team played the skins team in a small but rousing soccer game. i brought harry over to the empty swing set & set him in a middle dry one. i lifted his wiggly body high into the air, held it there as harry shrieked with delight at the impending drop, & darted out of the way as gravity helplessly flung him down. i thought about the first time mike & i put harry's fleshy form into a similar swing, nearly one year ago; how small he looked, just dangling in the black looking diaper. now when i try to take him out before he is ready, harry emphatically shakes his head at me & says "no!"

i let mike take over pushing duties while i sat at a nearby bench with penny, reveling in this luxury i haven't had in quite some time. i blissfully watched harry laugh as he "kicked" mike while in upswing. i followed two helmeted sisters as they practiced their biking skills on the safe, intertwining sidewalks of the park. i noticed a person in a striped hooded sweatshirt shuffling slowly along the edge of the square. although i couldn't see his face, i automatically pictured my brother scott. "hoodies" were a staple of his wardrobe, in any shape or color. for a while, one of scottie's favorites was an over sized, strangely patterned one he had purchased on 52nd street - a shopping mecca of the city that caters specifically to african american fashion. & although this person's gait wasn't exactly like my brothers, it was eerily close. scottie walked, & stood, always slightly slouched over. & it didn't matter if he wore baggy torn jeans with his bulky winter coat, his unique strut would push through his hefty outerwear. it was always a silent joy of mine to watch my dad & brothers walk next to each other. it was one of many genetic traits steve & scott got from our father.

i couldn't keep my eyes off this person, whom i had involuntarily morphed into my brother. i thought of the times we had spent at clark park, sitting in the grass & talking while he smoked cigarettes. or specifically the time penny got spooked by a firecracker & ran away in a complete panic. luckily she made it home, a mile away, unscathed, physically at least; it took a few months for her to feel comfortable there again. my brother had taken off after her but she was too quick. he diligently kept on her trail by asking anyone he could if they had seen a skittish yellow lab mutt with a pink collar.

i sat on the bench & sobbed. penny pressed her body up against my legs & looked at me. scottie was gone. i could hear harry's high pitched squeals. my thoughts turned to my last images of him, bloated & unconscious on the hospital bed. his eyes swelled shut. his skinny chest rising & falling with the hum of the machines. the mirage of scottie, with his striped hood up hiding his curly unruly hair, leisurely wandering down chester avenue, reminded me that for the rest of my life, young men resembling this description will remind me of my brother. all i have left are the memories that desperately i cling to, fearing that they will fade, meanwhile hoping that long dormant ones will surprisingly reemerge.

my weary heart hurt & my blue eyes stung as the sisters again pedaled passed me. i observed mike carefully take harry out of the swing, place him back into the stroller, & drift over to my bench. he hadn't noticed i was crying. & for some reason, i wasn't sure i wanted him to know. these surprising & unassuming times for me to mourn my brother can be solitary, but are eternally sacred. for a few blocks i held onto my grief before sharing it with my husband. he didn't need to say anything; he understood. he put his arm around me as we, our little family, continued west down baltimore avenue, towards the setting sun.

mamacita

this past weekend, i celebrated being a mother. my little family of 3 went to the adventure aquarium in camden, new jersey. mike & i lovingly & proudly watched harry marvel at the sea life. at first he was scared. i don't think he understood that the fish were trapped behind transparent glass. so when one particularly large & terrifying looking fish lazily changed its direction & swam directly towards harry, he shrieked & shook his head & frantically waved it away. mike & i hadn't planned on having harry when we found out that i was pregnant. we were shocked & scared & it took almost 9 months for us to warm up to the idea. but parenthood is one of the best things that has happened to us, as individuals & as a couple. i can't imagine being without him. in fact, even at only 15 months, it's almost impossible to remember life before him.

it seems unnatural to have a child pass away before the parent. i know it was a nightmare for my mom, having to say goodbye to her youngest son decades too soon. when scottie was young, he was a major mama's boy. he always claimed my mother's lap, while i jealously resigned to being glued to her side. when my dad left, scottie took it as his job to take care of my mom & protect her. but this wasn't supposed to be his job. he was only 11 years old.

their relationship was filled with ups & downs. they had so much love for each other, but i think they both expected things of each other that they couldn't give. mom wanted scottie to be like her other children, to abide by the rules & listen dutifully to what she said. & he wanted her to leave him to be who he was: a hippie painter & musician who loved drugs & girls, & hated authority & waking up in the morning. scottie was never one to give into an argument. if he wanted something, he would work every angle to ensure that it would go his way. as a kid, it was almost endearing. his persuasion, along with his chubby cheeks & syrupy smile, could easily melt the hardest of hearts, even my grandpa parker. but as he got older, his coercion turned more towards bullying & nagging. it got harder to take a stand against him. especially after he cut himself & threatened suicide. we were afraid & no one wanted to push him over the edge.

strangely, my mom's teenage years were also filled with turmoil, drug-use, & extreme depression. which is probably some of the reason why it was so hard to watch her son willingly go down such a similar & difficult path. with the help & motivation of my father, she cleaned herself up for the most part, & got married. a couple months after her 24th birthday, my mom discovered she was pregnant with me. she quit smoking, & immediately her life changed drastically & was given a new purpose. after a long pregnancy & scary unforeseen cesarean, her daughter was born. there was no looking back for my mom. less than 2 years later steven was born, & 3 1/2 years after that, scott david.  

she was such a fun mother. my friends would talk to her about boys & sex & things they couldn't discuss with their parents. she dutifully drove us to all of our soccer practices, ballet classes, piano lessons, friends' houses, the shore or the lake, great adventure, chicago or florida or wisconsin or all three to visit my grandparents. she was patient when we were whiny & mean. she relearned math so she could help with my homework. she cooked us amazingly balanced dinners almost every night & we always ate together in our designated places at the table. my brothers & i had no doubt that she loved us, & not just because she told us all the time. 

with scottie's death came a lot of doubt for my mom. she continues to question her parenting decisions & goes over what she could or maybe should have done differently. i'm sure this is normal & probably something she has to do in order to forgive herself. but this last weekend, on a sunday where a mother is supposed to be lifted up & graciously acknowledged for raising children, my mom was lamenting the loss of her son - who at one time made her breakfast with his brother & sister, deliberately scribbled on haphazardly folded construction paper, & joyfully commandeered her lap - who would never call her to say "happy mother's day," or "i love you mom" ever again. 

i look at harry. there are times when he drives me nuts; like when i've been with him all day long & he still wants me to hold him & i just want a moment for myself. or when he wakes up at the crack of dawn & i just want a few more hours of rest after a painful night of waking up every couple hours. but he smiles as me, exhales "mama" with such beautiful relief & contentment, & leans his forehead towards my lips for a long kiss, & i'm pretty sure i could die if he was taken from me. because he is me & i am him. more than anything else in the world. the cutting of the umbilical cord was only physical; the spiritual & emotional connection can never been broken. just like my mom & i are always inseverable. like my mom & steven. & my mom & scottie. 

my brother, a couple months after his own 24th birthday, was taken from this world entirely too early. but the invisible cord still holds him tightly to my mom. i hope that harry chooses to walk a different path than mine. one filled with confidence, strength, love, & grace. & that when he wanders & strays, i hope that i can handle it the same way, with confidence, strength, love, & grace. & when the world seems too hard for me to bear, i will go to my original life sustenance to help keep me afloat. i know i won't have too go far. she's always right here...

peace in my brother's ashes

it's been extremely difficult for me to write for the past couple months. as time ticks by, it has been harder to internalize my brother actually being gone. writing about it, let alone thinking about it, has become almost too much for me. each day that comes brings further realization that scottie is not here & that i will never be able to see him again. it has been nearly impossible for me to consider other things that are painful, like my grandma's long & hard recovery from heart surgery. or even the  heart breaking tragedy in japan - i would avoid reading or watching anything about it. it's like my heart has been unable to handle any further pain. today was the first day in weeks that i felt compelled to share my feelings.

one of scott's old girlfriends, & probably his first love, karen came back from haiti a couple days ago. she was one of the few of scott's friends i thought to contact when he was in the hospital back in january. i knew how much they meant to each other, even after all these years. & i didn't want karen to find out passively through a facebook post about my brother or some other impersonal means. she had the difficult task of grieving for scottie alone, 1500 miles away from her family & anyone who knew her free spirited, high school boyfriend. on top of that, she was surrounded daily by sick & malnourished children, extreme poverty, & a country still in peril from a devastating tragedy over a year ago.

my mom & i picked karen up at 16th & locust after she took the train in from new jersey. it was overcast & drizzling. we had been hoping to walk to rittenhouse square park from my house, about 3 miles away. but it wasn't looking very promising. we had breakfast at a cafe, & karen brought pages from her scrapbook: prom pictures of scottie & the dried corsage he had given her. she even had the piece of paper on which scott had written down our phone number. under it he wrote, in true scott humor, "ask for scott." karen had the first mixed cd he made for her, complete with a song from my husband's band & line drawings of our family dog, sadie. it was comforting to know that my brother would be preserved in another person's belongings, that she would be carrying his mementos when she moves her cardboard boxes from house to house, that he will be kept alive to whomever karen shares her keepsakes.

the clouds loomed ominously overhead as we ventured towards my brother's favorite place in philadelphia. harry fell asleep comfortably in his stroller as karen, mom & i talked endlessly about scott, pouring over what went wrong, but also about what was beautifully & undeniably perfect in his life. we thought about how many times scott had walked the same path, from rittenhouse to my house in west philly, because he didn't want to waste money on the train, & because he loved the exercise & the adventure. he probably saw a half dozen people he knew on the way & made sure to stop them to chat, compliment them on their shoes or shirt, possibly even invite them over to my house to meet me & my husband, or more recently his nephew harry. my mom & i vented over those friends, admitting that we had a difficult time fully accepting them. we knew how much scott loved all his friends, how he would do, & had done, nearly anything for them: including "lending" out countless amounts of dollars, giving his clothes or food even if he was cold or hungry, taking the fall for drugs. we concentrated on one particular friend, who had annoyed us for various reasons at the hospital & at the memorial we had for scottie the prior weekend. i told karen & my mom that i had been seeing him almost everyday i went out for a walk with harry & deliberately avoided his gaze so that i wouldn't have to talk to him. we didn't blame this person, or anyone else for that matter, for scott's drug & alcohol use or overdose. it is just hard to see others riding their bikes, smoking their cigarettes, smiling & laughing, when our scottie was the one to die.

the park wasn't too crowded. we walked to the middle of the square, where my brother used to spend so much of his time. i proudly showed off a couple of scottie's graffiti tags, which used to be such a source of frustration & anger for me & are now happy symbols of my brother's life & permanence, even in death. we sat by one particularly large defacement & my mom took out a portion of scottie's ashes. we had decided that we wanted to scatter some of his remains there, at his favorite philadelphia spot, where we could visit him whenever we wanted. we began our unstructured prayer when walking across the park was the exact friend my mom & i had just been discussing. we were immediately bummed. i tried looking away quickly but our eyes met & he waved. "did he see us?" my mom asked dejectedly. "i think so," i replied, slowly lifting my hand half heartedly, hoping he would pass through. but with a smile on his face, he changed directions & wheeled his bike towards us.

damn. it wasn't supposed to go this way. i had wanted an intimate & private time where a few of us who truly missed & loved scott could beautifully & respectfully dispose of his ashes. i reluctantly got up & gave him a hug. he had the same smile on his face that he had at the hospital, where he told us scottiescott's ashes right here... we are going to scatter them where he used to hang out the most... would you like to join us?"

i couldn't believe this dude was going to ruin this special moment for me. i had selfishly wanted scottie's ashes here because i could walk here with harry & talk about his uncle & visit him on days i particularly missed him. now this memory would be invaded by one of my brother's druggie friends who would rather have had his remembrance on 4-20, the marijuana lovers' favorite & most celebrated number. & suddenly i was reminded, as if scott himself was whispering into my ear, that he loved his friends. my brother would always bring them around, whether my family liked it or not (& more often than not we didn't), & he was never embarrassed by them & their smelly body odor, foul language, or booze & pot breath. my brother was proud to be their friend. he was always pleading with my mom & me to spend time with them. & he was doing it now, from wherever he was at that moment, fortuitously bringing us together. & i felt so honored & happy to hear my brother & oblige his selfless wish. & i knew how thrilled scottie would be to have us all together.

i looked up & saw how humbled scott's friend was after my mom asked him to participate. i took the clear plastic container & gently shook some airy ash & small pieces of bone onto the wet soil behind the graffitied column. we watched the dust swirl in the air then cling to the dirt, gently greying the ground. then my mom gave the jar to scottie's friend. he pointed to a nearby clearing & explained that last spring it was there that a whole bunch of their crew would sit around a deflated parachute & hang out for hours on end, smoking & talking in their unique solace amongst the conformity of the city. he walked out onto the lawn, slowly bent down & undid the cover. he saw that some bone fragments had accumulated on top so he thoughtfully shook the container. some ashes escaped into the wind, as if scott was blessing the sacred event. he carefully & lovingly made a peace sign with my brother, his friend's remains. it was a perfect & fitting tribute to scottie, who was always ending conversations with "peace" instead of goodbye.

we walked over to one other area that my mom & i had chosen a couple of weeks ago. 3 medium sized trees stood behind an exceptionally graffitied section of the fence where scott would spend a lot of time. karen cried as she poured out the rest of her first love's ashes. my mom & i started singing, watching scottie's dust flying away with the wind. i could feel my resentment & hurt being carried away as well, as if my brother himself was relieving me of such a heavy, unwanted & unnecessary burden.

we hugged scottie's friend & i could feel such love & acceptance. he even wanted to hold harry for a bit. & it felt as if my brother was embracing his nephew. it was exactly how the day was supposed to unfold. it was perfect. & i knew my brother had orchestrated the whole thing. he even waited until we were a mile from home for it to start raining.

elliott: #1

mike, harry & i had been on tour with mike's band in europe when my father in law, elliott was admitted to the bryn mawr hospital. before that, we had been gone for about a month circling the states. it was early june; harry wasn't even 4 months old yet. we hadn't been on tour since the previous august. the bus was newly painted, going from an old high school football eyesore from altus, georgia to a hand-painted hippie love mobile. it was parked outside our west philly house as the 9 of us, besides harry, scrambled to prepare for our first long drive of the journey to denver, colorado. we had to pack up the bus bays with the drums, guitars, amps, cabinets, & new merch designs. we had to make up our musky bunks with clean sheets, that never seemed to stay that way for very long, & stake out a place to secure our book bags without them being knocked over during the bumpy commutes. aaron was busy filling up the grease tank with the gallons of used vegetable oil that had been cluttering up our back porch for the past year. i was attempting to make sure i had everything i could possibly need for a 4 month old away from home for a month & a half: diapers, wipes, adequate clothing for cool & hot temperatures, teething toys, socks, & probably most important our passports.

my mom had been helping watch harry as mike & i prepared for the trip. bitsy, my mother in law, & elliott also came to say goodbye. i remember that elliott was particular irritable that day. with his bipolarism, you could never sure what kind of state he would be in from moment to moment. there were times that he would be so happy, or manic, laughing alone at something secret that you couldn't help but smile at his sweet gap toothed grin. but most times he was low, babbling incessantly about his ailments & conflicts with those who, he believed, disliked him. that day in june elliott was upset. maybe it was because his sons, particularly aaron who was living with him, was leaving. maybe it was because he wasn't feeling well; elliott wasn't it great health to begin with but had been complaining about his overall wellness for the few weeks prior. not long after arriving at our house, elliott was verbally objecting to being there. it didn't matter at what you told him; his mind was already made up. he reminded me of a child throwing a tantrum, & i was super annoyed. i couldn't understand why he couldn't enjoy his short time with us before being apart for 6 weeks. but i knew elliott. there was no reasoning with him. we briefly said goodbye before he lumbered down my front porch & into his car, impatiently waiting for bitsy to drive him the few miles down the road to his refuge.

on the road, elliott made sure to continue his daily phone calls. most times they were succinct, but sweet. he would call either mike or me (aaron didn't have a cell phone) & ask about each of us, & of course harry. if one of us wasn't feeling well, he would make sure to check in later in the day. sometimes he would say a prayer; sometimes he would complain about his breathing. but for the most part, elliott would call, ask how mike, aaron, harry & i were doing, & say goodbye. we hadn't realized how much his health had been deteriorating.

after 4 weeks on the road traversing across america, in early july we flew across the atlantic to spend 2 weeks touring europe. we didn't have phone access overseas so we didn't talk to elliott. i had emailed my mom & asked her to call him, because i knew he would be afraid for us. he was always nervous when we traveled internationally. when we toured across europe in 2003, elliott had xeroxed a map of the area & drew a thick, black line with a sharpie, marking where we could & couldn't go. when mike & i went to vietnam, he was irate with my dad, mom & me for dragging mike off to such a dangerous place. somehow we convinced him that the war had been over for decades & it had become a relatively safe vacation spot.

our flight back home had a layover in nyc. after rushing through customs & waiting to go through security, mike called his parents to ask if they would be willing to pick us up from the airport. you could immediately hear the concern in his voice as he spoke to his mom. aaron & i were eavesdropping, trying to make out through mike's questions what exactly was going on. aaron interrupted, tears in his eyes, "mike, is dad dead?" i was taken aback; i just figured our dog penny did something stupid, or maybe elliott was at the mental hospital again. mike silently shook his head & i exhaled, "god forbid." but when mike got off the phone he explained that elliott was in the hospital. he wasn't really sure of the specifics. i don't think any for us were ready for what we were flying home to.

the history of scott's nub: #2

my "hangout" at cooper

after a long & sleepless night, mike & i got up & drove back across the bridge to cooper hospital in camden. i should have known the severity of scottie's situation when they told me he was brought to cooper, rather than any other hospital in south jersey that was closer to where he was splitting logs. you'd think a medical facility in one of america's worst cities would be avoided at all costs. but people in dire or critically unique situations were usually sent there. like when about a month before scott's accident, the governor of new jersey got in that horrible car accident on the parkway & he broke his leg, sternum & collarbone among other ribs & vertebrae. i was thankful that my brother was at least in some capable hands.

we parked in the carport & walked to the front desk. we got a couple of guest passes & were directed towards the elevators to the intensive care unit. when we first looked at scottie, he looked like he was an overfilled water balloon. he had been pumped with so much fluid for his surgery that it would take a few days for it to seep out. his right had was bandaged with such a large dressing, by glancing at it you would guess that he lost his entire arm. he had plenty of ivs & monitors hooked up to his bloated body. years later i, this scene would haunt me when seeing scottie at the university of pennsylvania hospital. it was something i never expected to witness again. once was hard enough, & i couldn't help but cry at his helplessness, at my helplessness.

scott being scott

he was super groggy. i remember him looking so defeated, so exhausted. but he managed to smile at me, with his clear blue eyes that we shared & tried to comfort my sadness. i was amazed by his strength, but i was also terrified. the memories of scottie's threat of suicide & ensuing hospitalization were still right below the surface of my thoughts. i was scared that if his fingers didn't take, or even if they did the oddity of having only 4 fingers would spiral him into a depression that he wouldn't be able to handle. he already felt like he was an outcast, it was already difficult for him to conform. how would this affect his mental state?

after the fingers were removed

i got a closer look at his hand when the nurses changed the bloody bandages. the surgeons had managed to salvage & attach scottie's middle & ring fingers. they looked purple & swelled. he was on heparin, a serious blood thinning drug to ensure that the appendages were getting enough plasma. this caused his hand to bleed strongly & steadily, & for scott to have numerous blood transfusions. i was assured, for the time being, that the fingers were taking. but we wouldn't be sure for a few days whether or not they would be able to be saved. scott was hopeful, joking that he'd be like a cartoon character from the simpsons, all have only 4 fingers.

my mom finally made it up from florida after her own personal ride from hell. her boyfriend's father, who had been battling a terminal illness had gotten severely worse in the motor home. scottie was so angry at my mom. i remember him barely looking at her when she walked in the room. i can't even recall now why he was so upset with her. maybe she was the most likely scapegoat, the most easy to be resentful toward because she was his mom & she would never turn away from him, never stop loving him. my mom didn't let his bitterness drive her away & of course she did stick by him.

in our delusions & optimism, we had tricked ourselves into believing that scott would have his simpson hand. we thought that with the steady flow of new blood that his mangled appendages would have to take. we trusted that somehow his tiny damaged veins & nerves & muscles, that had been joined intricately & painstakingly in surgery, would be able work perfectly again. we could envision scottie back at his drum set pounding away with his friends. or at his blank canvases, getting ready to paint dark, abstract artwork that would be hauntingly beautiful. but we had to believe, we had to live in these daydreams because the other option was too painful, too terrifying to consider.

decaying fingers

we spent slow & suspenseful days in the hospital, waiting to see if scottie's fingers would be accepted back to his body. the moment they were finally rejected, the putrid smell of death permeated my brother's room. my brother's 2 attached fingers were dying, rapidly. the surgeons, for one bullshit reason or another, took their time in removing the lifeless appendages. they began to shrink & wrinkle, like grapes becoming raisins. the stink of rotting flesh poured from my brother's hand. if i took too deep a breath, i had to silently choke back my urge to vomit.

view of philly from camden

scott had to watch his final hopes decay right before him, on his dominant hand. his dream of becoming a simpson, a tv show that he had loved for years, would soon be lost. unfortunately, this wouldn't be the end. this would be the start of a whole new set of surgeries, obstacles, complications, & decisions that scottie would have to make; that would affect, in one way or another, the rest of his short, young life.

the fighters

it's strange the things that will stimulate memories of scott. a song, movie, smell, food, or walk to the park with harry can make me cry almost instantaneously. i guess it's nice knowing that he won't ever be forgotten. but at the same time, it's hard to stay happy for a long stretch of time. how can i, when scottie is brought to mind so regularly throughout my day? i wake up in the middle of the night, already thinking about him. & it's nearly impossible to fall back asleep again. i know it's only been 6 weeks, but i'm wondering if this will ever get easier; when will the raw, open wound eventually start to become a raised, purple scar.

last night mike & i went to see the fighter. i don't want to ruin the movie for anyone so if you want to be completely surprised, maybe skip this paragraph; but i won't be spilling some crazy twist or anything & let me strongly recommend seeing the film. it's based on the true story of brother boxers dicky eklund & micky ward. dicky had once been a renowned fighter & had defeated sugar ray leonard in the late 70s. micky was 10 years younger, & was being trained by dicky to become a champion boxer in his own right. it was apparent early on that dicky had some sort of drug problem, which you find out is his dependency on crack. this addiction, inevitably, leads to all sorts of problems for not only dicky, but micky as well. dicky ends up getting arrested & going to jail, where he is forced to get clean. when he gets out, dicky is faced with the reality that he had been blissfully ignorant to while smoking crack: that he put his brother in dangerous situations numerous times, that he had hurt & lied to his family, that it would be so simple to walk right back to his crack house & drug addicted friends. which he did. but instead of opening the door & lighting the pipe, dicky was able to say goodbye & walk away. you could see the turmoil within him, how badly & easily he could get high, but how empowering it was for him to walk away.

it was such a bittersweet moment for me. of course i wanted dicky to be able to overcome his addiction & go on & be a good father to his small son, to bring reconciliation to his family, to lead micky to a championship title. but i wanted that for my little brother, scottie. i wanted him to be the fighter & stand victorious. but it is a fantasy that i will only dream about. i am envious of dicky's sisters & brothers for not knowing the pain of having to lose their brother to an overdose. i will always be plagued with why scott was the one to die when there are other addicts who will keep on living, with second, third & fourth chances. some never choose to clean up & spend the rest of their lives using. why wasn't scott given another option?

today, scottie's name was put on a list of others whose lives were lost to drugs. it hurts my being to see his name added to such an extensive list, that i know isn't even near complete. but i am reminded that with each name, there are other sisters who have lost their brothers. & we are left to live always wondering & always wishing, with a distinctly shaped hole in our hearts that will only be filled when we are somehow reunited with our lost loved ones. & i am comforted, if only for a moment, by the fact that i am not alone in these feelings, these experiences, these innumerable inquiries. that we will always be fighting together for a moment of understanding & of peace.

rilke says, "live your questions now, and perhaps even without knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers."

i pray it is so.

for all of us.

amen.

here is a link to scott, & others, who died because of drug addiction.

my christmas story

holidays for my family were always such an exciting & traditional time. since we didn't have any extended family close by, our easters, thanksgivings, & christmases were primarily spent with just the 5 of us. christmas, by far, was both the most thrilling & habitual at the same time. my brothers & i were always overcome with holiday hysteria the days - well, month - before christmas. thanksgiving was treated more like the start of christmas season. right after the turkey, stuffing & cranberry sauce, my family would take out the boxes of decorations & manufactured tree, & hang every wreath, stocking, electric candle, & nutcracker in it's exact god-given place. as the weeks progressed, steven & scott & i would scour the thick newspaper circulars, eagerly cut out the pictures of useless stuff that we knew we  wouldn't get, slap it on a piece of notebook paper made out to santa, & shove it in mom's hands, all on the way into the kitchen to stuff our mouths full of grandma's kiss cookies she had sent special from chicago. also we had our favorite classic movies lined up, further elevating our excitement for the big day. & we would repeat those films, line by line, by heart.

christmas eve was magical for my brothers & me. we would spend all day bounding around the house, drunk on eggnog & candy canes, bursting with voracity & impatience. i'm pretty sure my dad seriously considered going to work on christmas eve so he wouldn't be subjected to our untamed fervor. the day was spent waiting for the sun to set. We would dress up in our church appropriate attire, watch parishioners solemnly reenact the historically inaccurate yet still beautiful birth of jesus, & join our voices in song as we lit our candles in the dark sanctuary. afterwards, dad would drive us around to look at the wonderfully, & sometimes garishly, lit houses. we would recount the year my mom saw a dog & mistakenly yelled out "deer!"like she had just spotted an ostrich or dinosaur. we would never let her live it down. at home we would open up & put on our christmas jammies. my brothers & i would get to open our gifts to each other, which were usually some worthless sparkly trinket or plastic jewelry from santa's secret workshop that the elementary school held each year. then we would nestle in front of the tv to watch 'a christmas story,' this was way before tbs started the 24 hour marathon. & steven, scott & i would sleep in the same bedroom, whispering & laughing before eventually fading into a blissful sleep. until one of us woke up before the sun, eagerly rouse the rest of us & christmas morning would begin, right after the parents made coffee.

everything inevitably shifted as we got older. my dad left & eventually we had to split christmas between 2 houses. i got married & further had to allocate my time. then my mom got a serious boyfriend & steven moved to china. holidays, especially christmas, were never the same. with the onset & consequent advancement of scott's addiction, they were becoming almost regrettable. he would show up hung over & at some point we would wait for him to grow irritable as his need for alcohol or other paraphernalia magnified. he would provoke fights with my mom, or whoever else would get drawn into his anger. we had no other choice but to exclude his addiction from larger family gatherings.

this past thanksgiving, mike, harry & i tagged along with my mom & her boyfriend, al to chicago, where most of my extended family resides. scott was living with my dad then, & had hoped to meet us there. but the previous year had been difficult. my brother had stayed out all night with 1 cousin, asked my 75 year old grandmother every night if he could go hang out at a local bar (regardless of the fact that he wasn't drinking at the time), & got wasted at my baby shower, becoming belligerent & accusatory towards the entire family. the icing on the cake was when he got arrested for graffiti & spent hours in the cook county holding cell. so we decided that last year we couldn't handle the stress & ceaseless anxiety that scott's addiction brought to grandma's thanksgiving. it was impossible to explain to scottie that we really did want him there with us, that we loved him & missed having him around. but we hated his anchor of addiction. it was going to drown him & gradually pull us down with him unless we cut ourselves loose.

this last christmas my mom spent with her boyfriend & his family, & i was torn with what to do with my dad & scottie. i called my dad & invited him & my brother to spend christmas in philadelphia with mike, harry & me. i told him that we would come down to florida, but with mike's nana now over 80 years old, we shouldn't risk spending her potential last christmases apart. he understood, but he thought it was best for scott to stay in florida, away from the outside forces that afflicted him up north. all the while, we were blinded to the internal demons that he would never escape from.

i made this sweatshirt for scottie a few years ago

christmas morning to got a phone call from my mom. i recall harry having a particularly difficult night of sleeping, so i resentfully ignored the first set of ringing. she dialed back immediately & i groggily answered to hear my mom & both brothers' cheery voices. i was instantly stoked that i answered. my mom had managed to get all her kids on the phone, while in different parts of the globe. we all started talking over one another. my brothers & i recounted a song from the garfield christmas movie that we used to sing every year, each of us singing our designated parts: me as garfield, steven as jon, & scott as odie. we laughed at how since scottie was the youngest, he got stuck with the part that consisted solely of barking. we made sure to make fun of mom's infamous mistake of calling the dog a deer. although we weren't together, & we didn't know when we'd all spend christmas in the same place again, for a few minutes we had a small glimmer of the holiday of my childhood. my mom cried, of course, wishing that we could be united. but now, looking back, i am beyond grateful for that family christmas conversation. i never would have guessed that it would be the last one i'd ever have.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." ~Maya Angelou

i used to write nonstop in high school. i have dozens of journals, filled from cover to cover with various colored inks & pen line thicknesses. they are probably tucked away somewhere in a cardboard box, hidden inside the dark recesses of my creepy basement. they are somewhat embarrassing to read now. some of the problems i had back then were painful & profound; but most were so trivial & juvenile. the writings conveyed such deep feelings of aloneness, despite the fact that i had lots of friends & a loving family. & i felt so misunderstood. i would read poem after poem of my favorite authors to possibly find a line that i could relate to. then i'd copy it down in a different color pen, possibly draw a vine around it, decorated with flowers so it would stand out enough to read it later. don't get me wrong, i enjoyed high school. i wasn't super popular & i didn't go to all the parties each weekend. but i also wasn't the girl who sat by herself, or smelled bad & wore black makeup. although i did fart out loud once in the middle of calculus & i thought that i would die of humiliation. at school i had a tight group of friends who got along with nearly everybody. we had boyfriends & got into a minimal, yet harmless, amount of mischief. however at home, at night, while alone in my room, all i would want to do was sit with the lights turned low, listen to slow grunge ballads & write page after page in my journals. & maybe cry a little bit.

i think there is a deep down desire for people to be understood, not only by those around them but also by themselves. i think it was good for me to get my thoughts & feelings out on paper, however asinine & immature it appears now. they were true & real. & it helped me to better know myself. as i went off to college, writing became less & less frequent. i still have some journals from recent years, infrequent & partially-filled. but it wasn't like those in high school. i couldn't skip a day of writing back then; it was my water, my air. & i was slowly losing my sustenance when i stopped journaling.

eventually, i stopped being honest with myself. i learned the hard way that when you aren't truthful to yourself, you can't be true to anyone else. i was trying too hard to be what everyone else wanted me to be. & meanwhile i was ignoring my authentic feelings & needs, hiding them deep below those disconcerting moments you try hard to forget, like the first time you had to wear a pad after getting your period or when the entire school bus laughed at you when your neighbor called you "rudolph" after standing in the cold. it became easier to lie to myself, to become someone i didn't know, a complete & total stranger to myself.

it took a lot for me to even begin to embrace myself again: a lot of guidance, gentleness, grieving, & grace. i still have moments of regression, when i want to keep anger inside because it isn't always an appropriate emotion to feel. or when i feel neglected, i sometimes still feel the urge to press it down, along with the abandonment issues from my dad. but i remember that when i feel those moments as they come, express them as they need to be expressed, they won't stay concealed, festering & causing destruction to my insides. i can't afford to go back to being that stranger again.

being honest is a difficult task. but it is so liberating. i feel like i have this openness to give to others. i hope that by sharing these arduous & delicate stories that others can experience the same epiphany: that we don't have to live life alone. that there is nothing so unbearable & horrendous that we have to ignore our true selves. that we don't have to be ashamed or guilty. we are simply living out our lives the best we know how. we all make mistakes, some bigger & more harmful than others. but when we can get past all the harmful judgements we bring to others & ourselves, we can release ourselves from so much agony & finally be free.