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.