Eight Years

It's hard to believe 8 whole years have passed since Jon left us.  Sometimes it feels like yesterday and sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago - I'm sure you can relate.  Thank god time has worked its slow and subtle magic and smoothed some of the sharp edges of the pain.  It's been so long since I've taken the time to write about it, but I've been thinking about Jon so much during this imposed isolation.  At first, my thoughts were focused on how dangerous all the alone time and constant stream of bad news would have been for Jon.  But recently I realized that so much of what we are all experiencing these days is how Jon lived his life for a long time -- isolated, socially distant, anxiety-filled, and seeing no end in sight.  This would have been all too familiar of a way of living for him.  The difference between how he lived and the situation we find ourselves in today is that we have the ability to recognize that it is not ideal to live this way, we see the danger of being isolated, feel the impact of the lack of connectedness, and we look for ways to combat it each day (as evidenced by the fact that many of us now use Zoom as a verb).  We also can see (at moments anyway) that this is temporary, and we can picture a day when we will not live or feel this way.  Kaya for example is actively planning the party we are going to have when this is over, and she describes it as a party where everyone is hugging, a lot.  She sees better days and believes they will come.  But imagine if you could not envision a better day, or find ways to ease the pain of the moment.  The feelings of isolation, anxiety, and hopelessness would swallow you whole.  When I really think about that, I feel like I catch a glimpse of how Jon felt.  This past year I attended a talk about mental health where the speaker said about suicide: "It's not that they want to die...it's that they cannot find a way to keep on living."  Cannot.  We have all found ways to keep on living through this, but after such a long and exhausting battle with depression and anxiety, and without the proper help and supports, Jon could not find a way.  I believe he really tried, but how many times can any of us fail before giving up?  

One of the things that has never left me (or even diminished) since losing Jon is my conviction that I could have done more.  With time, that feeling doesn't torture me as much as it did, but I will never stop believing that I could have done more, and I will never stop wondering if something more - maybe even something small - could have made a difference.  At the core of this self-torture, however, is the strong belief that there ARE things that can make a difference in the outcomes of those dealing with depression, anxiety, and other mental health challenges.  Eight years offers a whole lot of days to really think about this, and I'm so grateful that with time, the horrible feeling of regret has slowly been overshadowed by determination, and the focus has shifted from what could have been to what can be.   What has been building inside of me is a wave of energy that I want to spend on helping change the outcomes of others for whom it is not yet too late.  This eighth year is the one in which I began to use this energy to start to formulate plans, and I'm both excited and scared to say that this coming year will be the one that I start to put them into action.  I have never stopped wanting to honor Jon in some big way -- a way that will give more meaning to his story and to ensure that it lives on, since he couldn't.  Sharing my intentions here is probably a slightly selfish way of hoping you'll hold me to it.  Stay tuned for more on this over the months to come. 

In the meantime, let's hold Jon's memory close even as time threatens to distance it.  Let's honor him by remembering that this strange isolation that we all find ourselves in is how so many people live for years on end, and ask ourselves, what more can we be doing to help them, to ensure that we never ever have to wonder that in vain again.  Yesterday, I spent the better part of my day (deep) cleaning my office, and in going through some boxes that were stashed at the very back of my closet, I came across a small photo album that included the photo below.  Today, while we are reminded of both of these enormous losses, I can't help but think they both want us to smile, knowing they are together, connected...in peace.  

Birthday Thoughts

Today is another birthday that didn't get celebrated.  And a sad reminder of a life lost - lost too early, too suddenly, and in a way that proclaimed it was not worth living.  But I think today is also an opportunity to reflect on that life, and honor it, as we rarely do when a life still exists.  On the first anniversary of Jon's death, I suggested that the best way to honor someone's life is to remember the things it taught you, and to allow it to continue teaching you long after it is gone.  I always thought Jon would end up being a teacher some day (we talked about it several times and he agreed it was a good possibility, though he was concerned about his lack of patience :), and I like to think that through honoring his life we give him that chance.   Today, I offer 3 things (of the many) that Jon's life continues to teach me:

Be curious.  Jon simply couldn't skim the surface of something, but rather his curiosity consistently powered him to the top of any mountain of knowledge that could be gained on a subject of interest.  Instead of being intimidated by the unknown (which I usually am), he sought to satisfy his curiosities with determination, and with a quiet confidence that he could reach mastery.  I find myself often thinking about that curious quality that Jon possessed, and the more I seek to emulate it myself or appreciate it in others, the more I respect how difficult and rare it is to dive as deep as Jon did on so many things.  

Find a good escape.  We all feel the need to escape the things that plague us, and unfortunately Jon had many of those.  So many people in his shoes turn to drugs, alcohol, or other unhealthy escapes, but Jon instead found escape in much more constructive ways.  Of course his primary escape was reading, which he did with vigor until the very end of his life.  I think he found an escape in some of his hobbies, like woodworking, as well.  In some way, I think he tried to spare others of his pain by picking non-destructive escapes, which surely took a lot of the strength and discipline that we know Jon had.  When I think about this, it also hits me with the realization of just how bad things were in the end when he could no longer chose an escape that didn't hurt others.  

Support the underdog.  Jon was at his best when someone was hurting, vulnerable, and needed help.  It would be easy to conclude that this was because misery loves company, but I think it was much more than that.  I think Jon had an uncanny ability to empathize with others, and when he felt someone else's pain, he was compelled to react.  Had he been able to tame his demons, I think that empathy would have led him to do many great things to help others that were struggling.  How I wish he could have done this for himself to start.  

This day is also a chance for me to share my continued determination to make sure Jon does live on, and to figure out the best ways to do that.  I have been thinking about a lot of things that I could do or inspire others to do in his name - probably something around books and literacy.  Stay tuned on that front, and let me know if you have ideas.  

For now, although the candles will never be lit again, may we honor the life that is marked today, and remember the many reasons that is most definitely was worth living.  Happy birthday Jon.   

The last week

 

April 2012 ~ Florida

Two years ago this week, Jon traveled down to Florida with us for the second year in a row to spend a week’s vacation on the beach.  Little did any of us – including Jon, I think – know that it would be the last week of his life.  We decided not to return last year to the place we had vacationed for the 4 years prior, because the idea of facing the memories there felt way too much to bear.  But this year, with some trepidation, we decided to return to this special place to honor the memories of Jon, as well as create new ones.  So here I am, as expected, flooded with memories of the time spent here with Jon.  Even the good memories are at best bittersweet, as death can turn the happiest of times.  It brings me both comfort and sadness to remember that overall it was a good week, and in many ways, an ordinary vacation.  I remember standing at the airport with him, waiting to board our flight - he wore a new green polo shirt that made his eyes literally glow, and when I complimented him on it, he laughed and said he treated himself to some new clothes (not something he did very often) for the occasion.  He was happy and excited for vacation – I remember that so well.  Something I’ve gone over and over in my head many times is how, when we arrived, he struggled with the decision of whether to put himself on the rental car we had reserved, at a cost of $100 or so for the week, and ultimately decided not to.  If he knew it was his last week on earth, would he have even given it a second thought?  While here, he did the things he always did – read voraciously, slept a lot, snored loudly, applied sunscreen liberally, drank coffee in the morning and a beer at night.  He swam in the ocean, dipped in the pool, ate good food, and seemed to relax.  I remember him enjoying the sunsets and eagerly spotting dolphins in the ocean from our deck.  He actually wanted to swim with dolphins, and looked into it, but couldn’t find anywhere around here where he could do it.  This was also the week that he got an iPhone.  We had bought him one (in the form of a gift certificate) for his birthday (in October) but in typical Jon fashion, he hadn’t gotten around to getting it because his old phone worked just fine.  Mladen insisted on taking him to the Sprint store down here to get one, and I remember how pleased he was with it, and how – as with everything he set out to learn – he quickly mastered the new device.  I’ll even confess that he (on the second or third day he owned it) taught me (who had owned one for two plus years) a new trick.  That week was the hockey playoffs, and he followed it closely.  I vividly remember him joining a group of old men sitting by the pool, trading remarks about the season and recent games – of course Jon was up on all the current stats and history of the sport.  But in addition to these ordinary events and good memories, there are the more subtle things that my mind has poured over and over for the past two years.  In retrospect, he was a little more distant than usual, a little quiet, and maybe even a little resigned.  The first year he came down, I remember we had a big argument – he had a temper, no doubt, and we had a history – the perfect recipe for a sibling fight.  But that week, when we started to bicker, he didn’t engage and walked away, which at the time of course was a welcome change, though now only adds to the mountain of questions and regrets I have.  Most poignantly, I regret allowing him to put the distance between himself and the rest of us, thinking that it was good to ‘give him space’.  I regret not putting my arm around him to remind him how much I loved him and that I would always be there for him.  I wish more than anything I had tried and succeeded to have one of the deep conversations we had on occasion where he really opened up to me.  Listing all the regrets I have would surely exceed the word limits of this blog.  I have spent the last two years trying to accept the fact that history cannot be rewritten, and that all the regret in the world won’t bring Jon back.  I try, especially this week, to remember the good times and the things I don’t regret.  One of those things did happen here in Florida during Jon’s last week.  I shared it in my eulogy and will post it here again in the hopes of keeping it from fading:

In one of the few times we connected that week, Jon and I played Prokadima, the paddle ball game we played together as kids, on the beach. We were a good match, and while you might expect a cut-throat game between 2 competitive siblings, we actually cheered each other on as we made heroic and sometimes embarrassing efforts to hit the little blue ball. We played until it became necessary to go cool off in the ocean. As we walked into the water, he asked me if I wanted to swim out to the sandbar with him, as he had done himself the day before (I remember thinking he was crazy for doing it). I looked at how far out it seemed, and how much deep, dark water it required swimming through first. I told him I was too scared of what might be lurking in that dark water to do it, even though I am a good swimmer. He said, "I was scared too, but I just had to do it to conquer my fear. Come with me, trust me, you'll feel so good for doing it." So I went. And while we were swimming out, he asked me how I was doing, and I said "Ok, you?" and he said, "It's weird, but I'm not scared this time, because you're with me."

I'm still with you Jon. 

Birthday Wishes

Happy birthday, my little brother.  Today we celebrate your life.  It doesn't feel like a very happy occasion, as I know many birthdays didn't to you, but I want you to know more than anything how much meaning your life had, and how much we honor it.  None of us would trade the pain we feel now for having had you in our lives.  Your profound depth, sensitivity, humor, brilliance, and even your struggles touched so many people - especially me.  I hope wherever you are, all the love and thoughts that go out to you today can reach you, and that you are now able to let it all in.  I wish you did not have to leave this world to gain that ability, but hope with the peace I believe you have found, you now know above all that your life really is worthy of celebration.

Fall

Jon's first day of kindergarten - 1978

What a whirlwind life has been since I last blogged. It goes without saying that regardless of how busy my life gets, I think of Jon hundreds of times a day. Sometimes those thoughts come and go like a blink, but sometimes they are poignant moments of remembrance, and last month brought one of those in particular. In September, as my daughter started kindergarten, I was looking through old pictures to find one of myself at that same milestone (per her request), and dug out the box containing photo albums from my and Jon's childhood that our mother had so carefully assembled. I found a picture of my 5 year old self on my first day of school, and then came upon one of Jon on his 2 years later. As I stared at the picture, trying to put it in context, I realized that just 5 weeks after Jon started kindergarten (which I only now understand to be a huge milestone in and of itself), he lost the foundation on which his life to date had been built - his mother. While I was able to look back at my baby book, in which my mother recorded copious notes about my first day of school, Jon's presented only blank pages after those dedicated to nursery school. The anguish I usually feel these days around our mother's untimely death (she was just 35) centers around the perspective of a mother having to leave her children long before she had a chance to do a fraction of what she hoped, planned and knew she needed to do for them. But at this moment, as a mother to a 5 1/2 year old, I have a deep understanding of the dependence a child of that age has on you, and I saw the tragedy that Jon experienced in losing his mother at that age more profoundly than ever before. Kindergarten is one of many steps in what should be a long and gradual process of separation between mother and child, and to think that while Jon was adapting to the separation that kindergarten represents, it suddenly and cruelly became necessary for him to experience all of the subsequent steps of separation in a single event - her death. I will never really know what role this tragedy played in the struggles Jon had later in life but it doesn't take a PhD to conclude that the impact was surely deep, profound and long lasting. I don't think Jon recognized its magnitude, nor knew how to reduce it. We did talk about it at times, but as was often the case with Jon, it was more of an intellectual conversation than an emotional one. I try not to live in the "if only"s or the "what if"s these days, but cannot help but wonder if there was some way this ultimately mortal wound could have been better treated and healed (notwithstanding the inevitable scars it left) for Jon. I would give anything to have this conversation with him, to acknowledge the magnitude of trauma that he experienced, and to offer anything I could do to minimize it even all these years later. But instead, since I cannot do that, I will try to find comfort in my belief that he no longer feels any of this pain, and my deepest hope that he rests eternally with the one he lost.

One Year

As the one year anniversary of Jon's death approached, I found myself feeling dismissive of the occasion, because it seemed to imply that the 365th day without Jon is somehow more significant than the 100th or the 247th. Yet I am constantly looking for ways to honor and remember Jon, and an anniversary presents itself as a hard-to-ignore prompt to do that. But how?  

Last week, I was doing some reorganizing in my (home) office and came across a newspaper that I had found in one of the few boxes of Jon's things that I have been able to go through.  I reopened the Ipswich Chronicle dated July 10, 1997 to page 6, where there is an editorial that Jon wrote with his reflections on the sudden and unexpected loss of his schoolmate, Josh Nove.  His opening paragraph spoke so clearly to me:  

As petty and belittling as words are in this situation, a time of remembering a fallen contemporary, there're all we've got.  There is not too much more we can offer another in consolation than the meaning of combined words, hoping they somehow can articulate what the lost person embodied upon living amongst us.  

Well said, as usual, Jon.  So, at this one year marker, I will offer some words, since that's all I have.

Reflecting back on the last year, I of course remember a great deal of sad times.  We buried Jon's ashes. We didn't get to celebrate his 40th birthday.  We lived through all the holidays for the first time without Jon. Even more sadness lived for me in the everyday moments - finding a coffee shop that I knew Jon would have loved, imagining his commentary on a current issue, or swimming in the ocean and realizing that he will never do that again.  While I look back with a lot of sadness, I can also see that some healing took place too. I don't think that any of us will ever truly understand or accept how Jon's life ended, but over time the focus has started to shift to his life versus his death. And that's how it should be.

I would suggest that one of the best ways to honor someone's life is to learn from it...to essentially make that life eternal by carrying on the marks it made.  With this in mind, I have been thinking about what Jon's life taught me, and while I could write volumes, I offer just a few here that stand out the most: 

Live simply.  Less than 2 weeks after Jon died, we had to clean out his apartment.  Everything he left behind in this world fit into the back of a few pickup trucks. If you ever had the difficult task of buying Jon a present, you know that he did not value "stuff". It wasn't because he didn't have the means to accumulate more things, but rather he had the wisdom to know that accumulating more stuff doesn't buy you anything except more stuff. He knew that true value was in the things you can't buy.  Now that he's gone, I see that the best gift I ever gave him was my time.  I wish I had given him more.  

Keep on learning.  Another way I think we can honor Jon is to take inspiration from that insatiable quest for knowledge he had. Most of us will not be able to learn at the pace or level that he did, but I think we can all draw inspiration from the passion with which he constantly tried to learn new things and challenge himself in extraordinary ways (like teaching himself Russian!).  Over the coming year, I will read a book that I would not normally read (perhaps from the hundreds of his that sit in boxes in my basement), and challenge myself to do something that is way outside of my comfort zone...in Jon's honor.

Cherish people.  Finally, and sadly, I think we mostly learned this from Jon's death, but he taught us a whole set of lessons about the importance of recognizing other people's pain, of loving people even when they are hard to love, and as the minister at his memorial service emphasized, the value of staying connected to others. I know this more than ever now.

Thank you, Jon, for teaching me these things, among so many others. I pray every day that you know, wherever you are, how much meaning your life had.  As I use this mere set of words to try to express that, I realized that there is one more thing we have:  actions.  I will continue to honor you by putting into action the things you taught me in all your brilliance, and know there are many others that will do the same.  

Books

Jon and Kaya ~ Florida 2011

Saturday was my daughter's 5th birthday, and while it was of course a very happy occasion, the sadness of Jon's absence found a new way to reveal itself.  As Kaya was opening her gifts, it suddenly hit me - no more books from Uncle Jonny (as she called him). From when she was born, and each of the 4 birthdays after that, Jon gave her a bunch of carefully chosen books as a present.  I always loved that he did that, for so many reasons.  First, and probably not surprisingly, he picked out the best books - from the classics like Make Way for Ducklings and Bluberries for Sal, to some really unique picks that he selected I think for the appeal to his own inner child. He clearly reconnected with his own childhood when he picked the books, which we laughed about when he gave her Paddington and many Curious George stories- I so vividly remember him loving that bear and that monkey as a kid. It's so bittersweet to picture Jon in the bookstore (the local one of course, not the chain), eagerly sorting through the options to find the perfect books for Kaya. I think for Jon, giving a book to someone was a very personal thing, for reasons you already understand if you knew him. I guess when you love something so much, you want the people you care about to experience it too - Jon loved what books did for him, and tried to share this passion with others, including Kaya. In the letter he wrote me hours before he left this world, he asked me to make sure Kaya knows how much he loved her and that were he around, he'd still be bringing her books. Whenever I read one of those books to her, I do just that. I hope he knows how much we will always cherish the many books he lovingly gave her, and forever wish there would be more.

The Magnifying Glass

Despite the fact that the past month was largely consumed by the crazy rush to complete the holiday to do list (and that's my less cynical view), Jon has been ever present in my mind and the sadness of his departure seemed to take on new magnitude.  The holidays are a tough time for a lot of people, and an image popped into my head last week that I think characterized this truth quite well.  The big and significant occasions or milestones have this effect of figuratively putting a giant magnifying glass on whatever it is that's going on in your life at the time.  On the positive side, if you're feeling happy about something like finding new love or expecting a baby, the holiday magnifying glass increases the happiness many times over and amplifies the promise that the future holds.  But on the other hand, if you are feeling the absence of something significant in your life, the magnifying glass over these special occasions seems to truly enlarge the pain and create an image that's very hard to look at.  When I thought about Jon over these holidays, I tried to focus on the happy memories of being a kid with him on Christmas morning, but was mostly reminded of how very tough the holidays were for him especially over the past few years.  The magnifying glass did its thing on Jon for sure.  For me this year, it increased the anguish of feeling I did not do enough to shield him from those effects.  But while I continue to feel that heartache, I remain determined to try and find the lessons in it, in an attempt to give meaning to Jon's struggles.  The most significant thing I take from it is this:  Even on your busiest days, take the time to consider what the magnifying glass may be doing to others, recognize loneliness and pain, and play your role in creating something positive for those who are struggling so that when the amplifying effect takes place, it may hurt a little less.  If the positive things are also magnified, then perhaps the effort could make a bigger difference in the life of someone struggling so much.

At Peace

Today was an important day.  Jon's remains were finally laid to rest at our mother's grave in Beverly, as a symbol of his return to the place of peace and comfort from where he came almost exactly 40 years ago.  Jon was separated from his mother far too early - the effects of which I think he felt deeply for the rest of his life - but now they can never be separated again.  As much sadness as it raises, I think it also brings with it some comfort.  I felt more than ever today that Jon really is at peace - a feeling that he could not manage to find in this world.  The warm sun and glowing leaves were a beautiful backdrop as we laid him to rest in such a special place.  I miss him more than words can say and remain both devastated and confused by his death, but I think he found the comfort he desperately sought.  May you forever rest in peace, my little brother. 

Travels

Opatija, Croatia - view of the Adriatic Sea

I just returned from a 3 week trip to Europe, visiting my husband's family - a trip we booked 2 weeks after Jon's death, out of a desire to avoid feeling more regret and sadness in the future for not spending enough time with those we love. Jet lag woke me early this morning, providing a chance to write about how much a part of this trip Jon was for me.  We spent the first part of the trip in Opatija, Croatia - a small seaside town, close to Italy both in proximity and aesthetics (it actually was part of Italy until 1947 - a fact Jon probably would have somehow known). I was looking forward to "getting away from it all", only to be reminded in those first few days that grief can follow you anywhere.  At times, I was so filled with sadness at the realization that Jon never traveled to Europe, and wondered, fruitlessly of course, how much a trip like this might have changed him.  As I took in the scenery, I felt how much he would have appreciated its beauty and history - unlike anything he could have seen in America.  I sat in cafes lingering over espresso, and pictured how he would have blended in so well that he'd have been undetectable as a tourist.  He would have appreciated the fact that there is no such thing as "coffee to go" there - the experience of sitting to drink it is as important as the coffee itself.  (There is even a verb in my husband's language - kafenisanje - which describes the act of sitting with your friends over coffee - I imagined how quickly Jon would have added that word to his vocabulary.) Throughout the trip, but especially in Sarajevo where we spent the second half, we heard countless stories from locals about their struggles related to the depressed economic state, as well as to the history of conflict there, the impacts of which are still felt by many. There was the

Sarajevo - view of a wartime graveyard in the city

cab driver who was formerly an executive at a local company that was unable to pay him anymore and lost custody of his son during his divorce because he didn't have a job.  There was the grandmother who looked enviously at my daughter at the park and told me that the kids there are guaranteed a future of struggle, although they happily played on the old and damaged playground equipment. My husband's brother-in-law was notified while we were there that his pay would be cut another 20% (the second cut this year), and all he could say is how grateful he is to still have a job.  And then there is my father-in-law who, at 85, laments the fact that he will die alone because both of his children were forced to relocate after the war. Jon would have sought out these stories, finding a way to hear as many as he could, fueled by his passion for history and humanity. I know more than anything else how deeply affected Jon would have been by it all, as his heart seemed to feel things much more intensely than the rest of us. Would an experience like this have altered Jon's definitions of success and struggle?  Would he have been inspired by the strength of the human spirit? Or would it somehow have just made his heavy heart even heavier?  The only thing I know for sure is that I will never have answers to these questions.  I will instead choose to believe that Jon has now been to Europe, because I carried him there in my heart.