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.

Lessons Learned

I have a short story to share, which I hope is the first of many that will serve as evidence that something can be learned from Jon's life - perhaps one of the best ways to ensure he lives on.  Recently, I was walking with a friend of mine, who had just returned from a girls' weekend with a bunch of her close friends.  She was telling me that during the weekend, one of the friends got very upset at something which seemed trivial to the rest of the girls, and abruptly decided to go home early.  Naturally, those left behind were perturbed at what seemed like unnecessary drama.  My friend went on to question outloud how to handle the girl who left, now that the weekend was over, understandably wanting to let her know that they were hurt and annoyed that she put such a damper on their weekend.  A few months ago, I would have jumped right on the bandwagon and thrown my annoyance onto the pile.  But I think Jon's death has made me see things so differently now, and before I knew it, out of my mouth came a simple but apparently powerful statement about how you never know what someone might be going through on the inside, what demons they might be fighting, and what pain they might be suffering from.  Try first to understand someone else's pain, without judging or assuming you know the feelings or motives behind their behavior.  My friend was quiet, our walk continued, and the topic changed.  The next week, when we met again for a walk, she told me she owed me a big thank you - apparently what I had said to her (which I had long since forgotten about) struck her deeply, and in her words, completely changed not only how she approached the situation, but also how the rest of her friends did, after she shared our conversation with them.  I in turn thanked her, for making me aware that - without knowing - I had passed on a lesson that has come from the very deep sadness I feel for not fully understanding Jon's pain.  I feel immesurable regret over that, and struggle every day to accept that I cannot change the past.  This simple occurence with my friend however, reassures me that maybe I can change the future, and that I am now more obliged to do so than ever.  Jon has taught me that behind anger and even hurtful behavior, there may be a deep personal struggle that isn't easy to understand, but that meeting it without judgement and a desire to understand just might make a difference.

Putting it out There

I was sitting at my desk one day about a month ago, trying to work, when the idea for this blog came to me quite suddenly.  I can't claim to have good ideas very often, but it felt like an epiphany.  With life trying to get back to (a new) normal, I had been worrying that memories of Jon would start to fade, time to process the magnitude of his death was feeling increasingly limited, and I was failing miserably at my attempts to stay connected with all of the people who were also grieving the loss of Jon.  A blog seemed to offer the promise of helping with all of those struggles. A blog is like a journal, a well known healing tool, but on the practical side, a blog is also an efficient way to share information with a lot of people. Plus, Jon had such an extraordinary appreciation for the written word, a blog felt like an incredibly befitting way to honor him.  Then, the doubt started creeping in.  What if no one reads it?  What if everyone reads it?  What if it's not what I imagined it to be?  What if it just adds to the sadness we're all feeling?  You see, Jon and I were cut from the same cloth, and I too have the tendency to get tied up in knots over something that feels so important and can become paralyzed by the fear that it will never be good enough.  But those fears somehow fueled me with determination to conquer them in his honor.  After all, I told myself, at the very least, it will be cathartic for me to try and corral some of the thoughts and feelings swirling around inside me and get them on paper. And I can't help feeling like it would make Jon proud - I can actually picture the sympathetic smirk he'd have on his face if I could tell him about it.  So here I am - putting it all out there, yes, for myself, but also with the hope that those who knew and loved Jon will also gain something from it, and maybe even contribute something to it.  I hope too that it will kindle and sustain the connection we all felt to each other in the days and weeks immediately following Jon's death. The burden of sadness and pain are much heavier to carry alone, and if we can learn anything from Jon's death, perhaps one of the most poignant of lessons is to lean more on each other and share the load.  So, I look forward to sharing parts of my healing journey with you, and hope you will walk it with me.  In that process, may we honor Jon, and ensure that he truly does live on.

The Memorial Service

I wanted to share some reflections on the memorial service we held for Jon on Sunday May 20th, especially for those who were not part of it, and perhaps to capture them here for those who were, before the memories start to fade.  This post reflects my own experience of the service - I would love it if others who took part shared their own here too.

I have always thought that facing the task of planning a service when the grief is so acute is just another cruel part of death, and it felt especially so in the days after Jon's death.  How could anything be good enough to honor the special person he was?  How do you appropriately honor the life of someone who didn't value it themselves?  And how do you navigate this ceremony that is steeped in religious traditions, for a person that was very anti-religion?  Although it was a huge struggle to plan it, I am happy to say that it came together beautifully, and I'm glad we did it.

Jon expressed his wishes in the letter he left for me (and you can imagine the sense of obligation I felt to honor them):  "I know it isn't up to me or about me but I really wish I could be let go without a wake and funeral.  Just something small and private, family only.  Thank you Jen." We decided to have a service in Newburyport, because that is the town where Jon chose to live at at time in his life when he sought comfort and a new beginning.  I remember being so hopeful when he told me he was moving there - a town so full of beauty and life - that he would partake in some of it.  Ten Center Street has a function room upstairs which feels more like someone's family room, and it just felt so appropriate - even the colors on the walls matched the grayish tan fleece jacket that Jon wore more days than not.  My dad found a minister, through the funeral home in Ipswich - Reverend Brad Clark - who guided us in the planning process and delivered an incredible service, managing to steer away from religious talk (I might have reminded him once or twice how important this was).  When he prayed, he prayed to the "spirit of love" (who can't relate to that?), and he talked about the power of the connectedness that we all have and how it gives meaning to our lives should we recognize it.  Jon couldn't or didn't believe that connectedness was his to have, and therefore, in the words of the minister, asked to be excused. We learned when we met Brad that his own brother had taken his life 3 years ago - his ability to relate to our pain just added more meaning to the service.

There were 2 readings during the service - the first read by Joy, and the second by Bonnie.  At the end of the service, 3 eulogies were delivered - first was mine.  What can I say?  It was the hardest thing I've ever had to write.  Anguishing over the need to make something perfect is something Jon and I have in common, and so often that week I imagined him now able to tell me that I shouldn't do that to myself.  I somehow got through delivering it, and was truly proud to have done it, for Jon.  The next one was delivered by Dave - Jon's closest cousin - who gave us all a much needed chance to laugh, and to remember that Jon too had many good times in his short life.  The final speaker was Bonnie - a long time friend of the family who was Jon's therapist about 5 years ago.  What a gift, to have someone who not only knew Jon and his struggles, but also could speak authoritatively about the pain we are all feeling around his death, which she too felt immensely.  She shared her strong belief that Jon is now with our mother, completely at peace, where he belongs.

After the formal part of the service wrapped up, we shared a meal together, and during that time, invited others to share anything they wanted to.  As my cousin Jeff said later, it was so powerful to create a space where so many people felt comfortable sharing what was in their hearts and minds, in honor of Jon.  Equally powerful is the sadness I feel that Jon never saw how loved and admired he was, and that he wasn't able to let the strong ties of our family hold him up when he needed support.

As we shared the meal, a slideshow (put together by my cousin Sarah) played on a loop, with a song in the background that I came to learn was a favorite of Jon's, from the exchanges his friends had in the days following his death.  About the album the song is part of, Ivan wrote: "There is most certainly a correlation between the manic shifts in the music/genre/themes of this record and our brother Jonny's inner turmoil. To pick it apart and find the pain, the anguish, and the missteps is a disservice to the whole; like Jonny it is an impeccably complicated, swirling, and beautiful piece of art."  Amen.  Rest in peace, my little brother.