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.

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.