The Glue

Glue (n): An adhesive force or factor.

She was the glue. The thing that held us; bound us together. She was what made us a unit. A package. A family.

I can honestly say I only realized that in the moments after my mother's death as I sat next to my brother, a man who I, as an adult, saw once, maybe twice a year. As I sat and listened to him talk of the moment that my mother, reaching towards something, took her last breath; a moment I could not bear to watch, my mind was racing. Over and over again, I kept saying to myself, "I don't know how to be us without her." I never said it out loud. I couldn't bear to say it out loud. The "us" had changed so dramatically over the past few years. Us, without my mother, just didn't seem possible.

On the year anniversary of my brother's death, I wrote a blog filled with hope, love and a new understanding of what my life was supposed to look like. I had learned so much from a loss that was so profound. I spent the next 6 months truly coming into my own emotionally. I had a gratitude in my life that I really don't think I had ever experienced before. It was truly humbling.

So here I am, nearing the year anniversary of my mother's death and wanting to convey some deep, meaningful message of hope, love and understanding. And I'm here to tell you, I'm just not there.

The first few weeks after you lose someone in an anticipated death, such as cancer, there is an odd sense of relief. My mother's battle was quite short in the scheme of things; 3 months from diagnosis to death, but painful nonetheless. The emotional and physical toll of being diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer was devastating on a woman who had buried her parents, her husband, her son and all of her siblings. She became incapacitated almost instantly. She was afraid of living and afraid of dying.

The glue was cracking. And we all knew it.

The Ciliberti's are an odd bunch. Ask anyone who knows my family. We love fiercely. We fight fiercely. We defend fiercely. And we never back down. Never. So as the glue began to crack, we all did what it was we did. And we did it fiercely. My one sister cleaned fiercely. The other cried fiercely. The other took notes fiercely. My brother made calls and tried to stay calm fiercely. And I tried to hold it together fiercely. Because as fiercely as I tried to hold it together, I knew when it fell apart, it would be fierce.

The last hours of my mother's life were so devastating and filled with anxiety. She had come home on hospice the day before, upbeat, coherent and happy. 24 hours later, she was letting go. Completely planned on her part, if you ask me. Once they told my mother treatment was no longer an option, her priority was to come home to die. On her terms. Fiercely. Just like all of those damn kids she raised. So she did.

So when I walked in the house and saw my mother laying in the hospital bed that sunny Saturday morning, peaceful and no longer in any pain, I was relieved. But I also knew the glue was gone. And I had no idea what to do.

I have had some low moments in the last year. If you have had the pleasure of never experiencing the death of a parent, sibling or close friend, consider yourself blessed. Eventually, you will be there and everything I'm about to say will make sense.

Life has it's ups and downs. The highs make it all worthwhile. And the lows; well I just keep telling myself, they could be worse. Because in reality, they could be. I lost a brother. He was far from perfect. At one point when I was in my late teens and he was around 30, we had a fight and didn't speak for 6 months. He could get on my last nerve. And he thought I was a know it all. But he believed in me. I lost a father. He was far from perfect. But no child deserves to lose a parent at 11 years old. And I've lost my mother. She was far from perfect. But she was my mother. And when it comes to mothers, that's all that really matters.

I have watched my family systematically deconstruct over the past 12 months. It has been a process likened to another death. My mother was a buffer to the bullshit. And when you take away the buffer and the glue, you are left with tiny fragments that don't exactly fit the way they used to.

I grew up in a very enmeshed family. The joke was "once you marry or enter into the Ciliberti family, you never really leave." We never cleaved to our spouses, which is probably why we all suffered a divorce or two, with Ralph never marrying at all. But many of those ex's remained part of the Ciliberti clan in a way leaving many shaking their heads, asking "how did you do that?" And the answer is....I don't know. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.

But for the most part, my mother, the glue, bound us tight. With high expectations for family loyalty in the midst of chaos and resentment. And we obliged her.

I sat through a training on trauma this week; my special little interest. I listened to much of the same information as I've heard multiple times in similar seminars. I've even developed a training on trauma informed care and advocate hard for the idea that so many kids who are diagnosed with ADHD are really just victims of trauma or chronic stress. But, this time, I started to really think about the idea that I am a trauma survivor and all that entails.

Loss has colored my world. But so has resiliency. For me, it is always a balance. A key to bouncing back from loss is not necessarily moving on in the traditional sense, rather its figuring out how to come to terms. Post traumatic stress develops when the experience of an event is such that we are so overwhelmed by horror or pain that the memory literally sears itself into the brain. The sights, smells, tastes, and sounds all act as powerful conditioned stimuli to set off flashbacks, anxiety attacks, nightmares. You can't control it. It just happens. I still feel a tinge of panic 3 years later if my phone rings around 10pm, the time my sister called screaming frantically that my brother was dead. I have memories akin to flashbacks as I round the curve just before the Antique Mall in Pennsbury Township, remembering how carefully I took that curve in the rain on the way to my mother's house thinking, "I can't wreck the car. My mother's son is dead." I still react very strongly to the sight of gladiolus and the smell of large amounts of flowers, a lingering memory of my father's viewing 30 years ago. I go into instant panic if I have to enter a funeral home. I have been known to literally run out of funeral homes. I never saw my brother or my mother laying in the casket because of the sheer horror of walking into the funeral home as an 11 year old and seeing a sight no one did or could have prepared me for.

I have come to terms with the fact that I have some level of traumatic stress. And that I shouldn't be ashamed or feel weak by disclosing that. I also realize that I have been able to keep going because I continue to talk about it. I continue to process it. I continue to write about it. And, the scariest part is that I let all of you see it. Because for years I was so afraid of what it would mean if I let it all out. And now, for the most part, I don't give a shit. I pop in and out of writing as my resiliency allows. When I go silent, I am either in a really good place or a really bad place. I haven't been in a good place lately, But then I remember that I need this. And that maybe someone else needs it. And those who don't need or want it can chose to look away. And that's okay too.

My mother was my world. She taught me more than she will ever know. I miss her.

McDade Blvd.

"I did not emerge onto a blank slate of neutral circumstance. My life was already a canvas upon which older paint had begun to dry, long before I arrived. What I am trying to say is that when we first draw breath outside the womb, we inhale tiny particles of all that came before, both literally and figuratively. We are never merely individuals; we are never alone; we are always in the company, as uncomfortable as it sometimes can be, of others, the past, of history. We become part of that history just as surely as it becomes part of us. There is no escaping it, merely different levels of coping. It is how we bear the past that matters, and in many ways it is all that differentiates us." ~ Tim Wise

Did you ever read something and it hit you in the gut? Did you ever see something and say to yourself, "This is what I've been trying to say but have never been able to find the words?"

I found the above quote in a book over the weekend that I picked up at the lending library at the YMCA, while I was supposed to be playing the "uber excited sports mom" role. I try to do my best in that role, but quite honestly, all of the dads living vicariously through little boys is a little too much for my taste. And anyway, I much prefer to pick apart words written to explain the uncomfortable subject matter of racism in America and apply it to the story of my life (but the racism thing deserves and will get its own blog at a later date).


So, I see this quote in the second paragraph of a book called White Like Me and I have a visceral reaction. At the time, I wasn't even sure exactly what I was reacting to, rather I only knew that I should.


Fast forward to today....I'm scheduled to do a client intake in Darby, PA, which is in Delaware County, bordering on the town/city of Collingdale. It order to get there, I am required, if I want to avoid the heavy traffic that passes by Upper Darby High School and the Prendie/Bonner complex to make my way through the heavy traffic of McDade Boulevard, which is the last exit just before the Blue Route dumps out on to I-95. I jump off the Blue Route at the Route 1 (Springfield) Exit and turn onto Sproul Road, just a few miles from where we buried my father in 1982, my brother in 2009 and my mother in 2011. I am literally driving down memory lane. 


I forever will be left with a lump in my throat as I turn off this exit. It has become a viseral memory; one that needs no words to tell the story. Rather, there are flashbacks of a hearse, a purple flowered dress and a lot of grown men crying. The hearse returns 2 more times but the clothes change. The weather changes. The people crying (at least some of them) change. But the feelings remain the same. There are no words. There is no need for words.


I turn my car away from the cemetery towards Darby and make a left onto Woodland Avenue.It is at this point that the memories become a mixture of my own and of those before me. You see, I never grew up in Delaware County. I lived in the same rancher in Chadds Ford that my parents bought a few years before I was born until I was in my 20's. But, as I travel down Woodland Avenue, towards McDade Boulevard, I am reliving my history; the tiny particles of all that came before as Tim Wise so eloquently put it. Because the farther down the road I travel, the closer I get to my brother's life, my father's life and my mother's life. A life they led long before I was ever a thought. I pass by Moppert Brothers Collison Center, a building my father bought shortly before his death, so he could grow his ever expanding auto body and insurance claims business. My brother's friend, who worked for my father over 30 years ago, works there now.


As I pull up to the intersection of Woodland and McDade, I am at a crossroads of my history. Literally. To my right sits the building that houses my father's business when he died. It is a medical supply warehouse now but it looks the same. In many ways, that intersection is a frozen moment in time.


If I were to go straight through the intersection, I would drive towards the place my brother took his last breath. Where I stood over his body trying to gather up the courage to touch him one last time. He was always stuck between those two worlds. The one on McDade and the one back in Chadds Ford.


But, instead, I have to get to Darby, so I take a left and drive through Holmes, Glenolden and Sharon Hill. I accidentally look up at a stop light and realize I am sitting next to the building where my ex-husband's aunt used to run a florist shop. I look up to the second floor apartment and remember standing over his grandmother, who had passed away in her sleep. We had come to say goodbye before they took her away. It's a hair salon now.


All the buildings look the same as they did when I was a little girl and my mother would load us in the car to visit my father at his business. Many of those buildings carry the same names. I feel like I am time traveling, except I already know what the future holds. It is bittersweet.


On my way back down McDade, I once again pass my father's shop. I pass the bar my brother traveled to from Chadds Ford to play darts during dart season. I pass my cousin's restaurant and wonder if I should stop. Would they even know who I am? The answer is no. This is my past, but it's the part of my past I never lived through. It defines me, completes me, explains me and yet it is the silent part. The part only those who have come and gone will ever know about me. It's the old soul part of me. The part I keep largely to myself but think about always. Especially, when I drive down McDade.

11 Lessons Learned from 2011

Disclaimer - I totally stole this title from another blog I stumbled upon. But it's ok because I didn't look to see what their lessons were.

I have avoided blogging lately. Not exactly sure but glad that I started again because it got the creative juices flowing. Earlier this year when I turned 40, I did the 40 Moments of My Life series of blogs which was a lesson in reflection. I had people tell me they couldn't believe I could actually come up with 40 defining moments in my life but it was quite easy. Especially when you throw in being born and learning to swim. I thought alot about if I had to add another moment for 41 and of course, it would be the loss of my mother. That's a no brainer.

But I've learned other things along the way. Although my year was largely defined by the loss of my mother, it was not wholly my story. So when I was hitting the "Next Blog" button at the top of the screen and saw 11 Lessons Learned from 2011, I thought, "Perfect!! New blog!" So here goes:

11. Life is what happens while you are busy making plans. I might as well get this one over with. I had looked so forward to turning 40 because I truly felt like my 30's had been cursed. I was wrong. It doesn't matter how old you are. Life happens. Shit happens. Death happens. Not only did I lose my mother but a friend or two along the way.

10. If you keep eating, you will gain weight. This lesson isn't exclusive to 2011 but one I have relearned along the way. Still lesson worthy.


9. Stay true to who you are. This is a tough one because I feel I have truly come into my own over the past few years. And that doesn't particularly make me the most popular gal in town. But I love liking who I am.


8. Don't believe you have nothing left to learn. My sister told me the other day, "You are always right. That's you. You know everything. (insert sarcasm)" And my first thought was, "Doesn't everyone think they are right? Why else would you say anything. Why else would you have an opinion?" And while I am incredibly opinionated, I believe wholeheartedly that every experience is a learning experience. I know I don't have all the answers. But, I do have alot of them..... ;-)

7. Laugh everyday. Again, not a new lesson but one I worked at daily in 2011. Having had the experience of feeling any moment of fleeting happiness was a betrayal in the months after my brother's death, I got back on the laughter train pretty quickly after losing my mother. Somedays were harder than others, but I don't believe there was a single day, including those days when my mother was dying, that I didn't find something to laugh about.

6. Let go of the past. Still working this one frantically but I've made substantial progress in some areas of my life. Anger takes up more space than love.

5. Find something that makes you feel good about yourself, even if you have to work at it until you get there. I was given the opportunity to teach a developmental psychology class earlier this year; something I had always wanted to do. I had exactly 3 weeks to prepare, and during the course of the semester my mother was diagnosed and died of lung cancer. My students weren't particularly interested in what I had to say and totally did not get my wicked, awesome sense of humor. There were many moments I hated of that experience. But, every now and then, something would happen and I'd make someone laugh, spark a conversation, or get someone thinking and I'd think "YES! This is why I wanted to do this!"  I'm scheduled to teach 2 classes this upcoming semester and look forward to the challenge. Although, I'll still probably bitch about it.


4. Get a massage at least once a month. Take care of yourself, even if it's only something that simple. There is so much more I need to do, but having those 60 glorious minutes every four weeks is a start. Especially, when I book the "good date" massuese!

3. The Republicans are their own worst enemies. Enough said.

2. Write down every funny thing your kid says or does. I am so glad I started compiling my list of "Maxisms" three years ago. He keeps me laughing, keeps me smiling, refocuses my life and rarely goes to sleep before 10pm. And I have no idea what I'd do without him.

1. I actually kinda really love my life. Sure, there are many things I wish were different but hey, who doesn't? My life has never been easy. It fact, I've had quite a bit of shitty stuff happen over the course of a lifetime (see My 40 Moments blogs). But I've learned so much. All of it has made me who I am. I can't come up with a single thing I need in my life that I don't already have. Sure, a few wants I can think of but NOT a single need. That's absolutely incredible when I think about it.

So, no matter how shitty the past year has been, I still find myself loving my life.....Who is this person I have become?????

Peace

Lessons from Youth Revisted

When I graduated from high school, I walked out the door and for close to 20 years, never looked back. I seemed in some respects to be running from it; wanting desperately to start anew. I'm not particularly sure why. I grew up in the same house, went to the same school, graduated with a large number of people who had known me since I looked like this:

Whatever the reason, I avoided many of the people I had come of age with like the plague. I didn't attend a single class reunion. I didn't want to revisit it. I wanted to move on.

Interestingly enough, outside of a year stint in State College, I have never lived out of the area, living most of my adult life in Kennett Square. I worked with a handful of classmates in the restaurant business, but for the most part, only kept in touch with two or three people from my childhood. That is, until now.

Yes - it started with Facebook. And believe it or not, I was a hesitant participant initially. I got on there at an urging of a friend, who had discovered it prior to all of the privacy features (although nothing really is private, is it) that it has now. We could join, lurk around on people from our past pages and seemingly never be detected. I did this, very occasionally for close to a year before I extended or accepted a single friendship. But slowly, a network developed and all of a sudden I was in touch with people I hadn't seen in 18 years. And I was kind of having fun with it.

So I went to a small reunion of a handful of loosely connected 1988 graduates a few months after my 20th reunion. It was a mixed bag. I was surprised by some, disappointed in others but entertained nonetheless. And so we went back Facebook and our lives.

About 6 months later, I lost my brother which impacted me deeply. I reevaluated absolutely every aspect of my life and made some fundamental changes in my world view. I softened on many parts of my past. I let go of other parts. I moved on with my life in a completely different way. I started to value my friendships in a way I honestly don't think I ever had. I realized that just like my family, the people who had come and gone throughout my life had had just a big of an influence as anything on what molded me into who I had become. And I'm thankful for that.

So, much to my surprise, I found myself reaching out to people from my past. I found new friends from my past. Previously peripheral people, meaning I had known them, but not really known them. They have become my friends. And I'm so grateful for that. I really am.

So, I put together a list of a somewhat loosely connected group of people from my past and suggested we get together. Which we did. And it was fun. We are not these people anymore:

We are adults, entering middle age. Living middle aged lives. Dealing with middle aged problems. But we all have one thing in common. Our youth. We were all molded by a common experience of growing up in a middle class open acreage of  Southern Chester County. Some of us started in Chadds Ford, some in Unionville, some came along later. But there we were 30 plus years later, realizing how much we knew about each other by virtue of having walked the same halls of a now ridiculously overpriced, oversized school.

And I have a few observations I'd like to point out that came to the surface last night:

1. Most of us look the same. Those grade school photos are just mini versions of our adult selves. Except you Drew. You used to look like this...

2. And not to pick on you Drew, but the bottom line is this; you will always be Andy to us.

3. It's a wonder most of us are alive after the shit we did in our teens and twenties. It's absolutely frightening that we will now have to try to teach our children what we couldn't teach ourselves until our frontal lobes had fully developed (which is after age 25 and is responsible for impulse control).

4. Most of us did the majority of our growing in our 30's. And for alot of us, our 30's sucked. It was nice to hear I was not alone on that one.

5. We spent no time on religion or politics. Instead we talked about Lymes Disease and Arthritis. And the possibility that we all really have Lymes and don't know it .

6. We figured out that all of us really never belonged to a clique with any sort of conviction. And Unionville had alot of them. Alot of us couldn't hold to tightly to any single group because at the end of the day, we wanted to go out and smoke during 10:10 break and after lunch. You needed to be comfortable hanging with the heathens to do that. So we were.

7. And speaking of heathens, according to Lauren, there were several sub groups. You had your Dead Head heathens, your Metal Head heathens and your good old regular heathens. And it seems incredibly ridiculous that any of that even came into play all of those years ago.

8. And further on the heathen subject, apparently that term is Unionville specific. In most other parts of the country, there are referred to as "Heshers". Except for in South Jersey, where my friend Wendy went to school. There, they were referred to as "Devils". And we thought we were bad.

9. I realized that I really like people. I know that sounds crazy but I am notoriously cynical. But I have found myself over the past few years, excited by the successes of those from my childhood. I want the best for the people around me. And I hope they want that for me too.

10. Last, I am happy to have reconnected with my youth. So many parts of it were hard for me.I think the hardest part of coming of age is pretending to know who you are when you have absolutely no clue. By the time you hit high school, you are a child in a grown up body, thinking you have it all figured out. It's so great to look back and see it for all it was. And laugh.

A Month of Thanks

For the last few years, at the urging of fellow facebookers, I tried to come up with at least one thing per day that I was thankful for during the entire month of November. Some days were easier than others. Today I was easily able to be thankful to come up on the curve at Longwood Gardens and see the Christmas lights on the same trees as when I was a little kid. Other days I resorted to being thankful for cereal, because quite honestly, it was the best I could come up with. Focusing on gratitude can be a difficult thing in the midst of everyday life. I have noticed my own increasing frustration with what I feel to be petty, artificially created drama. Somethings just don't matter. With that being said, its so easy to focus on what doesn't matter, instead of focusing on what does. What matters to you may not be high on my priority list. And the things I hold strong convictions about may be completely lost on you. I don't expect everyone to feel the way I do. I guess, on some days, I just wish that the way I feel didn't feel so counter to everyone else.

So its in those moments of isolation that I rely heavily on drawing from what really matters to me in life. And on some days its a really good bowl of cereal. On other days its the memory of being a little kid and seeing those Christmas lights as I come around the bend on Route One. I lit up like a little kid tonight when I saw that weeping willow twinkling the same way it has since before I can remember. I heard my own child's excitement. I realized in that moment what my mother must have felt when we drove by all of those years. And I said to Max, "I'll really miss Mom this Christmas but I know that every time we drive by here, we still have a part of her." He totally got it. And for that, I'm most thankful.

Understanding sibling loss

I swear I never intended this blog to be a dissertation on grief. In fact, when I look back on the first 8-9 months worth of posts, most are lighthearted or thoughtful pieces about life in general. But in many ways, this blog has been a reflection of my present moment and there have been alot of entries that have helped me navigate, process and walk through this thing called my life. I have had moments of vulnerability, anger and peace through the process. But the most rewarding part has been the feedback I have gotten from others; sincere thank you's that I have at times given a voice to what so many of us feel but can't say outloud. That is why I continue to do it.

So when I got the phone call this weekend from my youngest sister telling me that a family friend had passed away suddenly, at 46, I found myself living the surreal life. Bill was one of 7 siblings to our 6. Our families have been intertwined for as long as I can remember. There are multiple entanglements between our families starting back when we were all very young. They were the Hatfields to our McCoys. I know no other way to explain it. We all grew up in Chadds Ford. Old time, middle class Chadds Ford to working class parents. We both lost our fathers very young and it changed who we were as individuals and families. We loved and fought fiercely with our siblings; much to our mothers despair. After their mother fell ill with cancer, my mother felt a deep responsibility towards "those children" (though they were not actual children), many of whom she barely knew. I think we all knew, on some level, we were stuck with each other. Whether we liked it or not.

I will be honest. I did not know Bill well. But I have had long term relationships with 3 of his siblings. Bill was at my brother's funeral. He was at my mother's funeral. He loved my family. He loved his family. And that's really all I needed to know.

So in the chaos of Sunday afternoon, I stood and watched a family in grief. A grief that I truly understood. Because I had been there. I can remember feeling so incredibly alone in my grief for my brother. Because I knew no one who had gone through what I had been through. And here I was standing there, knowing exactly the depth of pain they were feeling. And that was hard to watch. Because I know how alone they feel. And I know the only way out is through it.

I have had a deep desire to physically remove the pain from each of them. As if there is something; anything I can do to take away one ounce of the hurt. There is nothing I can do. Other than tell them what I have learned in the process of losing my own brother. And this is what I learned.

-Let go of the guilt. We do not live our lives believing we will die. We live believing we will live so we say and do everything from that place. And it's okay. That's what makes life real and full.

-Know that you have done and said enough. Because you have. For every fight you had, you had another moment of laughter and joy. You did crazy shit. You have stories. He has a legacy.

-Laugh sooner rather than later. It is so easy to feel like a single moment of joy is a betrayal in the early days of your grief. But laughing is part of the grief. It's the good part.

-The loss of a sibling is one of the hardest you will ever endure. You know each others histories in a way your parents, children and spouses will never know. It is probably the most sacred of all of the relationships you will ever have. Remember that, and you will forgive yourself for feeling a pain that society doesn't really acknowledge.

-Grieve. Don't let anyone tell you when you should be done. This is probably the single most important lesson I have learned and I still struggle with it every day.

A couple of glasses of wine later...

I woke up in a foul mood. I'll admit, I've been in a foul mood for weeks, possibly months. I try to pretend I'm not but for the most part, I am. I have struggled through this thing called grief for over 2 years now; most recently one layered over the other. It has been hard. It has sucked. Some days getting out of bed is a victory in itself. I am tired. I am tired of pretending (and not doing a very good job of it) that I'm not tired. Because I have a right to be tired.

I've done so much self evaluation that I'm not sure how much more I can do without throwing up all of this information on the universe. Because "journaling" in the purest sense does not work for me. Because I journal in my head all of the time. It's my cross to bear. And that makes people uncomfortable. People don't like people who are in tune with their feelings. People really don't like people who are willing to talk about those feelings. And that kinda sucks. I have really figured out who my real friends are in the last few years. I've been surprised and disappointed. I've had to accept some people where they are at in life and have walked away from others. It's been hard.

I evolved into blogging about 6 months after my brother died and it pulled me through a very dark, dark period in my life. I compare the loss of a sibling to an amputation. I literally lost a part of myself, and I did not know how I would ever survive that. Ralph and I weren't soulmates. We were siblings. He was one of the "six kids" I referred to when people asked me how many siblings I had. Do you know what an awkward conversation that is to have once one of you has died? I assure you, its awkward. And while I don't wish that on anyone, you can not and will not understand that until you have been there. And pretending that you can is an insult. I don't want you to understand. I want you to be able to sit with it. And not run away. Or dismiss. Or compartmentalize. Because, I don't have the luxury of doing any of those things.

Those closest to me know how much the experience of losing my brother changed me. And I personally feel that it changed me for the better. I became much more comfortable in my own skin, much less concerned with what others thought and much more of who I was meant to be. And not everyone liked me but I could have cared less. My goal in life is not to have everyone like me. My goal in life is to be authentic, real, truthful and happy. And I was happy. Until my mother got sick. And then she died.

Losing my mother would have been devastating enough but it was layered on the fragile new person I had recently become. Someone I was still coming to terms with; a person who had to get comfortable with the uncomfortable. The morning of my 40th birthday I stood up to a group of entitled 18 year old college freshman who collectively argued with me about whether or not they should have to take a test the morning after the Super Bowl. I walked out of the classroom, got in my car and my phone rang. I answered it and listened as my mother sang "Happy Birthday" to me for the last time. I knew in that moment that she would never do that again and I almost lost my mind. I struggled through nearly 60 more days until she took her last breath. I went to work, I taught a class, I was a mother to my child. All while I knew my mother was dying. I don't think I am exceptional for that. I'm just willing to point out the exceptional nature of the process. Because those of you who have been there know how incredibly hard that is, and those of you who have not need to know that it is one of the hardest things you will ever do.

I am 6 months out of my mother's death. That is not very long. I have to remind myself of that on an almost daily basis. At 6 months after my brother's death, I peaked and could have very well inflicted bodily harm on a few select people in my life. 6 months is a drop in the bucket when you've talked to someone nearly daily for 40 years. And I'll admit, I am angry that there is a social expectation that I should be over it, or at the very least have the ability to compartmentalize it. Because I'm not and I can't. So screw all of you that think I'm being dramatic. Because I have spent the last 3 months feeling bad about feeling bad. The very thing that sustained me and empowered me and freed me from the grief and pain of losing my brother, which was talking about it, and writing about it, is the very thing I have felt unable to do in the last three months. I don't blame anyone for that. I think given the nature of what I've been through in the last 2 years, I have spent alot of time wondering what is socially acceptable in terms of my grief. Alot of what I learned about myself when I lost my brother was kicked to the curb in the process of coming to terms with losing my mother. I'm guessing I was this fragile and unsure of myself at this point in the process of losing my brother but its like taking 10 steps back and starting all over again. And I need to start over. And talk about it. And write about it. And not care what anyone thinks. And cling to those who are willing to sit with the pain. And not run away. Or dismiss. Or expect me to compartmentalize.

I know there are plenty of you who have been here and don't talk about it. And I don't blame you or expect that you can do this. But don't expect me not to. I don't think I'm more evolved. If anything, I worry that I'm stuck. But I know deep down that the only way for me to get through this, is to go through this. I think it has cost me friendships. But then I think what it has really done is show me who my real friends are. I have been blessed with incredible friends through this process. And as my family has in many respects fallen apart, those friendships have become the single most important part of the healing process. So if you are my friend, just stay there. You don't have to do anything spectacular. You just need to sit with me while I sit in the pain. Somedays are better than others. Just don't run away.