"Last published on May 3, 2009," and now, Saturday will mark 3 years since Alice died. In the interim, I've had fleeting moments of feeling exposed by my words here and have thought about taking the blog down. But I want L to see these passages when she knows how to read and is ready to understand more of the details of what happened to her aunt--her Auntig Alice--and how her father coped. OMG she is learning so quickly, and according to her pre-kindergarten teachers, soon she may be writing more than her name. Yes, thinking about L helps take my mind off my numbing sadness.
Although, it's hard to admit that I'm not as devastated lately. My feelings aren't as raw as they were, despair doesn't taunt everywhere I go. I am generally uncomfortable, yes. I grieve silently, mostly on my own. I haven't cried in a few months, I think because I've already cried so much.
Inside somewhere, and this is hard to admit as well, I feel good about having allowed myself to feel the true misery of Alice's death and to let it all out in the form of this blog. It's been messy, for sure. Still, I suffer most when I consider the forever part of not seeing and feeling Alice in person. Oh, Alice.
As I deal with getting older--it's true, I am--I sense momentary relief that Alice doesn't have to experience the continued indignities of losing aspects of her youth. Then I feel angry at her, and resentful that she left before we could experience the challenges together.
When I think about it, Alice seemed on her way to growing older defiantly, just the way she approached so many things in her life. She wasn't fighting maturity, yet her physical fitness and unadulterated looks suggested a kind of f`ck-you attitude towards certain expectations of how women should age. What the f`ck am I talking about, she was 36, still at the prime of her physical beauty.
By the way, this blog has a new look, for a couple of reasons. One, to say I'm still here and living life without Alice changes all the time. Two, so browsers such as Firefox don't jumble the text.
I remain missing Alice like crazy.
I'm going to go sleep more now.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
The rose for Alice
My friend Tami e-mailed me with this yesterday:
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Haig, did I ever tell you that I planted a rose bush in memory of your sister? Orange-a color to stimulate creativity. Always thought of alice as artsy. She shared and made lots of things for me in crafts class. Chose the brightest color i could find to represent her smile. Chose a rose because they're simple enough to care for and provide a lot of color all season long. But they can be a little sharp if mishandled. I cut blooms for indoors and share them with friends. Every year I get more flowers. I'm on this year's 2nd round.
Big hugs.Tami
Big hugs.Tami
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She included a beautiful photo. Then I wrote back:
-----
Hi Tami, Wow, I did not know this. You know, we look for Alice everywhere, and now we can find her in your garden, too. That color is so brilliant! It's the color of the sun, and just as bright -- thank you for sending the photo. I was smiling on the outside, and crying a bit on the inside at the same time as I read your email. Thank you, Tami. I appreciate the poignancy of their sharpness, too. Oh, Alice.
This really touches me, Tami. That you planted the rose bush, for Alice, that you share the roses, and that you told me about it. I'd like to share your e-mail with my mom. And, what would you think about my posting your email and photo on Alice's blog?...
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The day before my birthday
Sunday night I was walking the 14 blocks(!?) home from the parking garage when from the corner of my eye something in the sky caught my attention. I turned and looked over the Hudson River at the stars above New Jersey, and slowed my pace down to savor the eyeful I was taking in. The moon was the brand-newest I had ever seen, just a hair of a sliver thin, and on its back. Which is to say at first it looked like a wink. Then it looked like a smile. A gorgeous, playful smile.
"Huh," I thought. "Tomorrow is my birthday. Could this be?" And immediately I felt "yes. It must be," and I smiled back at the moon. "Thanks, Alice," I thought, considering my sister's celestial presence and how she manifests herself sometimes.
Am I projecting something here? Maybe. The fact is, when something beautiful in nature strikes me, I think of Alice. Which is not so bad; I will take what I can get.
Thank you for your playful birthday anticipation wishes, Alice.
"Huh," I thought. "Tomorrow is my birthday. Could this be?" And immediately I felt "yes. It must be," and I smiled back at the moon. "Thanks, Alice," I thought, considering my sister's celestial presence and how she manifests herself sometimes.
Am I projecting something here? Maybe. The fact is, when something beautiful in nature strikes me, I think of Alice. Which is not so bad; I will take what I can get.
Thank you for your playful birthday anticipation wishes, Alice.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
And on the 3rd birthday without her
On Alice's birthday, March 26, I left work early, and so did Peter, and we went to pick up L from school early. First we met at home and gathered our butterfly kite; we had told L we were going to fly it in the afternoon because it was Auntig Alice's birthday.
We set out for the park, and of course since it's March, it is gray and rainy, in the high 40s/low 50s. There's a new park by where we live that juts out into the Hudson River. We were sure there would be ample wind there, especially given the crappy elements.
When we arrive at school, L is sitting in a cute circle, listening to the teacher read a book before everybody goes into the gym for "gross motor skills development" aka recess. She willingly joins us, and off we head to the park. The video three posts down shows a more seamless moment in kite flying; to say, the kite set sail in fits and starts.
Afterwards, we went out to eat at the Dinosaur BBQ, then went grocery shopping. My spirits really haven't lifted, but I know as I have distance from these two somber occasions, I might feel a little lighter.
We set out for the park, and of course since it's March, it is gray and rainy, in the high 40s/low 50s. There's a new park by where we live that juts out into the Hudson River. We were sure there would be ample wind there, especially given the crappy elements.
When we arrive at school, L is sitting in a cute circle, listening to the teacher read a book before everybody goes into the gym for "gross motor skills development" aka recess. She willingly joins us, and off we head to the park. The video three posts down shows a more seamless moment in kite flying; to say, the kite set sail in fits and starts.
Afterwards, we went out to eat at the Dinosaur BBQ, then went grocery shopping. My spirits really haven't lifted, but I know as I have distance from these two somber occasions, I might feel a little lighter.
Reinventing mourning
Am I still mourning Alice's death? I am. Yet I'm getting tired of weeping for her. It doesn't move me forward anymore; crying keeps me stagnant.
I have to figure out a way to remember Alice, and not to forget her. How to live with her, and not live without her.
And I think what I have to do, is to talk with her. I need to develop a dialogue with her in my head. Which isn't easy to do, because she doesn't really answer. Yet I think that's not the point. I need to do this for myself, to comfort myself a tiny bit, and to continue to hold Alice's essence in me.
I will tell her about L's development, how L can throw over-hand, at age three! Auntig Alice would be loving L's growing athleticism. I will tell L about growing up with Auntig Alice, sift through the memories to find the good ones to share. I will tell Alice about the book proposal I'm writing, and hope she would be proud of me.
It's like, I don't know what to do with myself, otherwise. Maybe I will write some letters to her on this blog. I really believe there's something about the ubiquity of the Internet that makes it feel like it reaches the great beyond. I still miss you like crazy, Alice.
I have to figure out a way to remember Alice, and not to forget her. How to live with her, and not live without her.
And I think what I have to do, is to talk with her. I need to develop a dialogue with her in my head. Which isn't easy to do, because she doesn't really answer. Yet I think that's not the point. I need to do this for myself, to comfort myself a tiny bit, and to continue to hold Alice's essence in me.
I will tell her about L's development, how L can throw over-hand, at age three! Auntig Alice would be loving L's growing athleticism. I will tell L about growing up with Auntig Alice, sift through the memories to find the good ones to share. I will tell Alice about the book proposal I'm writing, and hope she would be proud of me.
It's like, I don't know what to do with myself, otherwise. Maybe I will write some letters to her on this blog. I really believe there's something about the ubiquity of the Internet that makes it feel like it reaches the great beyond. I still miss you like crazy, Alice.
The nature of missing Alice.
As Alice's birthday was just on Thursday--you can see how we spent it in the video below--I've been thinking alot about her, and missing her, too.
It's an incredibly confusing, and heartbreaking experience. When she was living, Alice would unnerve me readily; she would anger me; she easily antagonized me; she would attack me; she belittled me. I know that I have also written of the tender moments I shared with Alice, and of her beautiful and loving characteristics, so writing about these harsher attributes is balanced. So when I yearn for Alice, am I wishing for the turmoil?
No, not at all.
And this is where it's so very confusing. I miss the Alice I was always hoping to know, the Alice who accepted me as I was, the Alice who accepted herself as she was. I miss the Alice of the future. How incomprehensible is that? She was going to graduate with her master's degree, she was starting anew in San Diego, and everything was coming up f`cking roses in her life. It seemed. I'll never f`cking know. Was she going to mellow out? There was hope, which will not be realized.
I wish I had more time with her. She vanished from my grasp too quickly.
It's an incredibly confusing, and heartbreaking experience. When she was living, Alice would unnerve me readily; she would anger me; she easily antagonized me; she would attack me; she belittled me. I know that I have also written of the tender moments I shared with Alice, and of her beautiful and loving characteristics, so writing about these harsher attributes is balanced. So when I yearn for Alice, am I wishing for the turmoil?
No, not at all.
And this is where it's so very confusing. I miss the Alice I was always hoping to know, the Alice who accepted me as I was, the Alice who accepted herself as she was. I miss the Alice of the future. How incomprehensible is that? She was going to graduate with her master's degree, she was starting anew in San Diego, and everything was coming up f`cking roses in her life. It seemed. I'll never f`cking know. Was she going to mellow out? There was hope, which will not be realized.
I wish I had more time with her. She vanished from my grasp too quickly.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
And another anniversary
Today marks two and a half years since Alice died. After reading Christina's comments, I felt that I couldn't go to bed without writing something about this milestone. Two things come to mind.
The loss of Alice is so very hard to hold on to. Part of me wishes to wipe this from my consciousness, yet another part doesn't know how to continue working with the grief and yearning. These last few days I've been walking around like a zombie, feeling a cold emptiness inside.
The second thing is connected to a lecture about parenting I attended earlier in the month. The speaker said that when you try to make sure your child is happy all of the time, the message you're sending them is that the only valid life is a seamless one. In her death, Alice taught me very clearly that I don't have a seamless life, and thus, neither does L. Accidents happen, death happens, sorrow happens. So I know not to fuss with smaller problems, and I have Alice to thank for this.
And L has her Auntig Alice to thank for this.
The loss of Alice is so very hard to hold on to. Part of me wishes to wipe this from my consciousness, yet another part doesn't know how to continue working with the grief and yearning. These last few days I've been walking around like a zombie, feeling a cold emptiness inside.
The second thing is connected to a lecture about parenting I attended earlier in the month. The speaker said that when you try to make sure your child is happy all of the time, the message you're sending them is that the only valid life is a seamless one. In her death, Alice taught me very clearly that I don't have a seamless life, and thus, neither does L. Accidents happen, death happens, sorrow happens. So I know not to fuss with smaller problems, and I have Alice to thank for this.
And L has her Auntig Alice to thank for this.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday in March
It's Friday night in March, and I'm sitting here crying. I've felt somber since the beginning of the month; March has become a difficult time to live through. The 19th marks the half-year anniversary of Alice's death, and the 26th is her birthday, of course. I've blocked out the 26th on my calendar already, I'll fly a kite for Alice that day.
I'm struck by grief and disbelief as I turn and look at our photos displayed of Alice with L. How is it possibly possible that I may never see Alice again? Talk to her again? When I think in these terms, I get a sharp pain in my gut that also asks how is it possible that I may never give Alice the silent treatment again? There are ways in which I was really sh`tty to her. Oh f`ck. I can hear her say, in what once was the recent past, "you act as if you don't even have a sister anymore."
More tears.
And so this is how it goes when my sister of 35 years dies suddenly and I'm left to struggle with her dire absence for the rest of my life, visiting her birthday and anniversaries year in and year out.
Well, I suppose these sad milestones ensure that I don't forget her. As if
I'm struck by grief and disbelief as I turn and look at our photos displayed of Alice with L. How is it possibly possible that I may never see Alice again? Talk to her again? When I think in these terms, I get a sharp pain in my gut that also asks how is it possible that I may never give Alice the silent treatment again? There are ways in which I was really sh`tty to her. Oh f`ck. I can hear her say, in what once was the recent past, "you act as if you don't even have a sister anymore."
More tears.
And so this is how it goes when my sister of 35 years dies suddenly and I'm left to struggle with her dire absence for the rest of my life, visiting her birthday and anniversaries year in and year out.
Well, I suppose these sad milestones ensure that I don't forget her. As if
Thursday, January 22, 2009
She once was a true love of mine
Can I say that about my sister? Well, it's true. Except the "once was" part, actually. I do still love Alice; and I know she loves me too.
To me, Alice was a rock star, and I was her adoring fan. It's part of what makes living without her so sad and so difficult. Have I said this already? I feel like I have. It's been resonating in me lately.
The pretty melody and words of the Simon and Garfunkel song make me think of her. The images of USC from The Graduate also take me back.
To me, Alice was a rock star, and I was her adoring fan. It's part of what makes living without her so sad and so difficult. Have I said this already? I feel like I have. It's been resonating in me lately.
The pretty melody and words of the Simon and Garfunkel song make me think of her. The images of USC from The Graduate also take me back.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Gumball machine
When I was 17 or so, I got a gumball machine for my bedroom. While I was living in Cerritos, I kept it stocked with colorful gumballs. From time to time I'd put in a penny and enjoy a sugary orb, and Alice did the same.Then I moved away to college and maintained the contents less regularly, although I know I filled it at least once during my college years. Once I moved out of my mom's house, I stopped refilling the machine because it was no longer a priority.
It had a sufficient quantity of gum, though, and Alice continued to put in her coins and chew the fun bubblegum. Between her frequent visits with my mother, as well as her on-again off-again residence in my mom's house, she slowly went through all the gum in the machine.
During a recent visit, I felt a pang of pain, and yearning as I saw through the glass container, its belly totally empty. It tore me up inside, I felt regret that I hadn't refilled the machine recently so that Alice could partake in gum-chewing, and think of me, more easily.
Tears spill out of my eyes as I think of the momentary glee she might have felt, and instead, the disappointment she must have met the last couple of times she went by my room looking for a gumball.
In the end she probably consumed more gum than I did. Alice really knew how to savor some of life's little pleasures.
Scars
I was staring at L today, not an uncommon experience because she's so easy to look at, and I thought about the scar underneath her left eye. String, our cat, scratched her about two and a half years ago, and now there's a mark that will likely vanish over time.
It made me think about my forearms, and how they used to be covered in scabs -- not from scratches and pinches from our cat, but from Alice. Between the ages of 4 and 14 -- and I don't have to say who was which age because we were so close -- we frequently got into fights over something, or anything. At the time I bit my nails, and she didn't. Neither did she seem to cut them. When we fought, she easily dug her fingertips into the flesh of my arms, leaving skin hanging, and sometimes blood dripping.
During those years, the color of the skin on my arms blended into a nearly even brown, the shade of scabs becoming scars. And now as I look, and look, for Alice, I look down on my arms and see that my scars have healed. The visible scars, at least.
The one glaring scar on my existence has yet to heal. Meanwhile I can longingly remember the pinches and scratches that marked my childhood with Alice.
It made me think about my forearms, and how they used to be covered in scabs -- not from scratches and pinches from our cat, but from Alice. Between the ages of 4 and 14 -- and I don't have to say who was which age because we were so close -- we frequently got into fights over something, or anything. At the time I bit my nails, and she didn't. Neither did she seem to cut them. When we fought, she easily dug her fingertips into the flesh of my arms, leaving skin hanging, and sometimes blood dripping.
During those years, the color of the skin on my arms blended into a nearly even brown, the shade of scabs becoming scars. And now as I look, and look, for Alice, I look down on my arms and see that my scars have healed. The visible scars, at least.
The one glaring scar on my existence has yet to heal. Meanwhile I can longingly remember the pinches and scratches that marked my childhood with Alice.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saying Good-bye
I had a dream two nights ago. I was walking, kidding around good-naturedly with my friend Giuseppe, and then it was time for us to part ways. As I was getting ready to say good-bye, he turned into Alice. And in a momentarily satisfying way, I got to say good-bye to her.
I never got to say good-bye to Alice, in reality. In f`cked-up reality. That's something I just didn't get, as our life stories go. And I have to live with that. I can dream it, and I'll take that, but the hopelessness of never exchanging a final word haunts me, still today.
I, I, I. This is all about me, selfish me. Yet I am all I have to plumb and work to maintain a relationship with Alice in the present. I know I need to look more forward than back, for L's sake, yet the future doesn't hold Alice. To be with her is to invoke the past.
I continue to struggle here.
I never got to say good-bye to Alice, in reality. In f`cked-up reality. That's something I just didn't get, as our life stories go. And I have to live with that. I can dream it, and I'll take that, but the hopelessness of never exchanging a final word haunts me, still today.
I, I, I. This is all about me, selfish me. Yet I am all I have to plumb and work to maintain a relationship with Alice in the present. I know I need to look more forward than back, for L's sake, yet the future doesn't hold Alice. To be with her is to invoke the past.
I continue to struggle here.
She gives good cheek
Alice would want to know this: When L wants to express love to you, to give you comfort, she extends her cheek to you. To me, at least. She rubs her cheek against mine, offers it for a kiss, and for a moment everything is OK in the world. This part of her is so soft, so tender, she must know the power she holds in her cheeks!
Yes, and now that it's written here, my living family members can know how L gives good cheek.
Yes, and now that it's written here, my living family members can know how L gives good cheek.
Strands of hair stuck to her face
We're slipping into 2009, another New Year's we'll be experiencing without Alice. I started to write "another New Year's that Alice won't be experiencing" -- and I just don't know which is more significant. So as I think about this year turning into next, I am remembering a moment from a couple of months ago.
It was morning, and I was running late for work. I needed to help L get dressed, take her to school, and be on my way. I had about 15 minutes to do what would typically take 35. So I thought I'd take a short cut and rather than facilitate L dressing herself, I would dress her.
After a fair amount of cajoling and wrestling and getting her clothes on, we struggled to put on her socks while she was still on the bed. By this point, we were both fatigued, and I just wanted to leave the house. I put her up on the changing station we used when she was younger, and she started crying, largely out of frustration. She wanted to put the socks on herself, yet we were getting later by the minute.
As I was fussing with getting her toes into her socks, I looked up at her, and saw about 6 strands of hair mixed with tears stuck to her cheek. In a flash I was reminded of Alice; I lost control and started bawling.
The thought that kept running through my mind was "I saw Alice one too many times like this when we were younger. Why was she forever in pain?" I could see Alice, unhappy, crying, with hair stuck to her face in the way it happens when your hurt is too great to focus on anything like your appearance.
I couldn't stop crying. I ran into the bathroom to hide my tears from L and she immediately called out, desperately "Hairig!" So I returned to her and explained that I was thinking about Auntig Alice, and that it wasn't L's fault I was crying. I told her I was very sad as I thought about her aunt.
A moment earlier L had stopped shedding tears; my outburst overrode hers. (Note to self: Next time she's howling, just howl louder? Actually that's not the answer.) I couldn't stop weeping, the kind that exercised my stomach muscles, for several more minutes. I was so sad, wondering "why couldn't Alice have had a happier childhood? Why was she the one to cry first, and the most? Why did we allow her to be a target of our family's aggressions?" I cried some more, until I regained composure.
L gave me a hug, and a kiss, and allowed me to put her shoes on. That lightened me. I got dressed, and we left the house, spent from a trying morning. I got to my first appointment 20 minutes late, yet nothing could get in the way of my grief for losing my sister.
It was morning, and I was running late for work. I needed to help L get dressed, take her to school, and be on my way. I had about 15 minutes to do what would typically take 35. So I thought I'd take a short cut and rather than facilitate L dressing herself, I would dress her.
After a fair amount of cajoling and wrestling and getting her clothes on, we struggled to put on her socks while she was still on the bed. By this point, we were both fatigued, and I just wanted to leave the house. I put her up on the changing station we used when she was younger, and she started crying, largely out of frustration. She wanted to put the socks on herself, yet we were getting later by the minute.
As I was fussing with getting her toes into her socks, I looked up at her, and saw about 6 strands of hair mixed with tears stuck to her cheek. In a flash I was reminded of Alice; I lost control and started bawling.
The thought that kept running through my mind was "I saw Alice one too many times like this when we were younger. Why was she forever in pain?" I could see Alice, unhappy, crying, with hair stuck to her face in the way it happens when your hurt is too great to focus on anything like your appearance.
I couldn't stop crying. I ran into the bathroom to hide my tears from L and she immediately called out, desperately "Hairig!" So I returned to her and explained that I was thinking about Auntig Alice, and that it wasn't L's fault I was crying. I told her I was very sad as I thought about her aunt.
A moment earlier L had stopped shedding tears; my outburst overrode hers. (Note to self: Next time she's howling, just howl louder? Actually that's not the answer.) I couldn't stop weeping, the kind that exercised my stomach muscles, for several more minutes. I was so sad, wondering "why couldn't Alice have had a happier childhood? Why was she the one to cry first, and the most? Why did we allow her to be a target of our family's aggressions?" I cried some more, until I regained composure.
L gave me a hug, and a kiss, and allowed me to put her shoes on. That lightened me. I got dressed, and we left the house, spent from a trying morning. I got to my first appointment 20 minutes late, yet nothing could get in the way of my grief for losing my sister.
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