Surprise at the Cemetery

During my recent sojourn in California, I was intent on visiting Alice's gravesite. Wow, it sucked hard to write that, "Alice's gravesite." When again did that happen? And what the f`ck happened, exactly? Also, why? In some ways I'm still beside myself in shock, and yet this trip to Rose Hills didn't feel the same as past visits.

Exiting the 605 freeway, I saw a couple of flower peddlers along the road, and through the passenger window I looked carefully at their bouquets. I wanted to buy one, but they had carnations among the flora, and Alice didn't like carnations. They were too pedestrian, not special enough. She inherited this sentiment from our mom. So instead I went to the shop outside the cemetery gates, selected a diverse assortment of stems, and asked for an arrangement to be made. It turned out pretty.

I was going to commune with Alice, solitarily, and try to feel her presence. When I arrived in the general vicinity of her burial site, it took me several minutes to locate her tombstone. What relief I felt when I finally found it. In a true surprise, there were fresh flowers already in the container at the foot of her grave. I took a picture, above. I thought of a couple of people who may have been there the week of March 7, but I couldn't be sure. I was touched that someone was thinking of Alice, right alongside me.

In terms of communicating with her, vocally all I could muster was "oh, Alice." I reflected on how life has changed since September 2006, and imagined beaming these thoughts up to the heavens so she could hear me.

I thought I would cry, but I didn't. Over time I've come to know Alice as not being alive, and that thought is rather matter of fact inside me, it can't be argued. It's been there for four and a half years now.

So I sat on the grass for 20 minutes or so, and took in the blue sky, the rolling hills, and the lush grass all around. It was almost pleasant, I hadn't had this kind of warm solitude for many months. I reflected on how I had Alice to thank for this moment. Which is totally tragic, and I'm back to how f`cked up her death is in the world.

Later that weekend, I videotaped a short interview with my mom about her upbringing, for posterity. During the conversation she referenced Alice, and how nobody ever thinks of her. I asked how she knew this? She said if whoever is thinking of Alice doesn't tell my mom, then they're not thinking of her. How plainly ridiculous, I thought. People can think personal thoughts and not share them with anybody; this doesn't mean their thoughts don't exist.

And still, I knew well my mom's wish to know the comfort of other people's memories of Alice. I suggested we had to look harder to know that people still remember Alice.

The flowers at Rose Hills are a perfect example.

A picture of both bouquets side by side, as I left the grassy knoll, above left.

Free Ways

Driving in Los Angeles on a recent visit to California, I was struck by how much life there is on the freeway. When I lived there, I took it for granted--along with everybody else--that the freeways were actually free, meaning you don't have to pay a toll to get on or off them.

On these roads was where Alice felt the most free.  In whatever cute car she drove, she would freely crank up the volume on her stereo, force her foot onto the accelerator and speed through the state's arteries to her destination.

And while most people drive in solitude like Alice often did, I saw an inter-connectedness among drivers on the highway that I never felt before this visit. Every person at the wheel is aware of her place in the lane, and must pay close attention to the location of other vehicles around her, to the extent that everybody is doing this dance of merging into different lanes, changing speed, accommodating others while moving closer to where they're headed. Driving can actually feel social in this way. 

So I'm struck, so to speak, that Alice died on the freeway, amidst so much life on the roads. She was a social California girl, so it's poignant that way.

This post is feeling kind of heady to me, a little less heartrending, going on 5 years of her physical absence in my life. So moves my grief, upward through my body.

I was talking with my father at one point during this visit, and he said, "She crashed two cars." I was reminded that Alice did crash my father's beloved 1974 beige Dodge Colt, right outside of our high school circa 1988. Plus the totaling of her damn Jeep makes two wrecks. We then talked about what a terrible driver she was.

"I miss her," he concluded.

Image of the Los Angeles freeway via

It's true in real life too.

I had a dream last night. It was winter and really cold, which is true in real life, and I was completely down about it. See, dreams can totally come true.

I was in a bleak room, with crumbling walls painted muted yellow, and I was working at a concrete table, while really missing Alice. I was yearning for her, feeling her absence, and having difficulty once again tolerating my loss, when she made herself present to me. I couldn't see her, or actually hear her voice, yet from inside my mind, like to my soul, she said "I promise to be with you for the rest of your life."

How relieved and heartened I was to hear this statement! It was new, and profound, that she was expending energy to push this message to me. Since her death, our communication has really been one-sided, as in I reach out to her. This time, she totally reached out to me, made herself known, and expressed the fact that she will always be with me. I took it somewhat literally, that she will fade once I perish. Yet thinking about it now, I believe she will continue to live on in the people whose lives I will have touched. True?

When I awoke, my eyes were soaking wet, and my heart ached from crying. It was also buoyed a little, having been in touch with Alice overnight. In real life.

Hooray! The Return of S.A.D.

The sun rose this morning at 7:18am, and will set (not much) later at 4:52pm. It's 30 degrees outside, and the weather report says it feels like 19. Tonight's expected to be -1 degree. Yesterday I didn't step outside once. Friday I woke up at 7:30am, still tired after after having gone to bed the night before at 7:30pm. So this California boy is feeling cold, and ravaged by Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.).

And this is all good news! I haven't really felt the impact of S.A.D. since Alice died, so all the fatigue and doldrums suggest I'm no longer grieving for Alice. Rather, I have the wherewithal lately to be beaten down by nature's wintertime darkness. Terrific, no?

This is how life goes on after the death of my sister. If I were to call her today, I imagine she'd admonish me for living in such a harsh environment, impatiently wondering why I would ever do such a thing.

Then she'd encourage us to come visit her in California.  That's what we're planning to do in February, Alice.

How Year 4 Went

1,461 days after Alice died, which is to say on the 4-year anniversary of her death, I feel pain, and sadness, and I miss my sister. What's remarkable to me is I haven't cried at all. Will that change before I go to bed? It seems unlikely.

Did time do this? Is it a matter of spilling enough tears over the years?

Like many experiences in the aftermath of losing Alice, I struggle to accept the dry-eyed nature of this anniversary. At the same time, I marvel at how Alice's energy continues to permeate the world.  She brought Sophie and me together today.

Shopping at Miller's Outpost

This is the last dream I'm going to recount for now. I feel compelled to write dreams down because they can slip through my fingers so easily, like sand.

I was at the mall with Alice and a bunch of her friends, and while the store interior looked like Nordstrom's in the Los Cerritos Center, I sensed it was Miller's Outpost, today known as Anchorblue. Alice was charming the sales staff, which was helpful because there was limited inventory.  One of the salespeople was willing to call other stores for us to see if they had a certain size of an item in stock. I attributed this willingness to Alice's charisma, of which she had plenty.

Dammit, in the dream I knew that being with her was temporary, that this afternoon together was a gift, and soon she would be leaving forever. Giddily on our way out of the store, I hugged Alice from behind and said very clearly, and earnestly to her, "I love you so much, Alice." I could hear in my own voice how I meant every syllable, and that I hadn't expressed this to her so forthrightly, ever. I often walked on eggshells with Alice, never knowing how her emotional disposition would change, so it was difficult to be generally up front with her.

It felt so good to tell her what I was feeling for her. And as we came outside, the warmth in my heart was met by the Southern California sun.

[Image via]

Telling dream

I had a dream about a month ago--oh, another dream about Alice. She wasn't in this one, unfortunately.

At my mother's home, I was in the downstairs bathroom putting some of Alice's polish on my nails. Using the brush to apply an even coat, I was thinking that it had been a long time since we were in contact. I felt that I should call her to let her know simply that I'm thinking of her; she would appreciate knowing this.

That was basically the dream.

The nail polish object is residual from L's classroom, where I recently saw a group discussion chronicled on newsprint. The heading was "skin care" or "nail care," and next to "nail polish" it said "mostly girls wear that!"Clearly this stuck with me; I'm not one who typically wears the stuff.

Today, if I close my eyes, I can imagine that I just haven't connected with Alice in a long time, that we're in the midst of one of our frequent dry spells. Soon we'll reunite and it'll be good again to be with her.

As if.

There isn't a word for it.

When someone's spouse dies, the survivor is called a widow or widower. There are cultural norms in place in our society where we look after the well-being of widowers and widows. I think of the widows of firemen who perished on 9-11-2001. Their loss is staggering, and many rallied for them and offered multiple forms of support.

When a close sibling dies, it can feel like the death of a spouse. Yet what's the survivor called? There isn't a word for it, I don't think. Next of kin? Surviving family member? These terms don't quite capture what "widow" evokes.

Not to compare whose grief is more immense, yet our language and culture don't have a word to describe the unique kind of loss a close sibling experiences. The sense of emptiness, the yearning, the broken material connection are all similar.

You have any suggestions?

Alice's light

I continue to think about Alice, and my relationship with her, and try to make sense of it, looking for resolution somewhere in the details. I was thinking alot about her over the Memorial Day holiday, so much so that I couldn't bring myself to write. A few days later, I have the clarity I need.

It's becoming hard to understand that she died almost 4 years ago. To see 2006 in the title of this blog makes the experience of losing her seem dated, and while I feel distance from the initial shock of her death, the realness and permanence remain fresh.

What I want to say here is how taken I am by the light that exudes from the pictures I have of Alice. Just see above, which is even a little blurry. It astonishes me, really, how bright the light radiates from her photographs, in ways I haven't seen from others.

Does she continue to live through these pictures? I don't think so, yet I can virtually feel her presence when I look at them.

At Ichiumi

A short while ago a friend and I met for dinner at this buffet(!) restaurant in midtown called IchiUmi. Can you imagine all you can eat sushi, sashimi, crab legs, oysters, shrimp cocktail and DESSERT in Manhattan? It's not cheap, nor is it overpriced, and this was our second visit.

My friend had placed a pancake-like pastry on her plate, and while we were shoveling, er, delicately tasting the last course, I pointed to her pancake and said "I want to know how that is."

She was silent, then looked sad. "What?" I said.

"I thought you said, 'I want to hug Alice.'"

I-want-to-know-how-that-is. I-want-to-hug-Alice. I totally hear it.

I was touched by how tuned-in my friend was with me, and how true her statement was. It was an intimate exchange.

Feeling morose for the moment, I got up and took another dessert from the smorgasbord.

Girls in Their Summer Clothes

With Memorial Day behind us, summer's here, and this weekend I heard a song on the radio that's all about summertime.

It made me think immediately of Alice.

"Girls in Their Summer Clothes" is a song by Bruce Springsteen I had never heard before -- have you? It's from the 2007 album called Magic.

Bruce's voice is wistful and it's as if he's singing about Alice, who loved to wear short shorts and mini-skirts, even on the rare occasion she went to church!

I don't love the video, yet you get to hear the song nicely. It has a pretty melody, and I'm grateful to be reminded of Alice in her essence:  a California girl in summer clothes.

Dreams I'll Take

Last night I had a dream in which Alice was present. It was connected to reality, in that we've been working to give away some of L's belongings that she no longer uses.
In my dream, we uncovered a doll house on which Alice had written some prose. I saw the writing and said "Don't throw that out!" Alice was standing over my shoulder, and thought it was a stupid idea. She couldn't understand my desire to hold on to whatever I can of her.

4th Birthday Celebration Without Her

In 2007, on Alice's birthday Peter and I flew a butterfly kite in Central Park. It was difficult because there weren't many open clearings in which to fly a kite, so we found a patch of tree-less dirt and competed for space with the light posts and school-age soccer players.  In 2008 we went to Riverbank State Park and were told there's no kite flying in State parks. The park ranger pointed to some grass in the distance and said the area is technically "city park," so L, Peter and I headed there and flew the butterfly kite and remembered Alice. In 2009, the 3 of us went to the new park--I still don't know its name--across from the Fairway parking lot and adjacent to Riverside Park. You can watch L fly the butterfly kite here.

And so, in 2010, we returned to the park by Fairway and re-enacted what has become a ritual, see video above. The butterfly flutters in the wind, which is soothing to watch. It was cold and damp again, yet at least there was wind to facilitate kite flight.

What was hard for me about Alice's absence on her 40th birthday was the reality that I'm getting older, too. Yes, we will not see Alice turn 40, 50 or 60 and beyond, and age is creeping up on me, in the meantime, as well. Alice's death reminds me that I need to look more closely at the meaning in my own life.

Fighting with Alice

Often I mirror L's affect as a way to connect with her. For example, if she has a furrowed brow, I'll furrow my eyebrows so she might see her self in me. It's playful, and sometimes it's the only way I know how to engage.

A few weekends ago, she was angry and tense, and she hit me. For a moment I met her where she was and grabbed her wrists. She is so strong, and we struggled physically for about 2.5 seconds.

That was all I needed to have a real visceral, physical memory of fighting with Alice. Between the ages of 3 and 25(!), I would try to stop her from hitting, scratching or pinching me, while trying to hit, scratch and pinch her. And she would be doing exactly the same relative to me.

As an adult now in this moment with L, I had the experience of the intimate connection it takes to fight physically with someone. You need to be attuned with them, second by second, and it's a f`cked-up way of bonding, actually.

I snapped out of it and saw myself with L and not with Alice. I got so sad thinking that the way Alice and I knew to connect was through violence. I miss feeling that connection with her, even through pain.

Tomorrow marks exactly 3 and a half years since she died. My life continues; my absence from this blog suggests that I've gone on. Have I? The grief isn't as raw as it once was; it's only intermittently hard to exist without her.

Everybody's Business

It feels like a really long time since I last posted here, and it kills me to think I may give the impression that I don't think about Alice anymore. While the pain of losing my sister isn't so much at the forefront of my existence these days, my relationship with her lives deeper inside of me. I still get sad, much more often than I did before she died, yet I am also moving forward in fits and starts.

Now, the time has come for me to announce something I've considered doing for quite some time: I'm starting a new blog. It's called "It's Everybody's Business" and I'm writing it for gay, lesbian and bi folks -- as well as their allies -- about being out at work. I'm a career counselor and this is something I care about, and the subject hasn't been covered in the way I'd like to see it. The tagline is "The complexities of revealing your true, gay self at work." The url is everybodysbusiness.org

Alicechahinian.blogspot.com will remain online, and I will post as I feel like it. Yet in the spirit of moving forward, I am working to direct my energy to this new professional venture. If you think it's worthwhile, I hope you'll let people know about it.

In her death, Alice helps me. She inspired this blog, which prompted me to develop my blogging chops. Now I am integrating what I know about blogging into my professional work, and in a f`cked up way I have Alice to thank for this. So thank you Alice. I still miss you every day. I hope to see you at everybodysbusiness.org.