small necklace at small things
I have fallen in love with the wee bee. -- 2005.06.30 -- 20:15 | © 2001-2003 Stacey Waspe

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I never knew I was a lucky person.

I now have a deep understanding of how lucky I am. Lucky to have all sorts of wonderful people in my life. Incredibly kind, caring people who have stood by me and supported me through these past weeks. I feel unworthy and very grateful. Co-workers, friends, family, the BF, my cat Teagan, even strangers: you are are all amazing creatures. I feel like I will never ever be able to repay any of this.

It seems like helping someone through grief isn't the easiest task. Many of you keep asking me what I need. And even though I keep saying, "I don't know," maybe deep down I have some sense of what will bring me a little bit of peace.

It's hard for me to say these things to each of you, especially if I am already feeling raw or unglued. I hope you'll bear with me and refer back to this over the coming months. I reserve the right to make changes. I've never gone through anything like this before. Don't misunderstand me - I have grieved. I have lost people I've loved. But this time is different. This hurt runs so deep. Deeper than I could have ever possibly imagined.

A sibling is the closest most of us have to a twin, the closest most of us have to ourselves, separate yet the same, almost like a clone. Losing a sibling is like losing a part of yourself. It's as if a chunk of me is missing. There is a hole and it is raw and sore. I have been fundamentally changed, deeply wounded, by Terry's death. I worry about myself and I worry about my family. We have never weathered a storm like this. And so we as a family have also been altered. We will never be what we would have become had we not lost my brother. There is a wound there too. I run back and forth to put salve on the wounds but I am so tired.

All of us are who we are because of our experiences. As much as I have tried to pretend it is not the case, this too will shape me. And so I am grieving too for the me that I might have become had I not lost my 29-year-old brother at the age of 32.

So I when I say I don't know how you can help, say "yeah, yeah" and think of these things:

1. I need you to be kind to me. I am very fragile, like I might break at any moment. Communication might be hard. We may misunderstand one another. Please be gentle. Hugs are welcome.
2. I need you to be forgiving. I am on edge, full of frantic, spastic energy and I am prone to snap or peel my face off, revealing the monster within. Though grief is no excuse for rudeness, please don't feel that I am mad at you. If you are confused as to what's going on, or if you think I'm being unfair or mean, call me on it. (Gently.)
3. I need you warn me when I'm shutting you out. Don't let me. It's one of my many talents, though not one I am keen to hone. Call me. Visit. Send emails or text messages. Remind me that you're out there.
4. I need you to figure out how to help me grieve. Do research. Read a book. It's all I can do to manage my own grief, keep living day-to-day and worry about my family. I can't tell you how to help me. Because I don't really know.
5. I need you to keep trying. If what you're doing doesn't seem to be helping, try something new. What works at one moment is not likely to work the next.
6. I need you to motivate me to take my physical and emotional health seriously. It's very hard for me to do much more than drift right now. I am aimless, without willpower. It's hard for me to put myself first when I feel so much pressure from work and family and life in general. It's easy for me to skip yoga, eat sporadically and eat things that are not part of my regular regime. Once I start, it's very hard to stop. (Stupid bread.) Help me be nice to myself.
7. I need you to tell me it's OK to spend money on therapy and yoga and massages. Remind me it's not forever. I don't need to be encouraged to buy books and music and clothing, since I'm trying not to do that right now. But I'm feeling guilty about needing to see an RMT and going to yoga classes, even though I know my body needs it.
8. I need you to feel like you can say anything around me. Don't be afraid. You can bring up the fact that my brother is dead. We can talk about it. I think sometimes you think that we should talk about it, but you decide that I don't want to if I don't bring it up. I know it's hard to approach the subject directly and confidently with a gentle touch. I trust that you are able to do it, but I also I know that you're learning.
9. I need you to treat me like an adult, not a child. I am a grown woman, albeit a grieving one. I may need to be comforted like a child, I may act like a dumbass, but don't forget who I am. I will make mistakes, I will be forgetful, I will lose things. But I don't really need to be berated or reminded of my shortcomings. I am doing that very well on my own. (Damn squirrels.)
10. I need you to listen. I may cry and you may not be able to understand my words. But they need to be said. I need to get them out. Be patient.
11. I need you to help me be emotional around you. It's hard for me to express emotions in front of people, especially those whose opinion matters most. I've always felt emotions to be embarrassing. Don't let me keep them inside.
12. And even though it's unrealistic, and not something that you can really help with, I really need to win the lottery. Money cannot buy happiness, but it can certainly help you look better when you feel like hell. And it would be so nice to have the summer off.

I'm going to guess from the note that you left on the washing machine that Monday was a very bad day for you. I can sympathize; I've had my fair share of them myself lately.

I'm going to take this opportunity to give you some friendly advice. In a 10 floor apartment building with 15 odd apartments per floor, and only 4 washers and 4 dryers, at some point you can guarantee that someone will take your laundry out of the washing machine or dryer. Especially when you don't show up promptly to take it out. It's going to happen. It's happened to me. It's happened to other people who live here. And it's going to happen to you. More than once.

Now, don't get me wrong. It's not like I live to take someone else's wet clothes out of the washing machine. I'm sure it's a fetish of some, just not one of mine.

In fact, when I first started living in buildings with shared laundry facilities, it presented a bit of a problem for me. But trust Ann Landers to set me straight. I remember reading a column on just this topic when I was in university. And Ann said it was OK, provided that you just picked up the laundry and moved it. Folding the laundry, she said, was going too far. Still, even with Ann's blessing, I've only ever done it a handful of times. Because I don't like to do it. And because most people are quick enough so that I don't have to.

Generally, regardless of how much of a hurry I'm in, I've give everyone a good 10 minute window. When I went to do some laundry on Monday, I knew that I really needed to get at least one load done, since it had been really hot and none of my clothes could stand to be worn another day. (Been way too busy being out of town or staying with the BF or generally doing the "grief" thing to actually do laundry.) Having discovered that all washers were taken, I set about sorting my laundry to wait for the "owner" of two washers to claim their orphaned clothes. The task took me about 6 or 7 minutes.

Now, I know your laundry was done well before that, because not only were the machines done spinning when I walked in the door, but the timers had even reset themselves. (Which means I wasn't the first person wanting to do a bit of laundry that had popped open the lid to take a peek at your scary animal print panties.)

To be nice, I took my sweet time sorting my clothes. I even had a "pink" pile. I debated what had to get washed and then decided to do just one load, rather than two. I placed your wet laundry on the other machine that I'm sure was also yours. (Again, the panties gave it away.) I even left the loonie that I found in the washer with your clothes, because it wasn't mine and I am neither a mean girl nor a thief.

I can see how being a princess and all, you might have been shocked that someone would be so rude as to do what I did. Clearly you've always had your own washer and dryer and never had to share in your entire life, so I can see how this kind of behaviour would come as a surprise. And so, after reading the note that you were so kind as to leave on the washing machine, even though I wanted to peel my face off and throttle you until your teeth rattled out of your head, I calmed down and forgave you. Granted, it took about an hour and one call to the BF. (Sorry, honey.) After all, I thought to myself, maybe you've had a couple of months like I've had and every little thing freaks you right out. Throws you off your game. I totally understand.

But then you had to go and take the crumpled note out of the garbage (sorry that I didn't cherish it enough to keep it the first time), attempt to smooth it out and leave it for me again. That's when I really started to get angry. It's only now that I'm starting to see the humour in all of this. I mean, really. It's just laundry. (Think about how I feel. I had to touch your skanky panties.)

Oh and just in case you didn't know, "You are incredibly rude to take someone else's personal out" isn't actually a sentence. I can only guess that you were so embarrassed about your panties, it negatively affected your grammar.

There's been a dead man living in my apartment for nearly 6 weeks. He doesn't say much, but I know he's there. The signs are subtle -- you just have to know how to look for them. Truthfully, I've been trying hard to see them, through squinted eyes, while half asleep. Sometimes I see something out of the corner of my eye. That's usually the first sign. It was somewhat a relief when I started noticing the little things out of place: the sliding door open when I'd left it closed, the closet door closed when I'd left for work in a rush and hadn't shut it.

I'm not sure what it's like to be a dead man living in someone else's apartment. It's not like he makes a mess or anything, but I'd prefer it if he'd give indications he's been by that are at least more helpful. Like cleaning the litter box or doing the dishes. But he never does those things. Like I said, I don't know what it's like to be dead, so I 'm not sure if there are choices. Is haunting like a salad bar of sorts? A combo platter?

"I'll take a few rustling noises, several scratches inside the walls, some doors opening and shutting. Oh and a side of dishes and one litter box cleaning. Thanks."

Of course, it's also a little scary. Makes it hard for sleeping. I'm half dreading that he'll show up and want to talk to me and I can't decide if I'm keeping him away by staying awake or not. I don't want to be startled by him and do something stupid and scream, scaring him away. I try and keep my eyes open as long as possible, despite my exhaustion. Plus I'm not sure if he's likely to crawl into bed with me. Do the dead need to sleep at all? Or do they sleep during the day, like vampires, and putter all evening, watching over us as we sleep and catching up on late night television? I'm hoping they don't get the munchies late at night because I rarely have any food in my apartment. There's tea, of course. He could always make himself a cup of tea. Not that tea was ever his style. Maybe I should keep some beer in the fridge.

I'm thinking about moving and that makes me sad, because I don't think he can come with me. I'm not worried about him. I've heard that he's been living in lots of places. He won't be homeless. I must be worried about me.

I haven't talked to him for almost a week now. I usually talk to him on Wednesdays, the day I see my therapist, because I'm home early and alone for a few hours before it gets dark. My walls are down on Wednesdays and can't protect me and I am sad and vulnerable and very bruised and little less likely to feel stupid talking to the empty air around me. A little more likely to feel his presence heavy like humidity. Sometimes I talk to him through my tears because it's hard to say the words without crying.

When I am alone in my apartment, I feel him pushing at me so strongly to acknowledge him that I get scared and run away, sleeping in someone else's bed, strong arms keeping him at bay. More than once, I have said to him, through the closed door of my apartment as I turn the key, locking him in, that I can't do this. I cannot do this.

Dear Terry,

This is something that I never thought I'd be writing to you. I never thought that there would be a need.

I cannot believe that you are gone. How can you be dead? Baby brothers aren't supposed to die before their big sisters. It's just not done. I thought I had told you that, but you never were very good at listening.

There are few childhood memories I have that don't involve you. I don't even remember the day you were born. To me, you've always been here. Now I have to go on without you, and I don't think I understand how to do that.

We had a typical brother/sister relationship: You broke my teapot playing indoor hockey, chopped off the head of my Princess Leia and wrote nasty notes to me using all the new swear words you'd learned at school. I was so mad when Mom said, "Well, at least he spelled all the words right."

We spent our summers playing badminton in the front yard or playing cards, like UNO. We played board games too, but you liked changing the rules, especially if you thought you were going to lose. We caught crayfish and leeches in the Creek. Made a fort in the woods near the house. Set off from home everyday, looking for adventure. Mom and Dad would call us back for lunch or dinner by ringing the big bell. We watched Star Wars together over and over again. Our habit of reciting the lines of movies either while we were watching or during a long car ride amused only us, driving everyone else crazy.

I remember when we peeled a green grape and popped it in Dad's mouth after he'd fallen alseep on the floor watching TV. He sat straight up and spit it across the room. He was so mad, but we thought that it was the funniest thing we'd ever seen.

You used to drive me crazy, but I can't think of someone who I have had more fun with and who has made me laugh as much as you have.

I remember the night you called me to tell me that you and Jen were getting married. I could hear the excitement in your voice and understood that even though you didn't need it, you were seeking my approval. I gave it, saying that I could not have been given a better sister had I picked her myself. I am grateful for your choice everyday. She is a beautiful, strong woman and a wonderful mother and I am so thankful to have her in my life.

Watching you with Jen over the years has made me understand the type of man that I would like to spend the rest of my life with. You've certainly given that person a tall order to fill.

It is a comfort that there are two miniature versions of you left behind in Mack and Rhyen. I see you in them so very clearly. I'm so happy to be a part of their lives, even though I will probably be called "Uncle Stacey" for the next ten years. If there is anything I need to do for the rest of my life it will be to help teach your children what a funny, goofy guy you were and how much you loved being their dad.

Over the past 29 years, you pushed me and tortured me as only a brother could, but you never gave me more than I could handle. I'm going to have to trust you on this one and go on anyway, without you, believing that losing you will somehow make me stronger: a better "uncle" to Mack and Rhyen, a better sister-in-law to Jen, a better daughter to Mom and Dad, and a better sister to Adam.

I am sorry that I didn't tell you often enough that I loved you. I guess I thought we'd have a whole lifetime together for you to understand how much I cared about you. Please think of every time I called you a jerk, a loser or you and Adam "the Evil Twins" as a backwards way of saying "I love you".

I'm sorry that we didn't get to spend more time together over the past few years, although the length of time we'd spent apart or the distance between us never seemed to make much of a difference in our relationship. Like any brother, you could push my buttons from across the room, even if I hadn't seen you in months. It was like time disappeared as soon as we'd make eye contact and you'd tilt your head and smirk at me and I'd immediately smile and want to hit you at the same time.

Saying goodbye to you is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But I know I have to make my peace with this somehow.

Goodbye Terry. I love you. I will miss you for the rest of my life. Maybe even longer.