Ancestral

Here is a link to a poem that I wrote about St Patrick’s Day. It was published a little while back in the Ghost City Press Review. I penned it while at a workshop led by one of my favorite local poets, Justin Karcher, who also edits for Ghost City. I was very pleased he wanted to include my poem in the review. I know I shared the poem on the blog already when I wrote about going to the workshop, but I would like to talk about the poems deeper meaning today, and the current feelings the approaching holiday evokes.

The topic that we were given at the workshop was “home.” I expressed “home” in that poem in three ways. The city I live in, the country my ancestors come from, and the people who made me- my grandparents. Without Pat and Jim Hannon, there would be no Brigid. Sometimes I like to think about the great architecture that brings us as generations forth after so many eons of existence on Earth. Thing is, aside from my great-grandma Ag, I didn’t know anyone past my grandparents. They are the relics of my family, the keepers of the knowledge of our ancestry.

Three years ago this week, my grandfather passed away. It was the worst Saint Patrick’s Day we have had. Obviously, my family has a tradition of passing around major holidays, which is a little annoying because it tarnishes very happy days that my family always celebrated together. One of those very happy days has always been Saint Patrick’s Day, and when I was young we would go downtown to the big parade- apparently second only to New York City. Buffalo has a huge Irish population, so we have a really big celebration- and we have another one that is only slightly smaller, too, called the Old First Ward parade.

When the bulk of the family stopped going to the big one downtown, my mom got the itch to go to the one in the Ward. We started taking the kiddos yearly, and she would make them a big Irish breakfast and give them non-alcoholic Irish coffee and bake shamrock cookies. The kids were always excited- I remember one year when L was only 10 and he shook Byron Brown’s hand. He thought that was pretty cool- I kept my mouth shut, letting him enjoy what he thought was a celebrity encounter. The girls always seem to have the most fun and look forward to it, so it was no surprise to me when both of them said they wanted to attend this year. But then, my heart hurt.

See, I celebrated Easter with my mom last year, but we only did a small breakfast. Plus, I have the unfortunate side effect of PTSD that makes you black out the time surrounding traumatic events. For instance, I do not remember third grade because my grandmother had just died. And, I do not remember Easter last year, because within the week my mother was in a coma. I do remember last Saint Patrick’s day though, and it occurs to me that this holiday will be harder than the other have been. It is both my first St Patrick’s day without my mother, and the heralding of the end of a year without her.

Yes, Momma died on Christmas, but she left just after Easter- our last conversation was in April, and that is quick approaching. In many ways, we are closing in on a year without her, and that is painful. But then I look to the good. Because she would want me to, you know? The good is that the girls still want to go to that parade. They want to keep my mother’s favorite tradition alive somehow, and for that I am forever grateful to them.

So, Saturday I will bundle up and face whatever crazy weather comes here in Buffalo in March, and I will go watch people walk through the street, cheering and singing. And I will be with my family, whom I love so dearly. And hopefully, my mom will be watching from above, finally having the best seat in the house.

My Last Photo of Us-Old First Ward Parade, 2022

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Never Again

Probably the most annoying bit of being a new member to the Dead Parent Club is the “never again’s.”  The first was me getting sick and realizing that never again woud my mother take care of me, holding back my hair or bringing me a cool cloth for my forehead. That was a “big” thing, which sent me spiraling to tears.  Another big one is cups of coffee. I almost always think of her when I have my morning coffee.  One thing I am deeply grateful for is that I spent the last year of her active life drinking coffee with her every morning.  Still, the “never again” hurts.

And the little things, like never again going to Home Goods or Clothes Mentor with her. Or even just not being able to call when I’m feeling icky in the brain. Yeah, I can call my dad, but it’s almost like switching to a new therapist…sure, he’s familiar with my file, but he doesn’t have the details of daily sessions. 

Valentine’s Day was a little rough.  Mom always made a thing if it, and when I asked Mark what he wanted to do this year, it was he who reminded me of my father’s first VDay as a widower. So, I went and made the dinner mom would have, a surf and turf situation with hot fudge sundaes provided by Bernie. It was a yummy dinner…but I started the day in tears, because no one was buying me Valentine’s Day cupcakes this year. Mom wasn’t there to call me first thing and wish me a happy day.

One interesting thing about our situation is that come late May…we will have already done a year, in a way.  Mom was here…but she also wasn’t. She peaced out around Easter last year, so I already had my first birthday without her, in a way.  But this one is going to hurt…she was planning a big party for my 40th. I am asking now that all my friends and family bear with me during my birthday week this year…I will be missing her. 

We also had many plans for this summer, you see. We didn’t plan anything for last year because we knew she would still be in recovery, followed by ankle surgery, as was the plan. So all our morning conversations were in regard to plans for 2023. We were going to go back to Stonybrook and go hiking.  We were going to renew her fishing license. We were going to go to the beach, and Lilydale, and there was even talk of finally attending the Country Living Fair. But it’s never happening…and that sucks.
Never again will we go estate sale hunting or eat bagels in the park at 6am or discuss 90s hip-hop superstars, a subject she knew a weird amount about.  We won’t sing along to Ellis Paul, or even argue about Catholicism and calories-two topics that drove us both crazy.

Damn, I miss my mom. Everyday IS a little bit easier, just a tiny shred, but right now at 6am as I sip my coffee?  These moments are the worst.

Time is Nothing

I guess we ought to talk about Momma. My therapist said it was the healthy thing to do…::eyeroll::

I mentioned in a news flash blog that my mother passed away on Christmas night. My father called me, and made noises that I never heard him make before, and once I figured out what was going on I joined him in the howling at the universe. When done, I made some phone calls, alerting the troops, if unable to rally them due to a snowstorm thqt was described as “once in a generation.” And it was. You get a lot of talk from the elders about the Blizzard of ’77 around here, and someday I will be telling my grandchildren about the Blizzard of ’22. Except for me, my story will be very sad. Time lost all meaning  the week after Christmas, much more than it usually does. I honestly can’t tell you what day it was that I made it to my father’s house- I think it was the 26th, but I could be wrong. It must have been, because I can’t imagine I went a whole 24 hours without seeing him after getting the call.

Everything was horrible, but I went to his house, trekking through feet of snow, and we did Christmas. It was weird, mostly because I think we were all still in shock. There was a week of time, more maybe, again as I said it’s all meaningless. We saw the family, which was a sad occasion but also made me feel better. My family is very big, and full of lots of very strong personalities, so sometimes it gets a little rambunctious, but there was no one I wanted more than them when everything went to hell. It was good to see them, and feel comforted by them. You see, all of my family is on my father’s side. My mother was the last McDonald.

Eventually time continued some more, and I called my boss at school and told her that I would not be coming in. It was simply too hard. I did do a shift at Avis, and it was agony. And then Saturday again, the 7th now, and we are laying my mother to rest.

Somewhere in the nothingness of time, we made all the plans for her funeral. My mother was unique in that she wrote her funeral 30 years ago. She spent a great portion of her life as a devoted Catholic, and so she requested a full Catholic Mass for her funeral, followed by a party of some sort. Probably my favorite part of the funeral was when they offered gluten-free Eucharist. Apparently, though I could not see them, a few of my friends had a really hard time not laughing. Which is fine, because my dad got up to receive communion, and when he turned around he noticed that everyone in the rows behind them was still sitting. He laughed at that. (He did receive the gluten-free Jesus that day.)

It was Sunday when time became real again. I didn’t have anything to do except go to work Avis and it was an okay morning even if I felt a little rusty at the wheel. Monday came, and it was back on schedule again. I went to Avis, and I went to work at the school, and I even came home and made dinner. Then, I cried a while. It would seem that now I have to allow a certain portion of my day to crying.  Anyway, that is what happened from my hazy perspective. Again, time is nothing.

Also, as a fun little treat, I have had laryngitis for over 2 weeks. Apparently I am not sick as per my doctor, and I feel fine, I can just barely talk. Which is super helpful when you are in both the education and customer service industries. The other day I saw a tweet by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. They said “retweet if you’re taking it day by day.” Wow, that seems ambitious. Day by day, as opposed to hour by hour, or minute by minute. Mostly I am just taking it in moments, because time is nothing.

I am sure I will write much more about Momma in the future, but for today the best I can do is a play-by-play of what went down, at least what I can remember right now. But, oh boy, will there be blog entries! And oh, will there be poems! I dedicated A Lovely Wreckage to her, and I am very glad she saw that go to print, and saw her name on the dedication page. But the truth is, it wasn’t just that little chapbook that was for her- it’s all of it. I lost my biggest fan, and that kind of hurts, too.

Death is a Schoolyard Bully

Me and Death in the School Parking Lot, 3pm.

Oh, how we would fight. A gruesome battle, I’d tell him to drop his weapon and fight me like a human! But you know I would fight dirty. There would be hair pulled, should he have hair.  I would punch him so hard in the nose that I wouldn’t even notice my broken hand bones, only his shattered skull-face staring back at me with hollow eyes.  Then I’d kick him in his metaphorical balls.

I haven’t had therapy in a month, guys.

To say that I am not constantly thinking about death would be an obvious lie, given that my mother has been practically catatonic for several months now. But over the weekend, something happened that made me even more angry with the entire concept of death.  First, some backstory.

Early in our years together, Mark brought me home to meet his mother for the first time. While we were in town, we visited his sister Dawn and her family. I met her son Connor, who was maybe 8 or so at the time, and her daughter Bella, who was still a baby. Connor and I bonded when he taught me how to play zombies on Call of Duty. He was an incredibly sweet little boy with the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. That was the first time I met him, and also the last. Shortly after our visit, his parents split, and Connor chose to stay with his father. Mark was always a little sad about this, because Connor was extra special to him. He just so happened to have been born the same day as M. Mark told me that the moms-to-be were in a race; he’s pretty sure Dawn won. But because of this, he always thought of Connor on M’s birthday.

So, Sunday morning I went to work, and as I was opening the shop, Mark called me. He was crying, and I immediately thought my mother was dead. Rational brain took over, telling me that it was unlikely I would get this call from my husband and not my father. I begged him to tell me what happened, and he told me that Connor had been killed in an accident. I called my boss, and he came in to relieve me. When I got home, I found a devastated husband. I cried with him, mostly because this boy was just a boy. Mostly, because he’s the same age as one of my boys. Mostly, because of his mother Dawn, who does not deserve this pain.

Later, Mark was sleeping, and I cried again. But this time, I was crying because it’s not fair. It is not fair that a teenage boy departed this world, while my mother is lying in a hospital bed clinging to life. I love my mother, I miss my mother, and I want my mother to get better. But I also know, and have to face every day, that she is currently living my worst nightmare. I wouldn’t wish what she is going through on anyone, absolute least of all her. There are many times that I wish she just never woke up that morning I found her. It seems that would be more fair. And I don’t think I could confront that fact until this weekend.

A lot of my friends and family read my blog, and they all know my mother very well, and I’m sure they’re all sobbing right now. And I’m sorry, truly, for bringing a spot of sadness into your day. But, it needn’t be sad. This morning I told my father were going to have Christmas, if for no other reason then Maureen would simply kill us if we did not. He can’t imagine a Christmas without Mom, none of us can, but we’re going to do what I told him we’re going to do: we’re going to be sad. But, we’re also going to find little bits to make us happy. And it’s going to work! Do you know how I know? Because when my aunt Ka died, that is exactly what my mother told me to do…find the silver linings, and all the little joys.

So, I’m going to get a team together to decorate my dad’s house for Christmas. I’m going to take my girls over there to make cut-out cookies the same way I would every other year. We’re going to go to my grandma’s on Christmas Eve and spend it with the family, and even though somebody is going to cry, we’re still going to eat and drink and be merry. We are going to open presents on Christmas Day, and there’s a real good chance I’m going to cook a ham.

I do not care if I am sad 99% of the time- I will remind myself of what my mother reminds me constantly, the best compliment she has ever given: I am the strongest woman she knows. That’s how come I can beat up that schoolyard bully called Death.

Eulogy of an Actor

It is 9:30am on a Saturday, and my nose is running because I have been crying a little.  You of course won’t read this until Monday, but I’m writing now because the thoughts are raw and fresh, and I need to put them down on paper.

This morning I woke up and went on Facebook, as I do, and the first post I saw was my friend Tilke’s headshot.  What surprised me, was that it was on another friend’s page, not her own.  At first, I thought it must be a promotional for their new movie, but closer inspection proved me wrong-Tilke had passed away, and the photo was a memorial to her.

Wait, what?

Down the Facebook rabbit hole I went, in search of any information and hoping this wasn’t true, although this mutual friend would not have been wrong…and he wasn’t.  She was gone.

One night, many years ago, we were standing in front of a bar in the February cold smoking cigarettes and practicing Russian accents.  We had just done a show, Cowboy Mouth, and she was the female lead.  It was the first time we worked together, and I saw immense talent in her.  Really, if you asked me who in the Buffalo theater scene could have ridden the rocket all the way to Hollywood, I would have told you that person was Tilke Hill.  Anyway, she said something to me about how I wasn’t pursuing my other interests at the time, which was true.  She saw no reason why I was still stage managing without also directing, acting, writing, etc.  She had great plans for us to do a show together, where we would act and direct ourselves-we picked The Kathy and Mo Show.  This didn’t work out, because…well you know when a person is in a toxic relationship, and they’ve got a friend who calls it out?  Tilke called it out to me.  The company we planned to perform with was a problem, and she saw it before I did. 

And, as the true friend, when I left that toxic situation, she was there to help pick me up, by asking me to do props and help her direct some scenes in a show at a different theater.  It is the last show I worked on, and to this day I don’t fully understand what it was about, but I do know that it showed me I didn’t need to be tethered to something that was holding me back.

I don’t know that I would have had these realizations without Tilke.

Now, I left the theater world, and when I did, I lost some friends.  It’s no one’s fault, just that life pulls you apart.  However, there are certainly people from the theater community that hold very special places in my heart, and Tilke was one of them.  These are people you always kind of hope you will work with again someday, and that’s how I felt about her.  I always thought, maybe someday, we can throw together Kathy and Mo and achieve a dream. 

But then, life…and death.  The sudden sucker punch that takes someone out of existence and leaves you feeling hollow and sad.  Sometimes in life, people come into your world for a brief moment and set it on fire, and when you sift through the ashes, you can find the real treasure. Tilke was that sort of person. What I would not give to be standing outside a bar in the cold, having one last cigarette, and practicing our Russian accents.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Two sides of Tilke…a caring friend and an amazing actress.

A Corona Christmas

Ok, first of all if you haven’t seen the cute thing I did to my website, please go click over there for a second.  I’ll wait.

See it?  That took two days and a half hour in a support chat.  Anyway…

Christmas is tomorrow.  I used to hate Christmas, and I really don’t know why.  It has always been the hardest part of the year for me, and still is, but the difficulties have lessened with time.  You would think it was because of the horrible Christmas in 2006 when my aunt Ka died, but no, this dislike started long before that, around the time I realized Santa was a sham.  But little things held me…like doing the whole Xmas thing for my sister when she was born in ’96.  I was 13 and already jaded about the holiday, but she made it fun again.  Then one day my therapist suggested I come up with a tradition to do each year that I could look forward to.  I think she meant like go buy yourself an ornament or make a special cookie, but I went all out and started cooking Christmas dinner every year for my family.  With the exception of the dinner during which Ka slipped into a coma, it has always been a joyous affair.

But that is nothing compared to Christmas Eve.

I have never had a Christmas Eve celebration without my Gram.  Every year she throws a party (save one year when she had back surgery and my aunt and uncle threw it instead.)  It is the best party of the year, as EVERYONE shows up.  My Gram has nine children, almost all of whom have kids, and some of those kids have kids.  Not to mention the cousins.  It’s an event, and one I anticipate every year with great joy.

Alas., Covid.

Now., first of all, my family knew that this year, Christmas was going to suck.  We knew it on March 16^th, when my Poppa died.  It just won’t ever be the same, no matter how you spin it.  But then, another wrench thrown into the plans as a pandemic forces us apart.  My poor Gram

That’s all I can think of.  My Gram.

My other grandmother, Lois, died when I was 7.  She lived with us, and my Grandma Pat (henceforth and forever, just Gram) lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t see her much.  I do remember though that after Lois died, Gram became a little more present in my life…or maybe I just started developing more memories of her.  Either way, she was there, and I was grateful.  Especially after so hard a loss.

And now she has had probably the hardest loss of her life, her husband of damn near 70 years.

And, she has to cancel her Christmas party.  I would be beside myself.

So, this Christmas Eve looks very different, and it is the first one on which I will not be seeing Gram.  I am comforted by the fact she is coming to my dinner however, which is a much smaller affair than years previous, when I would invite anyone who didn’t already have plans. 

Usually, at this time on this day, I am rushing to finish last minute details.  But there are no cookies to bake this year.  The gifts have been purchased and wrapped for almost a month.  Cards sent some time ago.  I had much time on my hands this Christmas, so I got ahead of myself.  Now, all I have to do today is prep a casserole and make a coleslaw.  Then tonight I will be going to my parents to have a Christmas drink with them.  Then home, to bed, to anticipate the following day.

I think the reason I don’t dwell on the death of Ka on Christmas anymore is because of my family.  Not just my Gram, whom I adore, but my aunts and uncles and cousins who I get to see each Christmas, and it takes me back to when we were kids again.  But my family…they are the ones that were there when Ka left.  Take my aunt Mary…the night Ka died, she was right there, holding my hair back as I threw up my gourmet Christmas dinner at the news that Ka would be leaving us.  She stepped into that aunt role even deeper after Ka died, in the same way Gram did after Lois passed.  Or my cousin Katie.  We were best friends as kids, and grew apart in some ways, as people do when they get older.  But the night Ka died, she took Bern to her house and let her spend the night…she was there for my sister when I could not be.  These are just two people out of like 45, each of whom I have a story about illustrating their love.  I will miss them tonight.

But I look forward to tomorrow, which I something that in my youth I dared not dream of.  I look forward to opening presents with my parents and sister and husband.  I look forward to cooking dinner for Gram.  I’m even looking forward to my Christmas outfit, complete with…makeup!  Gasp!  (I gave up makeup for Corona the way you give up chocolate for Lent.)

Anyway, I wish you and yours a very Happy Holiday. Hold the people you love close to you, even if they are a world apart at the moment.  Love with your whole heart, and hope for a better tomorrow.

PS 920 words.  My finger is killing me.

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I miss you most at Christmastime.

The Love Remains

I’ve only really personally known one person that killed themselves.

(That’s a harsh way to start a post, huh?)

I’m not going to share his name, because we were only friends for a short time and because of that I somehow feel that his death is not really mine to mourn.  Still, when I logged onto Facebook one day and saw all our mutuals posting tributes on his wall, I cried.  I thought, as I’m sure everyone did, that if he had just reached out…maybe I could have done something.  But we weren’t close.  We worked together for a while, and I was his Secret Santa one year.  Hung out a couple times.  What could I have possibly done, except point him to a suicide hotline?  But maybe that would have been enough.  Who knows? 

(That was, completely coincidentally, the year I started doing the AFSP Out of Darkness Walk.  They read a list of names, and his was on it…I felt my heart drop to my shoe.) 

Last summer, I saw a guy in a crowd that looked like him.  For a second, I thought it was a ghost, that’s how close the resemblance was.  I remembered how I felt when he died…that I lost someone I once called “friend,” and felt powerless.  I don’t feel as powerless now.  I do the walk every year and raise funds to save lives, lives like his.  Lives like mine. 

That helps.

Anyway, after I saw this ghost it got me thinking of people in my life that I have lost contact with.  It’s a lot.  Like…a hell of a lot.  And it is all depression’s fault.  It went and convinced me these people didn’t really care about me in the way I cared about them and kept me from reaching out to maintain friendships that were important to me.  I thought to myself, that if one of these people committed suicide, I would be heartbroken.  I wanted people to know that despite my mental health keeping me from being present, the people I love will always be with me, and can always call on me when they need to.  So, I started sending messages.  About one a month, to people I loved and missed.  When I would see a meme or something that reminded me of someone, instead of just thinking “Gee, I miss so-and-so,” I would send it to them with a message. 

And so, I talked to my college buddies.  I had coffee with a friend I hadn’t seen for three years.  I reconnected with one of my besties from high school.  At Christmas, I sent messages to people I did Xmas shows with when I was in my teens.  I just so happened to message my middle school best friend the night before she got engaged.  Yesterday, I messaged a friend I haven’t seen in at least a decade AND my former therapist.  My point is that I tried to reach out, and good things came of it.

And…

I hope these people know.  I hope all the people I have ever met in my life know…that I am here.  If I loved you before, I have not stopped.  I wrote a play once, and the premise was that love, in all its forms, does not dissipate.  Take a relationship…you may break up, it may be awful, but you loved them once, and that love lives on in your subconscious whether you acknowledge it or not.  Or, someone you’ve had a falling out with…for instance, there is a woman that I’m pretty sure doesn’t like me.  And that’s fine.  She doesn’t have to.  We had a falling out many years ago, and I personally don’t think she’s ever forgiven me.  Again, that’s fine, it’s her prerogative.  Still, if she called me in a panic, I’d summon the part of me that used to be friends with her and run to her aid.  It’s just the kind of person I am, and why I believe that the love remains.

I do not give up on people.  It may seem that way at times, because I fall into depressive episodes that can last anywhere from an hour to five years.  I hate losing my people, be it to distance, time, or circumstance.  I will always, always be here.  Do not hesitate.  I don’t want to hear them read your name at the suicide walk, guys.

And also…maybe I just miss you.

My point is to reconnect.  To try to do something to maintain the relationships that mattered to you, even though the world seems to have gotten in the way.  And if you’re in a really dark place, all the more reason to reach out.  And if you need me, I’m here.

It takes time.

Thirteen years ago, on the day after Christmas, my aunt Ka died.  It was sudden and unexpected.  She suffered a brief illness and then swiftly was gone, and it broke my heart.

On Saturday night, as Mark was showering and getting ready to go to my family Christmas party, I received word that his favorite aunt had passed, suddenly and tragically.  I had a few minutes with the news myself before he came out of the bathroom, and I struggled with what to say to him.  I remembered the morning after Christmas, 6am, when Sharon (my other mother) came in the door to find me sleeping on the sofa.  Mom was bereft.  Sharon was the one who told me Ka was gone.  She barely needed to say anything, really.  I already knew.  In the same way that my husband already knew when he came into the bedroom and I said “you need to call your mom.”

Mark went to the party anyways, and I don’t know how he did it.  He did pull me aside at one point and tell me that K seemed particularly sensitive to his feelings…she knew.  She was sitting beside me when he mother texted.  She made sure he got a hug every twenty minutes.  In the morning, we went to Tim Horton’s and she ordered two cookies.  I was about to give a heavy mom-speech about sugar when she turned to me and said “peanut butter are dad’s favorites.  That will cheer him up.”

I expected Mark to check out from life for a day or so as that is his usual MO when someone dies, but instead he went hard on the Dad thing.  He woke up and played video games with the girls, then put up their new beds and helped them set up their room.  He picked out a menu for a dinner they could make together, and we went to the store to get ingredients.  We returned to him watching the Bills game, and inviting Kevin over for dinner.  He then proceeded to make some amazing spaghetti and meatballs, and then whipped out the Monopoly board.  He tried to go to sleep early but couldn’t, so we ended up staying up late watching Knives Out (great flick) and then I went to bed.  I awoke this morning to find the whole house asleep…STILL asleep actually, it’s now almost noon.  So, I can only assume they stayed up watching movies after I went to sleep.

Mark said to me at one point that he just wanted to have a good weekend for his girls, and wanted to deal with the grief afterwards.  So of course, I expect some sort of meltdown at some point, but I don’t think it will be that bad, honestly.  I think that having his daughters around for this shocking and sad thing has really helped him.  We hardly ever have just the two of them, but I think the universe knew that’s who Mark needed right now and made it happen.  He would call this nonsense, but I have enough belief in the spiritual for the both of us. 

I was really sad on Saturday night.  I cried at the party maybe three times, and not because of his aunt, whom I have never met, but my own, whom I miss terribly.  Usually I function with the idea that she is away on a long missionary trip to the Philippines or something.  Sometimes the delusion wears thin, and that’s when the tears come.  Still, I think of everything she did for me, and everything she wanted for me, and how much she loved me, and I feel at peace.  But that took time.  I hope Mark gets there-I know he will.  But, it will take time.

Everything does.

Of Grief and Friendship

Hubs asked me a question that knocked me on my butt the other day.  “What were you doing at 23?”  I had literally no idea.  I couldn’t come up with one single thing that happened in 2006.  He knew where he was: “jumping.”  Jobs, women, substances, etc.  My sister Bernie is 23 today, and I wonder if 13 years from now she too will wonder what the hell she was up to.  Probably not.  She has a nice healthy brain that hasn’t been controlled for years by anti-depressants.

There’s some time I have lost.  I can’t pinpoint much of my twenties, not just 23.  I also have no recollection of third grade, which occurred right after my grandmother died. It’s not like the drugs I was using were recreational, aside from some occasional marijuana, and I was never a big drinker, so really I think I have to blame that old cocktail of trauma and psych meds.  I asked my mother what I was doing in 2006.

She told me that’s the year my aunt Ka died, and then the floodgates opened.

I handle death very well and very poorly at the same time.  Poorly in that when it’s someone very close to me, I will block out a lot of the time surrounding their passing.  I honestly don’t remember most funerals I have been to.  I also hate going to wakes, as they cause instant panic attacks.  On the other hand, someone will pass away and I will grieve quickly, which is nice. I unfortunately do this by picturing them on a sunny island somewhere for an extended period of time. 

Ka has been in the Philippines for 13 years.

I vividly remember the night she died.  It was Christmas day, and I had cooked dinner for my family.  She was in the hospital and it would be the first year she wasn’t with us, but I was going to go see her after dinner.  My parents called and said they wouldn’t be home in time and to eat without them.  It was strange.  Then after dinner, as I was serving dessert, Dad called and said to come to the hospital right away.  When we got there and he told me she was unresponsive and unlikely to make it through the night, I ran to the bathroom and threw up Christmas dinner.

That night Jaime and Molly and I went out for milkshakes.  They had a vigil the following day at the convent, as Ka was a Sister of Mercy (a nun, in laymen’s terms.)  My friend Katy sat next to me and held my hand.  The next night there was a wake.  I remember many of my friends coming and that got me through it, but I had a big panic attack beforehand.  Afterwards my friend Tom took me out to a party.  The following day was the funeral, and I sobbed over her coffin, then ran crying from the church.  I remember Christina, my best friend from youth, coming and sitting with me in the reception area during the Mass.  I had other friends around me as well.

The point is that my friends are the ones who got me though that, who made it so I could let go to the best of my abilities and send Ka off to the Philippines of my mind.  I went back into my LiveJournal to see what I was doing in 2006, and one thing is prevalent: friendship.  I was spending a lot of time with a lot of amazing people.

That was the year my aunt Mary and I went to New Jersey to meet Kevin Smith.  That was a year of many parties and Jackdaw concerts with Katy, Rick, and Tom.  The year me and Kev got acupuncture.  Endless Wednesday night get-together with Jaime, Andy, Molly, Chelsea, Steve, and Will.  Mad Yellow Sun concerts with Nick and Doug.  The list goes on.  The point is that I was at a low point and didn’t even realize it, and these people were there for me though it all.

Sadly, life, she moves on.  My friends are now scattered to the winds.  Andy and Christina live on different continents.  Katy, Will, Nick, and Doug live in different states.  The friends that I still have here have careers and families and lives to live, just like me, so it’s very hard to keep in touch, and eventually we all move on.

I put a meme on Facebook a while back about missing the bonds I used to have with people.  From that meme, I got an inside joke from my buddy Dennis, a message from Christina with plans to see each other when she’s next on this side of the planet, a coffee date with Chelsea, and plans to meet up with Lissa and Joe, my friends from college. 

Sometimes you just need to say “Hey-I miss your face.”

This is a weird post, as we went from death to friendship.  But what really gets us though death?  Our friends.  Sometimes our family can’t be there for us because they are grieving too, but our friends pick up that slack.  I blocked 2006 because of death, but I reopened that door while reading about my friends.  You, my random reader, don’t know these people, so you’re unaware, but trust me when I tell you that I have been very lucky in the good friend’s department.  They had the power to heal what was hurting in me when I didn’t even realize I needed to be healed.

I have been making a conscious effort to keep up with the people I love for the past few months.  Between my mother’s injury and my father’s radiation, I have been holding the people that matter a little closer, thinking of them a little more often, and trying to reconnect.  So, if you’re reading this and you’re an old friend of mine, please know I love you, and I miss you, and I will always be grateful for your place in my life. 

Call me.  Seriously.  Whenever.