In My Veins

As a child I would lay in bed on Saturday mornings and pretend to die. I would sit up against the headboard to take a sip of water from a cup I had placed nearby the night before, and swallow it down with great effort, allowing a few drops to dribble down my cheek and onto the pillow. With labored breath, I would give a great soliloquy, imparting my wisdom to those who were gathered around my deathbed. I would start to cry, once again wetting my pillow as my children, their children, and sometimes, when my imagination was strong enough, my great grandchildren came to me one by one and whispered their tearful goodbyes to their sweet old patriarch. I would then lay back into the pillow and utter some final, great words of love to my family, gathered around me in my imagination as they were. My wife would take my hand in hers, her warm skin pressed against my own, as my breath grew more and more shallow, my heart beat weaker and weaker, and my life light dimmer and dimmer. I would close my eyes, and the last thing I would ever see in this life would be the face of the one I loved most, a sweet smile on her lips and warm tears of love in her eyes. I never imagined anything beyond that, my understanding of life after death being very minimal in those days.

Thirty years later, I am well into the wretched hollow now, waiting for time. Over 525,600 minutes have passed since he took his last breath, and every one of them has been overshadowed by my little brother's suicide. Nothing is, nor will it ever be again, the same as before; everything about my life has changed. When Jared took his life last year, I could not imagine experiencing a pain, a loneliness, a sadness, a betrayal, or a suffering so deep that it would drive me to do what he did. I could not fathom the depths of the sorrow that he floundered in every day. Over the past twelve months, I have pondered his final minutes here on earth, and how he must have felt as he wrote his goodbye, telling us that he loved us, but that he was lonely, so lonely, and that he had to go. It has broken me to know that he suffered so terribly, and that I was so ignorant of his despair, so blind to his grief, and so deaf to his cries for either death or help, whichever would come first and end his torment. I have been wracked by just a sliver of those same thoughts and feelings this year, and while it has brought me to my emotional, spiritual, and physical knees, I still cannot grasp the measure of his hopelessness. I hope that I never do. With so much crumbling around me, one would think that I should worry and fear. Not so; the crumbling clears my view and allows me to see farther into the distance, granting me a more perfect line of sight to what can, what should, and what will be. I miss Jared, and I will mourn his death for the rest of my days, until I see him again, fall upon his neck, and hold him close like a brother should.

As always, darkness allows us to discern the light. I thought I might list some of the beams of light that pierce the darkness that surrounds and abounds these days.

-I was told right away by "experts" that I would soon feel anger towards Jared. I have not.
-Friends that have stood strong, silent, and fearless beside me as my storms have raged.
-The scales have been peeled away; I am clear-eyed now, even through the tears.
-Words; powerful, heartfelt, flowing words, both from others and within.
-The road trip of a lifetime.
-Three young pillars that have held up against immense pressure, keeping the foundation of this home intact. Caleb, Hannah, and Solomon serve as constant suppliers of unconditional HOPE, LOVE, and JOY.
-Elizabeth; With me from the beginning, she knows my heart. She has shared every single emotion, shed every single tear, and held my hand at every single moment. Not only does she love Jared as much as I do, but she is the one that taught me how to love him as much as I do. The last interaction she had with Jared says it all; he came to her for a hug when he needed one most.

Coming full circle: I no longer play deathbed on Saturday mornings, but I still imagine my last moments on earth, although now with a greater understanding of life after death and the Eternities. Of course I now know what my children look like, and whose face it will be in that final moment before closing my eyes, but in addition to those changes, I have added a couple of elements since Jared's death; there is a smile on my own lips as I close my eyes, and as I straddle the gap between life and death I whisper softly so that only Elizabeth can hear...

Jared!

These Dreams Go On... #4

Last night, Jared shot off the beach and into the atmosphere without a sound. He looked like a true superhero, with one arm tucked to his chest while the other arm led the way, and both hands balled into fists. I laughed out loud and then he was gone. With both hands shielding my eyes from the sun, I scanned the clear blue sky for his shape. He was too fast, too far away, too high up, and I couldn't find him. I stood on the beach with the surf washing over my ankles, waiting for him to return. A chuckle in my ear and a tap on my shoulder told me he was standing behind me in the water. I hadn't heard a splash, felt a whoosh, or sensed a thud. My little brother was graceful, quick, and strong, a real veteran at flying. 


"Want me to show you how?" He asked.


"Duh!"


"Ok, it's easy. Strike a pose to look cool, then jump into the air and imagine the ground falling away from you." Jared stood beside me and struck a pose, gesturing for me to mimic him. I did my best, arms crossed over my puffed-out chest, chin jutted with a frown on my face, but it wasn't very convincing. I felt like a kid learning to box from his hero-big-brother.


I closed my eyes, jumped into the air, and fell back to earth. He laughed, and the sound of it made me laugh. We lay on the beach in hysterics for several minutes, and I clung to the happiness like the sand to my wet skin.


Soon he had me back on my feet, striking poses.


"You have to find the one that fits you, that's important."


"Seriously? You can't fly without a pose?" I asked like an idiot.


"Sure, but why would you? To fly without a pose is just flying."


"Well then what is flying with a pose?"


"Living!" And with that he shot off the beach and into the air once again.


I watched him for just a moment, then struck my pose; fists poised for combat, feet planted firmly, head tilted back, face to the sky. A knowing smile on my lips, I imagined the beach falling away from me as I shot into the air.


This time the beach did fall away, and I was flying. Jared circled back and flew beside me. We sped through the sky, diving, looping, tricking, and laughing for what felt like hours until my alarm went off and I woke up.


Why is this happening to me? The fantasy of my dreams is bleeding over into my reality, confusing the hell out of my waking hours. It was fun to fly, and words cannot do justice to what it was to spend time with Jared, but I am a husband and father, with many years of loving responsibility ahead. Can I spend those years with one foot in dreams, the other in reality? Were sleep not so elusive for me, I might fear of the day coming when that is all I want to do.


Of course, these questions may well be moot; my dream-self (with a little help from Jared) could just be trying to tell me that it is time for me to strike a pose and live.

Way Too Cool For This Block

The sun is out. Warmth abounds, drawing people out of their homes and into their yards. The clouds have gone, and I am reminded of the short story by Ray Bradbury entitled "All Summer in a Day," where the rains cease once every seven years, allowing the sun to shine for one hour. Neighbors are meeting in the street to chat, kids are riding bikes, and cars slow down as the people in them wave or shout hellos.


I am walking my daughter's bike to the garage, trying not to grumble about her carelessness at leaving it out in the yard. The bike, not yet hers for one complete day, is a lime green BMX style ride with funky black detailing, lots of shiny chrome, and foot pegs. I never had such a bike growing up, and so the urge to know how one feels underneath me is too great to resist. I swing my leg over the seat, drop down onto my butt, then head up the driveway and onto the street. I ride straight and fast up the road a bit before leaning from side to side to make large, swooping circles on the asphalt.

"Nice bike!" Shouts my neighbor as he runs past me. He is chasing his fiesty five-year-old daughter as she teeters on her tiny little pink bike, her red hair blowing behind her.

"Way to go Bella!" I offer encouragement, happy to see her braving the world without training wheels for the first time.

On our rock-star (for real) neighbor's front lawn there is a small gathering of people, so I head over to hear the latest neighborhood scuttlebutt. I brake to a halt, making myself a part of the circle. I sit low on the bike, dropping one foot to the ground and draping one arm lazily across my lap, striking a cool and casual pose. The circle erupts with a wave of laughter.

"Dude, sweet ride, I'm so jealous." This from the rock star, a motorcycle owner, as his wife snaps a photo of me with her phone.

"Yeah, I guess. I'm just out here trickin' with her, to see how she rides." I shrug my shoulders, indifferent to his praise. This brings another round of chuckles, and I am suddenly feeling quite heady and full of myself.

Jokes aside, a real conversation ensues. We discuss the Apple Ipad, our kids, workouts that work us out, bad movies, weird neighbors that should have moved away long ago, and health care reform (just kidding on that last one). I am feeling pretty good; I don't typically converse with the neighbors without Elizabeth around, and especially over the past several months. 

The wind picks up, and I feel a chill below my belt-line.

I look down. My underwear stares back. So much for being cool.

Stripping Away The Pain

Running. Outside. On the battered roads of New Hampshire. Sand, trash, cigarette butts, mud, and exhaust. Dedicated? No, I love running inside on my treadmill, and I always will. Strap on the ankle weights, set the incline to the max, and fire up the Netflix. Pick a movie, something ninety minutes long, maybe an independent comedy, no subtitles (too hard to read while running), and hit the start button. Running inside on a treadmill is to train in relative comfort, unlike running outside. Running inside is like being tortured by the French instead of the Soviets; it hurts, but most of your body will continue to function when they are done with you.

So, I am running outside today, for no particular reason other than convenience, and the pain is with me from the start. These days pain is like breathing, it comes naturally to my soul. If it isn't physical, it's emotional, and if I am not in pain than I begin to doubt my own existence. I never understood cutters before; I thought them to be attention seeking teens in angst. Now I know, so my apologies to the cutter community. The pain starts in my lungs, following my breath up and into my nose. It isn't cold today, but it isn't quite hot either, making the moist, pollen-laden air that much harder to suck in. But I suck away at it, because my body is demanding it. It is angry with me; running is a different type of workout, it is not like the weight training and core work to which running has taken a back seat for the past several weeks.

I think I can hear my arms laughing at my lungs and legs, but it might be me. Music is great to run to, but these days music can bring about a paralyzing mood, and in order to make it through this run I have spun the Ipod wheel to a British radio comedy show. Keeping the drivers that pass by guessing, I am smiling and laughing out loud as I run. It is rare to see a runner cracking up as he self torments, and the thought of someone sitting at their dinner table tonight, shaking their head as they tell of the happy runner they witnessed on their drive home makes me laugh and smile even more.

I stop at some railroad tracks, dropping into a runner's stretch across a couple of ties. I bring my head up and look down the long straightaway. In an instant I am taken back to searching for Jared's body last summer. Elizabeth and I had walked the tracks near his home for a few hours. They were long, straight, and lined with trees all the way out to the bay. I shake my head at the emotions rushing through me like blood. My eyes are stinging from sweat, tears, and pollen. I collapse, surrender to the memory, and utter a few words of what might be considered a prayer. After a few moments, I remember that the kids will be waiting for me at the end of their music lessons; I must run.

I start back the way I came, and come to a hill. Halfway up, I am holding my own, my emotions running the show. Something bright catches my eye, and I turn my head as I pass a dirt driveway. There is a shed, set back from the road about forty feet or so. It is sheltered above by trees, and dark shadows have swallowed it's mossy walls. The door is open, and a light shines through. Inside stands a man fidgeting at a work bench.

He is naked.

Thanks Jared, I needed to laugh. And laugh I do, all the way back to my kids.

These Dreams Go On... #3

My personal gulag, Siberian wilderness surrounding me. The darkness of a coal mine my days, the darkness of a moonless sky my nights. There are few guards, no towers, and little else to stop me from running away. And why should there be? What little I have seen above ground does not instill much hope for a successful flight from this misery. Sanctuary lies so far beyond reach that the distance cannot be measured in miles or time.

Of course, I am duty bound to escape, and so I occasionally make a go of it, getting as far as what I cannot tell; there is no fence, no boundary of any kind, the landscape is a cold and desolate plain. Before long my captors find me, wandering through snow drifts and leaning against the furious winds that blow as if commanded by something greater to push me back to my prison.

Back in the mine, I am led to the gauntlet; my emotions have missed me, and are due their pound of flesh. They exact their vengeance without mercy, striking me down with painful blows that send me to my knees. I crawl along the ground like an animal, unable to defend myself against their brutal onslaught. They stomp, grind, twist, hit, and pull at me until I call out for a relief that doesn't come. Once they have had their fill, their baleful thirst sated only by my wild, endless cries for help, they trudge off to a hidden corner of the mine to wait in the shadows for the next time.

I lay still, the cold stone beneath me chilling my bruises. This time, I wonder, was it worse than the last? Will my wounds close over with thick, wretched scar tissue, making me tougher, stronger, harder to break next time? The thought of being covered in a rough, callous, healed skin; that scares me more than the alternative. To develop an immunity to these stinging barbs and slashing attacks would be for me a fate worse than the suffering that wracks me now. It might mean freedom, to have the strength to walk out of here and into the bleak wilderness beyond the horizon. I could leave behind the fury of my captors, with their attacks and the pain they inflict, but to no longer feel this pain is to cease being who I am, and to end my suffering is to end me.

What then, my sentence? I will serve my time, and meanwhile dig for more Hope.