A new normal

I spent Christmas in Southern California with Dad and Ginny. It has been nice being here, but the missing is much stronger this time of year. I can remember the last Christmas Tyler spent here. It was 2007 and I was living here at the time. I had just moved here in mid-November and I was still adjusting. I was soooooooooooooooooo happy to see him and we had such a great time.

After he passed, I saw a grief counselor for a minute. I didn't like her much, but she did say one thing to me that really stuck. She said, "you have to find your new normal. You are forever changed by this experience." She was so right about that. I suppose I have found my new normal, but it involves a void that will never be filled. When I sit in that void and feel it, well...there's no pain quite like it. Nothing I've experienced anyway.

I miss you, Tyler. We all do. I love my life and the people in it, but I miss sharing all the joys and sorrows with you. You were the one with whom I always wanted to share my greatest news, even before shouting it from the rooftops. The void is forever void. There will always that piece missing from my new normal.

The scar remembers

This is a picture of the site where we spread Tyler's ashes. My dad dubbed it "Ty's Monument," so I thought it was a good choice for this post. It has been a very long time since I put my thoughts down in this blog. That doesn't mean that I've stopped thinking about him. It doesn't mean that I've stopped missing him. He is always with me and that will never change. On October 20th, three years ago, Tyler had surgery to remove the tumor that was growing up into his brain and down his spine. We were all scared, but we were hopeful that he would come out of it just fine. We all know how the story ends and there's a place in my heart that is forever broken. The scar left behind is a living, breathing entity with a memory of its own.

I was completely blindsided a couple of days ago by grief over the loss of Tyler. Not that I haven't experienced moments of it here and there; I definitely have, but this experience was so powerful it took my breath. It took me back to the night I talked to him on the phone about a week before his surgery and he was reassuring me that he was going to be fine. He was positive and upbeat about it, and he was taking care of me. I still don't know to this day how scared he really was because he didn't say. He was being the strong one, as usual. I had cried so much that day, and so deeply, that I hardly recognized myself. The thought of losing him had touched me in a place that had never been touched. I spent a lot of time in that place three years ago, and I stumbled upon it again earlier this week. Although he's never far from my thoughts, I wasn't actively thinking about him at the time. I mentioned this blog to a friend when she was asking about reading some of my writing, and that was all it took. I found that deep place again. I didn't understand how I got there so quickly, so suddenly. I've been able to talk about him and this blog many times over the last three years without going there, so how was this time any different? I've come to realize that the scar left on my heart, on my soul, has its own memory. My conscious mind was unaware of the date and its significance, but the scar reminded me. I'm still amazed by that.

Now that I've been reminded, I'm riding out the wave, feeling the pain of loss again in that deep place. It's unpleasant to say the least, but I hope it's also healing in some way. I came back to this blog because writing it always helped me. It's like a therapy session only without the hefty bill. It's all part of the process that will be life-long, possibly longer...

I love you, Tyler, and I miss you so much.

An infinite well

I can't believe my last post to this blog was in January...and now it's June. It just goes to show that life continues, even after someone really close passes away. I know that's what he would want too. This picture was taken by my dad. He called it "Tyler's Monument." It's a rock that was near where we spread Tyler's ashes.

We were driving home from Michigan a couple of weeks ago and I was thinking while I was driving. I saw some over-the-top religious symbol on the side of the road. I think it was a gigantic cross. It made me think of the movie "Religulious" by Bill Maher. It's a satire on the hypocrisy of Christianity and it's hilarious!!! As I was thinking about it, I remembered that it was Tyler who told me to go see it. I had another one of those 'I can't believe he's gone' or 'I can't believe he'll never call me up again' or 'he was my baby brother and he wasn't supposed to leave before me' moments and the flood gates opened. It reminded me that grief is an infinite well. If I were to drop a coin in this well and listen for the clink when it hits the bottom, I would be listening forever...waiting for that final sound. When I'm not consciously visiting the well, it's still there and it's still bottomless. It's as deep as the hole left in my soul by his absence. I think about him every day in some way or another. Even as I write this, I have to fight back the rising tide of grief. The moments of complete breakdown may be fewer and farther between, but they are just as strong as the day he left us. There is no end to the infinite well of sadness, but I suppose I am in control of how often I visit it. Sometimes I'm taken to that place without warning and sometimes I go there to take a dip.

I guess it's all part of the journey. The journey that has no destination.

Oceans meet

Last week we were at the Southwestern most point of Australia, near the Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse. It's the point where the Southern Ocean and the Indian Ocean meet. It was an amazingly beautiful spot and I felt blessed to be standing there. I brought some of Tyler's ashes with me when I came over here, but I hadn't really decided where I would leave them. I knew it wouldn't be in Sydney, as Tyler had been there once before. As we stood on this point where the two oceans meet, it suddenly dawned on me that I was standing on the very spot where he would have wanted to be. My dad happened to be with me this day and I asked him to help me spread the ashes. I saved half of them for him. My sweetheart took this picture of me scattering them into the wind. The moment felt the same as it did nearly one year ago when I spread his ashes in Arizona. It was as if a part of me was being ripped away and cast into the wind. I felt incredible trepidation as I walked to the edge of the rock. It was as if I was doing something wrong. Again, it felt like a betrayal in some way. I know he would have loved this beautiful corner of the world and knowing that made it easier to let the ashes go.

My dad said "Rest in peace, my son." I say "I hope you are in a better place and that there was some higher purpose for you in this vast universe. I have to believe that, otherwise your death will never make any sense or hold any meaning."

I love you, Tyler.

Another birthday

It's January 21st here in Western Australia. It's a beautiful day and we're enjoying the company of great mates and family, but there's a shadow looming. Tyler would have been 38 years old today. I imagine myself picking him up at the airport and taking him out for dinner in Freo. He would love it here.

I still can't believe he's gone.
I still get angry.
I still have moments of overwhelming grief.
I still miss him every day.
I don't expect any of that to change.
It's part of my new normal.

Happy Birthday, sweet brother. I can only hope you are somewhere celebrating a new kind of 'life' and watching over us as we toast the life we knew. You are sorely missed and always loved.

Ripped off

I'm reading a book right now called The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I picked it up before we left L.A. so I would have something to read on the plane to Sydney. I actually didn't start reading it until we arrived. It's an interesting story, but it took a turn I didn't expect and now it's dealing a little with the subject of loss. The following excerpt really struck me:

Fragmentary emotions possessed and released him, drawn like garments from a wardrobe and discarded, one after another.

This line, and other imagery I won't regurgitate here, took hold of me and the grief once again flowed freely. It was like a bandage being ripped off, but part of it was stuck to the wound and when it was pulled away, it took some flesh with it. It's amazing to me how quickly I can be taken back to that place...instantly transported back to that hospital room, standing over him, holding his hand, watching the life leave him. It's still as real and vivid as the day it happened, but yet...not...real...at all. It can't be, can it?

Visions of Tyler

Today was my first Christmas in Australia. Martine and I got up at 6am with the kids and have been going ever since. We had a beautiful picnic at the park with good food and good company. This picture is me with Ethan, Anthony and Vanessa's youngest child. He's a cutie! The day this picture was taken he had decided he wanted to play with me and we bonded. He smiles at me all the time now. I love it. I look forward to watching him grow up.

It was a great day, but I kept imagining Tyler there with us. I could see him clearly, playing with the little kids in the park, chatting with Gary and Spencer, giving mum a hug, and toasting Christmas with Anthony, Vanessa and Ali. I could see him helping Gary and Spence with the bbq at Ali's house tonight. There were a couple of moments when I actually forgot he wasn't really there. I know how much he would have loved my new extended family, how much he would have loved the woman I'm about to marry, how well he would have fit in with all of them. On the way home, I lost my emotional control and I cried. I'm still crying. This is our second Christmas without him and I still DON'T BELIEVE HE'S GONE. It makes me so angry and sad. I want him back every minute of every day.

Merry Christmas, little brother. I miss you and I love you, and this sucks...