His Hands and Hugs

Almost immediately following Tim's death I began panicking about what I would forget about him, I kept coming back to the feel of his hands. My brother was not afraid of touch, he was a sensitive guy, more sensitive than most, having grown up with two females. Our family are huggers, cuddlers, and hand-holders.

As Tim got older, bigger and stronger his hugs of hello and good-bye became more memorable- probably because I couldn't receive them as often as geographic distance kept us apart. But it was all the more reason to cherish his hugs. But what made Tim's hugs different were what followed and I'm not sure if this is something he just did to his sister or if others experienced it, too. His hug was never just done, Tim kept contact. For me, he would usually grab my hand in that sibling way, we would be palm to palm and then Tim would curl his longer fingers over mine as if to say, "I'm bigger, stronger than you." And usually he would interlock our fingers which would always follow with him twisting my hand and arm around, behind my back-not painfully- but enough to send the playful message of "ha ha, I got you!" I think it was Tim's humble way of showing off his finger, hand, and forearm strength that resulted from his rock climbing. He often made us all feel his forearm muscles but he wanted us to flex our forearm muscles,too. Almost as if to convince us that we were strong enough to climb right alongside him.  In thinking of all this after he's been gone, I keep conjuring up how his hands feel because I don't want to forget. Tim's hands were always warm and dry, strong yet soft. His hugs were the same and anyone who knew him knew he was never "too manly" to give you a hug just because.

Visit to Napa Valley and a "just because" hug at the vineyard, April 2007.

About 2 years ago I was going through a rough bout of depression and Tim knew about it. We were at my cousin's wedding and sometimes all the family, commotion and stimulation can bring that sadness to the surface. Tim saw it and without saying anything just walked to my side and put his arm around me- that was Tim.

Arm wrestling or hand-holding?

Of course it can't all be sunshine and rainbows- we are also a family of "noodgers"- oh, how I loved to startle Tim- creep up behind him and scream. He liked to fart in my face; my mom: a relentless tickler. But as an adult, his favorite was to pinch the back of my arm, it seemed to always happen in the kitchen and within minutes of our greeting hugs. We would have finished saying our hellos and as I would walk by..Bam! A quick pinch from Tim. Oh that would piss me off, "Ah! The fucking hurts, bro!" And then his laugh: that nasally maniacal one (yeah, you know the one, if you know Tim). What I would give for thousands of those pinches now...

So my mission is to evoke these memories over and over so that my neural pathways won't forget those physical feelings. I can't forget Tim's hugs. I can't forget the feel of his hands and I won't forget those damn annoying pinches. I'm actually still waiting for another hug, a chance to feel his "climbing muscles", and grab his hands because I still can't wrap my brain around the fact that I will never get a "Tim hug" because no one else in the world ever hugged like him.

Despite the worry, anxiety, obsessions and compulsions, I couldn't prevent this!(?)

My husband, infant daughter and I were driving home from the store on a Sunday afternoon around 3:30 pm. I was sitting in the back of the car with Baby G and took this picture and posted it to Instagram.

I had thought it would be fun to to take a picture of her every day in June and so I "hashtagged" June 1 and in that moment a weird feeling came over me. I felt anxious, maybe I shouldn't do this... what if I'm "counting down" to something bad happening to G? But I convinced myself I was being irrational and paranoid like I had been for the past 5 months of G's life. (And well, let's be honest, the last 34 years of my life.) And so I posted it.  We got caught in rubbernecking traffic on I-95 due to an accident going the opposite direction. My heart gave a little squeeze and I hoped that everyone in that accident was alright.  Little did I know that within the hour my younger brother, Tim would be killed in a head-on collision and life as I know it would change. 

You see, I've been consumed with "something bad happening" since I was 3 years old.  My Dad died July 24, 1983 (Tim was 3-months old at the time) due to complications from Type 1 diabetes. So, I grew up knowing that life is precious, life is important, and yes, bad things can and do happen.  I was a happy, well-adjusted little girl but there was this part of me I hid.  The part of me that panicked that something bad would happen to my mom. ("What if while she's at the grocery store a crazy person with a gun comes in and shoots her?" What if while my mom is cutting vegetables she cuts herself and bleeds to death?")  I often had trouble going to sleep and my mom would suggest I count backwards from 100 and if I mess up to start over, in hopes that it would bore me to sleep- ha!  I made up a game that I had to get to the number of the age of my loved ones without messing up and if I did then certainly that meant they would die.  "43...42...41...40...41... Oh no! I messed up and my mom is 39 so does that mean my mom is going to die at 40?" Yes, it was these crazy thoughts that plagued me throughout my life but their intensity ebbed and flowed at certain times of my life.

The birth of my daughter, my first child, ignited my old irrational anxieties. The end of my pregnancy was filled with constant worry- but that's a story for another post. After she was born I became obsessed that G would die, that she would just stop breathing.  I held her while we both slept for the first 3 months of her life. By holding her constantly, I convinced myself that she couldn't possibly die if I was vigilantly watching and feeling her breathe.  I obsessively checked her at every red traffic light to make sure she was still breathing in her car seat. It was exhausting and I knew irrational. 

Slowly I practiced "letting go" and my worries were becoming more manageable. I started praying every night - something I very rarely did. I figured this was a more constructive way to harness my reeling thoughts. So every night I would think of family, friends and even strangers who I know needed good thoughts. Then I would imagine white light/energy emanating from G and me and it pulsating out into the universe. I know that sounds pretty "hippy dippy" but having not been raised in an organized religion, this felt right to me. I finally felt more in control and  I believed that since I was sending positive energy out, that positivity would come back to me. Except it wasn't enough... It didn't save Tim. 

So now what? I don't know what to believe, I can't make sense of why tragedy would strike me family twice. In those first days of shock I just kept saying, "I don't understand" and "What the fuuuck!?" I'm no where near peace and it's going to take years for me to find a reason (if there really is one). One surprising thing is that Tim's death has relieved some of my anxiety because it is so clear that I am not in control! It's fucking horrible and I was trying so hard to have "faith" that everything would "be alright" but I don't know anymore. I don't know anything except that we are powerless in the eyes of the universe. I know that I miss my brother every minute of every day and that it is possible to cry multiple times every single day. My heart aches so much and the only relief I get is loving my daughter with everything I have. That's just going to have to be enough because I don't have energy for much else.

The last picture taken of Tim, my mom and me with G. January 2014.