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.

This Grief Thing

I had full intentions on making my next blog post a happy, funny one. I wanted to share the humorous side of Tim and my relationship.  But then I had one of those meltdown days. Gabby woke up at 3:45 am Wednesday morning and decided to stay awake until we both finally fell back asleep around 8:00 am. During that early morning nap I had my first very vivid dream in which Tim appeared. My mom and I were at an airport waiting for Tim, my mom started to walk away and I started to follow her but then out of the corner of my eye I saw Tim approaching me! He was carrying an enormous hockey bag and he walked up to me and hugged me.  Then the next part of the dream I didn't even see, I only heard a phone ringing: I was calling Tim and I heard him pick up and say, "Hello?" It was so real it startled me awake and I had to glance over at my dresser to check and make sure the newspaper article about his death was still there. Yes, still there and then I started repeating my internal dialogue: "My brother is dead. Tim is dead."

Tim on his way to hockey when he and Kelly lived in San Francisco.
Photo taken by Kelly Starr, June 2008. 

I have to repeat this to myself often throughout the day because it's so easy to trick myself into thinking he's just out there living his life and just a phone call away. That morning I decided to call his number assuming it had already been disconnected but I was shocked to hear it go straight to his voice mail. Hearing his voice made it seem like he was "right there"- how could he possibly be dead? He sounds so alive! "WHAT THE FUCK!?" I screamed in my head (at least this time, sometimes I say it out loud). Right after I woke up from these dreams I had felt at peace and even a little happy- Tim visited me! I got to see him, feel his presence but it quickly spiraled into sobbing tears, anger, and disgust.

I thought I understood the pain and sorrow people feel when a loved one dies. I thought I understood because my dad died, but I was wrong. Grieving as a child is entirely different. You keep your grief hidden- it's too scary to let your emotions go when all of the adults around you are crying. You have to maintain control, swallow the tears and smile. If you cry, it will make the ones around you sad and there is already enough sadness. At least this has been my experience and I've heard the same from those who have gone through similar losses as children. 

Via Pinterest

As a grieving adult, I am completely humbled by the experience. It is one of the most emotionally exhausting things I have gone through- it is also one of the most isolating. In those moments of desperation when I just want to scream and I can't cry any harder in fear that I'll scare Gabby and Michael is at work where I don't want to bother him- I am lost. I don't want to burden my mom or Kelly (my sister-in-law, Tim's wife) as they are fighting their own grieving battles and I hesitate to bother my friends because who wants to listen to my depressing shit?  I've learned that there are very few people who are willing and able to take your hand and walk with you through the grief. Those who can have been there themselves and can embrace the ugly, the scary, and the tears. However I've been surprised by how many people also ignore my grief. For those who see me and know what happened to Tim but say nothing...it just reinforces the isolation. In those moments where I see "normal life" unfolding before me I feel as though I'm stranded on a small, dark island watching ships pass by and no one bothers to stop and rescue me or even acknowledge my entrapment.

Via Pinterest.

Enough time has passed that I don't cry immediately upon waking but only a few minutes will pass before reality hits, "My brother is dead. Tim is dead". I still cry at least two to three times a day- I never knew it was possible to cry for 71 (and counting...) consecutive days. I am getting out of the house, attempting normalcy but my world is totally different. So I ask of you, readers, if you know someone grieving ask how they are doing. Please be patient, grievers will never "get over it" or "move on" but we will adapt to this new life, we will find the silver lining, it's just going to take awhile. I had thirty-one years with my brother and I imagine it will take at least thirty-one more years to experience a day where Tim isn't on my mind every hour of the day. I'm telling myself it's okay to cry, be angry, be selfish, that these are things I have to do and anyone who can support me in this journey of grief- I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Three's Company

It's always been the three of us: my mom, Tim and me. Despite growing up in a family without a dad I never felt I missed out on a lot.  My mom more than made up for that void.

My mom, Linda, Tim, and me; 1983.

Yes, there were times I longed for my dad to be alive: my wedding day, the birth of G but it always felt okay because I had so much love and support from my mom and Tim.  I am pretty sure the feeling was mutual for all three of us.  We have always shared a unique and special bond.  A bond that is created when tragedy and loss strikes like it did when my dad died. Tim and I lived our whole life without our dad and so it was just our norm.  We all genuinely hurt if the other hurt and rejoiced when something good happened for the other.  We were committed to staying attuned to each other's lives even when geography separated us. 

Quintessential Tim: climbing trees and smiling brightly.

This is why the death of Tim feels like one-third of my heart is missing... he is part of me. He will always be part of me. Initially I questioned my status as "sister". Am I still his sister or was I Tim's sister? I concluded that I am Tim's sister.

Tim and I discussed on several occasions (one of which involved whiskey and tears)how blessed we felt even though we were raised with only our mom. Blessed and "so lucky" because our mother was (is) so amazingly awesome.  Even though she was a single, full-time working Mom she was there for us for EVERYTHING.  It also helped that my mom practiced and excelled as a social worker and counselor- we grew up in the almost non-existent "functional" family as opposed to the more typical dysfunctional one.  It was something the three of us sort of laughed at because who knew that by having such an open, loving, communicative family that we, in a way, were at a disadvantage to relating to other people and their family dynamics?

During the couple of weeks following Tim's death I constantly tried to understand and process my feelings via imagining tangible objects- atypical thinking for me.  But I believe it was/is the only way I could try to make sense of what was happening. In my mind, I kept seeing a bowl representing grief over the loss of my dad and now I had to fill that bowl with even more grief that was the death of Tim. When I thought of my family, I imagined a table.  A table is strongest with its four legs, but you take one leg away and you still have a pretty sturdy table. Take one more leg away and that table still can stand but it will tip over so much more easily. Now, my mom and I are left with just two legs to maintain the table's stability. I have to remind myself that despite those vital missing legs, we are made of some damn strong, solid wood!

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.