No Man is a Failure Who Has Friends

When I was 14, I auditioned for my first production.  Our middle school selected "A Christmas Carol" as its winter theatre program and I hand landed the very prestigious female lead of "The Undertaker".

Oh... I'm sorry.  Did I say "prestigious female lead"? I meant "bit part, dressed as a man".  You could see how the distinction might be blurred.  This entry, however, is not about the start of my seemingly-endless career of bit roles and cross-dressing.  Trust me, there are plenty of stories to share - hell, I even hit a point where I flat-out refused a part in Peter Pan because I realized playing men was depleting my self esteem.  But I digress...

If I had met her earlier, I don't remember it.  I was 14 - she, a year younger than I.  Never having been involved in theatre, I did not know who the "players" were and, I suppose because of my knack for the dramatic and ability to carry a tune, those around me seemed surprised that I didn't know who "she" was.

To compound things, she scored a larger role than I had, so our rehearsal schedules were not in synch.  

Somewhere toward the end of the rehearsal schedule, "she" and I finally crossed paths.  

"There she is", I remember the girls saying to me, "That's her".  She strode into the room with a confidence like I had never experienced.   She knew where she was.  She knew what to do.  She was not going to put up with bullshit.  Of course, I was 14... and a big goodie-goodie... I didn't say "bullshit".  I never introduced myself but, rather, lingered where I could overhear her.  She had some sort of song or solo - or some occasion to sing - and I remember being awe-struck by the maturity in her voice.  Powerful.  Belted - a skill I could not learn.

It wasn't until Tech week that I can really recall speaking to her.  My heart raced and pounded in fear that she would reject me (hey - don't judge! I didn't make friends easily!) and on the last night, after the last curtain, we stood in the long corridor beside the auditorium exchanging our pleasantries - ready to part ways.

With a panic like I had never felt, I asked her for her number and, with no paper to write on, feverishly attempted to memorize it.

As I recall it, we were instant friends.  She was opinionated, straight-forward and experienced.  She lived in a house filled with music; with supportive parents who were passionate about their children, loved each other fiercely, worked hard and let their kids pursue anything their hearts desired.  Loud singing was encouraged.  I was in heaven.  

We fought.  And when we fought, we fought fiercely as theatrical people often do.  She got roles when she wasn't even eligible to be in the show.  She got lead after lead while I was consistently cast in the chorus.  And to add insult to injury, we were the same height and wore the same shoe size but she was substantially thinner and prettier than me.  There were times I wondered whether I remained friends with her to beat myself up - whether I was doing it, in some way, to be unkind to myself.  

Still, our friendship was inexplicably valuable to me.  There was a sincere kinship and a depth in our friendship - so easily - that I couldn't walk away from no matter how jealous I was.

And we laughed.  Oh did we laugh.  We laughed when we sang and danced when no one else sang or danced.  We laughed because we were unbelievably loud just because we thought we could get away with it.  We laughed because we developed and partook in elaborate scenes made-up on the fly for absolutely no reason to amuse others around us.  We laughed because we pushed the envelope in every situation for our own amusement.  We laughed because our parents were ridiculous.  We laughed because we were ridiculous.  We laughed at boys and ex-boyfriends, at friends at enemies and frien-emies, at strangers and mid-night car rides, at sour high notes and missed harmonies.  We laughed at Pennsylvania living, at our obscure futures and our total lack of certainty.  We laughed at Opera, our bodies, our brothers, at Marching Band, at detentions and teachers and Ambercrombie and Fitch.  We laughed at her complete lack of shame and my prudence, at promiscuity and abstinence.  We laughed at our own expense and at the expense of others never to be hurtful, but to be momentarily joyful.

When I graduated and left for college, I did so without a second thought and without saying goodbye.  Our college years did not bode well for the progression of our friendship and I thought for sure that the season had passed and we would forever look back with fond memories of our 5 years together in High School, but with very little in our future.  She moved on to a prominent Musical Theatre program in Connecticut, I (not surprisingly) pursued a very safe degree in New Jersey.  

Through 4 years of college, I visited her only once.

But during one of her breaks she returned home and we met for coffee at a local chain-style-dive.  We spent 2-hours catching up on the last few years and reminisced to our high school shenanigans. 

I shared with her, as I always had, a very personal experience I was facing during that particular week which was culminating the next morning.  

"What time?" she asked.

"11am," I replied.

"I'm there."

And despite the fact that she was only in town for (like) 4 days, she spent one of them with me.  One very important day - on the fly, without warning and without being asked.  

And we laughed.

In the years since that August day, life has given us both some shit sandwiches - some of which directly impacted our relationship.  Neither of us has had a particularly easy go of it.  We have joked that we would begin our own commune - living in a duplex, watching each other's kids to help support one another while we ride out the shit-storms, meeting each morning on our porches for coffee and watching our girls grow together.  Each time I think about it, I find it hard not to begin to analyze the viability of the prospect because it sounds like "awesome" to me.

To date, our friendship has survived the test of nearly 20 years. 20 years... and counting.  

Over that time, I have had the blessed privilege of calling one of the strongest women I know, my best friend.   She is smart, witty, compassionate, charismatic, charming, empathetic, and a dedicated mother. She is insightful and generous with information, without soapboxing or finger-wagging if you don't choose to heed her advice.  She is upbeat when most would find no silver lining.

To her I would like to say: It is my greatest wish in this lifetime that I can be 1/10th the friend to you that you have been for me.  I respect you. I admire you.  I count myself incredibly and categorically lucky that God put you in my life and that we have continued our friendship.

.... here's to another 40, girl.

My "Stuff" Was No Good

As I toyed with the prospect of re-re-resurecting my blog, I found myself looking back at previous entries and laughing at myself; recognizing not only my growth from late-20-something to early 30-something or married mother to single parent but the secure and concurrently erratic mentality I held was in from 2011 to 2013.

Frankly, my "stuff" was no good.

While 2012 was an absolutely horrible year (divorce, foreclosure, job loss, failed relationship...), my ultimate decision to leave the grind of administrative work earlier this year and pursue Event Design was a good one.  I have enjoyed the benefit of the decision tenfold - both spiritually and financially even despite the fact that I have worked harder this year than I have in all my previous year's work experience.

Though, admittedly, the prospect of flexibility and additional time with my kiddo seems further away than it ever has in some respects.  Hey, it can't all be perfect, right?

Still, I look back on the ramblings of the un-gelled me with some pride.  While vacillating between complete confidence and unabashed self-criticism, self improvement has never been a strong suite of mine and the flailing about at least served to show that I was trying.  Trying to be a better mother, trying to be kinder to myself, trying to be a better daughter, trying to be a truer friend and learning compassion and empathy while not becoming an co-dependant doormat.

A Departure...

"One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very very long time..."

Biologist.  Jewelry Maker. Graphic Designer. Sports Blogger.  Medical Researcher.  Engineer.  Photographer.  Physical Therapist.  Dog Trainer.  Teacher.  Stage Manager.

These are a few of the professions occupied by the people I am lucky enough to call friends.  Some professions, of course, are more lucrative than others but the undercurrent among them is that these friends love (and I do mean love) what they do.  I Facebook stalk them in a jealous, albeit quiet, rage.  You know who you are.

Nearly a year ago, I found myself fidgeting. The new lifestyle I was settling into of single parenthood was a big adjustment.  My divorce had just been finalized but child support hadn't started yet.  I was worried about money and, more than that, I was having a hard time knowing "what to do with myself" when it came to creative outlets for myself.  I had gotten so involved in being a couple that I couldn't remember what it was like to do things I enjoyed.

Stressed about money and wanting to participate in something constructive and creative, I reached out to a local Event Designer in Tampa to find out if she needed any weekend help.  I was only looking for a few hours a week to help augment my time and support my family.  Unbeknownst to me, the designer I contacted just happened to be looking for a part time Event Designer to work from home.  With my new independent parental responsibilities, this was rather ideal for me and so she and I entered into a professional relationship which let me utilize a series of skills I have accumulated through a rather obscure work and hobby history: Project Management, Stage Management, Program Development, Drafting and Scale (thank you Mrs. Cortese), and crafting.  Things were looking up, I had a good full-time job and supplemented my income with my design clients.

It was never my dream to be a Executive Assistant.  In fact, it wasn't until college was on the horizon that I started making my career plans based on stability rather than on what I liked to do.  While I was always ambitious, I found myself in college pursuing a degree in English with very little idea of what I was going to do when I exited but assumed that I would pursue work in some administrative capacity.  I quickly secured positions which allowed me to take on more responsibility with very little acknowledgement or financial compensation to back the task.  Still, I was fortunate to accumulate the skills and to have bosses who let me act with relative independence.

Yet, here I am - 13 years into my career as an Administrative Assistant with little challenge, little change in compensation and something dying inside me just a little bit every day.

There must be something more to life than this.

Growing up, my dad worked on the floor of the NYSE as a stock broker.  He started as a runner (aka gopher) in the mid/late 70s, moved up over time to phone clerk and eventually earned a seat as a stock broker.  He worked on the floor for 30+ years until everything went the way of electronic trading and brokers were rendered relatively obsolete.

"When you love what you do, you don't work a day in your life", he would say.  While, yes, there were plenty of days that he encountered frustration and stupidity, I could tell that the Brooklyn boy got a charge out of waking up every morning, putting on his suit, reading his newspaper on the bus or ferry, and setting foot into a building that represented the crux of our economy.  He felt like he was a part of something, I think, that was special; something elite and unique and resembled a brotherhood more than an profession.

This is all a very very VERY long-winded introduction to the point of this blog entry - and hardly the reason why you are here so let me get to the point as concisely as possible.

It is a rare gift when the thing you love to do, the thing that doesn't feel like work, aligns with your ability to make a living.  To this point in my life, I have done what I thought was the responsible thing to do and have done exactly and precisely nothing to pursue any kind of passion I have other than the occasional knit scarf.

I have been offered the opportunity to work, full time, as an Event Designer - leveraging my skills, talents and abilities in a way that truly challenges me personally and professionally.  Once already I turned down the offer and, in a rare event, opportunity knocked again - harder and louder.

And so, despite the fact that I am working for a p-h-e-n-o-m-e-n-a-l corporate organization with great stability (at long last), I am quitting my "day job" and giving myself, for the first time - ever - the opportunity to do what I love to do - despite its unorthodoxy, despite my fears, and despite all the voices in my neurotic, perfectionistic brain that tell me that I am taking an outstanding risk, I realize that "playing it safe" to this point has actually proved to be far more risky.  After all, getting married, buying a house and having a little one is "normal" rather than risky - but in fact, my marriage has ended, the house is in foreclosure, and I am raising a child alone.  So much for "safe".

Yet here I am: Single, financially stabilized and successfully raising a child alone so, in the end, I guess "risk" is a term that really bears no power unless I choose to give it power.

Effective January 3rd, 2013, I shed the days of trying to wake up at 5:30am but rather waking at 6:10am and rushing around like a maniac to get out the door, driving over an hour to work at a job that challenges me very little, punching in/punching out, alerting someone when I am leaving for lunch, driving over an hour home, and praying I manage my PTO enough over the course of a year that I will manage to see my friends and family back north - and that the PTO will ALSO align with my financial ability to travel.

Effective January 3rd, 2013, I start living with the intent that my daughter will learn the value of balance between passion and responsibility and that our relationship will benefit from my newfound flexibility and self-management.

Bring it.

The Guilt of a Single Mother

Going into motherhood, I knew that "guilt" would be a part of my daughter's getting older.  I knew that there would be times that I would disappoint her in the interest of her safety or that I would make her furious for not allowing her to do the things she wanted to when they weren't appropriate.

At three, we had a challenge with bed time - Olivia "can't sleep" (she tells me), so she wanted to get up and play around a dark room.  No child - you're going to bed for a list of reasons too long to even begin itemizing.  

So, every night, I would dutifully (and usually with frustration and attitude) go back upstairs to correct he behavior and put her back in bed. 

But the thing "they" don't tell you is that there will be times, when disciplining your child, that you will literally not be able to make eye contact with them because the sheer heartbreak they feel is written all over their faces - and it's contagious.  Looking them in their tiny little heartbroken eyes (and remember, we are talking about telling my kid that she cannot PLAY at TEN o'clock at night in a DARK room with NO supervision) will compel you to change your mind, let them stay up, or read them more stories until they pass out... which, as you know, I do not advocate.

Le Sigh - the manipulation!

So word of advice to those who haven't gotten there yet - DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT - they can sense your weakness!

But the bigger reason for this post is the guilt that I carry with me for meeting, falling for, marrying and choosing to have a child with a person who didn't really want her.  MY choice, MY naïvety, MY will, MY stubbornness and MY ambitions are what got me pregnant and divorced.  Now, and for what may amount to a substantial part of her life, my daughter (for the most part) is fatherless.

When I was a little girl, I worshiped my father - he was kind, funny... etc etc.  If you have met my dad, he requires no further explanation.  They say that a girl's self esteem is built by the father - so the challenge to me, as her mother, is to learn what components of self esteem are usually part of that equation and determine what I can do to substitute the role.  Is it telling her, genuinely, that she looks beautiful? Aren't we hard-wired that the feedback from the opposite sex is key to our chemistry/makeup?  How do I support her, love her and encourage her in the ways that make her feel as though she has both a mother and a father?  To allow her to feel that her life is just as full as those children who have both parents full-time?  

YES, I know - better ONE loving parent who can expose her to healthy relationships  than TWO distracted parents who barely liked one another.  If things hadn't changed, she would have wound up "instinctually" attracted to a man who felt nothing for her, didn't keep her a priority but rather a responsibility and something to be answered to... 

But the guilt that I feel for bringing her into this world and subsequently losing a "headcount" in her life which is known to be a rather important piece to the puzzle... what do I do about that?  What I know is this - my kid is very bright.  She has a rapidly expanding vocabulary and she has a strong grasp of concepts.  For now, she is happy, healthy, inquisitive and sometimes stubborn.  For now, I don't need a game plan... but I am evaluating my options.  

While it is my hope that I will meet someone awesome - someone independent, loving, affectionate, involved and whole - I simply can't and will not hold my breath.  The answer is not in finding her another father... that would be short-sighted and simple-minded.

The answer, for the time being, is figuring out who *I* am... and then using my independence and rationality to develop a life and a lifestyle in which she doesn't feel as though there is some huge void.

...What matters not is the event, but one's perception of the event...

Chapter 4: Aftermath

Sometime in mid-October, 2010, (one month after my brother took his life) my brother's wife de-friended me on Facebook.  Her decision came on the heels, I can only imagine, of my decision to support my mother by attending the memorial that my mother was organizing for George in Pennsylvania.  I had told Kristen that I wouldn't be attending because, in my heart, I wasn't going to.  Mom and I were having a very touch-and-go relationship at the time and I was in no position to afford a somewhat-last-minute trip to the Garden State where my mother was living at the time.  

To make matters worse, my mom very specifically told Kristen that she didn't want her to show up at the event.  I can understand where my mother was coming from AND I can understand how it must have made Kristen feel but at the end of everything, my mother's son had just committed suicide and she was within her rights invite or ban whomever she wanted.

Kristen was really hurt and offended and she called me to talk about it - and I advised her that to let it go.  I told her that I understood where she coming from; I told her that my mom felt the way she felt and she wasn't going to change; I tried to convince her not to "crash" the event and asked her why she would want to be someplace that she wasn't welcome; I asked her if she thought George would want her to crash the event and, lastly, I told her I wasn't going.

I meant every word.

But when my mother called in tears about a week later and implored me to come to New Jersey and make the trip to PA with her - when I told her I couldn't afford it and that I didn't think I was coming - she immediately paid for it.  

It's my mother.  What am I supposed to say? "No?" 

So I said "yes".

About a week later, word managed to circulate back to Kristen that I was going and suddenly she disappeared from my Facebook list.  So - I did the difficult thing and confronted her.

She told me (via text message), that she needed to take a step back from me and my family.  I pointed out the immaturity of defriending me on Facebook rather than having a conversation with me to let me know that she was going to be pulling back.  I told her that I hoped it would be for a few weeks and not a few months - she responded with "me too".

I never heard from her again.

Today marks the 2 year anniversary of George's death.  In the two years since he left us, we have been told by Kristen and her family that "it's all too overwhelming to deal with - we will get to it when we get to it"... George's stuff was put in storage in North Carolina - but at this point.... well... I somehow doubt that it's still being paid for - so, it was either moved out and dispensed of or the entire locker went to some storage wars auction and is lost forever.

Kristen's parents sent us some of George's "things" - but what arrived in the mail were three shirts - 2 of which were literally 6 sizes too big and another that didn't fit my brother's style in the slightest.  I am not accusing them of anything.... either they went to the storage locker and grabbed some items that just happened not be George's but had their hearts in the right place OR they were tired of my dad's anger and tried to do something to put him at ease/bay by sending some clothes to us OR they felt it had "gone on too long" and took pity on our family that it had been over a year and we still hadn't seen a single item of George's and sent something - anything - to help ease our hurt.

For those that know me - for those that read my "stuff" regularly - you know that I am pretty even keeled and that I give people the benefit of the doubt to a fault.  The same is true of the situation with Kristen.  I loved her like a sister.  I knew her from the age of 10.  I encouraged George to follow his heart to North Carolina and to pursue a relationship with her because he loved her fiercely.  I supported her when her relationship with her parents ended in 1998 and aggressively encouraged her when George died to reach out to her parents and connect with them so that she would have support.  

But as I sit here, 2 years later, I can tell you that my sympathy, empathy and patience with her has ended.  I pity her and I pity those that care about her.  Should our paths ever cross, it will likely be my first violent encounter.

I wanted his pound puppy - the item he treasured most as a child, dad wanted a ring that he had given George a few years earlier - a family heirloom, and my mother wanted a few pieces of dirty laundry.  The three of us were hoping to provide her with a passport drive so that we could copy the contents of his computer or, if not, a few of the art pieces he had printed.  

Instead, we got nothing.

I carry the term "widow"in high regard.  To me, the word conveys a level of respect - that a series of unfortunate events left a wife without a husband prematurely.  It communicates tragedy, it communicates sympathy, it communicates regrets and sadness.  It is not, and will never be, the word I will use to describe my brother's wife and my former best friend.  While I can understand that she was in pain, battling her own demons and coping with her own change, I can simply not forgive her lack of maturity or the actions she took (or didn't take) in the name of grief.

A Place to Call Home

I have been extremely fortunate in my life in a many areas - no matter how down in the dumps that I may get about some things, I am able to keep things in perspective and realize that I have some great fortune in other areas.

One such area for me is employment.

My professional background is storied, eclectic and unusual.  I have accumulated 2 years experience in Salon Management (I landed a job at 23 years old), 2.5 years experience in Program Development for a Labor Management Cooperative, 3 years experience in Policy and Procedure Development for a non-profit guide dog school, and a collective 6 years experience in Executive Support (Administrative Assistant/EA) at the Director and C-Level in a variety of industries.

I am 31 years old. I never completed college (though it's back on my radar).  I was an english major.

More than the ego hit I took when I lost my job last month, the biggest insight gained from the event of my job loss was that I was lacking something: A Career.  Many many friends of mine from High School and College were wise enough to identify and pursue an industry and build their resume based on the knowledge that comes attached to specific industry experience.

My professional growth has been the result of luck, really.  I have always been the type of person who offered help where help was needed.  I have a talent for identifying inefficiency, easily articulating the processes shortfall causing the inefficiency, and conceptualizing and implementing adjustments which will improve business process.  Overall, most positions I have held began as an Executive Assistant position and then morphed into a position which leveraged this bazaar talent of mine.  And so, over my 12-year working life, I have amassed about 6 years experience in Project Management and Process Improvement.

I told you it was a eclectic.

More than eclectic, however, it's a hard sell when you are trying to market yourself.  YES, things are great when you are working for one company - you are well-utilized and usually happy for the most part.  BUT, when you are in year three of working for a mid-sized guide dog non-profit developing policies and procedures or managing cross-departmental projects, no matter how much you love it, you one day realize that you are collecting experience that is so niche it will likely be difficult to make yourself attractive to other, larger, for-profit organizations if/when you decide that's what you want to do so.

So, here I was.  Living in a state I still can't find much love for, having taken a beating over the last two years in every aspect of my life, trying to figure out what my next move was.

While living up north, I often utilized staffing and temporary agencies to secure employment.  If you have never done or considered working with a staffing agency before - I highly recommend them.  For those of you whose price-point is a little higher than average, it may be difficult to use a staffing agency as the majority (though certainly not all) of the positions may be on the lower-paying side.

But the little-utlized secret of a staffing agency are the following:

1. You are performing a working interview.  If they like you, they WILL keep you.  If you are doing a temporary fill-in for a position while someone is on maternity leave or out sick, you may think that if/when that person comes back you are most definitely out of work - not true.  You have no idea as to what other positions a company may be working on at the exact moment you walk in the door.  By exposing yourself to the players within the organization, making a good impression and networking your tail off in a way that is respectful and motivated by hard, clean work, you may secure a perm opportunity for yourself you didn't even know about.
2. You have the chance to interview the company and, in some cases, your boss to be sure that you WANT to work there.  I cannot tell you how many times I have been the victim of "bad fit" since I moved to Florida.  By working a temp or temp-to-hire position, you have the chance to work, full-time in a position that may be a good fit for you - but if you ultimately decide it's not the right place for you, you simply wait for the position to term and move on.  No harm. No foul.
3. You never know who other people know.  There are plenty of articles that support the theory and argument that networking is a super-vital element to the current job market.  The people at your new place of temporary employment may have associates and be so impressed with you work that they are willing to recommend you to other people. 

Any which-way you slice it - the whole premise lies in: Take the job.  Dress to impress.  Work your tail off.

One of my local staffing agencies approached me with an opportunity to temp as an administrative assistant assigned to a Senior Vice President at a nationally-recognized company local to my market.  The temp pay was stronger than most, but substantially below my previous salary.  Eager to keep income flowing into my household (because something, even $5.00 a hour, is better than unemployed), I took the position with the three bullet-points I listed above etched into my mind.  The company had hired someone in the role I was filling, but the person backed-out of the opportunity at the very last minute.  So, I received the call on Wednesday, was phone screened by the company on Thursday and offered the temp assignment on Friday morning for a Monday-Morning start.

I went, I sunk my teeth in to the position immediately, and I impressed as much as I could.

By the beginning of the second week, I was hearing murmuring that people were liking what I was bringing to the party.  By the end of the second week, I was offered the job - evidently "the fastest conversion" the staffing agency had ever experienced with the company to which I had been assigned.

So now - the moment of truth - do I take the position?

Suddenly I felt confused, scared, and unsure of myself.  As I reflected back on my roles, I realized I had never worked for a corporation; that the support roles I had been hired for were for the heads of rather small companies; the positions I had generated for myself as an extension of my admin support roles were developed because of the "all hands on deck" feel of working for a smaller organization.  In reality, I have never worked for a company with more than 70 people.

Yet here I stood - offered a position with an organization with more than 30,000 employees with global recognition supporting a Senior Vice President.

The bad fit I experienced for a year with my most recent employer (and did nothing to change) had so impacted my confidence, that I actually hesitated at the opportunity.  But, at the end of it all, it has been this type of opportunity I have not been given and it is this type of opportunity that could define, at last, the career I never managed to define.

And so, I accepted the position.  I took a huge pay cut, but I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the adjustment will pay-off in spades for me long-term.

I mentioned that I have been extremely fortunate when it comes to work - well, in the 13 years I have been working, I have never gone more than 3 weeks unemployed.  The most unemployment I have EVER collected has been 4 weeks (back in 2003).  This year's unemployment length? 2 weeks.

I am SO lucky.

So now, it's time to get my sea-legs back, get my forward momentum going again, and evaluate my next steps.  More to come, friends.  With a little luck and careful planning, I may just salvage my 31st year after all...

"How many? Yes, of course. Booth or floor?"

Well, for those of you who are fans of my parental ramblings, here is my latest tirade... and be prepared for my judgemental-ness.  It's happening, people.

This past weekend, I attended a kid's birthday party.  To be perfectly upfront, I have a tendency not to overload my daughter with stimulation.  She is just barely three years old, somewhat reserved, and generally doesn't do well in large groups but thrives very well in situations where there are 2 or 3 other kids.

This was a zoo.

I don't know if the parents thought that three years old was an appropriate time to start playing the "Joneses" card, or what, but they literally invited every kid in this little girl's class.  Fine. Terrific. I'll let that go.

I will even find a way NOT to get aggrivated that these extremely rude, ill-behaved children were hitting my daughter or pushing her over or taking toys right out of her hands.  It took every ounce of control I had not to flick a kid square in the nose.  Yes, I am the kind of parent that believes that Olivia needs to learn a lot of lessons the hard way - that I am there to guide her, but not do it for her.  I think that it's important that she learn that not everyone will act like she does - and that it's not healthy to expect that everyone will behave in the same way... but rather that she will learn to accept sometimes poor behavior as a fact of life and learn not to let it bother her - so far, we are doing very well.  So far... she is three. We will see.

It's harder on ME right now than on her - watching kids do what kids do and Olivia's little brow furrow as she tries to process why kids are taking things without asking nicely without going momma cub.

So Olivia and I played together, and when she asked me quietly why people were taking things, I quietly explained that some kids do that - other kids don't.  When she started to cry because some kid intentionally knocked over her tower of blocks because they didn't want her playing with blocks, I calmly explained that blocks fall over... but really was at loss when she asked me "Why did she hit my blocks?" I don't KNOW, little girl - I simply don't UNDERSTAND.  What am I supposed to SAY!??

It was shortly after this that I had my "oh yes" moment.  An "oh yes" moment is the moment when you see something and everything clicks - this is DIFFERENT than the "aha" moment Oprah speaks so highly of.  No - this "oh yes" moment is the moment you put pieces of a puzzle together and realize "OHHHH ... Yessssss..." and you say "of course.  If A and B are true, then C is likely true".  "Oh yes" is often followed by "Riiiiiiiiiight" - and if you know me personally at all, I know you can probably hear me in your head right now saying this.

The cake was cut and kids clamored for their slice of gluten-free sugar-free cake.  (and btw, this is not a slant against my gluten-free sugar-free parents out there.  I have decided that rather than silently judge you on bandwagoning the most recent "thing" that I would actually read and understand what some of the food options y'all have chosen to explore - and I can completely see what you are doing in making these choices - honestly).  I got Olivia and I a small piece for her and I to share.  Why: 1) She doesn't really like large amounts of anything 2) She thinks something is extra special when she gets to share it with mommy 3) I like the bond/closeness when we are sharing something.  It brings me closer to her both physically and psychologically - in a little while she will be SO independent that she won't want to share anything with me so I will take it while its there for the taking.

Olivia and I went off to find a chair to sit in while we shared our cake.  She sat on my lap and anticipated the rare opportunity for sugary goodness.

I was so enveloped in my special bonding moment with my daughter that I hadn't realized that we were the only ones in the room.  So... I stopped.  What was going on? Was I missing something?

Oh yes.

I was.

15 children and their 30 adult companions (aka parents) were sitting in another room.

Not just sitting in another room, they were sitting on the laminate/tile floor in another room.

Full grown adults, children on their laps, sitting on the floor to feed their kids cake.

Why?

So as not to worry about the cake.  The kids were eating it, dropping it, covered in it - no matter which way you slice it, it wasn't staying on the plate and was rarely making it to their mouth.  It was as though a bunch of three year olds took up Smurf MMA fighting because blue and white were EV-ER-Y-WHERE. 

SO - rather than teach our children to properly use a fork to eat cake; rather than take the time to carefully feed our children if they have not yet developed the fine motor skills required to eat cake safely; to eat over a plate rather than away from it; rather than directing our children to sit at a table; rather than preparing ourselves for accidents that happen with children and teaching our kids that  accidents are a part of life - as are the humble apologies and the grace to clean up any mess you may have made... we, the parents, will sit on the floor and let our kids eat cake where we don't have to worry if they drop it.

Get off the floor.  Have some self-respect.  Yes, its a birthday party - but birthday parties are educational opportunities just as much as everything else is.  YES, our kids are meant to have fun - but does sitting on the floor teach our kids to be respectful of other people's houses?   Or does it teach them to mitigate risk by avoiding it as best they can?  Or does it teach them that they can't be trusted with potentially staining food?  Or does it teach them that they don't have to practice the harder skills because, frankly, they don't have to? (i.e. "don't worry about learning to eat that cake carefully - there is always a tile floor you can eat over")

If we don't parent our children, encourage their independence and draw them close to us through love, respect, patience and one-on-one attention, we are breeding bullies - kids who do not regard the thoughts and feelings of others but rather expect us (their parents) to think of things for them, clean up behind them, rationalize and defend their bad behavior.

At Thanksgiving, a good friend of mine accidentally knocked over a glass votive I had lit to make the house smell nice for our guests.  Hot wax spilled all over my brand new carpet and stained it pretty badly.  Was I mad? Yes. Was I more glad that I had friends in my house to enjoy Thanksgiving with? Absolutely.  We open our houses to each other and take with it the destruction that may come as part of the territory.

So if I host a birthday party for Olivia, you are all invited.  You can even eat cake over my carpet with your kids - and if you drop blue dye #12 on my carpet, I will do my best to get the stain out, but if I can't - your kid will forever be with me and serve to remind me of Olivia's birthday and the fortune we experienced to have you and your clumsy kid join us.

O-pah!

Resurrection

The original intent of this blog was to give me an opportunity to speak my mind - a place where I could come to get some things out there in the open for others to read, enjoy and even laugh at. It was a catharsis for me. In the wake of George's death, I was seeking something that helped me to make sense of my life and, in its small part, the Blog gave me the place that I needed to get things off my chest and feel like I was contributing something - to offset the sense of loss that I was feeling.

For those few of you who were "avid" readers of my blog, I am sure you stayed awake countless hours wondering where I went and why I stopped posting my weekly anecdotes of the chaos around me. Well, I was hiding the truth of my life - completely counter to the intent of the Blog in the first place, interestingly. The events in my personal life were well-timed to the blog fizzling as the personal hurricane ripping through my family lined up with the one year anniversary of George's death and the entries specific to his passing. I thought I was safe hiding behind the veil of "this topic is uncomfortable for me and so the postings are less frequent".

The truth of the matter is, the empire I had built for myself was collapsing. I had made the difficult decision to move to Florida with my husband to buy a house and start a family of my own in a state where we could afford to make such dreams a reality.

I quit a good job where I made decent money (particularly for my age). I moved to a state I knew nothing about to be closer to my brother who I was missing as I got older and was looking forward to our adult relationship. I was heading my own advice and was trying to live boldly and without fear. 

Two weeks before I was going to move to Florida, my brother told me that he was moving to North Carolina to follow his heart - I should have called the whole thing off right then but I ignored my gut.

My experience since moving to Florida has been one folly after another. George moved away 4 weeks after I arrived. We bought a house as prices in Florida started to fall. We got pregnant in July of 2008, my husband lost his job in March of 2009 but started new work the week of my daughter's birth in April. I endured 9 solid months of postpartum depression before finally coming out of the haze in February of 2010.

And for 7 months, I enjoyed my marriage, my daughter, my home and the family I had created. Then, in September of 2010, George died. In October, I flew to New Jersey for the memorial. I entered Therapy and felt wholly disconnected from everything in my universe. In March, I flew to Pennsylvania for another memorial for my brother - this one hosted by my dad.

In May, the creep of "I'm turning 30" hit me - the reality that my 20's are officially over; a chapter that included Rutgers University, amazing friendships, concerts, participating in community theatre, late nights in Jersey Diners, random road trips to New York City, singing with Sarah and Dave on the rare occasions where we could come together... those ten amazing years were over. I sat on my back porch in my under-developed neighborhood (the same back porch where I spoke with the investigator in charge of my brother's death) and did the cliche thing of asking myself: "Is this as good as its going to get for me? An only child with a confusing parental relationship, a husband who I can't relate to and who can't relate to me, in a house I don't love that has come to represent many terrible things for me - placed in the middle of a development wasteland from which we will likely never recoup our investment?"

Then, things really started happening. In late August, my marriage started taking weird turns. In September he wanted out. By our 5-year wedding anniversary (September 23), he had moved out. In January, my divorce was finalized - and the newly-ex-husband lost his job. In February, the newly-ex-husband moved back to New Jersey. In May he became employed and in June I started collecting child support.

And so finally, after 8 months of emotional drama, financial stress, turbulence, moving in with my mom and trying to figure out what life as a single mother meant - I was approaching that time when I could ENJOY the money I was earning, start figuring out how to be independent and live my 30th year... except by now, I was 31.

July 23rd, I lost my job.

And so the whirlwind bullshit of my life continues - a 31 year old unemployed single mother (now THERE is a headline for my Plenty Of Fish profile).

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am no stranger to adversity. Overall, we are a surviving crew and have endured many things. I do NOT count myself among the types of people who LIKE to wallow in self-pity and whine about the things that happen to them. I am a do-er. I am a go-getter. I believe our lives are what we make of them.

But I have to be honest here, I am feeling like I have had my teeth kicked in, wind knocked out of me, money stolen from my wallet and identity stolen to boot.

YES, universe, I get it - I have been living an inauthentic life. You have made your point clear.

YES, universe, I get it - the phoenix can only rise from the ashes.

YES, universe, I get it - you have to knock everything down in order to build back up from the ground level.

But the interim is complete HORSESHIT - I'M JUST SAYIN'.

In the end, I have decided that the blog shall be resurrected - and expanded. My straight-forward parenting observations will still be here - but the timbre of my life is far too global at the moment for me to focus exclusively on one thing.

So, from this point forward, the Blog is about the process of building this shit back up one brick at a time. Where do I go from here? Who do I want to be? What do I REALLY want to do with my LIFE? The way I see it, the co-dependent atrocity that usurped the last 10 years of my life can only be redeemed by my ability to value this opportunity to build a new life for myself with the wisdom I have at 30 rather than the misguided dreams of my 20s - and with an appreciation that I am not yet in my 40s or 50s when the whole house of cards imploded.

So what do you say "devout readers" (delusions of grandeur abound) - are you with me?

Chapter 3: Pieces to a Puzzle

It becomes apparent, when something occurs that's as tragic and sudden as the death of my brother, that each person processes things in their own way. When something sudden and important happens in my family, it is usual for me to spring into action and start working toward a resolution. It isn't to say that's how I operate when something crazy happens to me - in fact, I handle personal things quite in the opposite way - but when something happens to my family, I am the first person to jump in to the fray and start fixing things.

Old habits die hard.

So when I learned of George's death, the first coherent thing I did was book my flight to North Carolina in preparation for the family meeting that would inevitably take place.

But, as I mentioned in the last blog (and I recognize that it was a very long time ago at this point), the details surrounding my brother's death drastically affected the overall plan.

**WARNING: IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO KNOW THE EXACT DETAILS OF GEORGE'S PASSING, SKIP THIS SECTION...MOVE TO THE NEXT "ALL CAPPED" SECTION OF THIS POST AND RESUME READING.**

As would likely be appropriate for any mother, my mom was fixated on finding out as many details as she could about my brother's last minutes of life, the way in which he chose to die, the thoughts that may have entered his head and any other details that she could obtain. She spoke with the Medical Examiner (ME) I think, initially, to determine whether suicide was the only possible explanation for his death.

George had not been drinking... nor had he taken any drugs within the traditional drug panel, but even without the influence of drugs or alcohol, he had determined that he was going to take his own life. He wrote a note on his computer, printed it and taped it to his computer screen.

He wrote a note warning whoever may find him, printed it, and taped it to his bedroom door. He got his iPod, selected some music, sat on his bed and placed a plastic bag over his head; tying it off with a shoelace then handcuffed his hands behind his back and laid down on his bed.

No one could tell us when he died - but I spoke with him Friday night (September 10th) around 11pm and from what I had heard, he had sent a Facebook message to a friend around 10pm on Saturday, September 11th. The ME confirmed that Saturday night would be "about right" given the rate of decomposition, but explained that time of death is not an exact science as they make it seem on TV. George lay in his room, alone, for just over a day before he was discovered by his building's maintenance department on Monday, September 13th.

The ME told each of these details to my mother who then relayed them to me.

**IF YOU SKIPPED THE ABOVE SECTION, YOU MAY SAFELY BEGIN READING FROM THIS POINT FORWARD**

My parent's plan was to leave New Jersey/Pennsylvania on Wednesday morning and arrive in North Carolina Tuesday evening, but the ME's advice to my mother stopped those plans dead in their tracks:

"Ms. Gumpert... if this were my child, I would not want to see him this way."

And with those words, my mother no longer wanted to make the trip to North Carolina.

I was immediately torn.

I had spent $400 to fly to North Carolina thinking that this would be the place we would congregate; to hug each other, love on one another, and be there for each other - all of us. I couldn't afford to fly to New Jersey to be near my parents.

I didn't want to be alone.
I didn't want to be in North Carolina.
I didn't want to wait.
I didn't want to go and didn't want to stay.

I was torn between wanting to there for Kristen, wanting to be there for my parents, wanting my parents to be there for me, and wanting to go home to wrap my arms around my daughter and just sob as hard as I could.

The plan was for me to fly back up to North Carolina in a week for my cousin's wedding, so I knew that I would get the opportunity to see my dad (and the rest of my dad's side of the family) at the wedding.

I researched flights back to Florida and established that I would be able to fly out around noon the next afternoon...

... But before I could leave North Carolina, there were a few items that needed to be addressed and so I was charged with doing them.

I spent the balance of Tuesday spending time with Kristen, Tricia and Erik - drinking in their hospitality and warmth and observing Erik's every move. His stature and mannerisms were so reminiscent of George it was uncanny. While somewhat unnerving, it was also pleasant and heartwarming. In retrospect, it was as though George compelled me to go to North Carolina because he wanted me to meet Tricia and Erik - he wanted me to see how similar he and Erik were and he wanted me to observe a man who so reminded me of my brother... it helped me process, heal and be ok.

I approached Kristen on the front porch - she had been there for a while. She was staring into the evening blankly. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, crouched down the porch for as long as I could before my thighs started trembling and I could no longer hold my own weight.

We smoked a ridiculous number of cigarettes, and eased into conversation. The gist of it was that I needed to go home. I needed to be near my husband and my daughter and start to process this death in my own way - privately. I let her know that she had a support system in Erik and Tricia - a support that I did not have with them and because of that, the hole in my heart was growing rapidly. We chatted about Kristen's feelings and the fear that she had about her future. She intimated that she missed her dad and I told her that I thought it was time to reach out to them. I am a big believer that family is family no matter WHAT - and that if there any time appropriate to mend long wounded fences, it's when you are 29 and have lost your husband.

All the while, through out this conversation, I couldn't ignore the seemingly overwhelming feeling that George was standing over my right shoulder as I consoled his wife and encouraged her to seek support.

"Kristen... I can't be it for you. I am trying as hard as I can right now to be there for you and support you in the way that you need to be supported but the reality is that I have lost my brother, my parents have lost their child. It's a bad situation that is only going to get worse, and I know that our time is limited. You need someone who is an advocate for YOU... you need family to know that they will be looking out for your best interest no matter what and whose motives you will never question. I am not sure how long that will be true for you and I. It's time."

As I brushed my teeth that evening with the toothbrush Tricia so thoughtfully had laid out for us, I wondered how long Kristen and I's friendship would survive. I wanted to believe that we were rational enough people that we would defy the odds and stay friends in spite of something as powerful as this death.
***

Kristen and I headed to the funeral home around 8am the next morning. We entered the parlor and immediately wished that we weren't there. We spoke very little but communicated how uncomfortable we were in this old/old fashioned house.

A tall, rather unintelligent man began assisting us and once again I was faced with the difficult and awkward situation of feeling as though I had less "right" to be there than Kristen did. After all... she is the wife... I am just this sister.

No, we would not like an obituary.
No, we would not like any fancy urn.
Yes, please provide 10 copies of his death certificate.

As we were leaving the funeral home, Kristen's grandfather arrived from Melbourne, FL. The man jumped in his car within hours of learning the news and began driving to be with his granddaughter in North Carolina.

I was impressed.

He was a former New York City cop and he was sharp as a tack. I liked him.

Kristen and I got back into her car and started heading back to the house where Tricia would be driving me to the airport.

On the ride back, my phone rang and mom and dad began itemizing things that they wanted from George's apartment. I knew that this was not a conversation which was going to go over very well with Kristen, so I proceeded to "yes" and "mm hmm" them to get them off the phone. When I arrived back at the house, I called dad back and told him that I was not in a place where it was possible or wise for me to start giving a list of requests. When I got off the phone, I was visibly shaken, upset and on edge. Kristen picked up on this immediately (she has, after all, known me for forever) and asked what was wrong. I tried like hell to avoid answering the question, but after the last three days and the substantial lack of sleep I had lived through, I cracked - and what came out of my mouth was loud and inconsiderate of anyone's feelings but my own:

"You have no idea how hard this is! I have mom and dad making demands on this situation and they are angry. They want things of George's and I told them that I can't ask you right now so now they are mad at me because they think that you should be offering to give us these things. I am trying to be a friend to you and not say anything to make you more upset than you already are! I am staying in a stranger's house. I don't know which way to go and I don't know what to say!"

"No one seems to care that I lost my husband," she responded angrily.

"NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE THAT I LOST MY BROTHER."

It was out there - I couldn't take it back ... and I likely wouldn't have if given the opportunity because it was the most honest thing I have ever said for myself.

I had said what was on my mind and had finally verbalized the fact that I felt like a pawn or like a child being bounced between divorcing parents. I spent the last three days catering to everyone's whims, playing peacemaker, working to advocate for both party's interests and continued to neglect my own grief.

Kristen and I hugged each other - apologized for the hurtful things we may have said to each other, and began saying our goodbyes as I had to head to the airport.

Tricia graciously drove me to the airport, and I began my trip back to Tampa. I breathed a sigh of relief that this particular chapter was over and hoped that the ones ahead would be easier... hell, nothing could be as hard as these three days had been, right?

Chapter 2: Unshakable

"Dad?"
His phone was breaking up and I couldn't get a clear signal. The weight of what I had to tell him was making me impatient, so the next thing that came out of my mouth was a very aggravated: "Dad, call me back from a place where you have a signal and can talk. It's important," then I hung up the phone and waited - the anger brewing.
Within a few minutes, Dad returned my call - his voice was light and cheerful as it usually is when I call him at an unusual time of day.
"Hey!" he said happily, "what's up?"
There was no turning back. This was it.
"Dad, are you someplace quiet with a signal?"
"Yes..."
"Is someone with you?"
"Yes, do you want me to be alone?"
"No!" I replied almost urgently, "No, I want you with someone."
There was an awkward pause while I tried to take a breath and tell him about George. There was no good way to say it. I was just going to have to say it...
"Dad, George is dead."
"What?"
"Big Guy is dead," I repeated.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he is dead. He isn't living. He isn't with us anymore," I spurted. Somehow, I felt that if I told him every variation of what I was trying to tell him that there would be a) no room for confusion b) no room for error and c) nothing more to say and could hang up more quickly.
Dad's immediate reaction was anger: "What do you mean he's dead? How do you know that? Who told you that?"
"Dad, a detective from Raleigh Durham called Kristen saying that they found a deceased male in their apartment - no one was staying with them. George didn't come to work today so someone got worried and went to check on him. When they got there, there was a male in the apartment".
"So we don't know if its him, then," he replied. Clearly, dad believed that the possibility of a random homeless man wandering into their apartment and suddenly dying was just as plausible to him as it was for me. "Who told you this?" he shouted at me, "What's the phone number. I want the number... now."
I knew that if dad made a call to the detective I had been speaking with it would add more chaos to an already chaotic situation. Kristen and I had both been speaking with the detective on a regular basis and I didn't want any more people adding to the mix.
"Dad, I have spoken to her twice already. It's not going to change. She was able to confirm that George's Civic is in his parking lot, but she can't confirm his identity yet - we need to be realistic. Big Guy's car is there, he is nowhere to be found - and there is a deceased male in his bedroom."
"I gotta go," he said before the line went dead.
The house was once again silent.
Olivia's gentle breathing and occasional nuk suckling sounded over the baby monitor - the only reminder that while life was tail spinning for me, it was marching on as a usual for everyone else.
"Well, that sucked". I said trying to break the awkward quiet.
I evaluated my options for telling my mother the news but nothing seemed to be a reasonable option. In fact, it was a near impossibility. She had moved to North Jersey a few months earlier for a job and was living alone in a small apartment. A few minutes after I had told my father the news, his brother and good childhood friend mobilized and were headed to Pennsylvania to be with him - whereas my mom had no family or friends in the state to whom she could turn. For me to tell her that her only son - the apple of her eye and the person with whom she most identified - was dead - over the phone - was simply not going to happen. Dad was going to have to be the one to tell her as he was going to be the only person who could understand the pain and agony that she was going encounter instantly. The situation could, simply, not have sucked more.
Around 10:30pm (or so), I booked an early morning flight to Raleigh Durham before heading to bed and attempted to sleep.
But, as I drifted into sleep the first of many harsh realizations sprang to mind: "I am an only child."

***
About 3 hours into sleep, I woke up and started making my way out the door. Somehow I miscalculated my time and only left an hour and a half to do a trip that regularly takes 2 hours between drive-time, parking, shuttling, and security.
I finally got into the airport and ran to the desk where I needed to check-in for my flight. Unfortunately, my flight was scheduled to leave in 20 minutes and I still had to get upstairs, take the tram to the terminal and wait in line at security before proceeding to my gate.
The woman at the front desk said impatiently: "Ma'am... its 20 minutes before your flight. This flight is closed."
"Yes, I know. I'm running late. What does that mean?"
"It means the flight is closed. You aren't going to make it."
I had a connecting flight in Atlanta and now I couldn't seem to make it out of Tampa!
"Ma'am, my brother committed suicide yesterday. I HAVE to get to Raleigh Durham."
The woman looked horrified and broken-hearted at the same time. She quickly printed my tickets and gave me directions to get to the gate as quickly as possible. I bound up the steps of the escalator so fast that I lost a shoe.
When I got in the airport, I was stuck in a security line that was held up by a little old man and his walking cane. For some reason, no one could figure out what to do with the cane and so there was a huge lot of us that were held up. I stood in line, pacing, frantic that I might miss my flight. The more I thought about missing the flight, the more I realized why I was in the airport.
Shifting my weight from left to right repeatedly, my eyes were welling with tears and my chest grew tight.
A pilot who had been standing in front of me noticed that I was getting more upset at the delay. When the old man finally cleared the metal detector, the pilot looked to my sympathetically and said "You can go... please." I hugged him with my eyes, still tear-filled, and bolted through the security screening as quickly as possible.
By only the miracle of God, I caught the flight and off I went to North Carolina.

***
After about an hour in the air, I arrived in Atlanta and headed to my connecting gate. At the time, Kristen has been living and working in Atlanta so we happened to catch the same flight from Atlanta to North Carolina.
She looked tired - like something was propelling her forward. After a weak "hello" to one another, we headed to the smoking lounge to kill the hour-long layover and make some phone calls.
It was in this smoke-filled room that I realized that no one in George's life knew that he was gone. For some reason, I couldn't shake the idea that George had died in his apartment on, presumably, late Saturday/early Sunday morning and there was an entire world that didn't even know that he was gone. His closest childhood friends (the ones that I was familiar with) Ethan, Alan, Dave, Chris - "the gang" woke up on a regular Tuesday morning and started their days like any other. I was about to call them and tell them that one of their closest friends had died.
I did the best that I could given that I had no phone numbers. Fortunately, most of his friend's numbers were listed in Facebook and, nervously, I began making these difficult phone calls.
They say that God only gives you what you can handle - I believe that God knew that I couldn't handle hearing the live reaction of George's closest friends. Every number I called went to voicemail - and so it was on voicemail/text message, that I told some of George's dearest friends that they would never hear from him again.
I can still remember how awkward it was for me to call these people. They were the people who loved and cared about my brother like their own family - some of them I had known for years as we all attended the same school. Some I barely knew. The reality is, you aren't usually close with your siblings friends. What little you know of them is that they would attend band rehearsals in your basement and invite your brother to their house for birthdays. Beyond that - they were people who were not a true part of your life... but a real, personal, part of siblings life.
We boarded the flight to NC, trying to find our way through the subjects that were "safe" to discuss and what was too uncomfortable. Ultimately, we came up with a "safe word" that we could use so that at any time if either of us was too uncomfortable with the conversation, we could use the word and it would stop the conversation immediately (we could revisit it later).
From the time I had learned about my brother's death, I was not entirely convinced that he had committed suicide. It seemed easier to process the idea that he accidentally overdosed or that he mixed something he shouldn't have. No matter how I split it, I knew that he was depressed and unhappy - I believed he was likely self-medicating but it just didn't seem to work in my head that he had intentionally killed himself. After all - there was no note.
But there was.
At some point during the flight, Kristen shared with me that he had left a note. It was short and un-involved from the sound of it, but it was there all the same - and from that moment, the idea that George had done something stupid morphed into the reality that brother elected to stop living.
When we arrived at RDU airport, I called my father. It was his intent to arrive at mom's house by about 730am to tell her about George, so it was our plan for me to call as I deplaned in North Carolina.
To add insult to injury, mom and I had been fighting, rather intensely, for a few months leading up to the weekend preceding my brother's death. She had been living with me prior to her move to New Jersey and it hadn't ended well. After she moved out, we still were not in a great place in terms of our relationship and so, on the morning of the day that I would ultimately learn that my brother had died, I sent my mother an email telling her that I didn't want to have a relationship with her anymore. Looking back on this, it's hard to believe that I wrote her an email of that weight innocently tied up in our bad relationship - not knowing that George was already gone.
When mom answered the phone, her voice was weak and breaking. Within minutes, the conversation took an ugly, angry turn - so I tried to end the conversation as quickly as I could. It was obvious that mom was angry - that she believed that George was not at fault for his suicide, but I was not in a place or position where I was prepared to start passing judgement. After all, George made his own decision. He couldn't help who he fell in love with. He couldn't help who he chose to pine after. He chose to move in with her. He chose to stay with her even with the relationship was nearly impossible. He chose to marry her. Before anyone thinks that what I am saying now is said with any malice, I should point out that I fully supported my brother's choice to marry this particular person. She and I were very close when we were growing up and I believed that love that they shared was intense and unique. I don't believe she ever thought that it would "come to this". I don't believe that she ever believed that George was this sick. I don't believe that she was invested enough in the relationship, however, to see how sick he was. She is not the first wife to miss the signs - and she will not be the last. I guess that because she knew George since he was 12(?), I expected her to have more insight into who he was and how he processed things... but just because I expect something does not make it so.
On this day, just minutes after finding out about the death of her son, mom was not so prepared to give anyone the benefit of the doubt and finger pointing began. It was uncomfortable as I stood there listening to mom say angry, ugly things about Kristen who was sitting right beside me. I did everything I could to alter the direction of the conversation, but there were few alternatives.
"How can you sit next to her, Jenn? How can you sit in the same room with her when she is the reason he did this?"
I was at a loss for words. How do you respond to that? You are, first and foremost, the daughter and sister... you are second, someone's best friend and you are, least of all (at that moment) wanting desperately not to sit in judgement of other people.
Kristen had friends in Raleigh with whom we were invited to stay - their names were Trisha and Erik. I didn't know much about them, but I recall George mentioning Erik and speaking of him with fondness and appreciation.
We arrived in the late morning - Trisha and Erik met us on the porch and opened their arms widely as Kristen approached the porch. Their beautiful house was tucked back on a piece of property at the end of a short road that dead ended. The property on which their house sat was beautiful and, for the first time, I could see why George and Kristen loved living in North Carolina. The air was clean, the weather was crisp and unopressive even in early September and, on this particular piece of property, it was peaceful and quiet.
Despite their incredible warmth and overwhelmingly sincere welcome, it was hard for me to comfortable with Trisha and Erik. For my part, there was a mental block against being vulnerable with them. Afterall, these were two people who knew Kristen and George as a couple. They knew them well, hung out with them regularly, and had been invested in them as friends. It was hard for me to let go of the idea that they had never met me, but that they were meeting me on the worst day of my life - and it was nearly impossible for me to feel that it was appropriate to mourn this key loss in my life while living under the roof of someone who had never met me but was coping with their own loss. Still, I was thankful that Kristen had these incredibly warm, unassuming, non judgemental people that should could depend on. She was estranged from her own family and in this very difficult time, it was going to be extremely important to her that she have friends that she could depend on.
The chaos of the day moved along. I spoke with each of George's friends - each more heartbroken and in more disbelief than the last. I spoke with my parents as frequently as possible.
Around midday, I had an opportunity to speak with the detective at length. She was a woman who seemed to understand depression and suicide and she spoke with me candidly about her experience with this topic while remaining compassionate.
It was my intent to head to North Carolina to meet up with mom and dad and to handle the details associated with the disposal of my brother's body so that my parent's didn't have to. What I didn't know when I got on the plane in Tampa, was that mom and dad would never make it North Carolina - that there would be no disposal to arrange, and no affairs to close out. What I didn't know was that the details surrounding my brother's sudden suicide would be, for lack of a better word, unshakable.

After Suicide - a Year Later

CHAPTER 1: Breathe
I scooped Olivia up and plopped her, protesting, into her car seat. Let the car routine begin: Click the carseat buckles, smile at Olivia, kiss her on the forehead, give her her Piggy, give her her nuk, tell her I love her, and shut the rear passanger door.

I was in a great mood. The day had gone smoothly, the air was warm but not oppressive as it had been over the past few weeks. I turned the engine over, put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway slowly - smiling at Olivia as I looked out the back window.

Out of the corner of my eye, the slow, flashing light on my cell phone beckoned. My heart pitter-pattered when I saw that the call I had missed was from one of my best friends. We had gone months without getting an opportunity to speak to one another and had just spoken the previous week. I was hopeful that this was the beginning of a trend - a trend of regularly calling each other, checking on each other, and enjoying each other's presence in the other's lives. After 19 years of friendship and 14 years of hoping, she had married my baby brother. What more could a girl possibly want? When your best friend marries your brother, you gain a sister rather than a sister-in-law.

"Hey," she answered the phone warily.

"Hey!" I exlaimed. My mood was bright and soaring. Perhaps she needed a little dose of what I had to brighten her day.

"Have you talked to your brother?"

I hesitated. I had talked to him on Friday - three days earlier. Our conversation had been stilted and uncomfortable. He was unhappy. He was uncertain. He was buying a house. He was working very hard. He was lonely. He wanted her to stop working a job out of town. He was feeling insecure. He made me promise not to tell anyone - anyone - what we had talked about.

"Yes, I talked to him on Friday night a little bit."

"Did he say anything?"

This was a trick. She was fishing for something.

"Well, we talked a little bit about the wedding next week. My trip to North Carolina. What he was going to wear to Kelly's wedding. It wasn't long."

That was all true. I was heading to North Carolina in just over a week. My plan was to fly into RDU and stay with George the first night before we collectively caravaned over to New Bern for my cousins wedding and enjoyed a five-day, much needed, mini-vacation.

"Are you driving?" She asked quickly.

"Yea! I just picked up Olivia - we are heading home".

"Oh", she said dissapointedly. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

I tried to elicit conversation - my ride home was 25 minutes and the drive home was really the most ideal time for me to talk rather the chaos of getting home and trying to talk over dinner preperations, the dogs barking and Olivia squeeling as she devoured her meal.

"Just call me when you get home. It's not safe to drive and talk on the phone."

"Its a slow backroad.. it's not a big deal and it's legal in Florida."

"No. Call me as soon as you get home. I'll talk to you then."

About 6 minutes into my road, I got a sinking feeling but went on to convince myself that she nust need to share some recent relationship-y update.

When I got home, I hurried inside, put Olivia in her high-chair and immediately returned her call.
"What did your brother say the last time you talk to him?"

I repeated my original answer, adding a little more detail and finished with "WHY, what's up?"
"I got a call today from a detective in Durham..."

"Okay."

"They found deceased male in my apartment."

"Okay," I replied cluelessly.

"We had no friends staying with us."

"Okay?" Where was she going with this? Somehow in my brain, she was about to tell me that some homeless man wandered into her apartment, died and, oh - by the way - your brother wasn't at the apartment so do you know where he is?... For some reason, this fantastic and completely unrealistic possibility was so much more plausible than what was about to happen.

"Jenn. Listen to me. They found a deceased male in my apartment today. There was no friends staying with us. Your brother didn't show up to work today, someone got worried and came looking for him. They got maintenance to go into the apartment and when maintenance entered the apartment, they found a deceased male in the bedroom."

Somehow, the homeless man wandering into their somehow vacant apartment was still plausible.
Vacantly and devoid of any emotion, I slowly said, "Are you telling me what I think your telling me?"
The pause between my question and her response seemed to last five minutes.

"Yes."

I froze. I was breathing normally. I wasn't crying. I felt nothing. I sat on the floor. I started to shake... but somehow, there was a still a homeless man dead in their apartment and George had picked up and left without telling any of us where he was going.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

The investigators on the scene were not yet able to enter the apartment and confirm identity - there was a bunch of legal red tape to get through before they would be allowed to go into the apartment and start processing the apartment. She couldn't confirm if George's black honda civic was in their parking lot. She couldn't confirm the last time that anyone spoke to George. Every possibility was a more realistic possiblity than what she was asking me to accept.

When I finally got a hold of the investigator the first question I immediately asked if there was a black Honda Civic in the parking lot in front of the apartment.

There was.

I asked if it was my brother - she couldn't tell me.

"But ma'am - he is six foot three and has JET black hair. You would KNOW if it was him, instantly!"
She couldn't tell me.

"But ma'am... I have to tell my parents".

Oh, God.

Me.

I am going to be the one to tell my own parents that their son is no longer living.

The investigator advised that I wait until they could verify identity but could not give me any idea on whether they would get into the apartment in 5 minute or 5 hours. There was no way that I was going to wait when, in my heart, I already knew the answer.

At 7:40pm on September 13, 2010, I called my father and gave him the most devistating news a child will ever have to give their parent.


CHAPTER 2: Unshakeable
"Dad?"

His phone was breaking up and I couldn't get a clear signal. The weight of what I had to tell him was making me impatient, so the next thing that came out of my mouth was a very aggravated: "Dad, call me back from a place where you have a signal and can talk. It's important," then I hung up the phone and waited - the anger brewing.

Within a few minutes, Dad returned my call - his voice was light and cheerful as it usually is when I call him at an unusual time of day.

"Hey!" he said happily, "what's up?"

There was no turning back. This was it.

"Dad, are you someplace quiet with a signal?"

"Yes..."

"Is someone with you?"

"Yes, do you want me to be alone?"

"No!" I replied almost urgently, "No, I want you with someone."

There was an awkward pause while I tried to take a breath and tell him about George. There was no good way to say it. I was just going to have to say it...

"Dad, George is dead."

"What?"

"Big Guy is dead," I repeated.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he is dead. He isn't living. He isn't with us anymore," I spurted. Somehow, I felt that if I told him every variation of what I was trying to tell him that there would be a) no room for confusion b) no room for error and c) nothing more to say and could hang up more quickly.
Dad's immediate reaction was anger: "What do you mean he's dead? How do you know that? Who told you that?"

"Dad, a detective from Raleigh Durham called Kristen saying that they found a deceased male in their apartment - no one was staying with them. George didn't come to work today so someone got worried and went to check on him. When they got there, there was a male in the apartment".
"So we don't know if its him, then," he replied. Clearly, dad believed that the possibility of a random homeless man wandering into their apartment and suddenly dying was just as plausible to him as it was for me. "Who told you this?" he shouted at me, "What's the phone number. I want the number... now."

I knew that if dad made a call to the detective I had been speaking with it would add more chaos to an already chaotic situation. Kristen and I had both been speaking with the detective on a regular basis and I didn't want any more people adding to the mix.

"Dad, I have spoken to her twice already. It's not going to change. She was able to confirm that George's Civic is in his parking lot, but she can't confirm his identity yet - we need to be realistic. Big Guy's car is there, he is nowhere to be found - and there is a deceased male in his bedroom."

"I gotta go," he said before the line went dead.
The house was once again silent.

Olivia's gentle breathing and occasional nuk suckling sounded over the baby monitor - the only reminder that while life was tail spinning for me, it was marching on as a usual for everyone else.
"Well, that sucked". I said trying to break the awkward quiet.

I evaluated my options for telling my mother the news but nothing seemed to be a reasonable option. In fact, it was a near impossibility. She had moved to North Jersey a few months earlier for a job and was living alone in a small apartment. A few minutes after I had told my father the news, his brother and good childhood friend mobilized and were headed to Pennsylvania to be with him - whereas my mom had no family or friends in the state to whom she could turn. For me to tell her that her only son - the apple of her eye and the person with whom she most identified - was dead - over the phone - was simply not going to happen. Dad was going to have to be the one to tell her as he was going to be the only person who could understand the pain and agony that she was going encounter instantly. The situation could, simply, not have sucked more.

Around 10:30pm (or so), I booked an early morning flight to Raleigh Durham before heading to bed and attempted to sleep.

But, as I drifted into sleep the first of many harsh realizations sprang to mind: "I am an only child."

***
About 3 hours into sleep, I woke up and started making my way out the door. Somehow I miscalculated my time and only left an hour and a half to do a trip that regularly takes 2 hours between drive-time, parking, shuttling, and security.
I finally got into the airport and ran to the desk where I needed to check-in for my flight. Unfortunately, my flight was scheduled to leave in 20 minutes and I still had to get upstairs, take the tram to the terminal and wait in line at security before proceeding to my gate.
The woman at the front desk said impatiently: "Ma'am... its 20 minutes before your flight. This flight is closed."

"Yes, I know. I'm running late. What does that mean?"
"It means the flight is closed. You aren't going to make it."
I had a connecting flight in Atlanta and now I couldn't seem to make it out of Tampa!
"Ma'am, my brother committed suicide yesterday. I HAVE to get to Raleigh Durham."
The woman looked horrified and broken-hearted at the same time. She quickly printed my tickets and gave me directions to get to the gate as quickly as possible. I bound up the steps of the escalator so fast that I lost a shoe.

When I got in the airport, I was stuck in a security line that was held up by a little old man and his walking cane. For some reason, no one could figure out what to do with the cane and so there was a huge lot of us that were held up. I stood in line, pacing, frantic that I might miss my flight. The more I thought about missing the flight, the more I realized why I was in the airport.
Shifting my weight from left to right repeatedly, my eyes were welling with tears and my chest grew tight.

A pilot who had been standing in front of me noticed that I was getting more upset at the delay. When the old man finally cleared the metal detector, the pilot looked to my sympathetically and said "You can go... please." I hugged him with my eyes, still tear-filled, and bolted through the security screening as quickly as possible.

By only the miracle of God, I caught the flight and off I went to North Carolina.

***
After about an hour in the air, I arrived in Atlanta and headed to my connecting gate. At the time, Kristen has been living and working in Atlanta so we happened to catch the same flight from Atlanta to North Carolina.

She looked tired - like something was propelling her forward. After a weak "hello" to one another, we headed to the smoking lounge to kill the hour-long layover and make some phone calls.
It was in this smoke-filled room that I realized that no one in George's life knew that he was gone. For some reason, I couldn't shake the idea that George had died in his apartment on, presumably, late Saturday/early Sunday morning and there was an entire world that didn't even know that he was gone.  His closest childhood friends (the ones that I was familiar with) Ethan, Alan, Dave, Chris - "the gang" woke up on a regular Tuesday morning and started their days like any other. I was about to call them and tell them that one of their closest friends had died.

I did the best that I could given that I had no phone numbers. Fortunately, most of his friend's numbers were listed in Facebook and, nervously, I began making these difficult phone calls.
They say that God only gives you what you can handle - I believe that God knew that I couldn't handle hearing the live reaction of George's closest friends. Every number I called went to voicemail - and so it was on voicemail/text message, that I told some of George's dearest friends that they would never hear from him again.

I can still remember how awkward it was for me to call these people. They were the people who loved and cared about my brother like their own family - some of them I had known for years as we all attended the same school. Some I barely knew. The reality is, you aren't usually close with your siblings friends. What little you know of them is that they would attend band rehearsals in your basement and invite your brother to their house for birthdays. Beyond that - they were people who were not a true part of your life... but a real, personal, part of siblings life.
We boarded the flight to NC, trying to find our way through the subjects that were "safe" to discuss and what was too uncomfortable. Ultimately, we came up with a "safe word" that we could use so that at any time if either of us was too uncomfortable with the conversation, we could use the word and it would stop the conversation immediately (we could revisit it later).
From the time I had learned about my brother's death, I was not entirely convinced that he had committed suicide. It seemed easier to process the idea that he accidentally overdosed or that he mixed something he shouldn't have. No matter how I split it, I knew that he was depressed and unhappy - I believed he was likely self-medicating but it just didn't seem to work in my head that he had intentionally killed himself. After all - there was no note.

But there was.

At some point during the flight, Kristen shared with me that he had left a note. It was short and un-involved from the sound of it, but it was there all the same - and from that moment, the idea that George had done something stupid morphed into the reality that brother elected to stop living.
When we arrived at RDU airport, I called my father. It was his intent to arrive at mom's house by about 730am to tell her about George, so it was our plan for me to call as I deplaned in North Carolina.

To add insult to injury, mom and I had been fighting, rather intensely, for a few months leading up to the weekend preceding my brother's death. She had been living with me prior to her move to New Jersey and it hadn't ended well. After she moved out, we still were not in a great place in terms of our relationship and so, on the morning of the day that I would ultimately learn that my brother had died, I sent my mother an email telling her that I didn't want to have a relationship with her anymore. Looking back on this, it's hard to believe that I wrote her an email of that weight innocently tied up in our bad relationship - not knowing that George was already gone.

When mom answered the phone, her voice was weak and breaking. Within minutes, the conversation took an ugly, angry turn - so I tried to end the conversation as quickly as I could. It was obvious that mom was angry - that she believed that George was not at fault for his suicide, but I was not in a place or position where I was prepared to start passing judgement. After all, George made his own decision. He couldn't help who he fell in love with. He couldn't help who he chose to pine after. He chose to move in with her. He chose to stay with her even with the relationship was nearly impossible. He chose to marry her. Before anyone thinks that what I am saying now is said with any malice, I should point out that I fully supported my brother's choice to marry this particular person. She and I were very close when we were growing up and I believed that love that they shared was intense and unique. I don't believe she ever thought that it would "come to this". I don't believe that she ever believed that George was this sick. I don't believe that she was invested enough in the relationship, however, to see how sick he was. She is not the first wife to miss the signs - and she will not be the last. I guess that because she knew George since he was 12(?), I expected her to have more insight into who he was and how he processed things... but just because I expect something does not make it so.

On this day, just minutes after finding out about the death of her son, mom was not so prepared to give anyone the benefit of the doubt and finger pointing began. It was uncomfortable as I stood there listening to mom say angry, ugly things about Kristen who was sitting right beside me. I did everything I could to alter the direction of the conversation, but there were few alternatives.

"How can you sit next to her, Jenn? How can you sit in the same room with her when she is the reason he did this?"

I was at a loss for words. How do you respond to that? You are, first and foremost, the daughter and sister... you are second, someone's best friend and you are, least of all (at that moment) wanting desperately not to sit in judgement of other people.
Kristen had friends in Raleigh with whom we were invited to stay - their names were Trisha and Erik.  I didn't know much about them, but I recall George mentioning Erik and speaking of him with fondness and appreciation.

We arrived in the late morning - Trisha and Erik met us on the porch and opened their arms widely as Kristen approached the porch. Their beautiful house was tucked back on a piece of property at the end of a short road that dead ended. The property on which their house sat was beautiful and, for the first time, I could see why George and Kristen loved living in North Carolina. The air was clean, the weather was crisp and unopressive even in early September and, on this particular piece of property, it was peaceful and quiet.

Despite their incredible warmth and overwhelmingly sincere welcome, it was hard for me to comfortable with Trisha and Erik. For my part, there was a mental block against being vulnerable with them. Afterall, these were two people who knew Kristen and George as a couple. They knew them well, hung out with them regularly, and had been invested in them as friends. It was hard for me to let go of the idea that they had never met me, but that they were meeting me on the worst day of my life - and it was nearly impossible for me to feel that it was appropriate to mourn this key loss in my life while living under the roof of someone who had never met me but was coping with their own loss. Still, I was thankful that Kristen had these incredibly warm, unassuming, non judgemental people that should could depend on. She was estranged from her own family and in this very difficult time, it was going to be extremely important to her that she have friends that she could depend on.
The chaos of the day moved along. I spoke with each of George's friends - each more heartbroken and in more disbelief than the last. I spoke with my parents as frequently as possible.
Around midday, I had an opportunity to speak with the detective at length. She was a woman who seemed to understand depression and suicide and she spoke with me candidly about her experience with this topic while remaining compassionate.

It was my intent to head to North Carolina to meet up with mom and dad and to handle the details associated with the disposal of my brother's body so that my parent's didn't have to. What I didn't know when I got on the plane in Tampa, was that mom and dad would never make it North Carolina - that there would be no disposal to arrange, and no affairs to close out. What I didn't know was that the details surrounding my brother's sudden suicide would be, for lack of a better word, unshakable.

CHAPTER 3: Pieces to a Puzzle
It becomes apparent, when something occurs that's as tragic and sudden as the death of my brother, that each person processes things in their own way. When something sudden and important happens in my family, it is usual for me to spring into action and start working toward a resolution. It isn't to say that's how I operate when something crazy happens to me - in fact, I handle personal things quite in the opposite way - but when something happens to my family, I am the first person to jump in to the fray and start fixing things.

Old habits die hard.

So when I learned of George's death, the first coherent thing I did was book my flight to North Carolina in preparation for the family meeting that would inevitably take place.

But, as I mentioned in the last blog (and I recognize that it was a very long time ago at this point), the details surrounding my brother's death drastically affected the overall plan.

**WARNING: IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO KNOW THE EXACT DETAILS OF GEORGE'S PASSING, SKIP THIS SECTION...MOVE TO THE NEXT "ALL CAPPED" SECTION OF THIS POST AND RESUME READING.**

As would likely be appropriate for any mother, my mom was fixated on finding out as many details as she could about my brother's last minutes of life, the way in which he chose to die, the thoughts that may have entered his head and any other details that she could obtain. She spoke with the Medical Examiner (ME) I think, initially, to determine whether suicide was the only possible explanation for his death.

George had not been drinking... nor had he taken any drugs within the traditional drug panel, but even without the influence of drugs or alcohol, he had determined that he was going to take his own life. He wrote a note on his computer, printed it and taped it to his computer screen.

He wrote a note warning whoever may find him, printed it, and taped it to his bedroom door. He got his iPod, selected some music, sat on his bed and placed a plastic bag over his head; tying it off with a shoelace then handcuffed his hands behind his back and laid down on his bed.

No one could tell us when he died - but I spoke with him Friday night (September 10th) around 11pm and from what I had heard, he had sent a Facebook message to a friend around 10pm on Saturday, September 11th. The ME confirmed that Saturday night would be "about right" given the rate of decomposition, but explained that time of death is not an exact science as they make it seem on TV. George lay in his room, alone, for just over a day before he was discovered by his building's maintenance department on Monday, September 13th.

The ME told each of these details to my mother who then relayed them to me.

**IF YOU SKIPPED THE ABOVE SECTION, YOU MAY SAFELY BEGIN READING FROM THIS POINT FORWARD**

My parent's plan was to leave New Jersey/Pennsylvania on Wednesday morning and arrive in North Carolina Tuesday evening, but the ME's advice to my mother stopped those plans dead in their tracks:

"Ms. Gumpert... if this were my child, I would not want to see him this way."

And with those words, my mother no longer wanted to make the trip to North Carolina.

I was immediately torn.

I had spent $400 to fly to North Carolina thinking that this would be the place we would congregate; to hug each other, love on one another, and be there for each other - all of us. I couldn't afford to fly to New Jersey to be near my parents.

I didn't want to be alone.
I didn't want to be in North Carolina.
I didn't want to wait.
I didn't want to go and didn't want to stay.

I was torn between wanting to there for Kristen, wanting to be there for my parents, wanting my parents to be there for me, and wanting to go home to wrap my arms around my daughter and just sob as hard as I could.

The plan was for me to fly back up to North Carolina in a week for my cousin's wedding, so I knew that I would get the opportunity to see my dad (and the rest of my dad's side of the family) at the wedding.

I researched flights back to Florida and established that I would be able to fly out around noon the next afternoon...

... But before I could leave North Carolina, there were a few items that needed to be addressed and so I was charged with doing them.

I spent the balance of Tuesday spending time with Kristen, Tricia and Erik - drinking in their hospitality and warmth and observing Erik's every move. His stature and mannerisms were so reminiscent of George it was uncanny. While somewhat unnerving, it was also pleasant and heartwarming. In retrospect, it was as though George compelled me to go to North Carolina because he wanted me to meet Tricia and Erik - he wanted me to see how similar he and Erik were and he wanted me to observe a man who so reminded me of my brother... it helped me process, heal and be ok.

I approached Kristen on the front porch - she had been there for a while. She was staring into the evening blankly. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, crouched down the porch for as long as I could before my thighs started trembling and I could no longer hold my own weight.

We smoked a ridiculous number of cigarettes, and eased into conversation. The gist of it was that I needed to go home. I needed to be near my husband and my daughter and start to process this death in my own way - privately. I let her know that she had a support system in Erik and Tricia - a support that I did not have with them and because of that, the hole in my heart was growing rapidly. We chatted about Kristen's feelings and the fear that she had about her future. She intimated that she missed her dad and I told her that I thought it was time to reach out to them. I am a big believer that family is family no matter WHAT - and that if there any time appropriate to mend long wounded fences, it's when you are 29 and have lost your husband.

All the while, through out this conversation, I couldn't ignore the seemingly overwhelming feeling that George was standing over my right shoulder as I consoled his wife and encouraged her to seek support.

"Kristen... I can't be it for you. I am trying as hard as I can right now to be there for you and support you in the way that you need to be supported but the reality is that I have lost my brother, my parents have lost their child. It's a bad situation that is only going to get worse, and I know that our time is limited. You need someone who is an advocate for YOU... you need family to know that they will be looking out for your best interest no matter what and whose motives you will never question. I am not sure how long that will be true for you and I. It's time."

As I brushed my teeth that evening with the toothbrush Tricia so thoughtfully had laid out for us, I wondered how long Kristen and I's friendship would survive. I wanted to believe that we were rational enough people that we would defy the odds and stay friends in spite of something as powerful as this death.
***

Kristen and I headed to the funeral home around 8am the next morning. We entered the parlor and immediately wished that we weren't there. We spoke very little but communicated how uncomfortable we were in this old/old fashioned house.

A tall, rather unintelligent man began assisting us and once again I was faced with the difficult and awkward situation of feeling as though I had less "right" to be there than Kristen did. After all... she is the wife... I am just this sister.

No, we would not like an obituary.
No, we would not like any fancy urn.
Yes, please provide 10 copies of his death certificate.

As we were leaving the funeral home, Kristen's grandfather arrived from Melbourne, FL. The man jumped in his car within hours of learning the news and began driving to be with his granddaughter in North Carolina.

I was impressed.

He was a former New York City cop and he was sharp as a tack. I liked him.

Kristen and I got back into her car and started heading back to the house where Tricia would be driving me to the airport.

On the ride back, my phone rang and mom and dad began itemizing things that they wanted from George's apartment. I knew that this was not a conversation which was going to go over very well with Kristen, so I proceeded to "yes" and "mm hmm" them to get them off the phone. When I arrived back at the house, I called dad back and told him that I was not in a place where it was possible or wise for me to start giving a list of requests. When I got off the phone, I was visibly shaken, upset and on edge. Kristen picked up on this immediately (she has, after all, known me for forever) and asked what was wrong. I tried like hell to avoid answering the question, but after the last three days and the substantial lack of sleep I had lived through, I cracked - and what came out of my mouth was loud and inconsiderate of anyone's feelings but my own:

"You have no idea how hard this is! I have mom and dad making demands on this situation and they are angry. They want things of George's and I told them that I can't ask you right now so now they are mad at me because they think that you should be offering to give us these things. I am trying to be a friend to you and not say anything to make you more upset than you already are! I am staying in a stranger's house. I don't know which way to go and I don't know what to say!"

"No one seems to care that I lost my husband," she responded angrily.

"NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE THAT I LOST MY BROTHER."

It was out there - I couldn't take it back ... and I likely wouldn't have if given the opportunity because it was the most honest thing I have ever said for myself.

I had said what was on my mind and had finally verbalized the fact that I felt like a pawn or like a child being bounced between divorcing parents. I spent the last three days catering to everyone's whims, playing peacemaker, working to advocate for both party's interests and continued to neglect my own grief.

Kristen and I hugged each other - apologized for the hurtful things we may have said to each other, and began saying our goodbyes as I had to head to the airport.

Tricia graciously drove me to the airport, and I began my trip back to Tampa. I breathed a sigh of relief that this particular chapter was over and hoped that the ones ahead would be easier... hell, nothing could be as hard as these three days had been, right?

CHAPTER 4: Aftermath
How wrong I was.  Things got so much harder.

Sometime in mid-October, 2010, (one month after my brother took his life) my brother's wife de-friended me on Facebook.  Her decision came on the heels, I can only imagine, of my decision to support my mother by attending the memorial that my mother was organizing for George in Pennsylvania.  I had told Kristen that I wouldn't be attending because, in my heart, I wasn't going to.  Mom and I were having a very touch-and-go relationship at the time and I was in no position to afford a somewhat-last-minute trip to the Garden State where my mother was living at the time.

To make matters worse, my mom very specifically told Kristen that she didn't want her to show up at the event.  I can understand where my mother was coming from AND I can understand how it must have made Kristen feel but at the end of everything, my mother's son had just committed suicide and she was within her rights invite or ban whomever she wanted.

Kristen was really hurt and offended and she called me to talk about it - and I advised her that to let it go.  I told her that I understood where she coming from; I told her that my mom felt the way she felt and she wasn't going to change; I tried to convince her not to "crash" the event and asked her why she would want to be someplace that she wasn't welcome; I asked her if she thought George would want her to crash the event and, lastly, I told her I wasn't going.

I meant every word.

But when my mother called in tears about a week later and implored me to come to New Jersey and make the trip to PA with her - when I told her I couldn't afford it and that I didn't think I was coming - she immediately paid for it.  

It's my mother.  What am I supposed to say? "No?" 

So I said "yes".

About a week later, word managed to circulate back to Kristen that I was going and suddenly she disappeared from my Facebook list.  So - I did the difficult thing and confronted her.

She told me (via text message), that she needed to take a step back from me and my family.  I pointed out the immaturity of defriending me on Facebook rather than having a conversation with me to let me know that she was going to be pulling back.  I told her that I hoped it would be for a few weeks and not a few months - she responded with "me too".

I never heard from her again.

Today marks the 2 year anniversary of George's death.  In the two years since he left us, we have been told by Kristen and her family that "it's all too overwhelming to deal with - we will get to it when we get to it"... George's stuff was put in storage in North Carolina - but at this point.... well... I somehow doubt that it's still being paid for - so, it was either moved out and dispensed of or the entire locker went to some storage wars auction and is lost forever.

Kristen's parents sent us some of George's "things" - but what arrived in the mail were three shirts - 2 of which were literally 6 sizes too big and another that didn't fit my brother's style in the slightest.  I am not accusing them of anything.... either they went to the storage locker and grabbed some items that just happened not be George's but had their hearts in the right place OR they were tired of my dad's anger and tried to do something to put him at ease/bay by sending some clothes to us OR they felt it had "gone on too long" and took pity on our family that it had been over a year and we still hadn't seen a single item of George's and sent something - anything - to help ease our hurt.

For those that know me - for those that read my "stuff" regularly - you know that I am pretty even keeled and that I give people the benefit of the doubt to a fault.  The same is true of the situation with Kristen.  I loved her like a sister.  I knew her from the age of 10.  I encouraged George to follow his heart to North Carolina and to pursue a relationship with her because he loved her fiercely.  I supported her when her relationship with her parents ended in 1998 and aggressively encouraged her when George died to reach out to her parents and connect with them so that she would have support.  

But as I sit here, 2 years later, I can tell you that my sympathy, empathy and patience with her has ended.  I pity her and I pity those that care about her.  Should our paths ever cross, it will likely be my first violent encounter.

I wanted his pound puppy - the item he treasured most as a child, dad wanted a ring that he had given George a few years earlier - a family heirloom, and my mother wanted a few pieces of dirty laundry.  The three of us were hoping to provide her with a passport drive so that we could copy the contents of his computer or, if not, a few of the art pieces he had printed.  

Instead, we got nothing.

I carry the term "widow"in high regard.  To me, the word conveys a level of respect - that a series of unfortunate events left a wife without a husband prematurely.  It communicates tragedy, it communicates sympathy, it communicates regrets and sadness.  It is not, and will never be, the word I will use to describe my brother's wife and my former best friend.  While I can understand that she was in pain, battling her own demons and coping with her own change, I can simply not forgive her lack of maturity or the actions she took (or didn't take) in the name of grief.