I was planning on writing a post yesterday, but the day was so filled with people reaching out and working on LIPF stuff that it just got away. A year ago today at this exact time, I woke up super early, got in the car, and drove to Manhasset. I was sitting on the side of the boat, looking out across the harbor.
I wasn’t surprised when I got the call that David had passed away. When I took him from the hospital that Thursday before, the pit of my stomach said I had just participated in David’s death sentence. I called my aunt Mary Ann when we left the hospital and told her the same. I threw David’s car keys into the grass and pleaded with him to stay through the weekend so I would have time to move into my apartment. Then we could focus on him, and I could create a place for him in my new apartment to get through what we needed to get through.
I sat on the side of that rail. I knew from losing Mom, the real hurt doesn’t start until much later. So I just sat there, numb. I cracked a beer and just waited. I sailed the day after my brother died. There wasn’t anything I could do, so I decided to just distract myself.
Same thing I did yesterday, and most likely will do today. It wasn’t until the 20th that the gravity of the situation started flowing in. A year later, it’s like nothing has changed.
I worked all day yesterday making a new video for the Foundation, crying every now and then, but focused on the tasks at hand. I packed a tie for somebody who bought one. The “little sisters” insisted on coming by (Nicole, Jenny, and Ashley). They weren’t taking “no” for an answer.
They mostly watched me pace about my apartment. Cleaning up this or that, while a new version of the video compiled. They asked me to sit down and relax, to no avail. That’s how we deal crisis on this side of the family: You fill up your day with tasks, metering the hurt as you see fit.
If I didn’t, I could easily see myself crumbling into a soft mass on the floor. I’m not sure if the way I handle this is healthy. I just know it’s the only way I know how.
As I sat on the side of the boat, I recall thinking about the funeral planning. By this point, I have become somewhat of an expert on the process. It’s not something you want to be good at.
Yesterday, I watched e-mails and Facebook messages come in. I couldn’t pick up the phone, although I know a lot of you called, but it wasn’t time for me to pick up the phone. I know you all meant well, but a year ago today, I had the same conversation over and over again. I wasn’t quite prepared to do that again.
In all reality, I stuffed a lot of yesterday into that file in the back of your head. I just didn’t want to feel or think about what took place a year ago. The look on Erica and Brian’s face when I got to the apartment. The tears streaming down Jenny’s face and the sobbing… the awful sobbing of all of you who did get through to me on the other end of the line.
I was empty inside. I felt nothing. I’m not ashamed of this. It wasn’t for lack of love for my brother; it was because there is so much that a switch in me shuts off the hurt.
We ate a nice meal last night. We drank a few bottles of wine and watched Jim Gaffigan. For the most part, I avoided any conversation about David outside of the proofing of the video that I have to present this morning. It drew out the tears like I expected it to, but as soon as they started, I switched the gears.
Yesterday wasn’t a celebration of life; it was just my “little sisters” looking over me, sitting with me, all of us averting our feelings the best we could.
Waking up this morning was like waking up last year—my mind just aching with the thoughts of David. I was numb. Numb is a feeling. I stared at my ceiling fan, like I do most mornings. I have the “what now?” conversation over and over in my head. What should I be doing with my life? How will I manage without my other half—my confidant, my shield, my little rock with dimples? How could I possibly go on with any sense of happiness? How am I going to not let the despair that I know is always on the edge of my mind consume me?
I thought about my new business and what I needed to do today to keep driving that forward. Everything in my body just wants to stay in bed. But I can’t. There are presentations to do. Life must go on.
I imagine David looking down on me—not proud of what I have done, but crying. Crying at the hurt he has caused me. Crying because he had no idea of what his actions would do to so many. Crying because he didn’t realize how many people relied on him to get through their day as much as he looked to others to get through his. I imagine he is beating himself up for making such a rash decision that morning and apologizing to me for something he can’t take back. It’s selfish, but it’s what I think about.
He was always “ready, fire, aim,” and ultimately in the end, it cost him his life. It’s broken me, for sure. I know many of you think I am this strong person. I’m not: I’m a million little pieces of tragedy. Each day for me is a struggle to keep it together. The thing that drives me to get out of bed is more along the lines that people don’t expect me to. I see the looks in people’s eyes; I’ve read the notes from all of you that care for me.
My trainer says I am a silent sufferer. It’s true. I share my pain with you, but only after I have time to think about it. There are nights where I am a sobbing mess, crying, “Why me? What did I do to deserve this?” There are nights where my knuckles are swollen and bleeding from punching the door frame in my kitchen when the anger just wells up, and the only thing that can help me is more pain. You won’t likely ever see this side of me. It’s my time—the time when I allow my emotions to flow uninhibited from me. The release of the pressure valve that I keep highly-regulated.
I get up every day because everything in the book says I shouldn’t. I started the Foundation because I knew most people wouldn’t. I’ll bear the burden, embrace my loss, and push forward.
But that doesn’t make me stronger than any of you. That doesn’t make my ability to handle my loss any easier. In fact, I am sure in some ways it extends it. To rip the bandage off the wound each and every day. Each and every word I type picks at the scabs on my heart, ensuring that the scar will be more visible than it had to be.
I can’t fathom letting the memory of David expire. It just doesn’t seem right. So as I stare at that ceiling fan in its perpetual chase of the other blade, I take a deep breath in and pull back the covers, allowing the cold autumn air to create goosebumps as it grazes my skin. I try to think about what possibly was going through his head yesterday morning. I embrace my loss, kick my feet over the edge of the bed onto the cold wooden floor, and pay particular attention to how cold it is in my world.
I am Alive… that is all that matters. I will keep being alive, because that is our number one task. Everything else is secondary.
