mewithoutyou - (n.)

state of restless being—

Alternatives include:

deadweight - (n.)

if the muscles atrophy enough then gravity will rip limbs from sockets

deadweight - (n.)

tendon and tissue dripping sticky, useless, loveless ribbons

deadweight - (n.)

mass of me, clotted

knots of flesh

skeleton-skinned

deadweight - (n.)

lonely-flesh appendages can float

too empty for air to hold down

Alternatives include:

deadweight - (n.)

state of me without you

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare. 

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have that same priest later take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Cómo se dice my brother is dead? Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. 

Death is not finite. 

Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. 

We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my surviving brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. 

Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. 

I give him my empty whisky nip. 

I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon. My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. 

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

He saw his life evaporate before his eyes

In one short sentence.

“We have reason to believe…”

He didn’t hear the rest.

This man of peace,

This gentle giant,

This loved and lovely man.

His wife and daughters came downstairs

Awash with disbelief.

With handcuffs on, they led him out to the waiting unmarked car.

His job,

His church,

His many friends,

Would suffer through his actions.

He grieved for them; the pain he would cause them when they heard of his arrest.

And the reason for it.

One small action, on one dark night

So long ago.

He hadn’t intended harm,

But taken by surprise, forgot his own strength.

One punch

In the dark,

So long ago.

He saw his life evaporate before his very eyes.

And felt relief.

For he was a good man,

This man of peace,

This gentle giant.

And the burden was now lifted from his shoulders

And from his mind.

And he was a good man.

“Where does the time go?” was all she could ask herself.

It had been two and half years ago, that she had been given her diagnosis of ALS, as much as it seemed like an eturnity, it seemed like yesterday.

She had already gone through the denile, anger, sadness, went back to anger, never really wanting to accept that it would be her fate.

She had so many decisons that had to be made when she found out, because the disease can progress quickly, she had to decide if there would be an NG tube- to help her eat, a ventilator- to help her breath. Of course none of these thing would save her or really give a better quality of life, just give her more time.

Her daughter had moved up the wedding date, so that she could be there to see her. Although she had to attend in a wheelchair, she was happy that she was able to go and be there, but it also filled her with sadness that she would not meet her grandchildren.

As the year progressed, she lost more and more ability to do much for herself, a woman who rarely asked for help from anyone, was now reduced to being able to do little, without the help of someone else.

She use to run, play tennis, go to yardsales, and dinner with friends, but those things, like her body faded into memories as it became far more difficult to move around with ease, and her breathing had become worse.

When she was admitted to hospital, she could no longer walk, or barley swallow, and her breathing was so laboured that medication and oxygen were not much help. She would stare at the ceiling, clinging to the shell of her old self, waiting forcibly patient for the end to come. She would go to the times in her life that brought her joy, her wedding day, the birth of her daughter, running on the boardwalk, an anniversary trip to Costa Rica, and times with friends.

The time was long now and the life she thought about, seemed distant.

She could hear her family around the room, but was unable to move her head to see them. Her family was crying around her, she was fading, the ceiling seemed to come closer, she tried to keep her eyes open, but they kept closing, then they wouldn't open.

She could feel herself break free of her body and feel herself rise above the bed and her family in the room. They were upset, crying - she wanted to tellthem not o worry that she was better now, but she couldn't, she only rose higher to an unlnown destination, now sepreate from the pain and sorrow that she had carried for the last two and half years.

#Make Me Cry My Heart Out

@Tohru

when my life almost ended, i was numb. i never told people i was going to kill myself, i said "im worried im going to die." and that worry was very real. the night before i was at a party. i had been crying all day but i wanted to go to say goodbye to all my friends. they said "good luck". i didn't think they meant it. i drank and i left. i returned to the arms of my best friend in my small apartment. for now i was safe but i didn't want to be. the remenants of past tribulations made stripes on my arms and legs. but this time was different. i had no urge to self harm. i didn't want to hurt. i wanted to die. hurting myself was meaningless at this point. it would do nothing for a dead person. and i was already there. my mind was dead but my body was moving. i was so over it. and i was ready. so ready.

the next morning i went to the emergency room. they took me in an ambulance to a mental hospital and all i could think about was how much this was going to cost my parents. but i knew it was what i needed to do.

and i survived.

you can too.

They remind me of all that has been

Of all that cannot not be

I knew a girl

Radiant with angelic light

We loved each other

Gazed upon the stars every night

Nothing ever lasts

Only the stars up above

So I'll tell a tale

Of heartache, courtship and love

The wind wraps around me

Hair flowing in the breeze

And the seas below remind me

Of all that has been

Of all that will not be

She fell away from

The tender touch of happiness

I tried to help

But in vain, as she was lost within the mess

And the wind wraps around me

Hands float from my sides

And the rocks below taunt me

Of all that has been

Of all that will not be

The girl met a man

Who could help free her from the storm

I watched in dejection

As she went on to love him even more

The wind wraps around me

The sun sets sail for west

The tides that loom remind me

Of all that has been...

They walk, their hands entwined

Their beings bound in love

Footprints in the sand remind me

Of all that has been...

And the wind whips about me

The stars begin to fade

And the ocean foam embraces

All that has been

And all that can never be

-repost for challenge-

I stood there before her. Dead.

I am unable to cry. It is stuck in my throat pushing at my eyes and suffocates my chest. I came to Texas to see her but I arrived too late. I never got to whisper in her ear just how much I love her. I wanted to apologize for ever doubting her, for not spending more time with her.

I cannot whisper in her ear. Before me lays a shell, a mere vessel used to survive this world. I know she is somewhere. I feel it. Yet, I feel lonely, broken and abandoned.

I stare out her deathbed window. It is a beautiful day. Crisp sunny with a steady breeze. Mesmerized I watch the Texas flag whip against the wind.

I allow my mind to wander. Flood of memories, Flood of fails and victories. I realize at this moment I lost my home. Tears slide down my check. Outwardly I silently cry. No expression just vacant glass stare as the waterfall of my eyes soak my shirt. Inside I rage, I beg her to breathe, I collapse into myself. I am going to truly miss her. Who is going to love me now? that unconditional love a mother carries for her child. She was my friend, my protector, my guide, and my warrior. There is no one who will have her loyalty as she gave to me. Her loyalty is never torn to serve another. I never knew how much I love her til now. I have taken her for granted. I see her faults but through clearer eyes. Her intentions yet good became catastrophic and yet I find myself smiling. In a moment I finally understood every pain she felt, every worry, and every tear.

Why? Why did I have to come to realize this now? Is every child cursed with this? Do my own children not know my worth? Do they know of my loyalty?

I always held my mother immortal. Am I immortal?

My mom spent my life trying to make up for something. I want to tell her that she never did anything wrong. She was never malicious. Does she hear my thoughts? Must I speak out loud for her to hear? Or did she always carry the faith that one day I will come to understand her? Did she have this much faith in me? Do I have the same faith for my children?............

Standing before her I allow my eyes to travel down her body. I start at her head. Her eyes are closed but I can see her smiling and laughing towards me. I strain to hear her voice. I hear of nothing. No sigh, no whisper, not even a slight breath. Continuing my journey, my eyes rest at her hands. I look at my own searching for resemblance. I vaguely catch a glimpse. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. I am trying to carry something of her with me. I had forgotten I have her eyes, the color of her hair and certain expressions mirrored her own. It was important to me to have her hands. Why was this so important to me? If she goes, do I go? Do I not exist without her? Why ? Why her hands? I cry harder because my hands are not like hers they are just hands. my hands…

It did not occur to me the absurdity of my thoughts. My mind swirled with all the connections I had with my mom. Then suddenly everything became chaotic around me. The void of everything feasted upon my flesh. I am nothing, nothing without her. Now, my mother lays before me quietly. I stood motionless against the gust of wind in the void around me. Then in an instant, I was back. Back in that hospital room with my dead mother.

Without knowing what to say and mask my grief, I told her it was a good day to die. I asked her to visit me often and always offer me guidance. I knew she would do everything I asked of her because no matter in this life, my life or any other she will always be my mother.

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. Sobs stuck in my throat. Even in death, I wanted to show her how brave I am. Make her proud. My body shook, my head exploded. All of a sudden I wanted to smash the window, throw chairs around the room. I am angry. She is NOT supposed to die! I screamed inside my head, I tore at my heart and sliced my soul. Heaven and Hell are battling inside of me. I didn’t think I would survive. The flesh on my bones began to burn and my eyes only saw the blurred image of my mother. “Don’t leave me” I begged silently. My mother was taking something from me that I would never find again.

She is taking my home. She is my home. My beautiful disastrous home.

She wanted to write fiction. Fantasy, sci-fi...anything else. But all she could write was her truth. All that connected her to the world, to others, seemed to be her pain. That story about being a young girl, her mind so much more developed than her body, and her friend's father...touching her in ways that made her feel strange. Confused and hurt yet not hurting. Not at first, anyway. That was popular.

And then the story about the boy in high school. Who followed her to her afterschool babysitting job. Touching her in that same way, but rougher, more insistent. Who did things to her that she had learned about in health class. She told her mother, and her mother made her quit her job. The guilt and shame...it never went away. That story was popular also.

In fact, all the stories about her body being used, abused. Beaten and brutalized. All of those stories were popular. It hurt so much to write them. It was confusing how people enjoyed reading them. As if she hadn't lived them. As if they hadn't been real. And maybe, that was exactly the problem. Maybe it all sounded made-up. Like fiction. So people transformed her tragedy to her creativity in their minds.

But every word was real. And she lost the desire to feel. So she lost the desire to write. She couldn't write anything else...the only thing that wanted to be released was her sadness. Her emptiness. Her lonliness. Her desolation.

After a while, her tears stopped forming words. Her mind stopped trying to process the pain. But she kept living through story after story. When she was writing, the experience was like a bullet to the heart and the story...that was the exit wound. Once she stopped writing, she was still getting shot...but now there was no exit wound. They lived inside, infecting her. Brought her to the point of no return.

The last thing she ever wrote was her suicide note.

"With a heavy heart, we gather here today..."

She is so tired of being strong as my broken heart felt our mother’s endless pain.

She is in need of comfort as my ears heard our mother’s deafening grieving howl.

She is slowly being drained as my soul heard our mother’s whisper begging for her children life.

She is washing the age of war blood stains away as my eyes witnessed our mother’s weeping tears.

And someday, somewhere, someone will sense the very essence of my soul taking its last breath as I perform our mother’s last rites.

When I was in college, every break when I was home, I kept a white board on my bedroom wall filled with ideas for inventions. I was searching for the thing that I would invent that would simultaneously help humanity and, in so doing, make me wealthy. I would pick my mother’s brain daily for weeks on end asking, what do people need? One of my more humanitarian ideas was an inexpensive pill that when placed in water would make it clean enough to drink. My favorite plan was for a transport system that would decrease ground traffic…with flying vehicles. I’ve always liked the idea of flying. So has my dad.

I don’t think I’m any different than most when I say, I didn’t realize my parents were old until reality punched me in the face with an illness only other people’s grandparents might get. Only thing is, they weren’t really old. They still almost looked like we could be siblings rather than parents and child. The illness, however, was real.

I researched it to death. I went to all the doctor’s appointments with them. I brought questions. I was consistently frustrated by the doctor’s answers…or non-answers. I shared with my dad the possible dietary adjustments I discovered. His responses also consistently frustrated me. I don’t understand not doing everything in your power to stave off illness – even if that means not eating your favorite foods for the next 30 or 40 years – if it might allow you to have another 30 or 40 years.

He did make some efforts, though. We played ping pong every work day to help maintain some semblance of the incredible reflexes he’d always had. And he ran every day of the week regardless of the weather since the “well, we don’t really know” doctor said that exercise is the only thing that has been shown to slow the progression of his disease.

He used to tell people that the disease had been a blessing in a way. That it made him a better person. It helped to teach him patience and acceptance – qualities that perhaps he didn’t always have. Although for a while he lost his contagious love of life, with acceptance of his illness, it returned ten-fold.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, the illness began to steal more of him from us every day.

He started to forget things. We all do, it’s true, but he also started to remember things that never happened; argue false details to the point that my mother and I just agreed and let it go. Six months ago, he walked home from the barber forgetting that he had driven the car there. As he walked with my panicked mother to the police department (right behind our home) to report the car stolen, she asked when was the last time he saw the car (so that they would have a time frame to offer to the police). At that point, he stopped walking and said, when I went to the barbershop. He smiled sheepishly and said, I left the car there and walked home.

As a once in a lifetime thing, not so bad, kind of funny even, but similar (and worse) incidents began to occur. It took him 6 hours to get home from work about four months ago. It’s a half hour drive. My mother was frantic. Calling me (to find out if we worked late or if there was some work-related dinner with a client he had neglected to tell her about – not unusual), calling him (phone going straight to voicemail), watching the news for accidents in the local area... When he finally strolled in the house at 11 pm, he said he went for a drive. My mother very quickly got the truth out of him, however: He had driven to Philadelphia where they lived when they first got married. Twenty-eight years ago. He had forgotten where home was.

Two months ago, when he got to work he looked at me for a moment as if baffled, then he smiled an “aha” kind of smile and said my name, pulling me in for a hug so tight you would think we had not seen each other the day before in the office.

And, for him, perhaps we had not.

We have not seen him since that day.

We put out a silver alert for him. We called every hospital between New York and Pennsylvania. We tried tracking his phone, but it appears the battery had died before we thought of it. The police have all but given up. We have not. I have not. I took out my old white board.

I’ve started working on one of my inventions. It’s a mechanism to track individuals in time and space using a variety of technologies – DNA, GPS, neuroscience, artificial intelligence, robotics and nanotechnology. The idea is that using old nail clippings, hair from a comb or brush, even spit on a toothbrush, the user will be able to find a missing person (via DNA, GPS, robotics and nanotechnology), in particular a person with dementia, wherever he or she might be, insert itself into the body via the ear, find the neurological problem and fix it; or, that being impossible, provide the person with enough information via the AI technology in the mechanism that they will be able find their way back (via GPS technology) to those awaiting them. It will also send out a notification (smart phone) once the person is found. Eventually, I will be able to find him…but what I really would like is to find him before the illness struck so I am also working on a version that incorporates time travel. I would like to spend a little more time with him before…to appreciate him as he was before… If I am lucky, a cure for his illness will precede mine and I can bring it back with me… Of course, that might be a little complicated judging from all the time travel movies I’ve ever seen. But, I have to try.

Last night, I dreamed I was able to travel 30 years into the future. Looking around, I realized I was on the street where I grew up. My house was bigger than before, taller with more floors, but dilapidated. The police station that used to be behind it was closed, and the fence and trees that used to shield our backyard were gone. The house looked abandoned, but I could see a big Bernese Mountain dog looking my way from the back porch. A second dog was looking outside through a half-boarded window that I knew used to be my room.

I felt a pang of sorrow, thinking my parents were gone from my childhood home… but then I saw a figure walk towards my old window. My sorrow turned to great excitement as ran toward the house, using my full body to wave at my mom. She smiled back.

“I knew you would return.” She mustn’t have spoken louder than a whisper, but I could understand the words as if she were speaking in my ear.

A moment later, she said, “Is Baba with you?”

My heart sank. I shook my head and then woke up crying for the first time since I was child but with this firm conviction:

I will find him.