Do the stages of grief apply to everyone?

So today I was driving to a meeting on the plaza and I drove by Loose Park, where a very wonderful, awesome gal named Jordan Tankel took sibling pictures of the three of us a few years back.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  I think they're the background on all three of my family member's phones.  And for good reason.  They're amazing pictures.  I'm pretty psyched that we have them.

As I drove by, I remembered the day Jordan took the pictures.  It was roughly a one hour session.  We showed up wearing navy blue, and my sister and I wore yellow scarves.  It was a chilly morning in November, and Jordan was absolutely incredible at choosing shots, setting us up, and making us laugh so as to capture images of the natural sibling-ish relationship that the three of us had at that point in time.  It was basically just a hang-out session with a kick-ass photographer.  The four of us had a blast, and we surprised our parents with those pictures for Hanukkah.  (The last time we'd had sibling photos taken was years before.)  And of course now, they're some of the most treasured photos we have.

Anyway, as I was driving by Loose Park this morning, I started to think about that photo session and then vaguely began wondering what stage of grief I'm in.  According to Wikipedia, the stages of grief go something like this.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

Some days it definitely varies, but if I'm being totally honest with myself, I think I'm probably pretty solid in the acceptance stage, except for those bad days when I'm definitely feeling down about it -- you might even say, depressed.  Unless of course my "acceptance" is a form of denial.  In which case I don't know what the hell is going on.

I should ask a shrink about this, but how accurate are the stages of grief supposed to be anyway?  I don't think I ever went through denial.  If I did, it was just the few minutes between us getting the phone call and us arriving at Mike's apartment on June 15th.

I don't think I had too much anger to deal with, either, other than anger at myself.  Or bargaining.  I have vague recollections of sobbing "It's my fault" at some point, but that doesn't sound like bargaining to me.  Just guilt.  Is guilt a stage of grief?

The more I think about it, the more I think I just went straight to what I like to call Stage 4.5, a mixture of acceptance and grief.  I mean, I'd been expecting it for so long, there wasn't much denial, there definitely wasn't any anger (not towards him, anyway,) and I don't even know who I'd be able to bargain with if I wanted to

Life is just about the weirdest thing ever, isn't it?  The last month and a half have made that very clear to me.

Everyone handles things in their own way, so I guess the stages of grief are just a rough template.  A What To Expect When You're Grieving sort of thing.  As far as I'm concerned, grief has been totally unpredictable.

For example, sometimes you're able to hold it all together when everyone else around you is breaking down.  Other times, you're sitting all alone, listening to a Coldplay song and then you start sobbing so hard the dogs come poke their heads in to make sure you're all right.

Sarah (and I guess by extension, Michael) have ruined Fix Me for me.  Ah well.  There were bound to be a few casualties.

Like I said, life is weird.  The strangest things will set you off.

I'll be real honest.  I hate showing my emotions to people other than my immediate family.  For the most part, I do a pretty (eh) good job keeping it bottled up until I'm somewhere private.  If you were present at my brother's funeral, you probably remember I wasn't doing so hot that day, but for the most part, I hate, hate, hate showing that kind of stuff.  Which is why this blog comes in handy, because I can let it all out without actually having to face anyone.

With that in mind, I guess you could say I'm sitting pretty comfortably in "acceptance."  At least for the majority of the time.  I mean, just because I accept the fact that my brother's dead doesn't mean I have to be happy about it, right?

It's just weird because there are some times when I can almost manage to kind of forget it.  But then I'll be driving or doing something totally mundane and I'll have a moment of realization where I'm like, "Oh yeah, that did really happen."

And it's just so new because there's nothing even remotely similar that I've ever dealt with.  When something bad or even something traumatic happens, generally it's something that manages to affect you for some time (a long time or a short time, it just depends on the situation,) but then, at some point, you move on.  You move on and the traumatic experience becomes a distant memory or a cautionary tale.  But this is the first thing I've ever experienced where no amount of time is ever going to make it some hazy, distant memory of the past.

Like, I don't think I want kids, but if I do ever have kids, "Uncle Mike" will just be some dead relative they never met.  They won't even think of him like a real person.  Just a family story.

Same thing if I ever get married.  My husband won't ever be able to meet his brother-in-law.  All he'll know about him are stories.  Old, ancient tales about his wife's dead brother.

Life is bizarre, isn't it?  It never turns out the way you expect it will.

So, everybody go listen to Fix You by Coldplay tonight, and think of us.

Love you all.

Tears stream down on your face / When you lose something you cannot replace.

It's time to talk about London

So, in the spirit of trying to get back to some semblance of "normal life," I thought I'd talk a little bit about this trip to London that I'm embarking on in a little more than a month.

I can't thank you all enough for reading my blog these last few weeks.  I've gotten so many kind comments, including some amazing ones from my own parents.  I can only hope the blogs have been as cathartic for you as they have been for me.  I'm sure there are still some mopey days in our future, and some more stories about my brother that need to be told, but I've honestly been meaning to write this blog about London for a long long time, so here we go, right?

Okay, so here's something you should know.  I've been wanting to go to London pretty much since the first time I read the Harry Potter series, which was in 5th grade, aka 16 years ago.

I was a kid, so back then I just wanted to visit London because, hey, that's where Harry Potter caught the train to Hogwarts.  As I got older though, the desire only grew.  In college, I majored in English literature.  That's when London became a sort of Mecca for me.  It was the home of the most revered writers, the setting of the best novels and plays, the very cultural center of the English-speaking world.  For all intents and purposes, London was Mecca.  But it was more than that.  It was fashionable, it was historical, it was trendy and awe-inspiring, old and new at the same time, beautiful, fascinating, and the one place I dreamt about visiting.

Let's be real, okay?  I like to see new and interesting places but I'm not one of those people who would use the word "wanderlust" to describe themselves.  I mean, I'm obsessed with seeing the sites and experiencing the history and natural beauty of places like Paris, Cinque Terra, and Berlin, but I definitely don't get a big rush from the very thought of "traveling."  I put up with flying and I tolerate crowds, but I break out into a cold sweat at the very thought of being in a new, unfamiliar place where, god forbid, I don't speak the language and can't immediately identify where I am.

That's just who I am, though.  Some people can't get enough of that stuff.  For example, my friend Julia went all over Europe last summer.  On her own.  Not knowing anyone.  Never having been there before.  Staying in hostels and hopping from country to country via train.  I mean, that's incredibly awesome, but I could never do it.  I would travel all over the world if I could afford to stay in posh hotels and be driven around by a knowledgeable tour guide in an air-conditioned Mercedes.  That's the kind of travel experience I like. I know lots of other people enjoy the "real," sweaty, "live like the locals" experience, but that's not me.

And that's probably why I've never gotten the chance to travel.  It's not that I never wanted to, but that I've never been able to do so in the way I want to.

In high school, our theater group took a trip to London, but I didn't know anyone who was signing up, so 17-year-old me passed on the opportunity to go.  (Stupid.)  And after that, I had college to think about, didn't I?  I'm forever jealous of people who got to travel to their heart's content during college, but that just wasn't me.  My parents had three kids in college at the same time, so they deserve gold medals for being able to keep us all fed, much less cater to the travel whims and desires of three students who were trying to pay for tuition.

So, the opportunity to travel -- really travel hasn't presented itself, which is okay since London is the only place I was honestly dying to visit.

But after dreaming of going to London for so long and talking about it with my cousin Teresa, we finally decided to go.  Of course, it took a long long time of saving up money to make it happen.  Again, I know plenty of people who have been lucky enough to travel to Europe multiple times in their early 20s, but I wasn't born into a super rich family and I paid for my college education almost entirely on my own.  So, travel had to take a back seat to...responsibility.

Nevertheless, we saved and planned and planned and saved.  We finally decided to make the trip during the Fall of 2014, but money was still tight, so we postponed until 2015.

In early 2015, I was chomping at the bit.  I created a "London 2015" binder to hold all my calendars and brochures and maps and tentative itineraries related to the subject.  As someone who's organized to the point of lunacy, I should stress that the very act of creating a binder is akin to Kensington Palace announcing that Kate Middleton is indeed pregnant, rather than just letting the paparazzi speculate.  It's a sign that this is happening, and that it's official.

So, with my cousin's help, I drafted a list of the "must see" things in London and in other parts of the United Kingdom as well.  I decided roughly how long we'd need to see all the things we wanted to see, and then began writing a rough itinerary of our time in London, outlining where we'd go each day, how much everything would cost, and the steps we would take each day to get from here to there, thus taking any "getting lost" out of the equation.

As we got closer and closer, the trip became more real and none of us were backing down from the plans.  It was the trip I'd been dreaming about for so long, and I wasn't going to let the fact that money was a little tight or that I didn't particularly enjoy flying deter me.  We planned, we discussed the merits of staying in a flat versus staying in a hotel, and we discussed some more.  We dreamt about cold, rainy London the way other people dream about lying on a white sand beach in the Bahamas.

In March or April, I bought my plane ticket.  No turning back now.  Not when plane tickets cost so much money.

At some point, my dad and sister got on board.  I wanted to book early and my cousins weren't as anal and anxious as I am.  So, to soothe my frazzled nerves (and to satisfy their own desires) Dad and Sarah booked a flat with me, while my cousins (and aunt) waited a little longer to book.  Either way, London was happening.  It was getting closer, and we were so excited.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Of course, I realize that's just a super dramatic way of saying that my brother died.  Whatever.  It's a pretty dramatic event, so I reserve the right to word it however I want.

The day after Mike died, we were shuffling around the house in a daze.  Friends had delivered mountains of food which we didn't have any desire to eat.  People were calling and my mom had to relay the story over and over again.  The funeral home was on the phone and we were making arrangements to fly out to New York the next day.  And on top of everything, there were a few nagging thoughts that needed to be dealt with.

"We're not still going to go to London, are we?" I asked at some point.

And my dad promptly responded that absolutely we were.

I didn't see why.  We'd already bought our plane tickets, of course, but, in light of everything that had happened, it seemed like a small amount of money to lose out on.  (In my mind, anyway.)  On the other hand, the flat reservation could be cancelled and refunds given.  I didn't see how we could possibly move forward with my dream vacation.  Not when, among other things, money was now very tight and the notion of walking down the driveway to take out the trash seemed like an impossible ordeal, much less traveling across the ocean and visiting Europe.

But my travel companions weren't as ready to let go of the money we'd already spent, and they knew that the trip was something we needed to do, especially now.

I suppose I should mention at this point that I've always felt a certain way about London.  A way that I don't think most people feel about tourist destinations they plan on visiting.

You can ask anyone.  I've always felt like I was born in the wrong country.  Not that the U.S.A. isn't great and not that I don't enjoy getting wasted on the 4th of July like everyone else, but I've always had this nagging feeling like my home -- my spiritual home -- was in London.  I recently read Julia Child's memoir and she says something similar about the first time she arrived in France.  To be fair, she probably didn't obsess about France as much as I obsess about London, but when she got to France, she immediately felt like she was at home, and it was her spiritual home for the rest of her life.

That's pretty much how I've felt about London for as long as I can remember.  Even though I've never been there, I feel like I have.  I can't completely explain why.

And maybe that's why this trip is such a big deal for me.  I've spent more hours (more years ) than I care to mention just planning the trip, researching, buying passes, and reading reviews than I care to mention.  So much time that I'm sure I'll feel a little sad when it's all over, but I think it'll be worth it anyway.

I was looking at pictures of the inside of Westminster Abbey tonight and just thinking to myself that I'll probably start crying, knowing that I'm walking down the exact same aisle Kate Middleton walked down on her wedding day.  And I'm fully anticipating bursting into tears when I first turn the corner and see Big Ben for the first time in real life. I know people who have seen Big Ben before, and seen it half a dozen time, but the fact that I waited for so long and gave so much to get there makes me think it's going to be even more special than I can even imagine.

To be fair, though, it's not that hard to make me cry.  I cried watching The Help the other night.

Whatever.  It's just been a really really long time coming, and I couldn't be more excited -- and nervous -- that it's finally happening, no matter what the circumstances.

I hope London is everything I want it to be, but even if it's not, I think the majority of the adventure was just getting there.

It's long and I probably shouldn't post it, but I have zero craps left to give.

Warning.  This post is long.  But it gets better towards the end!

So, this is me sitting down to write the blog that's been swirling around in my mind for a very long time.  I'll be very honest.  I've had a little too much to drink tonight, which seems to be the recurring theme for the last month.  In fact, it feels a little like that scene in The Social Network when Jesse Eisenberg is swilling beer and just casually inventing Facebook.  Only instead of ending up with a multi billion dollar website, I'll just wind up with an angsty blog.

Stay tuned to the end, though, or at least scroll down past the other stuff.  I promised some funny stories about my brother and I won't leave anyone hanging.

Anyway, I wanted to talk a little bit about friendship, a topic which has been on my mind for...oh...maybe a year and a half?  Ever since my very best friends all inexplicably stopped talking to me.

When I was in high school (and most of the time in college,) I thought I had the very best friends in the world.  I'm one of those weird people who had so much more fun in high school than I did in college.  Normal people hate high school and love college.  I'm the opposite.  In high school, I was lucky enough to find my niche in forensics and a huge group of friends who were always fun to be around, including a small circle of very very close friends.  We had such a blast.

We went to Starbucks or QuikTrip for drinks almost everyday after school, just so we could hang out and do nothing.

We were together almost every weekend at forensics tournaments or in various other settings.

We messed around with each other and said horrible things about each other because that's just how friendship worked back then.

We knew the ins and outs of each other's lives.  We dated each other and broke up and dated again and even one time started a pool regarding how long a relationship between two of our friends would last before it inevitably blew up, Taylor Swift style, in a glorious, fiery explosion and someone took home a few hundred bucks.

Nothing was more important to me than those friends, but there were...three or four of them who were even more important than the rest.  And when we went to college, most of us were split up by great distances, and I spent the next 4+ years of my life trying desperately to keep those friendships alive.

Okay, so I'm starting to think maybe the alcohol was necessary for me to get all this garbage out of my system.  Like I said, it's been weighing heavily on my mind for years.

Back to college Becky, though.

For a long time, it was okay.  We were able to hold it all together.  It wasn't perfect, but I felt it was worth it.  My very best friend from high school and I prided ourselves on being able to stay very best friends even though there was half a country separating us.  Even though we didn't talk every single day, we found ways to show how much we cared about each other from far apart.  After all, we'd been BFFs for so long that all our friends habitually associated us with each other.  We had inside jokes that went back more than four years.  We talked about being maids of honor in each other's weddings.

Another friend, though I'd been close with in high school, we ended up becoming the best of friends in college.  He was someone I admired more than anyone I'd ever met, the person who never failed to make me laugh so hard I thought I'd pee myself, and by far the most valuable thing I took from my time at KU.  I adored just about everything about him.  I saw no reason why we wouldn't be best friends forever.

Stuff happened, as it has a tendency to do.  Distance kept me and my high school best friend apart, but we did the best we could to stay close via Facebook, texting, and phone calls.  For a while, anyway.  My college best friend was still in town, so he and I remained close, making an effort to see each other once a week when we could.  At some point that started to dwindle as well.

Time passed, and though I would do my best to keep things going on my end, eventually I stopped getting responses.

My high school best friend started ignoring my text messages, eventually never even letting me know when she was coming into town.  Previously, we'd try to get together as much as we could on the rare occasions she flew home, but suddenly that stopped.  I saw Facebook pictures of her hanging with other high school friends and once texted her (jokingly, but secretly hurting as well, saying) So you come into town and don't even let me know? Lol.  And I received nothing but silence in return.

My college best friend stopped talking to me in a fashion that was a little less abrupt.  His girlfriend and I had become very close friends as well, at first due to circumstance, but later because I just really really liked her.  And at some point I noticed that I was the one always trying to make plans with them, and that if I never took the initiative to text them first, we just wouldn't talk.  Period.

I did a little experiment on my own, and decided I'd just stop texting entirely.  I'd wait and see how long it took before they noticed and contacted me instead.  We were best friends, all three of us.  We talked constantly.  We had more inside jokes than I could count.  We saw each other all the time.  If I suddenly stopped texting, they'd notice, right?

Wrong.  Months passed.

People are busy.  I get that.  People get wrapped up in their own lives.  I get that too.  But is that a reason to let good, important friendships die?

Whatever the case, by the time college ended, I was beginning to realize that I was the friend people obviously didn't want to be around, and that hurt.

I don't have a lot of respect for myself, but I had enough to realize I didn't like how it felt to be the one practically begging to make plans.  We don't have to talk every single day.  We don't have get tattoos that say "best friends forever," but I think I deserve friends who want me in their life just as much as I want them in my life.  And that obviously wasn't the case.

So I simply stopped trying.  I had tried for so long and felt foolish for so long that I simply couldn't do it anymore.  Back in high school, my best friend and I were simply inseparable.  In college, my best friend and I didn't often go a day without talking to each other.  But I didn't want to be the desperate loser any longer, so I just stopped.  And no one ever seemed to notice, much less care.

My high school best friend got married without inviting me, never mind asking me to be her maid of honor.

My college best friend became a stranger I'd see only on special occasions when other members of the old crew would get together.

It sucked.  I'm not going to lie.  It still sucks.

In fact, yesterday I came across old videos of my high school best friend, from back in the day when she had her own car and I had my own camcorder and we would film our exploits, which mostly consisted of driving around, singing along to show tunes, and talking about how we were best friends.  That was hard to watch, because I realized I miss the feeling of having a best friend.

And on the rare, rare occasions when I see my college best friend, I inevitably end up drinking too much and typing out a heartfelt text to him about how much I miss him, which my sister then advises me not to send.  And I don't, because...what's the point?  Even if I do, we'll just wind up in the same place we're at now: me ready to do anything it takes just to keep him in my life and him, casually oblivious to how much he means to me and too wrapped up in his own life to notice.

Not that I blame him.  People grow up.  People grow apart, I understand.

I know it sounds like I'm really bitter.  In some ways I probably am, but I swear the point of this blog was not to call anybody out, put anyone on the spot, or try to guilt anyone into being friends with me.  God knows that wouldn't make things any better.  I don't even want to hear it.

I'm just saying that sometimes life has a way of making things really really clear for you.

The first time I heard from my high school best friend in...God...a really long time, was when she emailed me to express her condolences after my brother died.  (Which was very nice of her, don't get me wrong!)  And my college best friend was the first person I texted that night I was standing outside Mike's apartment where the police lights were flashing.  I needed to tell someone and I didn't know who to tell, so I texted him.

Weird, huh?  I guess life is weird.  It's nobody's fault -- not then, not now.  I guess I just wish that at a time like this, I still had my best friends.

The point I'm trying to make with this exceedingly long post is that...grief makes things clear that once were kind of cloudy.  What has become clear to me is that I think --or at least hope that I can do better.  I don't want friends who only feel like getting in touch with me when my brother dies.  And no matter how much I might miss him, I deserve better than friends who forget about me for months or years at a time.  It's not good for my self esteem and it's not good for me, period.  I'm sorry if that offends anyone or makes them feel awkward, but I've been ruminating on this for quite some time and I think it's the truth.

If that means I don't have very many friends outside of my parents, my sister, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, and a very small handful of great friends I met while working at Indian Woods, so be it.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that stuff like your brother up and killing himself makes some things glaringly, unavoidably obvious.  And I have to try and find some positivity in this situation where I can.

Anyway, we'll find out if this stuff sees the light of day once I'm sober.

(Continued the next day whilst polishing off last night's pitcher of margaritas...)

So, I promised some stories about my brother and lord knows I need to change the subject and get off this train of self pity and Xanga-esque angst.  So, enjoy!

If I had to use one word to describe Michael's personality, it would be "troll."  It doesn't matter if you knew Mike your whole life or if you just met him, he was addicted to taking the piss on people, which is British slang for saying "messing with."  And that's no lie.  My cousin Derek was just a kid when this happened, but even he has memories of my brother referring to him as a "field fairy" for choosing to play soccer instead of my brother's sport, lacrosse.

Mike's trolling ways began very early.  I have my own memories of being in the car with him when I was maybe four or five and he couldn't have been more than six.  We kids were waiting in the car while mom made her way out from the house to go somewhere and Michael loved nothing more than hearing me scream and cry and panic like I did whenever he climbed up into the front seat and pretended like he was going to drive away.  Not that he had the keys to the car, or that he could even reach the pedals.  He loved scaring me, and in that way, he was a very typical brother.

When we moved from New York to Kansas, my parents decided to hold Mike back a year and have him repeat 2nd grade because the birthday cut-offs were somewhat different and they didn't want Mike to be the oldest kid in his grade.  As a result, we ended up in the same grade, all the way from 2nd grade until we graduated high school, which resulted in many many awkward conversations where we would have to inform friends, classmates and teachers that no, we were not twins.  I remember my parents always requested in Hebrew school that they didn't stick us in the same class.  I'm sure plenty of siblings can handle being in a class together with their brother, but for some reason, it was just weird for us.  Freshman year of high school, we both got placed in the same algebra class together and I had to go to the counselor's office to change my schedule.

I'm not entirely sure why we couldn't handle being in class together.  Being teenagers, sometimes we just didn't get along.  And at that point in his life, I'm sure Mike felt he was "too cool" to associate with either of his younger sisters, especially in public.  I didn't like being in class with him either, hence why I switched.  I do remember one time in Hebrew school we wound up sitting across the table in some class, maybe arts and crafts, and I spent the entire hour biting my cheek to stop myself from laughing.  He kept looking at me and mouthing the word "boobs" because it almost always made me burst out in hysterical laughter.  That was a trick of his that he carried on for the next several years, sometimes just whispering "boobs" to me so I could embarrass myself by exploding in laughter.

He liked to make fun of the way I laughed too, which only made me laugh harder.  Sometimes when I first start laughing, I guess you could say that my laugh sort of revs up.  It starts low and then travels up and up in pitch like a slide whistle until I'm giggling hysterically.  Other times, I try to hold my laughter in so long that end up puffing out my cheeks like a blowfish and then suddenly bursting like a balloon with a big "poof" noise.  Mike was extremely adept at imitating both of those styles, and when he did, it only sent me off further.

All three of us used to get in trouble with our parents on the occasions when we would get the giggles during dinner or (heaven help us) in the middle of synagogue.  We couldn't help it though.  Sometimes something set us off, but other times we were just slap happy and we could not stop laughing no matter how many times Mom said "that's enough" or how many times we honestly tried to quiet down.  We would still get slap happy in adulthood.  Prior to the time when our relationship with my brother dissolved, you could rest assured that anytime Mike, Becky, and Sarah got together, we'd wind up laughing like a couple of mental patients, eventually pulling our mom and dad into the hysteria.  A simple game of Monopoly would end in furious giggles and with the birth of half a dozen new inside jokes.  We had so many inside jokes.  For example, all Mike had to do was look at me with a totally straight face and say "underpants," I'd laugh like a goddamn five-year-old.

I could make Mike laugh, but I was never as good at it as he was.  In particular when he first got Ace, I developed the habit of randomly serenading Ace in a very bad singing voice while enthusiastically declaring that whatever I was singing was his favorite song, its lyrics carefully manipulated to suit a dog.  This would send Mike into hysterical laughter, watching me hug Ace around the neck while singing "Now you're just a puppy that I used to know," or "We found love in a hopeless Ace."

Most of the time I made Mike laugh, it was just because of the stupid things I'd say in my naiveté.  A few years ago when I had to pay my own taxes due to the fact that I was freelancing, he almost peed his pants when, in a moment of exasperation, I put my head on the table and whined, "Why won't the IRS just leave me alone?"  I knew -- I still know -- absolutely nothing about finances, accounting, taxes, loans, banking, and all that garbage whereas that was Mike's specialty.  So he got a lot of amusement out of my inane questions.  I could just ask something, totally innocently, and he would burst out laughing.

Are you starting to get a picture of my brother now?  I hope you're starting to understand why I always refer to him as a troll.

Because of the fact that he and I were in the same grade, Mike and I had some clashes of friendships.  He was friends with some people in middle school who ended up being my close friends once we reached high school.  And some of my girlfriends would ask me about him or come over to hang out and then obviously and desperately try to get a glimpse of my brother.  It was an awkward time.  I know for a fact I had crushes on some of his friends too.  I mean, he was on the lacrosse team from 8th grade and on.  Lacrosse players aren't usually a bad looking group.

I adored going to watch my brother play lacrosse.  Maybe some of this is just bias or remembering things with rose colored glasses, but my brother was a very good player.  Like, really good.  He wasn't the fastest runner, but he practiced his shooting, passing, and ball-handling (snicker) every single day.  We had our own lacrosse goal in our backyard.  He and his friends would "shoot around" almost everyday after school.  When the weather didn't cooperate, or when Mike was on his own, he'd throw the lacrosse ball in our basement, bouncing it off the cement wall until the entire wall was covered with back scuffs.  One time he tried to teach me how to cradle the ball, and then made several attempts to pass to me to see if I could catch the ball.  I couldn't.  He laughed himself silly.

He was so good, though.  And liked that he was good, which meant that he took such pride in his lacrosse-playing and (I think) had a blast with it too.  My parents, sister and I would go to his games almost every weekend during the spring.  And once he started playing and later coaching lacrosse for KU, my dad and I would drive to wherever the games were: K-State, Purdue, Nebraska.  Even when he wasn't playing, Mike's pride in his coaching was very apparent.  He dressed the part of a coach, in slacks and a collared shirt with a KU sweater on top.  It made for a funny picture, him dressed up, shooting on the goalie to help him warm up before a game.  My brother was an amazing shot.  He scored many many hat tricks during his time playing lacrosse.

One game that sticks out in my mind is when Dad and I drove up to Nebraska to watch a game that Mike and Mattie were coaching.  It was a blowout.  Mattie recently informed me that KU ended up winning 24-5.  I didn't remember the final score, but I remembered the fact that it was a total clinic.  And I absolutely remember this: after one of the many goals, my dad caught Mike's eye and said, "That was a nice goal," to which Mike swiftly replied, "We're about to get another one right now."  Sure enough, next play, KU scored again and Mike shared a cocky grin with us.  My dad was so tickled by that.  It was pretty brilliant.

I promise we're getting to the end here.  If you're still reading...good on you.

Anyone who knew Mike in recent years knew that he loved his dog Ace more than life itself.  My parents supported him in his decision to get a dog because they knew he was pretty lonely, going to school and living out in Topeka where he didn't really know anyone.  Mike knew immediately that he wanted a boxer and found an ad in the Kansas City Star about a litter of puppies in Lenexa.  We went to take a look.

I was there the very first time Mike laid eyes on Ace.  This family's two boxers had had a litter of 12 -- yes, TWELVE puppies.  When we came to see them, all the puppies came spilling out the front door.  It was basically my wildest dream come true.  Surrounded by adorable puppies, barely three weeks old, tripping over themselves and scampering all around the front yard.  Mike was pretty sure he wanted a flashy fawn boxer, meaning white and brown around the face.  There were three flashy fawns in the litter, I think, but the first dog that came stumbling up to Mike was the one with the little brown dot on his forehead (which we would start calling his yarmulke.)  Ace chose Mike.  He walked right up to him.  Mike picked him up, and the rest was history.

Ace kept Mike sane.  He kept him on this earth a few years longer than I think he would have been without him.  We all fell in love with the puppy, which meant lots of Facetiming with Mike (and Ace) from our house in Overland Park to their apartment in Topeka.  We adored Ace, but no one more so than Mike.  If there was anyone who could Make might stay, it was Ace, and he did for three years.  I am so thankful that we all had Ace to make life that much better.  And I continue to be thankful that Ace is okay and here with us now.  I think we need him more than he needs us.

I'm going to wrap it up now because I'm starting to get sad, but I hope you got a kick out of reading these stories about Mike.  Someone mentioned that I should write a book about my brother and I know I totally have enough material to get through a book.  Writing it would take a hell of a lot out of me, and I just don't know if it's worth it, knowing that it's nigh impossible to get a book published these days.  I'm not sure if I have it in me to put in all the work and emotion without getting any satisfaction from it.

We'll see, though.

Everyone always asks how we're holding up, and I know we all appreciate it.  We're holding up pretty well.  I'm extremely stressed out right now with all this crap in my personal life at the exact same time I find myself making no money and looking to change careers.  It's like that saying "when it rains, it pours."  It's so true.  But on the flip side, losing Mike has inspired a rather freeing change in perspective for me.  I still worry about literally everything, but I also find myself thinking that whatever happens couldn't possibly be as bad as my brother killing himself.  And since that's already happened...what is there to fear?

Everything.  But I'm going to keep riding this wave of "I don't give a crap, worries" for as long as I can.  I'm doing okay, I really am.  I appreciate all your kind comments and all of you reading my increasingly convoluted blog.

I'm going to post this now before I sober up and regain my common sense.

Love you all.  Mean it.

Becky's misadventures in grief.

Hey Internet friends!

I've been absent from the blogosphere from a week or two now, but devoted social media followers will know that I haven't been totally AWOL since I continue to be a Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram whore.  I had so many moments when an idea for a blog or something that I wanted to say in a blog would come to me, but for some reason I kept putting it off.

Regardless, I can't deny that this has been a very helpful little outlet for me.  And last night I had a totally bizarre dream that I felt kind of like sharing.

Before I start though, I do want to remind everyone that I have a way about being very frank about everything that's transpired here in the last couple of weeks.  I'm sure to a lot of you it comes off as too honest, a little brusque or even cold, like I don't care very much or something.  If that makes you feel uncomfortable reading this kind of stuff, then by all means click the "back" button.  I won't be mad, I promise.  But I said it in my last blog and I'll probably continue to say it just for the sake of clarity, I have to be frank.  I have to say what I'm thinking, because if I don't get it out, then I just sit with it and feel icky.

Anyway, I had a dream about Mike last night.  Now, I'm not going to act like I'm a freaking prophet or Theresa Caputo, but I have had some odd dreams in the past that I'm like 80% sure weren't dreams, but visits from people who have passed away.  One of them happened when I was a kid.  The other two were separate visits from my Bubi and Zedi.  So, I'm not sitting at my kitchen table, making squiggles in a notebook because "Spirit" tells me to, but I totes have been contacted by dead people before.  And ever since Mike died, I've been kind of hoping and waiting to see him in a dream.  In my head I spend an awful lot of my time hugging my knees and sobbing, "I just want to know that he's okay!"  And I thought a dream might help.

So in my dream, we were throwing Mike a goodbye party because, in this bizarre dream universe, we knew that he was going to commit suicide.  It was one of those things that in a dream seems totally normal, but in real life you're sitting there going, "...the hell?"  Anyway, in the dream, it was sort of like a party you throw for someone who's moving out of state.  Like, we were all sad he was going away, but we accepted it.  And we had this going away party at a diner and everyone was there.  Friends, family, and even people I wouldn't consider friends, but the kind of acquaintances who kind of knew me in high school and then "friended" me after Mike died.  Everyone was there.

And the reason I can't help but feel a little bit better about this dream is because Mike, (dream Mike, anyway) was in such good spirits about this "journey" or whatever.  He drank with us, he laughed with us, and I even have this really clear image of he and I taking a detour to Target to buy a pair of "suitjamas" like he was Barney Stinson in How I Met Your Mother.  Like, it was funny to us because he was going to kill himself so he wanted to be buried in suitjamas, that way he could be comfy and look fly.  But that's totally something Mike would do.

I know.  So weird.

Anyway, at some point during the dream festivities, my mom appeared looking very upset to tell us all that Mike had unexpectedly taken his own life in the diner bathroom or something.  (I know.  Weirder and weirder.)  I say unexpected because we were all very shocked and saddened by this development, like we knew it was coming, but it still happened sooner than it was supposed to and it kind of threw us.

And that I think that's a pretty decent metaphor for how things have transpired in real life.  I used to have these recurring nightmares like once a month or so, sometimes more often, about Mike killing himself.  It was my greatest fear for so long that it was always there in my subconscious, whether he and I were currently speaking or not.  I couldn't even tell you how many times I dreamed those dreams, how many horrible situations I encountered while sleeping, or how many ways my brother ended his life in my nightmares.  So when it actually happened, I wasn't very shocked.  Just...sad.

But I wanted to mention the dream because it really did make me feel better.  Don't get me wrong, I hope I get the chance to see my brother again in future dreams, but I felt this one was the one I was really waiting for.  I 100% believe it was Mike's soul...spirit....memory...friendly ghost... (whatever you want to call it) showing me that he's okay with where he's at now, that he's at peace with the decision he made, and that he wants us to be okay with it too.

I came across a quote about grief recently.  It's pretty long, and maybe one day I'll go hunt it down and post it, but it mentioned something about how suicide survivors (I hate that term, for some reason by the way) can often have a hard time forgiving their loved one for ending their life.  And, of course, everyone deals with this kind of stuff differently but I never, for one second felt angry at Mike or that I needed to forgive him for what he did.  Yes, I'm so sorry he had to suffer as much as he did and I will miss him wretchedly for the rest of my life, but I'm "okay" with what he did, if that makes sense. The dream I had last night just reinforces that.  As long as Mike is at peace (and I think he is) then we'll do our best to be at peace without him.

So in case anyone's wondering, I forgave my brother pretty much the moment I heard that he was dead.  If anything, I hope that wherever he is, he can forgive me for not being able to -- or, let's be honest, not really trying -- to help him.

In other news, everyone here is doing all right.  I had such a fun time in Minnesota with my aunts and uncles and cousins.  I got a wicked sunburn at the lake, though.  Seriously.  I came home and Sarah says, "You look good with some color on you!"

And I just look at myself like... "That color is bright red.  There's no way that's a good look on anyone."

As for me, I flip back and forth between wanting to submerge myself in pictures and memories versus wanting to avoid thinking about Mike entirely.  It just depends on the day.  Or the hour, really.

The night before I went to Minnesota, I was taking the dogs outside.  We had some weird thunderstorms moving through the area during sunset and it made the sky look really strange.  And I remember thinking, "Hmm, I've never really seen anything like this."  Which got me thinking, "Hmm.  Mike will never see anything like this."  Which ended up with me going to hug my Dad goodnight and him saying, "Are you okay?" and me starting to sob, wailing incoherently about all the things Michael will never get to do.

Oh well.  I never said we were doing perfect.

I did get the first batch of thank you cards out today.  Two hours of addressing and envelope stuffing and I'm not even halfway done.  It reminds me of all those terrible thank you cards we each at to write after our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.  Pretty sure Mike is having himself a good chuckle over that.  Dick.

I'll be back on the blog soon.  It's way too therapeutic for me to abandon for long.  Next time I'll make sure to include some more funny Mike stories.  I have a million of them.