Survivors

I found out yesterday that my foster sister's husband committed suicide last week. I felt bad that it took five days for me to notice the reference on her Facebook post. He suffered from clinical OCD and depression, as well as some addictions, so it wasn't a complete and utter shock that he would take his own life. I suppose what was more shocking was that I found out via Facebook.

True, this is a foster sister with whom I lived for only a few weeks 31 years ago, and who I've only seen once in the past 10 years. But she is the sister who I followed home from school one day because she invited me to stay with her family when I was 16 years old and had no other viable options. She has a long history of reaching out to those in need. I am forever indebted to her for bringing me into the healing presence of her family.

Oh, sister, I'm so sad for your loss. You are an optimist, and always see the good and the potential in people who are riddled with problems. You were a blessing for Jim during the years you had together. I hope you are blessed with the peace of knowing that truth, and that you never suffer from survivor's guilt.

When my brother Richard committed suicide at age 21, I had no such sense of peace. I was 19, and utterly absorbed in launching my life. I was working and going to community college and preparing to transfer to UC Davis in the fall. I only learned later that he was upset about being fired from his job as a mechanic at U-Haul as a result of losing his driver's license because of outstanding traffic warrants. He was taking medications designed to treat what might have been emergent bipolar disorder, including SSRI anti-depressants. I knew he also had a habit of taking stimulants to stay awake and tranquilizers to help him sleep.

He called me about a month before he died, upset about our mother (who had a long history of mental illness, including probable bipolar disorder), and I told him to just blow her off, that she was a crazy b*@#ch and not to worry about what she said or thought. I was surprised  that he was still vulnerable to her erratic moods and rantings (although I was far from immune myself.) I remember now with no small amount of shame that I talked with enthusiasm about my grades and about applying to UC Davis; I was trying to make small talk, and was excited about finally moving away from southern California. But in retrospect, it probably seemed like gloating and made him feel even more like a failure. We were fairly estranged, and it should have been a signal when he called, reaching out to me out of the blue. I didn't recognize it as that; I was just happy to hear from him, and tried to share my excitement about life, about breaking away from my history as a foster child in Ventura County and leaving our biological mother behind.

When I found out he had overdosed on a mixture of alcohol and SSRI anti-depressants, I felt a sense of shock and dread. But it wasn't until he'd been on life support in the hospital for a week that I realized with sudden horror that he wasn't going to recover, as the doctors were saying there was no significant brainwave activity, that the small movements he was making were just reflexes, that there was so much damage to his brain that he wouldn't even be able to breathe on his own when they disconnected the respirator. They were correct; my mother agreed to have him taken off life support on the tenth day, without notifying me or any of my siblings. He died immediately, while I was at work. I had a premonition that he had died; perhaps it was his spirit saying goodbye in passing. I have never quite forgiven my mother for not allowing me the chance to say goodbye, despite her being mentally ill herself. It was such a selfish act on her part. But it was in utter keeping with the way she'd always treated me, which was as if I didn't really exist.

My grief after Richard's passing was tremendous and heartwrenching. I felt physically ill. I stumbled through life's requirements, got passing grades, was accepted to UC Davis, etc. But I heard a nagging voice in the back of my head saying, "If only you'd listened more closely to him, and responded with a plan to get together, to offer him real relationship, not just your vapid bragging about your academic plans, he might still be here." A drunk driver smashed into me in my VW bus a couple days after his funeral, with only the grace of God and a front-mounted spare keeping me from joining Richard in the afterlife. It was traumatic, but part of me felt like I deserved it and more.

My survivor's guilt plagued me for years; it only dissipated after many years of therapy gave me the perspective to see that there was little that I, as an immature, wounded young woman myself, could have done to save Richard. Still, I often revisit that phone call in my mind, wondering if I could have made a difference, or at least made plans to get together so that it wouldn't have been my last interaction with him. He scared me a little; I admit that part of me didn't want to be around him, as I didn't know what to do about his self-destructive behavior, and it bothered me. But I loved him, and I loved that he loved me. I thought that that was enough, at least for the time being. I guess I thought there would be time to develop our relationship later, but not then, not when I was so busy trying to invent myself.

In reading about suicide in the years that followed Richard's death, I came across the quote, "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." That powerful statement has resonated with me across the years, perhaps being one of the deciding factors dissuading me from following suit when life seemed particularly bleak and hopeless. And now it is my sister Katherine living with the permanence of the decision that her husband Jim made last week. Jim's sister has launched an online attack against Katherine, somehow blaming her for Jim's act. It is surreal, but some people deal with their pain in strange and inexplicable ways. Katherine's response has been so Katherine...patient and gentle and gracious. Would that we all be as blessed by our choice of response. For it is patience and gentleness and graciousness that are truly the permanent solutions to our temporary problems. 

Hope and Beauty and Mud

The robins are back!

I noticed my first robin this year about a week ago, when the rains had turned the earth to goo and the worms were wriggling to the surface, gasping for air. It was a bounteous feast for Mr. & Mrs. Redbreast, that's for sure!

I love how the robins appear every year at the height of winter gloom, bringing with them the hope of spring. Their cheerful, upright little forms decorate the drab lawns and fields with splashes of bright rusty breasts and yellow beaks, their black button eyes gazing about with keen intent. They hop across the grass, cock their heads, and plunge with deadly accuracy, yanking juicy morsels from the ground as easily as I select apples from a bin. 

If only I could learn to regularly find such treasures buried in the mud of my daily existence! I often exclaim that I feel like I'm running through mud, trying to get to the "real" stuff of life, but slowed down by the mundane and dreary landscape of household chores and the less scintillating responsibilities of motherhood.

My goal today is to think like a robin. There's got to be some yummy delight buried in this muck!

3...2...1...LAUNCH!

Houston, we've got blog liftoff!

I've considered blogging for years, and have kept an e-journal for many of those. It started as a pregnancy journal, and morphed into a journal of my daughter's developmental milestones, then at some point beyond her toddler years turned into the Family Journal. But a blog it ain't.

Inspired by a few extraordinary bloggers I encountered during our years-long adoption journey, and by the (private) blog of KH, my daughter's dance teacher/studio owner/creative genius/seamstress extraordinaire, I've decided to enter the blogosphere.

Brief bio: I'm a 52-year old homeschooling mom, married to my husband coming up on 30 years. I have a daughter I gave birth to 11 years ago and a 6-year old daughter we adopted from India 3 years ago. Yes, I'm a late bloomer. And that will be the predominant theme of my blog. 

My goals are to become a published author (initially children's literature, but I've got at least one adult novel or memoir in me as well) and to re-learn how to play the cello after a nearly 40-year hiatus. I was given one by my thoughtful husband for my birthday last November, so I don't have any excuses! And in December I submitted my first book, a picture book I co-wrote with my oldest daughter, to Victoria Rock, editor at Chronicle Books, for publication. I'm off to the races! 

But as usual, I've squeezed in launching this blog as the "one more thing" I've done this morning before rushing around to get the kids and myself ready, so it looks like it's going to be another fire at the clown academy. (My husband coined this term a couple of years ago to describe my daughter and I rushing out the door to our destination, yelling at each other to grab a forgotten item, rushing back in for another forgotten item, etc.) But I'm happy to be here, and will be back soon with more about the travails and trappings of life as a late bloomer.