Birthdays are hard now.

I've always loved my birthday. I've never been someone who dreaded getting older. Maybe because I'm honest to goodness happy with where I am in life. Maybe because I still naively believe I could do anything if I really wanted to. But I don't really love my birthday since Jesse died.

I could always count on a phone call from my brother on my birthday. We'd usually talk a few other times throughout the year, but I really looked forward to our birthdays and know we'd chat and catch up for a good hour or so. I miss that phone call so much. How can you talk to someone for only a few hours year, but then miss few hours a year so much once they're gone? It doesn't seem like that big of a loss. But I feel it so heavily every year on my birthday.

And then again on your birthday.

But my birthday hurts worse for some reason. I think part is knowing I'm 34 now. An age you'll never know. Every year as I grow older, it's a reminder that you didn't get to. As we grew up, everything I went through, you were following just 2 years behind. Now you're gone. And it hurts so much some days.

I saw a butterfly today, land almost right on my windshield. I had a brief passing thought that you were coming to say hi. And then I had an angry thought because I hate that we all have left of you are signs we look for desperately as we hang on to every little thing as some kind of hope that you're still here.

3 years

It's been a long time since I've written here. My life is so busy that I barely have time to think. My mind is constantly just going from one thing to the next, very rarely taking the time to think about anything besides what we need to do right now.

But today was slow and sad.

Jess- today Abigail cried her heart out because she can't remember what you look like. I can't even begin to describe how much that breaks my heart.

And why didn't we ever do those stupid recreate sibling pictures? I hate seeing those now.

My kids still think you died in a car accident. I don't know when or how to tell them the truth. I want them to know, to serve as a warning and because I believe in being honest. But I don't want to tarnish their memory of you. Everything in their world is so black and white and drugs are definitely in the bad category. I don't know how they'd be able to still see you as the amazing person you were and know you used drugs. I just don't think their minds can handle it.

I think Eliza has some kind of connection with you. She talks about you all the time. She says you're her friend. She tells me stories about you. I love it, but she also has a crazy imagination that I know can get the best of her. But I like to believe it's you. I think about this random memory a lot. In October, two months before you passed away, I came out for my birthday. And you babysat her for me for a day while Mommy and I went shopping. I came home and you had her all dressed up, and were cracking up over her baby jeans. You just thought baby jeans were the cutest thing. And then you put her to bed that night and you came upstairs and said, "Mom, that's what I need. I need a family of my own." And my heart broke. Jess - you could have literally any girl. Like really any girl I've ever met would have happily filled that role for you. It breaks my heart so much that you never got that.

As I get older, and you're forever 28, certain things hurt worse. Our parents tried moving a futon into the basement the other day. You should have been there to help them! I know I need to move back, but it's so freaking expensive. Life is so good here, but the older they get the more I realize we probably will have to move to help them. And I feel different stages of grief all over again. Siblings are supposed to be there with you for this crap.

I miss you.

Happy Birthday

Jesse,
   Today you would have been 29. Last year on your birthday I got you some disc golf stuff. I almost got you a "starter kit"... I'm so glad I called you before I ordered it because apparently you were way past the starter kit stage of your disc golf hobby. You had some very specific discs that I had to order from a website that had a matrix more confusing than trying to register for online classes. And you were so worried to ask for something so specific. I am SO glad I didn't brush off your birthday last year. In the past, you were lucky to get a phone call. I have a lot of kids and a busy life, but I really wanted you to know last year how much we love you. And I didn't know how else to do that. If I knew it was going to be your last birthday, I would have flown out to be there with you. I think you went the movies with Nan and Mom? Mom made chicken parm, I'm sure. I wish there was a way we could have known.
         I miss you so much. My birthday was hard. I wanted to hear from you. I didn't think it would be hard at all, honestly. I was in Disneyland with all of my kids and my husband and I thought I'd be too distracted to think much about a missed phone call from you. But I woke up crying. Birthdays were the one day I knew for sure we'd talk.
         It probably sounds ridiculous to say that I miss you, when I know we didn't spend all that much time together to begin with. But I really had these visions of you moving out here, starting a new life. And us being best friends again. I grieve so much for what never got to be. The relationship I so wanted to have with my brother, but drugs stole, and never gave us the chance to get it back.
          We're going to have another baby. #5. I can't imagine what your reaction would be. I hate that this baby will live in a world without you. He or she will only ever know you in stories, and to her I'll have never had a brother. It's bizarre to think about, it really is.
           I am not entirely sure how the whole after life thing works exactly. But I know you're still around. And I hope you're having a happy birthday, wherever you are. I can't help but think it's probably hard for you to watch all of us here crying and missing you. I'm sure you had no clue how sad everyone would be if you were gone. It's got to be so hard to watch. But I hope there's some kind of magical happy heaven that you're hanging out in with Luke and Poppy (how do those two get alone anyway?) and you're having a good day, if they have days in heaven. Happy birthday little brother. Love you.

Look For The Miracle

I'm doing Sharing Time tomorrow in Primary (our combined Sunday School class for kids 3-11) and the subject is miracles.

It's 12:17AM and I should be sleeping. But my mind is racing about what to teach these sweet little children about miracles. I know God is a God of miracles. I know He gives them daily. But sometimes it's easy to see where He's being a little stingy with them. I am of course thinking about my brother, and wishing there could have been a miracle for him. It wouldn't have even had to be that BIG of a miracle. There is a drug that when administered to someone who has overdosed, literally starts their heart back up. It has saved thousands of lives. I have read crazy stories of people who have had this medication used on them twice in the span of a few days. Why couldn't someone have found my brother in time and used this medicine to save his life?

And here's what I'm learning. There's no good in looking for a miracle where you feel there should have been. Look for the miracle that God gave you. Through every single trial we go through in this life, God gives us a miracle. Sometimes we just have to look harder. If my brother's life had been saved, that miracle would have been obvious. Now that he's gone we have to look a lot harder for the miracle. Or miracles, as I believe we're experiencing.

The first miracle I was able to see through all this was that it was a police officer who found my brother. Not my mom, not my dad, and thank GOD not Nanny. Easily could have been anyone of those people, honestly, considering the circumstances at the time. And my dad was actually really, really close to where they found my brother.

The next miracle was a letter I received from my mom a few months after Jesse's passing. It said that she didn't care what religion I was, just happy I believed in God and that she was happy I was married to such a good man. If you know me, and know my life you can fully appreciate the magnitude of this miracle. If not, just take my word for it and trust me when I say this is huge.

And then just tonight I was at my husband's grandfather's 85th birthday party. Grandpa's health is not the best. As we all sang "Happy Birthday" to him tonight his eyes looked so sad, and it broke my heart. And for a moment I realized those who are "lucky" enough to grow old may not be the lucky ones after all. Not that I'm wishing early death for myself or anyone else, but my brother would have made a terrible old person. I remember him once telling me how scared he was of being old. How you go out of this world the same way you come into it, helpless. And he hated that. And I was thinking about we used to say "Jesse was never a baby". He really was like a toddler from birth. Obviously not literally, but he was just always on the go. Never very babyish. He was never a baby, and he'll never be an old baby... that sounds absolutely terrible. It's now 12:30 and I should really just stop. But I really want to make this point that I'm failing at miserably. But the fact that he's now in a better place, is really a happy thing for him. It's only sad for us that are left here to miss him.

Dear Jesse,

Carly posted this picture on my Facebook wall the other day.

This was seven years ago. 

Jesse, what have you done?
What have you fucking done?

My kids worshiped you.

They love you so much, and we talk about you all the time.

Every single they night they ask for "Uncle Jesse stories" before bed.

Jess, I'm running out of stories.

 I'm running out of memories to share.

I've told them everything I can remember about you.

And that kills me.

I think I'm in a bit of the anger stage of my grief.

Because I hate you for not being here.

I hate that my kids will never make a new memory with you.

I hate that if I have another baby I'll never have another picture like this.

I hate that, when I first saw this picture my first thought is of what a great dad you'd be, and now you'll never have that chance. 

You would have been an incredible dad.

Your kids would have been freaking hilarious, and amazing, and the world needs your kids! 

I secretly hope that some day, some kid will show up on Mom's door step and claim to be her grandson.

Because honestly, I can only imagine what your kid would be like. 

And it's hilarious, and charming, and amazing, and all the wonderful things you were, that you couldn't see anymore.

Almost 7 months...

The past few weeks I've found myself overcome with grief, almost as much as I was in the beginning. In a flash I'll see my brother laying in that casket and I'm almost brought to my knees, the pain in my chest is so tangible and just so painful. Something, almost everything will remind me of him. And it all feels so unfair that he's gone. The world will never hear his laugh or see his smile again, and that thought crushes me.

But it's been 7 months... why is this grief resurfacing so strongly now?

As I pondered this, I came to a few conclusions. One, is that I've probably gone about 6 months without seeing my brother. We've lived the last 10 years on opposite sides of the country, but I still think the longest I've ever gone without seeing him at all is about 6 months. I think that, without really comprehending it fully, on some level my brain processed this. That this is the longest I've ever gone without seeing my brother. And that makes things sink in more, seem more permanent, more real... I don't know. But I think it's something.

I also think that when Jesse first died, I was so shocked, and it was so much to process that I couldn't wrap my mind around the drugs. I didn't realize my brother's problem was "that bad". And for the past six months my thoughts have been more about how he died. I've spent so much time on opiate websites, and researching drug overdose advocacy groups, that I haven't given myself time to think past that. It's taken my mental energy to just wrap my mind around the fact that my brother was using heroin. Now, seven months later I've finally processed that, I think my brain is allowing me to process the fact that he's really gone.

Another thing is that I keep myself pretty well distracted. Well four of those are unintentional... living with 4 young children is a great distraction. Any time I'm sad they're immediately there trying to cheer me up. Especially my 3 year old little boy. He hates to me sad, and I can see the concern in his eyes. He'll ask me, "Does that make you happy, Mama?" after he does something sweet. Which I can totally picture my brother doing to my mom, and that breaks me heart all the more, but I just smile and nod and hug him, and try to blink back the tears that threaten to pour from my eyes at any moment. Then there are distractions that I form myself, like social media, and reading... I think as long as I give myself time once in a while this is okay.

Part of my grief now is also for my family in NJ. Knowing they're struggling and I'm so far away and there's so little I can do. My heart just aches for them.

First time going back home

I live in AZ, and my family lives in NJ. I just happened to be in NJ when my brother died because we were visiting for the holidays. This last few weeks I went back to visit.

It was so much harder than I thought it was going to be.

I hadn't mentally prepared myself for how hard it would be to walk into that house and not get a hug and kiss from my brother.

And now everything is so... different. No one talks about you anymore, Jess. Our dad has put you into that part of his brain where he keeps everything that's too hard to talk about. Buried deep in that painful part that everyone's afraid to touch because who knows how he'll react.

It's been too hard for anyone to go through your stuff, so I got to do that while I was there. Opening the door to your old bedroom and seeing those bags... those bags had to go. They're the last physical thing from that day. I emptied them all onto the bed and began sorting all the stuff you had in your car. I tried to fight the twinge of guilt. You had all this crap in your car because you took it out of your room so I'd have space to stay with the kids. All your clothes, books, hockey stuff, and a shop vac?? So much stuff that the detectives thought you lived in your car. The detectives said when they found your body you had no cell phone or wallet on you. They thought you were probably robbed after you died. I couldn't believe that. I went through every single pocket, emptied out every bag sure I would find your wallet and phone. But I didn't.

Someone robbed you while you were dead or dying.

This is probably commonplace in Newark.

It makes me sick to my stomach.

So many people OD and are brought back by Narcan. I hate to think that someone saw you, and instead of trying to help, calling 911, and possibly being able to save you, they just took your stuff.

All $500 worth of your dog grooming stuff is missing as well.

They left the disc golf stuff, which I took and plan on putting to good use. I'll feel like you're with me when I play.

I miss how stupidly excited you got about stuff. Like disc golf. You were just so enthusiastic about it, it was infectious. I miss that so much. You were like that about everything. Passionate, funny, and infectiously enthusiastic about the most trivial things. I'm so sad for my kids, not having you around. There was never a more fun uncle.

I keep trying to think of how you're still here, but it's hard to have that much faith when it hurts so much. I used to dream about you every night, but I haven't now in months.

Our family is falling apart. Mary seems okay, but I know she's a mess just under the surface. Our mother still cries every single day. And we're just trying to go through the motions of this life, but it will never be the same. I want to do something to keep your memory alive, to share your story, but the grief paralyzes me.

Did you see Billy died the same way? Hope you guys are hanging out together again, while your moms are crying together. His girlfriend had a baby a week after he died. He looks just like Billy. Such a roller coaster for his family, but I can't tell you how jealous I am. They get to have a little part of him, they get to experience the joy of watching a baby grow to help soften their grief. I hate that we'll never get to see a Jesse Jr. There was so much happiness left in the world for your to experience. I know you felt like you couldn't be happy without drugs. That breaks my heart. And I wish I knew how to help other people who feel that same way.

Well, it's been almost 6 months and I don't know what else to say. It still sucks. I have no desire to go back to that very sad house any time soon. You are so missed, Jess. So missed.