joshsgoldstarsister

[joshsgoldstarsister]

May you never know grief like Wanda Maximoff

***Contains WandaVision SPOILERS and TW: Grief, loss, Covid

I think by now you know that as a kid, Marvel wasn’t my jam.  And if I was checking it out, it was cartoons and movies about weirdos in yellow spandex, because I hadn’t found something worth Avenging. What did I know, I was young and had pledged my heart to DC and Mark Hamill’s laugh? 

So why this today?

“May you never know grief like Wanda Maximoff. “

That was my Facebook post after watching the finale of WandaVision. And I think I hit a nerve. It wasn’t just mine. 

Maybe it is because after 10 and 5 years respectively, I can say with confidence and fear that if I had the powers of the Scarlet Witch, Perkasie Pennsylvania would be in a hex as we speak and if need be, the whole  world. If I was the embodiment of chaos magic, my grandmother and my brother would be alive. And I wonder who would blame me. Because the people of this reality may understand more than those in Westfield, NJ, MCU.

Like the MCU, our universe is experiencing an unprecedented loss of life. As of this moment there have been 2.59 million Covid deaths worldwide. We got a taste of what that level of loss looks like in Endgame but, unlike the MCU no one snapped their fingers and brought them back.  Our loss is permanent. No stone to undo what has been done.

Humanity is grieving. We are grieving without rituals, without comfort and yes, like Wanda, without bodies. This loss is almost unfathomable on its own but at this volume and for this sustained amount of time, I question whether we can recover, or will we like Wanda lose control, and push the  boundaries that express our heartache . 

I don’t know  what our future holds, a sentiment I say to often these days, but I do know what it is to grieve like Wanda. That quiet calm, just holding it all together, step by aching step carrying myself through the passing moments, until you alone stand in a place that was supposed to be shared. In those places, I have lost control. I have let my grief explode from me, felt it shake in my bones until it escaped out my throat. And if my body had lifted up from the ground in those moments, I would have changed the world. 

So far my feet stay on the ground. But sometimes my bones still ache and I have no choice but to let the pain out in sobs. I am not the Scarlet Witch. But I can still do magic. 

In the ten years that my brother has been gone from this universe, I’ve held a place for him. I think of him when I eat pickles, or attempt to bake banana bread. I think of him when I watch Marvel movies. I still can’t crush on Thor. I carried him with me into roller derby bouts, and frankly there isn’t a funny fart that doesn’t bring him to mind. Last week I saw my son do a spit take after I said something amusing. I kept the giggles going by regaling them all with stories of Uncle Josh, the asshat who made me laugh until MASHED POTATOES COME OUT OF MY NOSE!!!  And sometimes I am exhausted from the effort, but I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. 

Since my grandmother’s passing, I know I am not alone. When I need her guidance, I can just talk to her, and because we talked so much, I can hear her now, my inner voice guiding me through every difficult path I walk. I feel her through this pandemic and isolation. She was a healer and showed me how to soothe a soul with love.  I feel her with me when I see my smile in a zoom window. I think of her when I watch sitcoms or when I watch black and white movies.

I don’t have magic for the whole world. I don’t have spells to soothe this much sorrow and heartache. I can’t wave my hands and conjure our beloved ones back to us, I promise if I could have, I’d wave them for everyone. I do know that, in the end Wanda made the bravest choice I have ever seen a superhero make, and she tried it my way. Like us mere mortals, Wanda accepted the loss and carried her loved ones in her heart. I can’t promise this post might not strike a nerve but if it does, may I bless you with these words, “May you never know grief like Wanda Maximoff, but if you do, may you be as brave as the Scarlet Witch.“

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Memorial Day 2020

I haven’t written in a while. Here is today’s thoughts. With a few edits this was just an in time free flow of thought written through out the day:

The sun is shining and Queen is playing on the car stereo.  The picnic lunch is packed and the dog is excited to go. So we go. The car needed jump started because of a poorly closed door, which was funny. And then we go. And it's nice. The flags are at half mast. But they've been there for weeks. I check the clock.  It’s after noon. They should be raised soon, even if only for today.

We planned to make no stops. We stop. We wear masks and let the dog out.  He is excited.  Gas and then hand sanitizer.  I ask people to watch Avatar the Last Airbender.  We drive through the places I grew up. Everything is different.  Everything is the same. 

I see a flag over the American flag. I feel sad. And mad. And disappointed but not surprised.  We drive past other cemeteries.  They aren't crowded today, but they never are. We play weird Al songs.  The kids laugh and sing along. 

We arrive and the flags are flapping in the breeze. We set our blankets up on a space two graves wide. The kids eat and chat in the sunshine. There are more young families this year. Others bring blankets and picnic together with the past and the future. 

A group of young children, all dresses in camo take pictures with rifles in front of monuments.  I tell my children to never seek war. Our dog pulls at the leash to be with a toddler a few graves down. I check later and the man buried there died last year. A marine, born the same year as my brother.  I tidy up headstones.  Wipe down the brass. Pull grass browning over granite. I leave pickle slices for my grandfather, my brother and grandma.  My name is there but I just eat my slice.  

We share memories about  puzzles and pretzels. The picnic is packed up. The air is cool in the car and we head home. 

I feel the ritual’s end opens the way for summer. Hot days filled with all the memories of time I spent with these beloved ones. Mowing grass, and tending seedlings. Fire and food and friends we shared. The streets are lined with pictures of those who died in our defense.  Red white and blue everywhere but no end of war in sight.  

[joshsgoldstarsister]

33

I wish I wasn’t go imaginative. I wish it wasn’t so easy to picture you now, here, today. I think my hair would be grayer, but not by much. I bet you would be doing keto because: cheese and bacon. I bet we would have gone to a concert. I know I can drink more beer than you. 

Those things are easy to see. To imagine I just heard your voice because I was confirming plans. Thinking about you taking kids out to something cool. The imagination is clear there. 

But then I wonder the hard things. Would you be married? Would I have other nieces? A nephew? Did you ask me for advice on parenting? Or are you single-cool Uncle for life? Is it none stop video games and lego builds and table top gaming at your place? Do we even talk? 

I can’t forget today. Which is almost ironic because of course, you could. Date of birth? “Hold on let me look it up”. Really bro? But it didn’t matter to you. It just marked the time. And now you have none. 

But I still have time. My hair is very gray and I will never do keto and I will carry you with me wherever I go. I will raise a glass for you. 

Happy birthday, Little Brother. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Not alone

How do I begin?

“So this one time, when I was in Afghanistan . . .”

“While I was vacationing in Afghanistan . . .”

“I was visiting the place where my brother was killed and . . .”

. . .

Yeah, it has been like that for two years now. How do I begin?

Deep breath. Eyes open. Chin up.

Two years ago I journeyed to Afghanistan with a group of amazing people. We all had our reasons for going. Some were going with the express purpose of leaving, but on their own terms. Some were there to help along the way, because they knew the path. And some of us, we were taking first steps in a foreign land because it was the last place our loved one stood.

I wore a uniform, I covered my crazy hair, and I saw the last place my brother lived. I would call it the smallest taste I could have of his life in the army. I went where I was told, I hurried up so I could wait. I shook hands and received challenge coins. I met with Generals and with the enlisted.

They asked me about roller derby, they asked about my catering work, and they asked me about my brother.

And mostly, I was dazzled by it all. I was fully aware that I was a tourist in this world; that I was getting the best of the best of what the military life could be. I never slept rough, my meals were hot, frequent and often and I showered every day. I rode in a Black-hawk, I was taken to a firing range and allowed to shoot a machine gun that sounded like the aliens in War of the Worlds. They let me fire a 777 Howitzer!

They let me fire a 777 Howitzer.

I remember every moment up to this so clearly. I really was just having a good time. Learning about army life and sharing the story of my brother, of my grief and the wonderful support I had from 10th Mountain. Then we were told we were going to an artillery unit. I was told they knew I was coming. That they knew Josh was artillery and that we were going to pull the cord on a Howitzer.

Everything got a little blurry.

I don’t want to say that I don’t remember it all perfectly. Because I do. I just need you to understand the raw nerves that were practically vibrating my body.

I am not a big person, or a strong person. In my mind I am a terribly tiny person, but I’m actually average height and build. But since Josh grew taller than me at about age 13, I have never stopped thinking of myself as small.

I have watched videos of my brother and his crew loading and firing artillery during training exercises. It isn’t easy. It is a carefully coordinated dance of multiple people all doing a very specific job. If you mess up your job, something really bad can happen. Artillery is no joke.

When they asked who wants to go next, I raised my hand without thinking. I mean, I was thinking but I was thinking that if I mess this up, I would never forgive myself.

They told me to plant my feet, hold the cord around my back and hand on my hip and when I pull, throw my hip into it. At the time I could barely move another blocker with a hip check. I didn’t think what would happen if I couldn’t pull hard enough.

When they gave me the signal, I held that cord tight and I threw my hip and I pulled with everything I had. I fired the Howitzer.

There is a small snap and then this calm. The air is still but a moment which is suddenly broken by the full body boom of sound. It’s like standing by the speakers at a concert. You feel the bass in your sternum. I felt the boom in my bones.

I am very vocal about my grief. It isn’t always popular, but the studies show that what I am doing is right. I am not bottling in my feelings, or ignoring them. I always felt like I was doing really well with my grief journey.

I felt the boom in my bones. And I was acutely aware of all the places I was broken. All the pieces inside me that I had been holding onto in the hopes that everything would be ok one day, if I just held it together long enough.

I felt the boom in my bones and I was filled with joy. I knew something I did not know the moment before. My brother loved his job. I knew that now. I could feel the most amazing high from that powerful blast and knowing that Josh would have gotten a singular satisfaction from that every time.

But with all these pieces inside me so raw and sharp I needed to do something. So I asked for a favor. “My brother was the loader,” I said. “I want to load the round”.

My gawd that poor man, staring down at this woman who I imagine looked like a little girl about to cry and the struggle he must have had inside.

I need you to understand what I was asking. I was asking to carry a 90lb round three yards and place it carefully into its chamber. Even at average height and build for a woman, this wasn’t realistic. Artillery is no joke. This is easily the part where stuff could go very wrong and I was the exact type of person that would make this go very bad.  I was asking for the impossible.

“I can help you” he said. And I hope my face lit up like a kid in a candy store who just found the Golden Ticket.

So, they set it up, and I picked up the round. I didn’t really, he did but my hands were on it. I felt enough of its weight to feel like I was there, and then it was in the cradle and off it went. And just like that I was whole again.

With that feeling so powerful, like nothing else I have ever felt, I did the only thing I possibly could. I went behind a bus so I could sob privately. But of course, privately in the army is not really a thing and a wonderful Sergeant Major came over and gave me hug. He told me, “Your brother didn’t die alone, this was his family and he was not alone”.

I really thought I was doing ok with my grief. I figured I missed him terribly, but that was ok. Missing him is part of loving him. But that day, I felt like I knew my brother in a way I never could.

I thought I was going to Afghanistan to learn about how he died. But really, I learned how he lived.

Climb to Glory.

Bulls Deep.

Special thanks always to Operation Proper Exit of the Troops First Foundation http://www.troopsfirstfoundation.org/initiatives/operation-proper-exit

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Steps in my dance

I slept in until noon today. My high functioning Depression and Anxiety want me to be specific; I should say, “I got up at 6:45, bandaged my kid’s toe, woke up my youngest, packed lunches dropped kids off at school and promptly crawled back into bed.” 

At noon the text of “Are you alive?” seemed to need an answer. 

I am alive. But, that all numbing-greying down of world sort of blurs the vital signs. “I wish I was dead”. I think only to myself. 

I am not suicidal. I’m not having suicidal idealization. I just don’t want to feel the ache anymore. I am depressed. 

The real kicker is, I should be fine. My Anxiety is here telling me that I am doing great. Meds are good, life is going well, support systems in place, goals being met, I have a DOG! I should be happy. And last weekend I was happy. Nothing has changed. 

But I have been doing this dance for a long time. Nine years in fact. I know my triggers. I know that it is a new code in my DNA. The seasons change into the most beautiful time of year. It is September and my brother is dead and I am broken. And I wish I was dead too. 

Like in the most beautiful dances, the choreography has a body laying prone on the ground, thrown with force to the floor, and the music rises. Muscles stretch and strain and then the body rises. They leap into the air reaching new heights because they were recently so low. 

Every year, I fall. I lay prone and vulnerable and I don’t know how I will get up ever again. Some years I think I won’t get up. Some times I don’t know why I should try. 

 Maybe it is the high functioning aspect to my disease. Maybe my coping skills are just so strong that eventually autopilot leads to a conscious take over. Maybe it is just the steps to my dance. 

I’m in the part of my dance where I lay low, sprawled on the stage and wondering if this time the music will lift me up. I hear the notes, softly at first, but they are strong, persistent. “Are you alive?” they ask. 

Without thinking, my muscles answer, “I’m still here, stand back so I can leap”. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

His Story

When the chapter is finishing, could you have seen it would end here? When you read the stories, can you say that you knew it would take these turns, that these characters would develop and bring meaning to their experiences? Can anyone say they knew where this was all going?

Six years ago, my story was written and I was it’s author, I thought. I was a mother of a brilliant son, with another child on the way. I volunteered in my community. I was a wife and an occasional caterer. I was a sister whose brother went to war. 

Until I wasn’t. 

That story ended because I became a sister whose brother died in war. The narrative changed and I had to change with it. 

I made plans for today. I was going to play roller derby and be awesome and in some way honor the great guy my brother was even if I broke my body to do it. But things fell through and it just couldn’t be. So. . . . I did . . . life. . . stuff. . . acted. . . normal?

I woke my kids, got us ready for Hebrew School. Helped out as a volunteer, making sure kids moved from activity to activity. I confirmed I wasn’t supposed to be here. But, I was here. And I was being all the things I was before; a mother, and a wife, volunteer and even still an occasional caterer. All the while, I was also this new person; the sister without her brother, the woman who grieved a soldier, the forever mourner. 

At some point this afternoon it was just more than I could be. Two separate people trapped in one body that moved from place to place. So with the help of a friend, I went to the movies to watch someone else develop character after tragic loss and uncertain times. Another storyteller got to make life altering decisions, choose a path more difficult than the one the audience supposed. And at the end all the story teller could be, was himself. He traveled the world, made knew friends and fought enemies and in the end he made the hardest choice of all, to be himself. He chose being a storyteller. 

I look back at the story of the last few years. I see my daughter, born after her Uncle’s death. Her big brother growing tall and struggling with a mind wiser than his years. Our grandmother has died and is buried beside her oldest grandson. I see all the things that were not as I thought they would be. The story written without a major player. There is a hole in the plot, but everyone else muddled through the story line as if it were meant to be this way.

I muddled along too. I learned to roller skate. I dress up as a comic character. I occasionally exercise. I grew, I developed. I live my own story everyday. 

I am truest to myself when I am doing the telling. 

When Josh died, my son was 3 years old. The fall is a time of changing leaves and tumultuous weather. The crashing sound of thunder often frightened him. One such stormy night I held my child and told him a tale. His Uncle Josh was a special kind of soldier, he was an artilleryman. His big strong arms loaded giant cannons which he fired and made a flashing light and loud bang. When we hear thunder crashing and see lighting,  it is just Uncle Josh telling us he loves us. My son didn’t believe me. 

As I drove home from the theater, the sky flashed again and again. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

A token . . .

As I mentally unpack the journey that was my trip to Afghanistan, I struggle to find the words to share with you the experience. That being said I might as well start somewhere, even if it is in the mundane task of ‘unpacking’. 

Warning, this may be longish, but has pictures. So, there is that. 

Throughout my trip, I was given tokens of appreciation and respect. Most notably, I was ‘coined’, a word here that means, “given a specialized military token to commemorate the meeting of an individual or unit”. 

You can learn more about military coins here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Challenge_coin

I will do my best to share with you the many coins I received and if I can, who gave them to me. 

To begin, I want to share with you my brother’s coins. While he was posthumously promoted to Corporal. He achieved rank of Specialist during his life. Which is why his collection of ten coins is rather impressive. Nine of these coins are unit specific, six are specific tokens of excellence and one is a Regional Command North coin (I am guessing Josh was in the right place at the right time). 

Since his death, I have been given two coins. The first a National Guard coin given to me in honor of my brother (does that technically make it his??) which I wrote about here: http://joshsgoldstarsister.tumblr.com/post/127635379872/challenge-accepted

I also have a National Military Bereavement Study coin, because I participated in the National Military Bereavement Study. So, I actually EARNED this one. 

Now to unpack my coins from my trip to Afghanistan: 

I want to feature my Troops First Coin, first. This is the nonprofit which organizes the Operation Proper Exit mission.  You can learn more about them here: http://www.troopsfirstfoundation.org/ But beyond a picture of this wonderful coin, I would like to say this organization has gifted me with the most incredible experience of my life. In a few days I will write more on that, but just know, this coin represents a huge weight being lifted from my heart. 

Next up, is the Congressional Medal of Honor Recipient, Leroy Petry coin. Leroy accompanied us on the journey because Rangers Lead the Way. That being said, I learned you shouldn’t always follow the Ranger because he may not know where he is going (following Leroy got me into a little bit of trouble, nothing terrible, just somewhat lost or late on occasion). You can learn all about Leroy here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leroy_Petry . His coin, which he helped design, has both a Blue Star and a Gold Star to represent those respective families. Leroy talked about family and recognizing how important the families at home are to those who serve. I will add that he taught me the coin hand shake, which was really nice, since he was the first to give me a coin and there would be so many handshakes to follow. 

Our journey began with a luncheon where we were introduced to the Surgeon General of the U.S. Army General West. She was incredibly warm and personal as she wished us well. At the same luncheon I met Captain Thomas Feeks, Gold Star Father of Navy Seal Patrick Feeks. Captain Thomas was actually the first Gold Star Family member to participate with Operation Proper Exit. His coin, commemorating his son, is one of my favorites because of its motto, “Cry Havoc, Let Slip the Frogs of War”. 

Traveling to Afghanistan means going in through Kuwait. Our hosts there are part of Operation Spartan Shield. I received 3 coins during my time in Kuwait. It was so special to be in Kuwait because it is the hub for all our operations in the Middle East. Without their seamless organization we could not have had this trip. 

During our layover in Kuwait, we met with a British Officer, Major General Felix Gedney. Though our meeting was brief, his coin certainly made up for it in sheer size. 

Once we were in country our hosts at Bagram were incredibly caring and generous with their time. Seeing the medical facilities on site were inspiring, to know that the best care possible is offered to our deployed; to see them ever ready, the words fail me. We were coined by the 45th Expeditionary Medical Group. 

We were taken to Kandahar Airfield and given the grand tour. Walking into their hospital was like walking into any first class American hospital. There my fellow Gold Star Family members and I, were given a special token, a coin for ourselves, as well as a coin to put with our loved one’s collection. The gesture touched all of us deeply. 

I was gifted a coin by Chief Master Sergeant Roby Johnson who has a pretty cool job. His command includes making some big booms when called upon and while the his coin is great, he hooked me up with some sweet stickers for my roller derby helmet! 

Onward to FOB Feinty, where TAAC was the name of the game. Train, Advise, Assist Command (South) were not just welcoming, but enthusiastic to have us. 

In Kabul we were hosted by the U.S. Embassy, as well as NATO allies. There we shook many hands and a few coins came our way. Each one is unique and special but is there anything as neat as an FBI coin that serves as a bottle opener?? 

As we left Afghanistan, our farewell included what I will always consider an adoption ceremony. In addition to gifts of pictures, flags, patches, and coasters we were given coins of our Bagram hosts, the Third Infantry Division Dog Faced Soldiers. This coin, with a bite out of it from the mascot Rocky is incredibly special.

Finally, the most important coin was given to me, and only me. When I write about the care given to us along the way, the details put into our adventure, I don’t think anything demonstrates all of those things as much as this coin. Seven years after my brother’s death, by way of a series of chance meetings, I made my way to the country where he died. In the whole wide world, after all this time, I would never have expected to meet anyone who served with him.

 As it happened, awaiting me in Kuwait was one of my brother’s Officers. He was there to welcome me, patch me with the crossed swords of 10th Mountain and gift me with the coin my brother never received. As I said my goodbyes in the Kuwaiti airport, I was handed this coin. It is small, and plastic and it isn’t round, but it completes a collection that wasn’t mine to begin with. With a hug and that special handshake, I was given the coin of my brother’s battalion, commemorating their OEF 2010-2011 mission that he could not complete. Around it’s edges are the words, “LOYALTY, DUTY, RESPECT, SELFLESS SERVICE, HONOR, INTEGRITY, PERSONAL COURAGE”. 

It is a lite thing that grounds me. I can feel its weightiness in my heart when I hold it in my hand. When I began my journey, I felt like I was doing it for him, for my brother who didn’t leave the battle field with his shield, but on it. I went to learn about him and left knowing that I am always with him. 

*** Not all coins received were posted with pictures, because tumblr just couldn’t handle it. Sorry***

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Operation Proper Exit

I have been away from the blog for a bit. There is a reason. https://www.facebook.com/usforces.afghanistan/videos/676519132551673/?hc_ref=ARSVi2-m4SyxjytlrTSsL18hbSPzyzYBoVnIzae3aiLKWO1eDm5_lSNIHabgArACiRY&pnref=story  

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Around and around

I remember putting on my skates and the terror setting in. I was a klutz in my bare feet, wheels were only going to enhance this. I did it anyway.

I eventually managed to stand upright; then skate (sort of). But at a certain point, in roller derby, you need to pick up the pace. You need to learn speed.

The terror never subsided. It never decreased with every new skill painfully won. Speed was nauseating. I felt for sure this was going to be the hurdle I couldn’t jump.

One night my derby “Big” (like sorority sister) took my hand, and pulled me along as fast as she could. That was very fast.  I wanted to cry. And the only thing that kept me from sobbing, or from pulling away, falling to my knees and crawling off the track and leaving the rink never to come back was by embracing the terror. By looking my demons in the eye and hugging them tight.

I imagined my worst day. I thought about the sounds and the smells and the heat as my brother died in a desert, so far away. I imagined all the fear he must have felt and remembered, that that boy laughed, “Because what is the worst that could happen?’.

I picked up my feet, I felt wind in my eyes and felt that air brush my tears away. I felt my friend’s hand. I picked up my feet. I crossed one over the other. I moved. I picked up my own speed. I got faster.

Every practice after that night, I would go to the bad place in my mind, I would skate through that hell scape of my own imagining. I would lift my feet faster and faster. Until, without noticing, my mind didn’t need that place, and my feet knew what to do.

Tonight, I felt the fear again. The fear of the speed, but it wasn’t coming from me, it was coming from new players. Skaters who were racing around the track with ‘us’ veteran players, skaters who were feeling the speed for the first time.

I have been described as many things and “strong” is sometimes one of them. If it is true, it is because for my whole life, I stood on a foundation of certainty that my brother had my back. I could hold the world on my shoulders with this knowledge. That single brick could support me through any storm.

In a moment that brick was destroyed in the mountains of Afghanistan by a terrorist.

It took me years to rebuild myself, piece by broken piece. It was a puzzle to put it all back together and at some point I realized that I wasn’t trying to make it look like it did before it was broken. I was ready to be something different.

To be strong, I will always need that foundation. I will always need him to have my back.

I reached behind and felt the grip of a new skater. “Hold on” I said.

Together we were fast. Around and around the track we went. And as my feet kept moving around and around, my sweaty fingers holding on to other sweaty fingers, I realized I didn’t need to be strong.

Because I was unafraid.

[joshsgoldstarsister]

For them, for us.

The sun sets on a cool and wet Memorial Day. I suppose some people were upset that the “unofficial opening of Summer” was cold and rainy, but for me, it was the best setting. The traffic was low, which is important when you are driving roughly 3 hours one way. The cemetery had what I call ‘the regulars’, older couples, a few families, some with young kids like mine. Everyone out in the damp, arranging flowers, wiping down headstones, and standing over our dearly departed. Thinking.

I thought about how long I have been doing this. This going to a cemetery on the last Monday of May to stare at a name and a date molded in bronze. 

It is something like 27 years. And for 7 of them, it is both more precious and more holy than the 20 years before. As a child I learned the ritual. I learned to come on the day, to bring an offering and to speak to the dead as if they were with you. As a woman, I learned just how hard it is to speak with your heart in your throat. 

Now I teach the ritual to a new generation. They stand over ones gone before they were born; they wipe away mud and grass. They bring a stone. They do not speak. For them the ritual is over. Then they chase and play, jeer at each other. They climb monuments. I wish the fallen were here to see them play. 

A few days ago I wrote, “It is days like these I miss you most”. It wasn’t a beautiful day, or a day where everything was lovely save for a missing guest. It was a hard day in a long line of hard days. My kids were behaving badly, my house was a mess and I just wanted to sort things they had destroyed in peace. I sort of hoped they would help, but that is only because exhaustion leads to delirium and delusion. 

I needed my brother. I needed him to come swooping in and save my chaotic day. He needed to take the boy child out and talk about Pokemon and D&D and sneak an hour of Minecraft that would make me livid for breaking this very strict rule, but really, what could I do about it. I needed him to take the wee girl to McDonald’s, to hover menacingly until they exchanged her toy for the one she really wanted. He needed to play the bass in her unending fart opera. I can hear the unending sound now and honestly my head aches (and my stomach heaves). He was needed to do all these things. Things he never got to do at all. Things that would have made a three day weekend “Happy” instead of one more year without. 

But as I stand over his grave, next to him my grandmother’s name shines. “Now, think of the good” she would say. And as I shiver in her heirloom sweater, I tell myself, “Less people said, “Happy Memorial Day” this year, More people posted about the difference between Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, Loads of people said his name, they remembered him because I asked them to”. 

I pour water over my kids’ muddy fingertips. I didn’t ask them to pull the grass clippings off the headstones. They set to work without instruction, unlike at home. At lunch, I ask them why we did all that for what amounted to 30 minutes in a graveyard, three hours from home. They smiles as they tell me,  “Because it is Memorial Day. Because we Remember. Because we do it for them, for us”. 

There is a hole where an Uncle should have been. There is a place in my life which my brother should be presiding over. But, my little family still carries on. We do it for them, for us. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

She gets back up

Another year passes and I sit at my keyboard, waiting for the birthday wish that doesn’t come. That silly boy who couldn’t remember his own birth date never forgot mine. Even on deployment, a Happy Birthday message would be there for me. And even though this is the 6th year without him, I still feel a bit empty. Add to that, this is the first birthday without a card from my beloved Grandma and well, it is just shaping up to be a big ol’ pity party. 

Only, I don’t feel pitiful. Actually, I feel oddly. . .  strong. And I think that it is worth pondering on. 

When Josh was killed, my world. . . crumbled. To have survived so many terrible things in my life and still be standing was a magnificent feat, but losing Josh, it broke me. I felt dismantled; torn to pieces; destroyed like bitter ash floating out to sea. I was lost. 

I had survived so many hits in my life; abuse, neglect and manipulation and I felt that in my essence I remained. I fortified myself against future abuse. I built a wall around myself and let few in, because it was safer. I feared to venture into anywhere unknown, because that was where certain danger hid. And then one day, the foundation I felt I was built upon, my little brother; he who I lived to defend and who I knew with certainty would put his body between mine and harm. . . was gone. And with him, went all the fragile pieces of myself that I had locked up in my castle. 

I didn’t know it at the time, I scarcely understand it now, but there is a joy in one’s utter destruction. There is a wonder to being torn down all at once. There is. . . a freedom. 

I had to learn who I was . . . not “again” and also, not “without him”. I had to learn who I was. I had to sort all my pieces and choose (painfully choose), which bits were really me, and which bits were just the stones I had put between myself and possible pain. There were so many stones. So much rubble to dig through to find the “me”.

So far this all sounds very metaphysical. I describe a spiritual rebirth almost, but I want to stress that this rebuilding was very real. Everyday, I had to make choices about who I wanted to be and the only thing I knew for certain was that “locked away against pain” was not it. I had to choose to put my guard down and risk being knocked down. Sometimes it was choosing to drive somewhere I had never been before (which I loathed because getting lost is the worst) or going out to a social gathering with people I didn’t know (another big no-no).  Most days it was little things. It was making an effort to communicate when things were too hard to do instead of doing them alone and frustrated. It was speaking up when I needed a break. And then one day it was a big choice. 

One day, I chose to put on roller skates and let people try and knock me over. Really. I joined a roller derby team, even though I didn’t know the game, I didn’t know how to skate, and the idea of lots of people touching me (let alone hitting me) was a pretty horrifying thought. 

People asked me “Why Derby?” and I said things like “I turned 30, it was now or never”. Or if a friend who really knew me asked, I would say, “Well, I was tired of all of you doing fun things so I decided to try”. But the real reason was more basic. 

At first it was because I wanted to be a person who did awesome things. I wanted my life to be more than just survival and avoiding any painful memory. I wanted to be awesome. But deep down it was something much more. 

I wanted to prove that I could get back up, not just this time, not just after Josh died and I was to carry on without him, I mean, that no matter what happened to me, I will get back up. And to do that, to be really sure that you CAN do that, you have to fall. A LOT. 

I have fallen many times since starting Roller Derby. In fact, there was a time when all I did on skates, was fall down.  I will fall many more times. Sometimes I manage to avoid the fall, other times, the ground seems to rise to greet me. But even if I become the best skater in the world (unlikely), there will be times, when I will fall, in derby and in life. And in the falling, I learn not to brace for impact, or to grasp for air that will not catch me.  I learn to get back up, even if getting up means being knocked back down again. 

Since the first time I laced up skates, I have only had one goal. To get back up when I am knocked down. And from that first time until now, you can hear them say, “She gets back up. 

Yeah, THAT is what I DO!

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Memorial

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living”. 

Marcus Tullius Cicero

We use phrases like, ‘passed on’, ‘returned to heaven’, ‘no longer with us’, or ‘fallen heroes’; but at some point we need to say it: died. 

You can’t dance around the crux of it,refusing to say the blunt words because they might be to sharp. We can’t avoid the inconvenient detail, because it is the whole of it and it is the hole of it. 

We talk about war being scary and ugly and a necessary evil. But the more we distance from its center, kill or be killed, the more we lose. 

You can be thankful for beer and barbecue and long weekends in the summer (and by G-d I am) but you can’t say it without acknowledging the cost, without saying: death.

I watched friends give thanks for those who served, but oh-so-carefully avoid giving thanks for the lives who paid the price. Is that thanks assumed? We will salute the uniform, but not the person buried in it. We quietly thank those who had to kill (which we never speak of in polite company) but to verbally recognize those who died? Unspeakable. 

And every year I wonder why. I wonder how we could vote (or not) for those who support war (and all its good intentions), how we can budget for unwanted weapons but not veteran health care, and how we can wave flags at parades but not show up to funerals. 

We have to say it. We must speak the words, “they died”. We need to look at our choices and own our part in making them as a nation. 

Or what exactly is the memorial for? 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

On behalf of a grateful Nation

I gave blood today. I didn’t shed blood, I gave it. But while being processed for the donation, joking with the guy filing my paperwork, he made a joke. “You gotta be ready for all the partying this weekend,” he laughed. 

And there it was. After weeks of my inbox being filled with Memorial Day SALES SALES SALES, radio ads telling to come in because OPEN MONDAY, and even local business owners telling me to stock up on my barbecue needs, I finally get a person sitting in front of me ignoring the reason for his three day bender. 

“Its hard to bring that much booze to the cemetery,” I think, but I don’t say. 

“Not really,” I mumble. I shut my feelings down. I lock up in a way I haven’t done in a long time. And I hate myself. I want to fight this. I want to explain that I will be driving three hours one way, to sit at a grave and honor the sacrifice my brother made. I’m going to cry and miss him and watch flags wave in the breeze. I want to tell him about the young man who made me laugh so hard it hurt, but now everything just hurts. It is exhausting to fight this, this willful ignorance. To stand up and say more than quick words about “honoring our fallen” and to actually mourn them, we set aside one day. One precious day and as a nation we can’t seem to make it worth our time. 

Memorial Day isn’t a holiday anymore but a weekend of pool openings, backyard grilling season, and a weekend of partying. All those things are good, but there is a time and a place to remember why we have those things. 

I’m exhausted and in pain and after 5 years it shouldn’t feel this intense, but it does. I suppose I am still waiting for a grateful nation to actually be . . . 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Six months ago, on September 17th, my grandmother died. She was 84, had heart problems and her skin cancer metastasized onto her bones. She died peacefully in a morphine induced sleep. There are so many things to say about her, her life and the way in which she died. So many words I can’t find the rights ones to use.

I am sobbing in my car today. It is yet another day of great big adult/parenting decisions and I am just not sure I have it right. In hindsight I can see what I should have done before. Things that would have made it easier now I ignored to do things that were easier then. I keep looking at my phone, listing all the people I could call to make this weight feel lighter. It is over an hour before I realize why every name I consider is just not right. I need to call my grandmother. I need her to tell me that it will be ok, not perfect, but ok. I want her to tell me that I am a good mother, that the choices I make are done from a place of love. I want her to tell me she sees I am doing my best in a difficult situation and tell me she sees that. I need her to tell me it will be alright. 

It isn’t until I start to write this that I realize that today marks 6 months of life without my grandmother. I think of all the times I was almost ready to write a post but couldn’t. It wasn’t time. I didn’t have the right words yet. And maybe it would be ok if I never did. 

I think about how my family and I sat around her hospital bed. How we talked to each other happily and how there were clear moments when we could say out loud, “I’m not ready for her to die”. But mostly I think about what my youngest cousin said. She said, “I want to be a baby again so Grandma can hold me”. 

Yeah, I thought, me too. That is what I really want. Those are the only words that really made sense at the time and even now, six months later. I was her first grandchild. She was there to see me being born and that woman has been my safe place ever since. I can still remember her arms around me as I sobbed for hours as a little girl. She just rocked me and held me tightly until I passed out from exhaustion. I want to do that again. I want to feel safe enough to curl up into a ball and wail and sob all my fears and frustrations out into her shoulder until for a brief moment I am empty. 

I want to hear her words soothing me, comforting me and guiding me. And as I type, I think of her voice, of all the things she told me over the years. I remember when I cried at her over the phone. I was so angry that she didn’t take better care of herself, that she didn’t get that weird mole looked at sooner. I was furious that despite my demands that she was going to die! I needed her, I said. I need to be able to talk to her. And she said, “Well, I am glad we had this talk,” and I agreed that I am glad I could tell her how I really felt. Then she said, “Just promise me that when I die you will keep talking to me”. 

So here I sit, weeping and typing and thinking of all the things I need my grandmother to say, and there they are. Every word I need to hear was said. All I have to do is think of her and . . . listen. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Oh Brother, Where art thou?

It is often said, “A parent should never bury their child”. I agree. Wholeheartedly, I agree. 

It should also be said “A sibling should never bury their brother (sister)”. 

Its not said because it just isn’t something we think about. Its also a bulky statement. It doesn’t roll off the tongue. But it is true none the less and here is why: 

I should never have had to bury my brother, because he should have grown old. He should have grown up, gotten married, had children, grandchildren, a career with maybe a pension or retirement package. We would stay in touch and I would probably organize family reunions so all the cousins could meet up. We both would have aged, been cared for by our own children and one day, our kids would call their cousin to say that one of us had died. And then, maybe too old and sick myself to attend, my brother (or I) would be buried. 

I once read, “Siblings lead parallel lives”. We are meant to grow up together, not just as children under the same roof, but as individuals of a generation. We are like the rails on a train track with timber cross-ties to connect us. 

I lost half my track. In many ways my life was derailed. 

I know this not just because I live my loss every day, but because I have been lucky enough to see others complete the journey. 

My grandmother was the youngest of three children. Her older sister died over twenty years ago. It was sad and awful but there had been so much time together that the loss was not the burden mine is. My grandmother was actually present when her twin nephews were born. They had cross-ties connecting them much further into life. 

In September, my grandmother died. I haven’t written on it because there was so much to say I couldn’t choose which words to put first. I remember getting the news to her big brother. Through his son he found out his baby sister was gone. He was in poor health himself and the drive out would be too difficult. I am sure he knew that her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were there for her burial and that his presence wasn’t required. He grew up with her after all. He knew her, her whole life. This was a moment he could miss. 

Last night, my great uncle died. I remember him as kind, extremely funny (sometimes he spoke too loud in a room just like me!) and that whenever he looked at my grandmother, he never saw her as less than his “baby sister”. You could see it in his eyes. For almost 85 years, that man watched a baby become a girl, become a woman and yet always remain his sister. 

To me, that seems a great gift we all to easily overlook. So tonight, I will toast my Uncle Fritz, raise a glass and shout, “Here’s mud in yer eye!”. 

[joshsgoldstarsister]

You are not alone in this

In two short weeks, my brother will have been dead for five years. I am staring at my computer screen and then looking down at my fingers. I do not know how I wrote that first sentence. Maybe it is muscle memory or just a pain so great that only my fingertips can move and ease the ache, but the sentence remains. And it is true.

Five years ago I was pregnant. So far I had only lost 10 pounds due to hyperemesis or morning sickness. My son was 3 years old and was going to start preschool in two weeks. My father in law, a disabled Navy Veteran lived with us as the disease Multiple Sclerosis ravaged his once strong body. We had two dogs, one who used to technically be my brother’s but not really. My husband worked for a school district, a dream job where he came home for dinner every night and actually enjoyed weekends at home. 

And my brother was alive. 

Josh deployed in April after several comical delays (one time the unit was on the plane before they realized that this particular plane. . . did not work). He came to my son’s third birthday party. I made his nephew a quilt out of the comforter he used as a kid. He smiled in his funny way. A smile which told me that I was ridiculous for salvaging something as silly as a blanket but also told me that my ridiculousness was a kind that he would always love. 

He had come down from NY several times that spring. More than he had before. Years of pain that we both shared silently, we started talking about. I remember the meals I made him. I remember slow cooked barbecue beef ribs and baked macaroni and cheese. I remember he told me he was going to an area in Afghanistan that was much safer than most. I remember he told me he was not going to make it back. And I remember how sick I felt in the pit of my stomach and how I yelled at him. I remember screaming that that wasn’t funny. That he could never say that to me. I remember throwing something at him from across the table. I remember that he laughed at me. I remember he laughed at everything. 

That was the spring and by summer I was pregnant again. Josh had managed to call from Afghanistan. I told him I was expecting again. We talked about names. I told him that a girl’s name was picked out from the last time I was pregnant. I told him that again we were struggling with a boy’s name. My husband wanted to give a son the middle name “Danger” and I was seriously contemplating it. I asked Josh what he thought. He said, “There is no man alive that would hate his parents for giving him the middle name “Danger”. So it was decided, if I had a boy his middle name would be Danger. 

Late summer turned to early fall and for my family that meant celebrations of High Holidays. I was so sick that eating wasn’t really part of the festivities for me. On Yom Kippur we fast, those of us who are able. Children, the sick and the elderly are not required to fast, even on the holiest of days. Technically I fasted, but I don’t think “not eating yet another day because food makes your body feel awful” counts. I also broke fast with my congregation, a bite of fresh challah bread and sickly sweet Kedem grape juice. Don’t worry, my body didn’t accept that for long. 

And that was it, I went to sleep hungry and sick but with a new life inside me and my loving family around me. I woke up to be told that my brother was dead. They were sure. They were sorry for my loss. Was there anything they could do for me? But they couldn’t do what I needed. I needed to go back to a time when my brother was still alive. I needed him to stay behind from that mission. I wanted them to make him not dead. But those were things no one could do. 

I have lived five years without my brother. I gave birth to the most amazing daughter who is my joy and salvation in dark days. I have walked the path of grief with my son who is my closest companion in pain and sorrow. My husband and I have a growing business that is my brother’s legacy. I met the President of the United States, and the United States Joint Forces Commander and Weird Al Yankovic. 

And while my grief is my own, my love of my brother unique to only he and I, I have survived these five years because of one thing. I am not alone. 

Josh was loved by so many; lifelong friends and family miss him. They remember his laugh, his presence, his wit and his spirit. He was a clown but the kind of clown who sees others crying and knows when to crack a joke or provide a shoulder to cry on. 

Above all these is the men who served by his side that helped me most. They showed me who he was as a soldier. They introduced me to the man my little brother grew up to be. The little boy who screamed (with me) at creepy spiders was the man who faced enemy fire. The boy with a muffin top who watched far to much Pokemon was a man who ran 2 miles in 12 minutes. The kid who introduced me to Nickleback (don’t judge) was the badass warrior who rocked out to Five Finger Death Punch. The baby boy I wanted to trade for a puppy grew up to be a man I am proud to call my brother. 

Five years seems like both forever and no time at all. There were times I forgot he was gone forever and not just on a very long deployment. I have reached for my phone to text him something funny, only to stop myself short knowing he would never get the message. And I have called men I hardly knew, and we cried together because it was a bad day and we really needed a laugh and our favorite clown just wasn’t there. Then we have laughed until our bellies ached because there are stories about my brother no one would believe unless you knew him. 

“Grief shared is halved; Joy shared is doubled” as the old proverb goes. 

I lost a brother to war, but in losing him I gained understanding. I see who I am clearly. I am an artist, a weaver of words,and a student of mourning; a woman filled with so many emotions I am sure I will burst. I am a daughter, wife, a mother, a friend and often fervent loner. But at my center, the name I call myself, if only in my own head,  will always be Josh’s sister. And though he is no longer with me, I am not alone in this. 

Finally, I leave you all this. It is a song that I felt particularly meaningful after Josh’s death. It is titled Timshel, a Hebrew word often translated “Do thou” (a commandment), or “Thou shalt” (a promise) but is more accurately, “Thou mayest” (which is of course a choice). Something to think about. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8D7MLsNAb8

[joshsgoldstarsister]

Challenge Accepted

Dressed in my work out clothes, camo leggings and an Army One Strong shirt, I walk into the gymnasium. My daughter is wearing her pink cow girl boots and twirling around me. We greet the man sitting at the reception area who checks ID’s and my four year old says, “We need to go upstairs” because as we walked in that is where I told her we were going.

I explain that I need to see one of the wrestling team coaches. He gives me directions but before I walk away he asks me if I am in the Army. I tell him I am not.

“Your husband?”

“No, my brother” I smile.

He tells me that his son is in the service. He pulls out coins from his pocket. Before she fusses too much, he gives my daughter some cookies. Then he asks me about my brother, as he shows me his challenge coins. I tell him my brother has several coins himself. He asks from where, and I tell him that they are mostly unit specific. We talk about 10th Mountain and Fort Drum because the man has served in the National Guard and often trained there. Then he puts a challenge coin in my hand and looks me in the eye.

“Give this to your brother”.

I smile because this is a beautiful thing. This is a beautiful gift. There is a history of honor and respect in the military challenge coin and one servicemen to another is asking me to pass this on to another. But I am also holding back tears.

“Thank you,” I choke back tears. “But my brother was killed in action, you should keep this and pass it on to another service member”.

The man’s face fell and he grasped my hand again.

“You keep it,” he tells me “You pass it on”.

I promise him I will get to one of his battle buddies and with twirling daughter in hand I make my way upstairs.

There I meet with the coaches who are organizing the Travis Manion Foundation 9/11 Heroes Run in my hometown. I pick up posters, talk about a few more opportunities for press releases and soon I am on my way.

Downstairs my daughter tugs at me through the heavy double doors but I can’t leave.

I turn us around and I go back to the veteran greeting students. I thank him. I thank him from the bottom of my heart. He holds my hand and kisses it. He tells me that his family has served this country all the way back to the Civil War. That he joined the Navy and then the National Guard. He tells me about his father, who returned from war broken with PTSD. He tells me about athletes he coached who went to Vietnam and did not come home. He says, “They just don’t understand”. I know what he means. The cost of war on the soul is often invisible and there are no words to describe it.

I show my daughter the challenge coin. I tell her that I need her to help cheer me on as run in the big race coming up. She marvels at the colors and the shiny golden man.

I think about why I am running: because I believe in the act of doing, because my little brother was big and frankly fat and he could outrun me at my best, but mostly I am running in this race because I believe in Honoring our Fallen.

The Travis Manion Foundation is an organization I believe in. It supports veterans and families of the fallen. It teaches our youth about character and challenges everyone to live by a simple mantra, “If not me, then who?”. Its the way many of our military members live their life. I believe it was that way for my Josh.

In a few weeks, my sneakers will hit the pavement. My muscles will ache, my heart will pound and even though I will gasp for breath I will not give up. I will laugh at myself as my brother would laugh at me and I will know that I am never without him.

Life has handed me my challenge in honoring my brother’s life. Challenge accepted. Everyday.

Learn more about TMF here: http://www.travismanion.org/

Find a run near you: http://www.travismanion.org/get-involved/911-heroes-run/

Learn more about challenge coins: http://mentalfloss.com/article/12630/brief-history-challenge-coins