On the day that Ed passed, that morning I downloaded the Usher/David Guetta/Ludacris song called “Rest of My Life” and played it on and off throughout the day. I originally thought that this song would be about the next stage in my life career-wise, since I had just resigned three days before. Now, every time I hear it, I just think of Ed leaving this world. I played it on my iPhone during my ride to work this morning, and I started welling up. I want to be hopeful about the future, and like they say in this song, hope that what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger. I want to live for something bigger. Maybe life really is a test as Rick Warren said in The Purpose-Driven Life. Though Ed’s death is the largest tragedy I’ve ever faced, maybe it is a test to show how well I can continue in life despite this happening, and to challenge me to preserve his memory and make sure he did not die in vain. I need to do all this the rest of my life because I love him that much.

In the last eight months or so, my brother and I spoke over the phone relatively frequently when I was not at home. I visited home twice – once for a long weekend in February since I was in LA for work and flew up for four days, and once for a scheduled trip to see my family for two weeks in March. I still vividly remember how happy he was to see me and how strong his hold on me was when he hugged me.

When there were days when I wouldn’t speak to him, I sent him e-mails to encourage his job search, helped him spruce up his resume, and gave him words of encouragement and love. In the most recent weeks before his passing, my messages were very short and to the point.

One e-mail:

Subject: Hey

Message: I love you. Please don’t hurt yourself.

Another e-mail:

Subject: Hey

Message: Please be strong. I love you.

And the last message when he went missing and did not come home, and I had some false, deluded hope that somehow he’d read his e-mail wherever he went:

Subject: Please come home

Message: I love you and am worrying about you. Please come home if you love me. We are all worrying about you and freaking out.

It’s been over two weeks, and I still haven’t fully accepted that Ed isn’t with us anymore. When it was confirmed that he had passed, I fantasized in my head that the person who jumped off the bridge wasn’t him, that he had paid some other depressed person’s family an insane amount of money to pose as him, with his house keys, driver’s license, and all, and jump off. That sounds pretty selfish since at the end of it, it would still mean that someone had to die, but I fantasized about it anyway. Then, when the day came for his service, I’d see the body in the casket and realize immediately it was definitely not my Ed, and that my Ed had in fact tried to fake his own death so that he could start a new life in a new place and finally attain the peace and happiness he’d always sought. And then one day, he’d reach out to me and we’d be together again. It’s a sick fantasy, but it was a real one I tried to hold onto as long as I could.

What is a normal amount of time to grieve? Is it a few weeks, a few months, an entire year, a decade? It’s been two weeks, and even little things trigger emotions in me and make me cry. Yesterday, I went to my old office to drop off my laptop and say hi to my former coworkers, and one gave me a really touching look and simply said, “How are you?” and my eyes immediately started welling up. I want to move on with my life, enjoy the things I’ve always enjoyed, and smile and laugh as though nothing awful has happened to me in the last few weeks, but in the back of my mind, my brother’s memory lingers. It’s not that I want to forget about him; it’s quite the contrary. Because I love him so much, I want to live the happy life that he never had the chance to live – for both of us. But how and when will that happen when even the little things make me cry?

One of the biggest problems with being Asian is the constant need to “save face.” Asians across all countries are so concerned with preserving their reputation and looking good in front of others that they forget the ramifications of such shallow pursuits. They forget how people can get hurt in this process and potentially be scarred for life – or die. This also leads to avoiding discussing and being open about important, even life-threatening topics such as mental illness and depression. How do we discuss topics such as depression and suicide when we cannot even admit out loud, to ourselves and to others, the realities that our dead loved ones faced? When will Asians stop ignoring these problems and open themselves up to addressing them?

Today, I had to fly back to New York. My mom didn’t take it very well, as she burst into tears when she and my dad dropped me off at the airport. I tried to hug her, but she said the longer I hugged her, the more she would cry, so I kissed her, told her and my dad I love them, and walked into the check-in area. Two weeks ago, I suffered the biggest loss of my life when my brother left this world. While that is an awful thing, it’s even harder to fathom what it would be like for a parent to lose her child. No parent should ever have to bury her child. This whole experience has made me feel even more distrusting of the world, and even of the greater powers that may exist that allow these events to occur. My brother loved God and was a Christian, yet he’s now unfairly gone from this world.

My brother’s interment was on Wednesday. I prepared a bag of his favorite things to place around his urn in his niche – his brown belt from Karate, his Bible, his Hawaiian name card a friend gave to him, a Nike ID tag, the entire Simpson family in miniature form with bobbling heads, Japanese miniature food, a Smurf figurine, and a Curious George on a little ball. We also included a silver framed picture of my brother from my college graduation. He looks so happy in that picture in his nice dress shirt and tie. That was five years ago. I wish he had realized how beautiful he was. He always had whiter teeth than I did.

In the last few days, I’ve been helping my parents clean the house, especially Ed’s room that we once shared. I’ve rearranged furniture to reveal odd mildew growth and huge dust balls. I’ve found unopened packages of blankets and bedding that were waiting to be used. I’ve also found sentimental items, like photo albums of him when he was just a few months old, and a hand print he did in preschool when he was about four years old. Everything we uncover makes my mom cry, and it makes my eyes well up in tears knowing that this is all we have left of him.