Chris’s parents sent me two books to help me with my grieving process after my brother passed away. I’ve almost finished the first one. It’s called Where is God When It Hurts? Although the focus is more on how to cope with physical pain and suffering (and how to cope with those who are in pain and suffering), a lot of what is written can be applied to emotional pain, as well.

A lot of very terrible things are discussed in the book. Stories are shared about those with leprosy – a state of complete absence of pain which can ruin your life (whoever thought that pain could be a good thing?). The author talks about a leprosy patient who needs to be supervised when when doing things as simple as washing his face because once when he did this, he turned the water on so hot that he burned out one of his eyes and lost sight in that eye. He couldn’t tell that the water was too hot because he had no pain sensors. Another woman is diagnosed with leukemia, and after telling her husband of over 37 years, he packs all of his belongings and leaves their house within days. The book also discusses the ways in which people show they do care (and how that tends to taper off as the shock of the initial disease/death/etc. wears off). It was hard to read, but a lot of realities like these exist (that I have sadly faced with the latter bit) every day.

But what the book has also given me is a better sense of hope – hope that despite the fact that Ed isn’t physically with me anymore, that I can still prove to him that life was, in fact, worth living; hope that my life will get better and so many amazing things are to come that I have no idea about yet; hope that hope itself can still exist in this life. If we don’t have hope, we have nothing. You need hope to keep moving forward in life and to not stumble or be stagnant. We need hope to have love, and that’s all I really want for this life… and for Ed.

I had a lot of trouble falling asleep last night, but when I finally did, Ed came back again.  I had a dream that he was suicidal, and somehow, I managed to get him on a plane to come to New York to be with me. In the dream, we are walking in a big shopping center toward a sporting good store, and we take an elevator to the fourth floor. During this walk, he is calmly explaining to me how hopeless he feels, how he doesn’t see a way out of it. Through his words, I can tell that there is, in fact, some desire for him to truly want help. And I tell him this. I said, “Ed, it’s clear from what you are saying that you do realize you need help and want it. I’m going to help you. We are going to treat you right here. We’re going to find people who can help you, and you are going to live with us in the meantime.” He has an embarrassed look on his face, and he insists that it’s too much to ask and that our apartment is too small for all three of us. I insisted, and I said he could stay here as long as it was needed. I just wanted him to get better and be happy. He consents and nods his head, and I squeeze his shoulder as we disappear into sporting equipment.

I wish this really happened. I’m happy we are talking about this, if just in my dreams finally. We really need to talk, don’t we?

Exactly two months ago, my brother woke up early to get ready for the day. He took a hot 45-minute shower and dressed. He helped our mother do some prep work on the string beans she would later cook for dinner that night. When our mother asked him if he wanted to accompany her to the chiropractor’s office for one of her regular visits, he agreed. Ten minutes before she was supposed to leave, he suddenly changed his mind and said he would stay at home. She said okay, and my dad drove her down to Van Ness at around 1pm for her appointment.

Who knows how soon after, but my brother left the house with his house keys and his wallet, which contained his soon-to-expire driver’s license, a credit card, and about $27 in cash. He walked east to Park Presidio Drive and Fulton Street and got on the 28 bus going toward the Golden Gate Bridge. He paid $2 in cash for his fare.

He arrived at the bridge. Witnesses say that he looked to have paced back and forth on the bridge for about 45 minutes to an hour, likely hoping that less people would be walking on the bridge. And at about 4:50pm local time, my brother climbed over the railing of the bridge closer to the Marin County side and jumped to his death.

At around that time, someone who saw my sweet brother jump called 911 and reported what had happened. It took the U.S. Coast Guard about 45 minutes to respond by taking a boat out, pulling my brother’s poor, lifeless body out of the water to pronounce him dead at the scene. It was about 5:50pm. He was then transported to the Marin County coroner’s office.

At the time that my brother jumped, I was here in my Manhattan apartment, completely unaware of what was happening. I had left work early to get my nails done with a LivingSocial deal I had bought. No one cared I was leaving early since the Friday before, I had officially given my two weeks notice. I came home soon after that and ate dinner by myself. I called my friend in Arkansas, who was planning to visit me the second week of August.

At around 9:30pm New York time, my mother called me to let me know that my brother was missing. It was only 6:30pm there, so I didn’t immediately feel worried until she explained to me that he had been sleeping even more in the last few days, and she had found a long rope in his backpack. The day before, he had skipped going to church. He never skipped Sunday service. She told me in a calm but trembling voice that she thought that he was trying to kill himself and was looking for all possible ways, and she was worried he wouldn’t come home. She told me not to worry and that she would call me if he came home. As she is talking to me about how worried she was, I wrote him a short e-mail asking him to call me when he got home.

I got off the phone with her. I sat there in the lounge room in silence. Chris was already asleep, so I decided not to awaken him. Panic came over me, and I dialed the first person I could think of who might be able to help in this situation – I called my seventh grade science teacher and friend and told her that I think my brother is missing. She and her husband strongly suggested we report him missing to the police. Chris woke up, confused, asking what was going on, and I told him.

I argued with my dad about reporting my brother missing. He said that Ed may just be out and that we are overreacting. Why cause a big neighborhood stir if it is nothing? I asked him how he would feel knowing that his son is lying around dead somewhere, shrieking. Shortly after, he and my mother drove to the police station.

At 3am my time, I call my parents again to see if Ed had come home, and my dad says no. I hung up. And I start crying and repeating, “He never came home… he never came home…” I knew in my gut at that moment that my brother was dead.

In the last two months, I have replayed these scenes in my head over and over. I replayed the scenes after this, when I barely slept that night and woke up to go to my free Fhitting Room workout class, when I sat in our lounge room, naked with just a towel covering me, crying on the phone with my mother and Chris there to comfort me. I remember feeling like I was exerting the most effort when I was lifting my legs to climb the stairs at the 33rd Street 6 stop to go to work. I remember calling Crista to tell her my brother was missing and trying to fight back tears. I remember walking to Wells Fargo at around 11:30am to see my brother’s latest bank statement to see what the activity was in case he had decided to run away. And I remember the awful moment when my dad called when I was walking through the Manhattan Mall to go back to my office, when he told me that they had found him at the Marin County morgue because he had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge late in the afternoon the day before. And I crumpled on the floor by the second floor railing of the mall and cried nonstop.

I still can’t believe this has happened. Part of me still refuses to accept that my brother is gone from this world. I’m trying really hard to understand it, but it’s just so hard because I love him so much and hate this world without him. It makes me sick to think about how hopeless he felt and how he gave up on a life with us in it. I still wish I could have done more, and it still hurts so much.

I miss you, Ed. I need a sign from you that you are at peace. Can you please send me one, or two, or three, or just come back?

Last night, Ed came back to me in my dreams. It was the day he was going to the Golden Gate Bridge to end his life, and in my gut, I knew he had chosen that day. So I called him that morning, and he answered the phone. I pleaded with him to not go. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t go,” he said firmly. “Because I love you,” I said to him, as I start to cry. He responded, “Tell me what that means.” And the dream ends. I wake up feeling miserable and not wanting to get out of bed.

In the dream before that, I am speaking with a woman who is calmly explaining to me that I will never see my brother again even after I leave this world. “Why not?” I asked. “I’m going to see him in heaven after I die.” She looks at me and responds, “No, you will never see him again because he was a Christian, and you are not. You won’t be seeing him in heaven.” I am so upset at hearing this news. I will never see my brother again, even after I am dead. How is that possible…?

I hope Ed still comes to me in my dreams. I want to see him as much as possible, especially since I’ve been asking him to come, and he’s been as difficult as always and has been refusing until now. I want to find peace in knowing that he is really at peace… because for some reason, a nagging feeling in the back of my head keeps thinking he’s not fully at peace quite yet. Is there something else I need to do for him?

I don’t care what that woman said. I’m definitely going to see my brother again. We are going to get bubble tea together, eat San Tung dried fried chicken and Kitaro Mexican rolls, and watch Beverly Hills 90210 and Three’s Company reruns the way we used to. One day, we will be together again. I am sure of it.

Today, my parents and I went to visit Ed. Sadly, I noticed when I walked into the Hall of the Olympians that more niches seemed to be filled with urns. Did that many deaths really happen in the last month and a half that I’d been away?

One niche that was very close to Ed’s is actually his former high school classmate’s brother’s. We learned from my aunt, who visited about a week ago and ran into their family, that this classmate’s brother died suddenly in a motorcycle accident. He was just two weeks shy of his 31st birthday. I noticed that his urn said that he passed on August 25th – that was one day before Ed would have turned 34.

Every day, people are being born, married, and dying. While the former two are events that everyone embraces, the latter is really the last thing in the world anyone wants to face or deal with. I ran into Mary, who was our service director who helped us with all the arrangements, and I asked her how she got into this business. She said to me, “you know, I think it’s our job in life to serve people and their needs, and this is one way I can be there for those in need.”

While that is commendable in itself to deal with everyone else’s family’s deaths all day as a full-time job, I know as a fact that could never be a job I could fulfill. I’ve been to so many funerals in my life that I think I’ve had enough. And this last one was the biggest cincher. Now, if everyone can just please stop dying and hurting themselves, I think I would be semi-fine. Oh, and bring Ed back, too, while you are at it. I hate that I have to visit my brother in a room full of ashes, as peaceful and pretty as it is. Why can’t I visit him at a nice apartment in this area where he is living happily and independently?

Since my brother’s passing, I’ve become more sensitive than ever to the idea of babies being born into a cruel harsh world. A lot of selfishness in the world of child-rearing exists, because pretty much everyone who wants children wants them mainly because they want the next generation of their family to exist once they are gone; they want their names to be passed on and the fruits of their labor. They think that children will fulfill their lives and give them a sense of purpose, but in order for that to really be the case, those children’s parents need to be in a good head space themselves and have a certain level of emotional maturity and happiness in their own lives to make sure that their kids will be happy.

If I were to never get to a period of life where I was actually happy, fulfilled, emotionally sound, and able to fully and comfortably support myself, I would rather not have children at all because I never want to repeat the mistakes of my parents, and I never want to bring children into this world who are at high risk for unhappiness, mental instability, and familial dysfunction.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Frye

In a condolence card, my friend wrote this for me to describe that although my brother is no longer with us physically, he is still with us through me. By knowing and interacting with me, they are also knowing him, as well.

Not a minute of any day goes by when I do not think of Ed. Being in the house where we were raised and grew up together the last few days makes me feel aching sensations that have no physical cause. Seeing his favorite soap (Lever 2000) and his favorite shampoo (Head & Shoulders), and seeing the many gifts he’s given our family and this house hurts. Curious George, Nemo, the Bless this Home serving platter, my flannel bed sheets, my comforter and cover, kitchen utensils, all the thick, hotel-quality towels in our towel closet – he is everywhere. He really hasn’t died, even though he has physically.

I had a lot of jumbled dreams last night, and now, I can’t seem to remember any of them except one. In that dream, I was here at home, and my mother was telling me that my uncle invited Ed to go fishing with him, but they didn’t catch any fish. I told her that wasn’t true because Ed had told me that they caught a really big fish, and he’d even sent me a photo of it. So then, my mother starts grumbling on, not understanding why Ed wouldn’t save them any of the fish, and wondering where he actually took the fish and if he had cooked it.

My first instinct is to also wonder why he didn’t bring back any of the fish to share with my parents. Then my next thought is, actually, he was probably smart to do that because they probably wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway and would have found something to nitpick at. The shower curtain in our bathroom was torn and has been torn for a long time, so I decided to replace it with a new one and also add in a liner. My dad just started complaining about it, saying it was excessive to have more than a liner in the bathroom. I guess Ed was always aware that they can’t appreciate anything and just love to find the worst in everything. Yet somehow, I keep trying, and he has already stopped.