Milestones

Back to school time always make me nostalgic, probably because it reminds me how quickly time goes by. Last year, and again this year, seeing kids head back to school also reminded me of the great void Julie’s death left in our family. Today was the first day of 4^th grade for my niece Hannah. Next week my daughter starts junior high. For her nieces and nephews, the first day back to school after summer break always meant a call from Aunt Julie. She wanted to hear every detail about their day and took genuine pleasure in hearing about their experiences. It was just one of the many ways she stayed connected to them, always remembering and acknowledging milestones in their lives.

Julie with her nieces and nephews.

Julie was much more than just an aunt to Parker, Regan, Bridger, Gillian, Mason, Hannah and Atticus. She had a special, unique relationship with each one of them. She was able to tap into the unique characteristics of each of their personalities. She forged a bond with them as individuals, not just as her brother’s and sister’s children. She welcomed each of them into her life completely. I have vivid memories of her cuddling each of them as newborns, and playing on the floor with them when they were babies. One of my most cherished memories is standing by her side, holding hands and shedding tears of joy as we watched our sister give birth to Hannah.

My own daughter shares many similarities with Julie. So many, in fact, that Julie referred to Gillian as her Mini Me. Just like her aunt when she was young, Gillian sports curly hair and glasses. Their temperaments are also similar. A happy, giddy mood can change to dark moodiness in an instant. While I once found this charming, now I fearfully watch Gillian for signs of the manic depression that overtook Julie when she was still in high school. After Julie’s death, a therapist recommended that I take special care to point out to Gillian that she isn’t destined to be like her aunt. Where once her identification with Julie was positive, now I must make a point of making sure she understands she’s very much her own person, not just a mini version of her aunt.  

Losing my sister was, and continues to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever dealt with. One of the things I struggle with the most is my anger at her. Someday I hope to forgive her for all that she took away from everyone that loved her, but I’m not there yet. The pain she caused my daughter and all of her nieces and nephews is the one thing that holds me back from complete forgiveness, acceptance and understanding. Because of her, all of the children in our family were robbed of a certain level of innocence. Telling them that their beloved Aunt Julie was dead meant also having to explain suicide—what it means and why people do it.  How does a parent explain to a young child what clinical depression means, and that the feelings of utter hopelessness it brings can compel a person to take their own life? I can only imagine how confusing it is to them as they only ever saw the happy, carefree, joyful side of Julie. 

I chose not to see the brief note my sister wrote in her darkest hour, saying her final goodbyes to those she loved. I do know that in it she mentioned each of her nieces and nephews by name, calling them the loves of her life. This is what still brings me to tears, breaks my heart, and also fills me with anger. Only a very ill, depressed mind could say goodbye to little children, not knowing the level of pain and grief she’d be inflicting on them. This, more than anything else, illustrates to me exactly how desperate, alone and confused she must have felt. Otherwise, she never would have chosen to bequeath a legacy of suicide to the loves of her life. 

Now, in addition to many other life lessons my siblings and I will teach our children as they grow, we will also teach them about depression, mental illness, and how the bi-polar disease Julie fought can sometimes lead to suicide. We won’t need to teach them how devastating suicide is to those left behind. They already know.   

Gillian & Regan at Julie's memorial 

Life goes on, but it has been forever altered. Our children are already becoming teenagers and soon they’ll be young adults. There will be many milestones and causes for celebration throughout all of their lives. Julie will be remembered and missed at every one of them.  

Chasing Pavements

This Saturday, I'll run my 4th half marathon, the Ogden Marathon. My sister Amy, and good friend Aimee will both be joining me. It will be my second time running this particular race, which is considered one of the best marathons in the country.  

I first started running about 2 1/2 years ago. I'd never been a runner, or had any desire to be one. Running was boring, and it hurt. My two sisters had been running races together for a few years at that point. After being at the finish line cheering them on a couple of times, the running bug bit me. After a couple of months of run/walk workouts building up to jogging a few miles, I confessed to my sisters that I'd started running and wanted to do a race. 

Julie immediately took charge, and before I knew it she'd convinced me that I should do a half marathon. Yep, that's right.  13.1 miles straight out of the gate! Before long, she called to say she'd found the perfect race for the three of us to do together. It was a fast, downhill course through old Colorado mining towns near Vail. That summer was spent training, following the schedule she'd sent me.  All three of us did our long runs early on Sunday mornings. Amy and Julie doing theirs together in Colorado, me running alone in Utah.  We'd text each other just before heading out, giving each other words of encouragement.  Afterwards, we'd immediately text each other with reports of our runs, or we'd have one of our three-way conference calls if we had a lot to share. 

Training alone was hard, and there were many times I wanted to quit early. Many of my runs started out with me listening to Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here". I did wish they were there beside me. The mental conditioning part of training was probably the hardest part.  Knowing that I'd be running with my sisters on race day was often the one thing that helped me push through. 

Finally, race day arrived. The night before the three of us stayed in Vail, where Julie was living and working that summer.  That night was sister time at its best.  Lots of laughter, giggling, and talking. The race itself was nothing like I'd expected.  Julie had so pumped up the fact that the course was an "easy, downhill one" that I'd mentally visualized we'd literally be starting at the top of a downhill canyon road, and off we'd go. Imagine my dismay when we lined up for the start facing the wrong way!  I looked at her in confusion, and then realized we'd be running around an entire lake first, then heading down the canyon. Over the next several months, Julie often drove by Georgetown Lake on her way to work. She'd call me saying "Hey, I'm driving by your lake", and we'd both crack up remembering my confusion and disgust that morning.  

Julie, me and Amy
May 15, 2010

Last May, I ran the Ogden 1/2 marathon alone. I'd wanted the three of us to run it together, but registration closed before Amy and Julie could sign up. They promised however, that they'd both be there for me on race day, and would even run the last little bit with me. True to their promise, they were. Amy had ruptured her Achilles tendon several weeks before, so she couldn't run with me at the end.  Julie promised she'd be there, waiting as I came onto the straightaway headed to the finish. When I got to that point, I was exhausted and just wanted to be done.  I looked for Julie and didn't see her and my heart fell. So, I turned up my iPod and kept running. Then, I spotted her out of the corner of my eye. She was running, and laughing, waving frantically to get my attention.  She'd been right where she'd said she'd be, I'd just missed her. We ran those last several blocks together, me cursing and asking if it was over yet, and her cheerfully encouraging me.  Just before the final stretch, she said "I'm outta here. You're doing great, just a few more yards and you're done. I love you sis". 

A few weeks ago on one of my last long training runs, I went down that stretch of road again.  As hard as I tried to not remember, I couldn't help it. I had to Mike how hard this race was going to be for me. He suggested maybe I should run the race for Julie. My angry reaction surprised even me. "Why would I run it for her? She's gone. She chose to leave.  I'm running it for me, and me alone. I'm the one who's trained. I'm the one who's alive and didn't give up!". 

I will be running this race for me, but I'll be running because of Julie. Running is a gift she left me. Sometimes I use it to run away from all the confusion and pain in my mind, staying focused by forcing myself to think of anything but her. Other times, I use it because I miss her and running makes me feel close to her. On Saturday I plan to just run, and remember, not the sadness, but the joy, and all the good times we had together.

My Mom

The approach of every holiday this past year has made me feel mostly dread at the feelings and sadness sure to surface on the day.  Mother's Day wasn't any different.  I couldn't help but think of my mom and what a bittersweet day it would be for her.  How on earth would my expressions of love and appreciation even begin to lessen the sadness and grief the day would surely bring?  Of course, there's no way I can make her loss hurt any less.  

This year I've gained a new found respect and appreciation for my mom as I've watched her grieve and work hard at her own journey of healing while at the same time loving and nurturing her children through our grief.  I'm so lucky to have her to talk to in such a real, honest way about so many things.  Sometimes my mom will say the simplest, yet most profound thing that really helps me gain perspective on something I'm struggling with.  She knows many things about me that I'm sure she'd rather not, but she always listens and doesn't judge.

I learned long ago not take my relationship with my mom for granted.  It's a relationship we've both had to work at, because at the tender age of 14, I moved away from her. Shortly after my parent's divorce, my mom moved back to Colorado with the five of us kids.  An ugly custody battle ensued.  The judge hearing our case let me and my older brother who was 16, choose where we wanted to live.  Being a teenager, of course I chose to live in Utah with my dad.  What teenager wouldn't?  Who at that age wants to leave their friends and start over in a new state, in a new school?  It was years before I realized how devastating my choice must have been to my mom.  I can't imagine my own daughter choosing to live without me, 600 miles away during some of the most formative years of her life.  At the time it didn't occur to me that she wouldn't be there to see me off for my first date, or to sew my prom dresses, or to give me advice on how to walk in high heels, wear make-up and do my hair, and how to handle all the many dramas that are part of a teenage girl's life.  Even today, it's hard for me to think about how many moments, both big and small, we missed out on during those years.  I often wonder what a different person I'd be if I'd lived with my mom during those years instead of my dad.  

I realize though, my mom's influence on me is strong.  She's an amazingly strong, smart, independent woman who has accomplished much in her life.  She had five children in ten years, nursed every one of us, diapered us in cloth diapers, sewed many of our clothes by hand, canned fruits and vegetables, made homemade laundry soap, and put hot meals on the table for us nearly every night.  My dad was a schoolteacher so we didn't have a lot of money, but honestly, not once during my childhood did I feel deprived. 

Later, as a single mom who had been out of the workforce for 15+ years, she worked as a school secretary and returned to college for her teaching certificate.  Those were the years I didn't live with my mom, seeing her only on holidays and several weeks each summer, so I didn't experience the daily struggle and worries about money she lived with for years.  Those years were really tough for her.  Eventually, she got her degree, started teaching, remarried and life stabilized.  

One thing that has never changed through all the years is that no matter her circumstances, my mom has always been able to create a warm, inviting home that people like to come to.  I looked forward to going "home" to mom's no matter the address.  To this day, the moment I walk into her house, I feel a subtle emotional shift inside, and I relax knowing I'm home with mom.


My sister Amy and I
with our babies and our mom - Thanksgiving 1998

There have been a few cherished people in my life that have made the last twelve months somehow more bearable for me.  Without them, I don't know where I'd be.  They've given me love, encouragement, words of wisdom, have let me cry when I needed, listened to me rage at the unfairness, have helped me find clarity in the midst of a very confusing time, and have reminded me to laugh and continue living my life to the fullest.  My mom is one of those people.  For that, and for thousands of other reasons, I love her. 

Easter Reflections

If I had to pick my favorite holiday it would be Easter. I delight in the activity surrounding it--candy, coloring eggs, egg hunts, family gatherings, an excuse to buy a new dress and get dressed up, sightings of new lambs in green pastures, mom's potato salad at Easter dinner, and the fact that it takes place in Spring, my favorite season. This year I've been reflecting on Easter just one short year ago and all that's changed since.

Last year, as I frequently do, I spent Easter in Colorado. Amy, Julie and I hit the road with our traveling circus of three kids, one large yellow Lab, and assorted luggage and headed to mom's house in Pueblo for the weekend. That Saturday brought a house full of people, as my three stepsisters, their spouses and all of their children came down for a party. We had an egg hunt for the kids and a cookout. A picture taken of me that day with my sisters captured my happiness and contentment. At that moment I was surrounded by things that make me happy. The sun was shining, family was all around me, our kids were laughing and playing, my sisters were by my side. Life was good.

That evening was spent like most evenings when we gathered at mom's -- in the family room in front of the fireplace with the dogs, Phoenix and Buster at our feet. Julie and me shared a bedroom that trip, sleeping in twin beds just a few feet apart from each other. I remember that night, drifting off to sleep in mid-conversation with my sister, loving that feeling of returning to childhood with mom down the hall and my sister sleeping across from me barely an arm's length away. It was that familiar, cozy feeling of being home, which was funny because I didn't grow up in that house. None of us did.  But home is all about the feeling of a place, not the actual location. 

On Easter morning, the entire household was up and gathered in the living room in our pajamas, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. The kids were eating chocolate eggs from their Easter baskets. Julie and I eventually roused ourselves and went for a run, 7 miles if I recall. It would be the last time we ran together, but of course I didn't know it at the time. We ran through the streets of Pueblo, her old stomping grounds. As we ran, she talked about her time there during high school. I asked her a lot of questions about what it felt like to move to a new town as a high school student. Was she scared? Did she miss her friends? How hard was it to make new friends? She told me things about that period of her life that she'd never shared with me before. I learned so much about her during that run.  Our route took us past many places that had meaning to her. She explained all the happy memories she had of running on the cross-country team, and of the really good friends she made at East High. She talked about her gratitude to our stepdad Jim, and how he'd made the transition so much easier for her.


Later, after Easter dinner we all headed back towards Boulder. Julie and I ended up driving together, while Amy took all the kids in her car. Our good chat continued. We talked about so many things we'd never talked about before. At Castle Rock we pulled off for a pit stop and got ice cream cones and fries at McDonalds. We giggled at our unhealthy snack and the silly satisfaction we gained from giving in to such a ridiculous craving. When we got home to Julie's apartment, I once again drug my suitcase up three long flights of stairs. We both lamented the fact that despite being runners, the climb to her apartment was always hard on our quads! We quickly changed into warm jackets and took her dog Phoenix to a nearby park to chase a tennis ball. Looking back on that evening, I'm struck at how such a seemingly inconsequential moment in life was filled with such pure joy. There I was swinging on a swing set, talking to Julie in between her laps around the park with Phoenix. The wind was blowing and cold, but we were laughing and happy. Inside I felt light-hearted and free from worry. Being in Colorado with my sisters always had that effect on me.


The next day, Julie went off to work and I headed back to Utah. Our goodbyes were always matter-of-fact. "Goodbye. Thanks for coming out. I love you. See you soon." Of course we would. We just took it for granted. At least I did. Little did I know the next time I'd be back in her apartment, it would be to empty it of her belongings after her funeral. That time the climb up those stairs didn't hurt just my quads. It broke my heart.


This Easter is different for me. Instead of joy, I'm reminded of all that I've lost. Going home to mom's for Easter is a thought I can't even bear. I'm afraid of how different everything will be. Julie is gone. Phoenix will no longer be a part of our road trips, and even my mom's dog Buster is gone. He died four days after Julie. So much has changed. Having a sister missing from our comfortable group of three leaves an unfathomable void. Her absence is always there, just under the surface. Amy and I carry on, but now when we're together things seem   off-kilter. We haven't adjusted to our new dynamic of only two sisters.


Eventually I'll go home again. Just not this year. We'll all make new, happy memories of Easter at mom's. For now, I try to focus on the memories and the good feelings they bring.  I've realized that happiness in life is made up of so many simple moments. Times that aren't planned. Conversations that just happen. Cravings that are indulged. Laughter that comes for almost no reason at all. Those are the moments we carry in our hearts. 

Three More in Six Million

The most common, and nearly unanimous reaction from people upon hearing I was taking a trip to Bangladesh was "Why are you going there?!" The surface answer was simple. "I'm going to visit my brother and his family." The real reason was a bit more complicated. First, some background...

My brother Jon, his wife Sam, and their son Atticus temporarily relocated to Bangladesh in the summer of 2009, and soon started blogging about their experiences there. I was quickly sucked in, and their every blog post left me eagerly anticipating the next one. Most conversations with my family usually involved us discussing their latest post. We were all enjoying living vicariously through their experiences.

Late last year my dad planned a visit to Bangladesh. As his trip drew closer, my sister Julie and I talked about joining him, or taking our own trip there together. We spent hours discussing the pros and cons of going. In the end, both of our pragmatic natures won. We both had bills to pay, Julie was saving up to buy a house, I was training for a race, and there were work obligations. We couldn't just throw caution to the wind and go traipsing off to a third world country! So, dad took his trip, and when he returned I listened to his stories and poured over his pictures, wishing I'd been there. Julie and I still talked about going later in the year, but didn't do anything serious about making it happen. Then, in May, the unthinkable happened. Julie committed suicide, and the bottom dropped out of my world.

During the week following her death, fourteen of us stayed together under one roof. All four remaining siblings, plus our kids were together for an entire week. Jason was there too. It was Jason, Julie's dear friend, former boyfriend, and confidante, that had the courage to confirm our worst fears, finding our beloved sister and daughter, and staying with her during those awful hours while the police and coroner did their work. We'd all loved him before, but now he was part of the family. Most evenings that week were spent on the deck, talking, reminiscing, laughing, and crying. It was during one of those evenings that the idea of going to Bangladesh was brought up again. Sam issued an invitation, and the seed was firmly planted.

Life carried on, and I functioned through a dense shroud of grief and confusion that permeated nearly every moment. As I worked through my grief, there were lots of in-depth discussions with friends and family about life, its meaning, and what really matters when it's all said and done. It started to dawn on me that my well-ordered, safe little life hadn't protected me at all. The worst had still happened, and nobody had checked with me first! My good friend Aimee and I talked a lot about losing loved ones, and how important it is to make memories with people you love. Because when they're gone, the memories and experiences are all that remains. One day in early July, as we talked about my longing to see and experience Bangladesh, and to spend time with my brother's family, we looked at each other and said, "That's it. Enough talking, we're going." Since Jason was already about 80% convinced of going, he was ecstatic when I sent him the text saying "We're going to Bangladesh baby!" or something of the sort.

The next few months were a flurry of passport and visa applications, immunizations, planning, stressing about what to wear in a mostly Muslim country (for Aimee and Keicha), and detailed emails from Sam explaining everything we could expect and exactly what we should do every step of the way. If she ever decides to throw in the towel on being a historian, she definitely has a shot at a second career as a travel agent/tour guide.
Finally, the big day arrived. Off we went on our big adventure. It all still seemed a little surreal that I was traveling to the other side of the world. The reality of it started to set in at the Abu Dhabi airport. There were the three of us, tired and a little dazed after 15 hours on airplanes, standing in line to board the plane to Dhaka. Nobody spoke English, and an endless line of women in black burka's with only their dark eyes showing, accompanied by men in traditional Muslim dress, streamed past us. We weren't in Kansas anymore! We boarded the plane, and found ourselves unexpectedly, delightfully, upgraded to Business Class. Aaahh, now this was the life! There couldn't have been a starker contrast than when we left our comfortable Business Class bubble and stepped into the Dhaka airport. I really felt like Alice when she fell down the rabbit hole.

Jason & I giddy with excitement at our upgrade.

Jason & Aimee enjoy the comforts of Business Class.

So there we were, in Bangladesh. Thanks to Sam's instructions we made it to the immigration counter and placed our passports in front of the clerk. As he took forever doing whatever it was he did (we still think he was clueless, and just spent several minutes keying random things into the computer in an effort to appear official), I looked up and saw Jon waving at us through the window. Here I was at 4 a.m., in a completely foreign, unfamilar place, feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and excited all at once. I'd made it, and Jon was exactly where Sam said he'd be, on time, waiting for us. I could relax.

We drove throught the dark streets of Dhaka to Jon and Sam's apartment. It was very early in the morning, but we stayed up sitting around the kitchen table chatting, and enjoyed our very first batch of coffee made using their makeshift, modified version of a French coffee press.

Where there's a will, there's a way. No coffee pot? No problem.

Our first day was spent exploring the area near where Jon and Sam live, and getting used to the sights and sounds of one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Dhaka is 59.40 sq. miles in size with a population of over 12 million. The energy of large cities has always thrilled me, and Dhaka was crowded, busy, colorful and loud. I immediately knew I was going to love this place!