Nine Minutes to Midnight: The Last Chapter - Truly the End of Days

Nine Minutes to Midnight: The Last Chapter - Truly the End of Days

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARY

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARY

As always, I'm a day late and a dollar short.  No, I didn't forget.  It's just taken me the better part of a day to get the fortitude to actually get myself to the computer & write this to you.

Its been a long, trying year for me and so much has changed.  About a month after going down south to celebrate your grandson's 1st. birthday, I had a massive right hemisphere stroke.  It left me paralyzed on my left side and losing more than I could have imagined.  I'm sure you can laugh at 45 odd years of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and overall shitty living finally catching up with me.  I guess it took something of this magnitude to get my attention and teach me things I should have known all along. 
As much as I've lost, I've gained more.  Rather than go into the gory details. I need you to know that my very first cognitive thought was of you.  I was in a rehab hospital specializing in catastrophic brain injuries, still unable to sit up among everything else.  I couldn't remember much - what happened, where I was going, who I had been - but the one thing I did know was I had never looked you in the eye and told you how much I loved you or how much I appreciated the man you had been.
I came to find, with each hardship I faced, with every obstacle I had to try to overcome, I felt like this was the price I had to pay for my indifference and failures.  Somehow, it made it easier to  accept knowing I am paying for my sins. 
To this day, there isn't a moment that goes by where I don't take responsibility for my circumstances.  Somehow, I feel your strength, your unconditional love and your presence in everything I do. 
I know its too late for so much, yet still, somehow feeling you around me gives me that one thing I need so desperately to thrive and go on.
With each milestone, each new accomplishment, I know you are right behind me, cheering me on.  I was told just weeks into my 3 month rehab of all the things I will never do again.  Now, 10 + months later, I'm doing almost all of those unattainable things.  I lost the wheelchair and all ideas of defeat, I can live alone, be self-sufficient, shower by myself, even drive again, although I know I shouldn't.  I was determined to walk, and with a weird cane and a brace on my leg I can now.  All traces of who I used to be is gone; ego, pride, arrogance, sense of entitlement, sense of self.  I can no longer recognize my reflection any more.  Even more so, I can no longer recognize that person I once was.
My biggest regret is that I didn't have the heart and insight that I do now for all those years.
I can't tell you how many times I thought about you and wished you could know me now.  I feel like I've finally become the person you tried to see me as, someone worthy of being the sister you cherished in spite of myself.
Somehow, I need to believe you can see me now, that you can feel the love and awe I have for you.  There are trying times when I wonder why I'm still here and you are not.  It is in those moments I know I need to make you proud, to show you how your strength and influence have saved me, to have faith there will be a chance to finally see you again, eye to eye, and tell you at long last that your love has made all the difference in the world.
Happy 61st. birthday, big brother. 

Happy 60th. Birthday Gary

Dear Gary,
   Happy 60th. birthday, big brother.  So hard to still believe its been almost 2 years and there's been 2 August 7th's since you've left us.  No matter, Wooly Man, I will always celebrate you, your birthday, your essence and I will be forever grateful you were here.
   I just finished Patti Smith's book "Just Kids", and in it, she tells of her story of her departed friend Robert Mapplethorpe and his influence on her life.  In the last paragraph, she asks - " Why can't I find the words than can awaken the dead? "  I must have read that line ten times before I realized that question was one I've been trying to answer for as long as you've been gone.  I will never stop trying to find those words, will always hold out for the hope that in some way, I can bring you back, even if for a fleeting moment and only in heart and spirit.
   Up until recently, I used to look for you everywhere:  in the brightest star in the cold night sky, in that elusive prism of light in the last moment of sunset, in the bright daylight.  But I know now, I no longer have to search for you because you are evident in absolutely everything around me.  I know you're still here, still around us all and I will be forever driven to see the world through your eyes.
   Happy birthday, Gary.  I will love and miss you forever and will carry you close to my heart until that glorious day where I will find those magic words that will awaken you.

Always,
Edye

The Unveiling - One Year Later

November 4, 2012

THE UNVEILING - ONE YEAR LATER

   It's hard to believe it's been a year since Gary's death.  Even more incomprehensible is how any of us could still be able to exist without him.
   How can we measure a loss when we have gained so much?  How can we say Gary is no longer with us when he is so completely in our hearts and thoughts?
   I need to believe my brother's death is just a very painful technicality.  Even though I can no longer see him or hear his voice, he is always within reach:  a thought, a memory, a word, a sunset, a bright star in the cold night sky, yes, even on a nasty shit skid on the sweatpants of a Walmart shopper.
   Gary is always within my grasp.  If I think hard enough, he appears, he becomes a part of me in the deepest, truest part of my spirit and fills me with a love unlike all others.
   There hasn't been a day or even an hour where I haven't thought of Gary, missed him, cried for him, ached for just one more day, prayed for mercy from the agony of his absence, experienced the deepest sorrow and the most glorious joy.  For me, Gary is everywhere.
   In the forword to author Nikos Kazantzakis's last book, his wife wrote that she was surprised the streets her husband had walked upon had not turned to gold.  Had she looked beyond her sight, she would have seen they were indeed paved with gold simply because it had been his path.
   Because Gary had touched each and every one of us, we, too, are walking on sacred ground.  The path Gary blazed for us is not only golden, but is one of great importance, infinite merit and immeasurable riches.  It is a path of reverence, honor and responsibilty.
   We all have an obligation to never forget, to remember not how we felt when we lost Gary, but how it was when we still had him. For as long as the stories of Gary are told, passed from generation to generation, as long as we hold on to all those things that made him who he was, Gary will live forever.  With that promise, we can never lose him again, and for that alone, I am forever grateful.

Requiem for a Wooly Man - Happy Birthday Gary

August 7, 2012

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARY

Dear Gary,
   I was woken up the night before last by the thought of your birthday.  At first, I felt something akin to joy, and then I remembered......
   For a moment I thought how hard your birthday will be for all of us.  And then I remembered something else:  how celebration was something you thrived on, something you honored for each and every one of us during our birthdays, our events.  And I know you would have never wanted this day to mean pain or sorrow to those of us who loved you.
   Instead of grieving, you would have wanted us to celebrate.  So, dear brother, even though there is an infinite sadness and so much will be unspoken, we will indeed celebrate your birthday,
   I promise we will laugh, be amused, look at this day through your eyes and smile and find something to rejoice.  In your honor.
   For you.
   Happy birthday, Wooly Man.  I will love you forever.

PART 7 - Letters To No One

Part 7 - Letters To No One

To Whom it May Concern,

   One of my most bittersweet memories and most profound lessons was from a young boy who died at the age of 12.  Many, many years ago, when I lived in Laguna Beach with my friend Jim Eady, our neighbors across the street were a family with three sons.  Seneca was the youngest, a sweet, joyous boy with an unmistakable gapped toothed smile.
   There was something about Seneca that made him stand out.  He was all boy: playful, inquisitive, passionate and loved baseball above all else.  He used to come over to my house when Jim was at work and grill me on the items that were part of the decor.  This was the 1980's, and Jim's being a flaming gay man was the curiosity of the neighborhood, especially to a young boy who needed to know what set big gay Jim apart from the rest of the world.
   Seneca  would pick up random items in the house, study them closely and then ask me, " Is this a gay guy thing? "  For the most part, almost all of my answers were yes, and most of those times, the boy would scrutinize what he was looking at, nod in agreement and laugh like hell.
   When Seneca was 11, his mother found a lump on his leg that turned out to be an invasive, fatal form of cancer.  All medical and sad details aside, when his family told him he was sick, he told them how he wanted to do what was left of his life, down to the very last detail.
   He even planned his own funeral, ending it with all attending singing the Star Spangled Banner, which, to Seneca, meant a baseball game was starting - a baseball game he just knew he would be playing in.
   As Seneca became sicker and his capacities became  limited, the people of Laguna donated money to the family to send the boy to India with his mother to meet a holy man.  (His name eludes me at this time)
   When they came back, something had changed.  Seneca was different.  Yes, he was still gravely ill, but somehow it wasn't what you saw when you looked at him.  There was a peace, a resignation, even a grace about him that defied description.  At this point, he could no longer walk and his parents set him up in the living room, in the center of it all, so he could see and be a part of everything that was going on.  Each of the neighbors and friends took turns watching him when his parents or brothers were out.
   On a day it was my turn to relieve his mother to run errands, I sat down on the floor next to him and asked him how he was doing.  I told him he seemed different, almost happy.
 "  God talked to me,"  he told me.   I asked him what God said.
   "  He really didn't say anything, "  Seneca explained.   " He just asked me 2 questions."
   "  The first one was ' How did you treat the people who loved you? '
     and the second one was ' Did you have fun? '
   Before I had time to process what I had just heard, that unmistakeable gapped tooth smile radiated from his face.  "  I did good, " he told me.  " I made him proud and did what I was put here to do.  It's O.K. now. "
   Seneca died a few weeks later, but he knew.  In just those 2 questions, he had the answers and the secret to a life well lived and he had passed them on to me. 

   I never forgot Seneca and the lesson he had taught me.  Death was not a scary, doom ladened thing to someone who lived life as it was intended to be lived, who embraced love and joy above all else.
   So, when it first sunk in when I had heard my brother had died, I thought of Seneca and those 2 questions.  And, between my tears and sorrow, was a smile and that certainty.  Because Gary knew, too.

Part 6 - Growing up with Gary - The boy without a Shadow

Part 6 - Growing up with Gary - The Boy Without a Shadow


   As far as siblings go, Gary and I couldn't have been more different.  If you could take an abbreviated look into who we both were growing up, you would see Gary upstairs in his clean, orderly room, sitting at his desk quietly doing his homework, listening to the Carpenters at low volume on his stereo.

" Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near...."

And I would be in the basement with my scuzzy friends, drinking liquor we pilfered from our parents' locked cabinet, smoking weed and listening to Frank Zappa as loud as it could go.

"  Steamroller, talking 'bout your hemorrhoids, baby...." 

 But what you wouldn't see unless you looked harder was the same circumstance hours later, when my friends had left, the basement a mess, me on the bathroom floor vomiting and Gary standing over me, placing a cold, wet towel around my neck and asking me if I was O.K.  Somehow, he had managed to clean up the basement and me, as well, and I found myself safely in my room, the chores I ignored done before our parents came home from work.
   Even as a kid, Gary was my caretaker and I always knew, no matter what I had gotten myself into, I was safe.
   Someone had asked me once, years ago, what it was like to grow up in Gary's shadow.  I had to stop and think about the absurdness of this question.  You see, regardless of my brother's ambition and goodness, and in spite of my lack of those attributes, there was no shadow.  If anything, the only thing that Gary would cast when you stood beside him was an illumination, a light I am still trying to define to this day.
   To me, Gary was a boy without a shadow, a young man who had no darkness within or around him.  There is something to be said about sharing a childhood with someone as solid, unconditional and protecting as my brother.  I never had to question his words, never had to doubt his intentions.  I knew from as far back as I could remember I had King's X - immunity from all things harmful and scary - simply because Gary was my big brother.
    In referring back to my history and sharing my stories of Gary with people I've known, not one of them was able to remotely compare anyone in their lives to my brother.  What I heard from them over and over was how much better/easier/softer this world would have been for them, how much promise their futures would have held had they had a living, breathing guardian angel like I did.  I am reminded many times over how lucky I was, how blessed we all were to have had him.  I know, absolutely, having been so close to the edge many, many times, that I never went over it because of the lifeline that had been my brother.

   Regardless, we were still siblings.  We antagonized each other and we fought, yet still, Gary being Gary, even those incidents are fraught with sentiment and kindnesses. 

   I recall one time when Gary really "got" me.  I was in eighth grade and was going to my first rock concert that night - Grand Funk Railroad at Madison Square Garden in N.Y.C.
   I am coming home from school, walking down our driveway towards the back porch. It's winter and there is a glass storm door in lieu of a screen.  Gary is standing on the inside, and as I reach to open the storm door, he points to the latch to show me it's locked.  He is smiling and, as usual, his eyelids are turned inside out.
   " Are you high again?"  he asks.
   " Come on, open the door.  It's cold out here and I have to get ready."  I tell him.
   " Not until you answer me.  Are you high? "  he asks.
   " What difference does it make.  Let me in."  I answer.
   " I think you're high and you can't come in until you're not. "
   " Come on douche bag, " I yell. " I'm not high. Let me the fuck in! "
   " Prove it." he says still smiling.

   I know he is only messing with me and all I probably have to do is say 'please' and show him some civility. I don't know why, but I get mad and start to bang on the storm door and curse him out.
   He picks up the phone and tells me he's going to tell Mom i f I don't knock it off.  I hit the storm door one last time and it breaks - shatters all over the porch and the kitchen entry.  By then, Gary has reached mom and I hear him tell her,  " Edye's on drugs again and she's crazy.  Broke the storm door and everything. Just started pounding on it for no reason and broke it.  What should I do? "  There's a pause on his end and then I hear him say, " No, I'm O.K. Just a little scared. " He is smiling still and very amused.
   " Fucking liar! " I yell at him.   There's another pause as he listens to our mother.
   " I know, Mom, it is disgraceful, " he says.  "  It's got to be drugs.  I'd hate to think it's something like a mental illness. "  At this point, he has pulled his shirt up revealing his newly sprouted wooliness and is making faces at me.
   Through the broken door, Gary tells me that Mom said I can't go to the concert tonight, that I have to clean up the mess and then I'm to stay in my room and think about what I've done.  His eyelids are still inside out and he is still smiling.
   I think for a moment and then turn away from the house and start to walk away.  I walk back down the driveway, passed the front of our house and start up the street.  Gary comes out the front door and calls out after me.  " Hey," he said,  " You O,K,? "
     I stop to answer him.  " Yeah. "
   " You're not going to listen to Mom, are you? " he asks me.
    " No, I'm going, " I answer.
   " You need anything?  You hungry?  You need to come inside? "   he asks me. 
   "  Nah, "  I say, " but thanks anyway. "
   "  Be careful, " he tells me, starting to walk back to the house.
    And, as I started walking up the street and away, just before I hear the front door close shut, he shouts out "   Love you, "

   There were more times than I can count where Gary seemed to appear out of nowhere to rescue me.  In my first year of high school, I recall fighting at the school circle and getting my ass kicked by my long time nemesis Cindy Yancho.  The last thing I remembered was getting punched in the face, seeing stars and going down.  The next moment, I am in the back of Gary's car, a huge green Oldsmobile Delta 88, and he is taking me home, telling me everything's going to be O.K.
   Most of my childhood seemed to be much like that.  Gary was the great diffuser, the master mediator, the voice of reason.  He negotiated, he advocated and he was unwavering.  No matter what, why or where, he was always there, rooting for me, pointing the way, making my safety and well being a priority.
   I didn't realize at the time when we were young how much of an individual Gary was, how he was so unlike anyone I'd ever known, how fearless and directed he was.  Everything he did was motivated by love, by kindness, by doing what was right and remaining loyal, regardless of the cost.
   He was neat, orderly, regimented.  He got his haircut every 3 weeks at the barber of his choosing.  His clothes were hung by color and order in which they were to be worn, by season. His closet was filled with neat, pressed Levis Hopsack pants and light colored short sleeve plaid shirts, his shoes all polished with clean laces in a perfect row on the floor. His room was always spotless and organized.  He knew what he wanted and worked to get it, down to the black and white naked lady wallpaper he had put up in his room.
   He had many jobs from as far back as he was able to work.  He had paper routes - both morning and after school ones, he worked for the shoemaker, Joe, up the street, and when he got a little older, worked for a grateful and doting couple who adored him at their pizzeria Scalia's.  He bought his own bicycles, his own supplies, his own everything.  He bought his first new car, a blue AMC Matador, with cash.
   He used his  bar mitzvah money to invest in the stock market.  Remembering that this was the 1960's, I am still amazed that Gary had the insight to put his money into IBM, AT&T and other companies that were new and promising.  At 14 years old, Gary was getting dividend checks in the mail in numbers that were staggering to me.  He saved, he scrutinized every transaction, he looked for bargains, he used coupons.  His favorite store was a place he called  'Dent-a-Can' on Lawton Avenue, and from that point on, most of the packaged goods that were in our house were a little crumbled and worse for the wear, but as Gary brought to our attention whenever we complained, they were cheap and they were good.
   Gary was also incorruptible, never drank, never did drugs or smoke anything, always had full control of every situation.  There was a look he always gave me whenever I did anything he didn't approve of:  a perfect frown, looking much like an upside down smile, and with it was a twinkle in his eyes that spoke of sadness and care.  That look followed through to our adulthood, up until the last time I saw my brother alive.
   To this day, there are times I know I am going off my path and I still see, as clear as it was way back when, Gary's face and that funny frown of his, and I know.  I know I need to change my plan, I know he is still with me, and I know Gary's love and influence will go on forever.