I knew this was coming but it was still a shock. When I read that Sinead O’Connor had lost her son to suicide, it was a a given that she wouldn’t stick around. Her panic and horror were familiar, and I relived it for a long time. I braced myself. And it seems like a miracle that she stayed as long as she did, a little more than a year.

Even if you never liked her, you must have recognized an exquisitely sensitive soul without much of a protective membrane. She clearly was driven to tell the truth – not tell, but shout out – without thought of the consequences. I used to be like that, once.

She told us that her son was her soulmate, the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally.  And that’s just too much of a loss. I have been there. I’m still there.

When you lose your soulmate, or your twin soul, whatever term you like to describe this, you literally feel hollowed out, less substantial, without the ballast that kept you safely rooted to earth. I’m not being poetic, just factual.

Sinead O’Connor’s death is such a tragedy because it shouldn’t have happened and yet was inevitable. There are a million tributes and think pieces now that she’s gone, and while it’s a comfort to know that she was appreciated, it has really destabilized me personally. I feel guilty for being here after thirteen years. What kind of monster am I to go on without Max?

It hurts me to write his name. It’s better to write about Lost Sons in general. I can go for weeks without hearing or saying his name. People don’t want to bring it up, unless it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his exit. I hear music that I know he would’ve liked and say aloud, “Max would have liked this.” My husband replies, “Uh huh,” but it feels wrong. He should say, “Yes! He would love it and he hears it now! He would love it because his taste was so impeccable and wide-ranging and in keeping with his brilliance! Why is he gone? Bring him back!” But it’s not my husband’s job to speak what’s in my heart.

I always wonder if people who learn that I lost a son are thinking, “God, what an awful mother! Why didn’t she kill herself! I myself could never survive this!” One of my half-sisters actually said something like this, making it about her. Obviously she’s an idiot so she doesn’t count.

But I’m sure that other mothers who aren’t idiots are thinking this, silently reprimanding me for my unforgivable ability to go on. I don’t blame them.

I would like to apologize! Forgive me. It’s not that I’m shallow or not heartbroken beyond repair. At first, it was because I couldn’t abandon my younger boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of shattering the lives of my family members; it seemed too cruel to put them through it. Later, it was a courtesy to my husband, as I liked to remind him. Now it’s mostly a lack of courage. If I was sure we’d be reunited, I could do it. Even if we weren’t reunited, I remind myself, I’d be passing through the same door he passed through.

The other day, I was lying in bed, looking at my beautiful antique dresser and the shit on the walls and I felt a wave of sentimental fondness for them. I remarked to my husband, “I’ll miss this room when I’m dead!” He laughed and said, “Well, that’s better than saying ‘I wouldn’t miss any of this crap’!”

But I meant it. I’ll miss a lot of things when I’m dead. To be or not to be is a daily choice, not just according to Camus:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.

and/but:

Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism.

I doubt that Sinead wrestled with this. I believe she followed her heart. I respect her courage and sense of purpose. If living without her boy was a battle for her, it was one battle too many. I hope he kept a seat for her. And if there’s no afterlife out in the cosmos, at least she passed through the same door. My she rest easy for eternity.

If you watched the memorial today for the 400,000 Americans killed by Covid-19, symbolized by two long columns of light, you must have cried like I did. All the people on MSNBC cried too, either sniffling or sobbing, all grateful for this impetus to pour out their grief after holding back for so long. For four whole years, actually.

I thought about Joe Biden’s son, about my son, about Jamie Raskin’s son, Melissa Ethridge’s son, Stephanie Seymour’s son, Stella Tennant’s children, all the unknown families who wonder how they will go on.

The only ray of light is the knowledge that Trump will be back in Florida, unable to torture us the way he likes to.

I blew my nose and went for a walk, the wind howling in San Pedro like the tornado in Wizard of Oz. I thought about the columns of light, how they represented the light each person had brought to the world. In my head, I assured Max, “You are always here with me.” I looked down and there was a great big shell lying in my path. I wondered if I was allowed to take the shell home, and realized, Duh, it’s there for me!

I hope everyone gets a chance to cry today. You might not get a big shell, but a good cry can be cathartic.

I hope tomorrow goes well, but if it doesn’t, I’ve just learned the Jews have an afterlife, and you can’t believe how fucking spectacular it is! As a devout atheist, I know next to nothing about religions except how stupid most of them are. I thought the one cool thing about Judaism was the absence of Heaven, or a Judgement Day. Wrong as usual! Here’s a detailed description of Jewish heaven, long but worth it I think. After you read it, you’ll probably want to convert. L’chaim!

~

Rabbinic literature includes many legends about the World to Come and the two Gardens of Eden. These include:

The world to come is called Paradise, and it is said to have a double gate made of carbuncle that is guarded by 600,000 shining angels. Seven clouds of glory overshadow Paradise, and under them, in the center of Paradise, stands the tree of life. The tree of life overshadows Paradise too, and it has fifteen thousand different tastes and aromas that winds blow all across Paradise.

Under the tree of life are many pairs of canopies, one of stars and the other of sun and moon, while a cloud of glory separates the two. In each pair of canopies sits a rabbinic scholar who explains the Torah. When one enters Paradise one is proffered by Michael (archangel) to God on the altar of the temple of the heavenly Jerusalem, whereupon one is transfigured into an angel (the ugliest person becomes as beautiful and shining as “the grains of a silver pomegranate upon which fall the rays of the sun”).

The angels that guard Paradise’s gate adorn one in seven clouds of glory, crown one with gems and pearls and gold, place eight myrtles in one’s hand, and praise one for being righteous while leading one to a garden of eight hundred roses and myrtles that is watered by many rivers. In the garden is one’s canopy, its beauty according to one’s merit, but each canopy has four rivers – milk, honey, wine, and balsam flowing out from it, and has a golden vine and thirty shining pearls hanging from it. Under each canopy is a table of gems and pearls attended to by sixty angels.

The light of Paradise is the light of the righteous people therein. Each day in Paradise one wakes up a child and goes to bed an elder to enjoy the pleasures of childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age. In each corner of Paradise is a forest of 800,000 trees, the least among the trees greater than the best herbs and spices, attended to by 800,000 sweetly singing angels.

Paradise is divided into seven paradises, each one 120,000 miles long and wide. Depending on one’s merit, one joins one of the paradises: the first is made of glass and cedar and is for converts to Judaism; the second is of silver and cedar and is for penitents; the third is of silver and gold, gems and pearls, and is for the patriarchs, Moses and Aaron, the Israelites that left Egypt and lived in the wilderness, and the kings of Israel; the fourth is of rubies and olive wood and is for the holy and steadfast in faith; the fifth is like the third, except a river flows through it and its bed was woven by Eve and angels, and it is for the Messiah and Elijah; and the sixth and seventh divisions are not described, except that they are respectively for those who died doing a pious act and for those who died from an illness in expiation for Israel’s sins.

Beyond Paradise is the higher Gan Eden, where God is enthroned and explains the Torah to its inhabitants. The higher Gan Eden contains 310 worlds and is divided into seven compartments. The compartments are not described, though it is implied that each compartment is greater than the previous one and is joined based on one’s merit. The first compartment is for Jewish martyrs, the second for those who drowned, the third for “Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and his disciples,” the fourth for those whom the cloud of glory carried off, the fifth for penitents, the sixth for youths who have never sinned; and the seventh for the poor who lived decently and studied the Torah.

Once upon a time, there was a family whose gifted child, Smarty, started a new school. He made a new friend, Icky, who was very sweet but had a number of physical and behavioral shortcomings. He was unattractive and moody but got along well with Smarty, an extrovert who tended to be dominant with his peers.

Icky had a play-date at Smarty’s house, and was picked up by his dad, Pervy, a smarmy voice-actor with an overly familiar manner who told Smarty’s mom that she must’ve been a “helluva sexy teenager”.

Smarty spent more time with Icky, encouraged heartily by Pervy, who confided that Smarty was a good role model for the sullen Icky, who spend most of his time playing video games.

Whenever Smarty went to Icky’s house, Pervy took them out to restaurants and bought them gifts. He soon made room in a closet for Smarty’s clothes and gave Smarty a spare key to the house.

One day, alone with Mom, Pervy said that he might be able to “give her what she wanted.” Shocked, she nervously replied that she only wanted a chartreuse suede Chanel handbag. Pervy asked what that cost, and then backed off.

Smarty began to gain weight and his mom asked Pervy to stop taking him out to huge meals of barbecued ribs and potatoes. Pervy ignored her. Smarty discovered religion and Pervy found a Jewish synagogue for Jews who didn’t believe in god. Mom and Dad agreed to attend a service there, where prayers omitted the god part. Mom and Dad were atheists but wanted to let Smarty work out his own belief system.

Then, Pervy had an idea: He would have a Bar-Mitzvah alongside Smarty! WHAT?! Here, Mom stepped in and said no, that will not happen.

Meanwhile, Dad had a group of old friends who got together to play music one night a week. He brought Pervy with him once, and Pervy soon began to come on his own, installing himself as one of the groups key vocalists.

Smarty’s family was struck by tragedy, and Pervy invited him to stay with him and Icky for a month. When Mom wanted Smarty back at home, Pervy said, Well, I promised him a month. I can’t go back on my promise.

One day, Smarty was very angry with his parents and called Pervy to come pick him up. Pervy came and even though Smarty swore at him, he obediently took Smarty away.

Mom now despised Pervy. Smarty moved away and fell in love. He told Mom and Dad that he might ask Pervy to officiate at the wedding. Mom screamed, “NO! I’m not coming if that happens!”

This caused a rift between Mom and Smarty, one of many that should have healed but kept erupting.

Time passed.  Pervy still sang in the music group, using hand motions like Celine Dion. Mom missed Smarty and one day, emailed Icky to ask how Smarty was doing. Icky immediately reported back to Smarty, who angrily demanded that Mom stop contacting his friends. Icky blocked Mom on twitter.

More time passed and Pervy started a Kickstarter page for a movie he wanted to make about a log lady. He offered a grand prize of dinner with himself to the highest donor.

Go and see it if it gets released! Just don’t let him play with your kid or come to your music group.

Most people know at this point in social etiquette not to bark, “Cheer up!” at people who aren’t showing their back molars in a smile. Thank god that’s pretty much a thing of the past. I remember strangers informing me, even as a kid, “Things aren’t THAT bad!” as they walked past me.

But many people do find it difficult to be in the presence of sadness, not to mention grief.

Not long ago, a family member came over to visit, and was moved to share with me their wish that I could be less sad. I have so much going for me, after all!

It was a wish born of compassion. But still. Feeling aggressive, I leaned toward them and said, “Until you have seen your child in a body bag, you cannot understand what it’s like. You just can’t.” I know what a brutal thing this is to say aloud. But at times, I want to make it a teachable moment.

They were taken aback, but rephrased the sentiment to something like, “Yes, but you have to go on living.”

Humans of Earth, AREN’T I ALIVE? How alive do I have to be before you can deal with me? I walk and talk, I put on lipstick, I go to the grocery store, I walk down the street, you know?

Do I have to go on a fucking world cruise or Dancing With the Stars or what?

When I moved to my new community nearly five years ago, I was thrilled to make a new friend: An intelligent, vibrant mother of two who was funny and well-read. The perfect friend, I thought. As it turned out, she started avoiding me. When I finally pressed for a reason, she texted that I was too sad for her.

Even though all she talked about what the sexual assault of her daughter and how much she hated men. I was devastated, but I lived to tell. I’ve chalked it up to Her Problem, Not Mine, as one does.

I’m okay with being sad. Just let me be sad. I am Sad Girl. I am trying to use my sadness as an instrument for good. I’m an excellent listener, if you’re sad too. I try to turn my sadness into art, when I can.

I just read a review of a new Nick Cave album, in which the writer notes about the death of Cave’s teenage son, in 2015:

He has not put the grief behind him; he has learned from its presence.

OF COURSE he has not put the grief “behind him” for fucksake, it has only been four years, Jesus Christ. When can this kind of thinking end?

Most people never even get over a divorce, let alone such an elemental loss.

People need to be allowed to exhibit an entire range of emotions, as long as they don’t do it while driving. Let people be sad, worried, negative, silly, anxious, inquisitive, grumpy and hopeless if they want to be. Unless they ask for your help or your diagnosis, just try to accept this rich tapestry of human behavior.

Here’s a study that might convince you.

I have developed a new obsession with silk pajamas, having bought a beautiful pair for $6.99 at Goodwill. Now, I have to look for more, because that’s what happens when you have a shopping disorder.

Today, I was patiently searching a rack at a gigantic thriftshop called Savers, when a woman standing next to me started to cry. I had noticed her earlier, registering that she was very short and looked disadvantaged somehow.

She looked at me and said through her tears, “My brother was killed in Vietnam.”

I tried to compute this, thinking, But that was a million years ago. I managed to say, “Oh no, what year did this happen?”

What a stupid question! I think I was trying to catch her in a lie. Still, she tried to remember. Sixty-something.

I then said, with all my heart, “I’m so sorry. It never gets better, does it?”

She agreed and we started to talk. I asked her brother’s name (Ricky) and showed her my locket where I keep Max’s hair.

She told me she had taken care of her mother for six years and said: “She died in my arms.”

I asked about her kids: One has stage 3 liver cancer and another needs therapy but her insurance won’t cover it.

We talked about how some days are worse and some are better. She confided that she goes to thrift-shops to distract herself from her sadness…I think she said something like, “so I don’t get depression.” I assured her that I do the same.

I told her to remember that she is loved and needed. She asked Max’s name so she could pray for him.

Wherever you go, a person standing next to you may be suffering, and isolated in the bubble of their grief. The act of comforting someone is more gratifying than a million pairs of silk pj’s.  Alleviating someone else’s pain is the best way to soothe your own.

For a little while, because of this encounter, I felt like a valuable human being. I didn’t find any pajamas but I did find a silk nightie for $2.99.

Save

Save

It’s been nearly a year and I’m surprised to still be here. I swore I’d go after him if he left. But things are complicated.

June 6 will be a year. I know it’s just a day on the calendar but still I feel the weight of its significance. I have to go to the grave, where I’ve had to pay for a granite marker. I don’t think I can bear it but I have to. I haven’t been back since we buried him. Mostly because I pretend he’s around, maybe in another room or maybe in New York, where he lived for so many years.

When no one can hear me, I whisper to him and beg him to come back. Maybe he’ll hear me and change his mind.

I’ll miss him every day for as long as I live. It’s better when I stay in denial.

I wish I could hug him and smell him. I’ve been reading all the email we sent to each other: All the links to things we thought were funny or enlightening or stupid, all the mp3’s he sent me, all our complaints and  encouragement. Thank god for email. It’s so full of our relationship. It’s a way to spend time with him. It’s something to treasure.

If I have to keep living, maybe I can do something that Max would be proud of, or maybe I can help with suicide prevention. In the end, even though I know there’s no god or heaven or hell, I know we’ll be together.

Some days are easier than others.   I’m still thinking about the Bitter Intellectuals project. Max would love it. We need a url to get started.   Just try to bear with me while I work through the bad days.   xoxo

There aren’t really stages of grief, there’s just a big rupture and then a big mess of denial, anger, shock, guilt, etc. etc etc and none of it is orderly. Right now I’m in a state of disbelief and I’m guessing it’s adaptive, to keep mothers from flipping out.

I am seeking solace anywhere I can find it but I can’t listen to the news or look at fashion.

I’ll tell you what’s good: TV.

TV is a great panacea and pacifier. Reality TV is best. Crazy “Housewives” screaming at each other is like manna from heaven. My husband and I are taking comfort there. Scream and fight, Housewives! Never stop!

True Blood worked for me but not so much for my husband. He’s just not gay enough, I guess. When Sam and Eric eyed each other up, the thrill was electric, wasn’t it?!? Eric’s butt was too small for my taste but on the whole it was a yummy festival of hot gayness.

TV is my church and I will worship there. My bed is a place to hold Max’s stuffed animals from his babyhood. My fridge is stocked with weird leftovers from the meals brought over in sympathy.   My tolerance for idiots is being severely tested. My gratitude for kindness is fine-tuned. I can report that aside from TV, you really, really need friends.

Love is all that matters. Remember how we learned that before? It’s easy to forget. I’ll try to remind you, and you can try to remind me.

This is Mandy. Today I learned that she died from an overdose. I don’t know what her drug of choice was. I think she took anything she could get her hands on. I met her at the rehab place where I went every week to visit a loved one.

She was a very wounded girl who I wanted to save, but you can’t save people. That’s supposed to be obvious.

She was around 23, anorexic, miserable, desperate and defiant. She manipulated everyone around her. Even me. I didn’t really mind it, though. I wanted to help. I thought she just needed love and support. Everyone at the rehab place expected her to end up dead, such was her commitment to hurting herself.

One day after she left L.A., I erased her text messages, thinking they took too much room in my phone. I kept one though, and I don’t know why. It says: “Thanks, I had fun today.”

Poor little Mandy. Underneath the tattoos and bravado, she was an innocent child who someone must have damaged long ago.

She used to put her head down to show me her blond roots, which she hated. I always responded by showing her my own roots, the gray ones. It was like an alien greeting and it made us laugh.

Other people are reeling from losses today, and my heart aches for them, but it aches most for Mandy.

Send her a prayer to the god of your understanding.