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.

Let me start by telling you how mad I am that I can’t have a pair of limited edition Converse sneakers with little lions on them.

I wish I’d never seen these fucking shoes but unfortunately for me, I subscribe to a couple of fashion sites for cutting edge men’s street-wear. If you recall, I am a gay man in a woman’s body.

A few months ago, one of these sites showed me an overpriced Japanese jacket meant to look like a souvenir jacket from Korea or Vietnam, the kind with embroidered tigers and maps on them. When the jacket sold out, I was mad that I’d passed it up.

So the Converse shoes reminded me of the jacket and even better, they were affordable. But they were sold out everywhere by the time I clicked on the email. The more unattainable they are, the more they promise the key to perfect happiness.

But just a few days earlier, I was horrified to learn that the Rihanna Puma Creepers I already have in black were released in pink. How could this happen without me being notified?? I found out from a girl in the mall who was showing me some cheap make-up, and she must have been amazed that a 62 year old woman wanted those fucking shoes as much as she did, if not more. We bonded in our sense of thwarted desire.

After a tense search of the entire internet, I found a pair on eBay. Problem solved.

But not really. Not at all.

This obsession and longing for material goods is the foundation of our economy but it serves a deeper purpose, for me, anyway.

It’s the ultimate First World Problem, in that it masks other First World Problems that I simply can’t handle.

Those problems are grief and loss. They are persistent like a toothache. I can’t bear the reality of them, and when I can’t distract myself with more superficial problems, I have to take myself to bed. When I take myself to bed, I know I would give anything to not wake up, but just blotting out a few hours usually gets me through the worst of it.

Last year, I became Facebook friends with a guru from Tibet. I liked his wisdom and his sense of humor. So I asked him how to cope with grief. When I told him that I’d lost a son, he replied that mortality was high in Tibet; families are used to losing children.

I felt he was chastising me but perhaps he was merely being factual.

Why was I making a big deal over my loss? Families in Tibet lose a child but still have to worry about typhoons and lack of plumbing and hunger and disease. They expect life to be hard and it is.

The guru directed me to a philosophy than might help to redirect me but like everything else I have tried, it was a hurdle beyond my capacity. Mindfulness, Dialectic Behavior Therapy, Tonglen, support groups, grief studies, Radical Acceptance, nothing matches the force of this unspeakable grief and loss.

I have spent most of my life saving baby teeth, book reports, handmade crafts, mother’s day cards, school photos, birthday party photos, baseball cards, rock collections, and I have lovingly organized them or displayed them.

I have boxes of Christmas ornaments, many hand made by my sons, but no sons to hang them on a tree or to open presents with.

Christmas will pass, so the sense of deprivation will be less acute but it will take a lot of limited edition sneakers to pull me away from the fucking abyss.

In Chennai, India, there is historic flooding, the worst in 100 years. Three million people are without basic services and 269 people have died in this epic disaster. I can’t imagine how desperate these people must feel because I only know First World Problems.

Feeling ambivalent about living is a First World Problem, and I guess I’ll have to wrestle with it in my White Privileged manner, wearing my pink Pumas if they ever show up.

The firstborn Wolf is having surgery, so send him blessings and play nicely among yourselves until I get back. You can listen to his music here.

xo

~

* Thank you so much, everyone who sent good wishes! Everything went well and we are expecting a successful recovery.   xoxoxo

Tonight, I was complaining to Max about the people at our local Whole Foods store. I noted that you couldn’t tell the difference between the homeless guys and the hipsters, who were affecting the same look, i.e., filthy dreadlocks and grubby clothing.

Max replied, “But you can’t say the homelss guys are “affecting” the look.

Me: “True.”

Max: “They’re “rocking” it.”

Despite all my talk about being a samurai, I fell off my horse yesterday. It was bound to happen sometime, but it left me shaken and badly bruised.

Among my family troubles are Other family troubles. Things spun out of control, meaning I lost control. It really did feel like a damn bursting. All the careful containment of my grief and fear has allowed me to forget that I am a fucking wreck.

However! I picked myself up and got back on the horse. I got a ride to Chinatown, where Max has been transferred to a wonderful rehabilitation facility. Now he can learn to walk again and get ready to come home.

Everything about the new place is great, even the food. We are all still traumatized by the pretend “hospital,” which I can now divulge is a subsidiary of Kindred Healthcare, a corporation that made $4 billion in 2008. Why did they make $4 billion? Because their “hospitals” charge the insurance company $4,000 a day and then DON’T DO ANYTHING FOR THE PATIENT!

Ah well. I haven’t even begun with those fuckers. First things first. Here is Max having his dinner tonight and looking like Elvis.   If you send him your blessings, I will pass them on.

I saw this photo the other day in juxtapoz, a stupid art magazine that my adopted son* Chris brought over.   I was stunned by the glory of the poster on the wall: NO YOU SHUT UP is the single most brilliant statement anyone could possibly make. I think it may be my next tattoo.

The photo is a still from a new movie called (Untitled), a satire about the contemporary art scene. Sign me up! Not that I’ll ever get out to see a movie, but, you know, theoretically.

Adam Goldberg is making a real comeback in my life after maybe being the guy in the Sarah Palin is a Cunt shirt. Last night, my kid got us a copy of The Hebrew Hammer and we laughed our heads off until the disc got screwed up in the last act and froze.

* If you don’t know about my adopted son, we became friends on MySpace through our shared appreciation of Deadwood. Chris lost his mom many years ago and I volunteered to adopt him. My family has accepted this situation very graciously, and why shouldn’t they?   I also have an adopted daughter, but we haven’t been able to meet yet.   If you need to be adopted, let’s talk when I’m not so overwhelmed.

The Youngest Wolf surprised me by announcing my birthday from the stage, during his band’s performance at a local music festival.   I was presented with this cake that he secretly made at a friend’s house.   See why it’s great to have kids?

My husband made me laugh by saying the exact same thing that made me laugh in that other photo! I look kind of like a horrible Alanis Morrisette here, don’t you think?

Killing it in a leather jacket by somebody, t-shirt by someone else, jeans too.

With the help of my webmaster, I am able to offer all bloggers* this handy symbol of assurance that no hand-to-face poses will appear on your blog, except in cases of mockery or irony.

Please feel free to copy this image and use with confidence! If you like it, give a shout out to Charlie over here.   Certain restrictions apply, blah blah blah, just don’t ask me what they are, I’m not a lawyer.

* Over the age of 18

Here is Max, enjoying his recent trip around the world. Doesn’t he look dapper?

Thanks for the collage, Max!