tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52173558022195230962024-03-13T02:04:28.967-07:00Good Grief ProjectAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-23299330506080185052017-05-23T02:38:00.000-07:002017-05-23T02:39:24.066-07:00Memories and Manchester mourning<p>On 4th July 2005, I was sitting in my office on the second day at my new job, as the main Welfare Officer of the student union. It was a big job and a serious job. I was exhausted after exams, and meeting with Anne, a representative from the university counselling service. At 10:00 I got a phone call from my mum. My brother had killed himself. I could not have asked for better company when I received that news. I had known Anne for four years and she knew me about as well as anyone. She talked me through the next couple of hours and I got a train back to my home town of Crewe.</p>
<p>Over the next few weeks, very little seemed to make sense. Three memories stand out from all the chaos. The first was when I was walking down Cornmarket, the main shopping street of Oxford, early in the morning. I couldn't understand how people were still going about their daily lives. They were opening shops, taking out rubbish, drinking coffee, moving boxes around. Didn't they know that Dylan had died? It felt offensive that people didn't seem to care. Nobody even frowned or paused as I passed. Of course they knew nothing about Dylan or how his death affected me. I felt hurt and angry, and a little guilty that I was wanting strangers to stop what they were doing for someone they had never met.</p>
<p>The second memory that stands out was when I was talking to my ex boyfriend. It was the Oxford Pride and I decided to go out and try to do something positive with my time. As I spoke to him, I found myself repeating myself and not quite sure how or why I was doing it. It was as though I had lost the ability to have a conversation, or even keep track of what I was saying. As someone who nearly always has something to say, it was disturbing to lose that lucidity.</p>
<p>The final memory I want to discuss is the one that came back to me today. Three days after my brother's death, there was a terrorist attack in London, killing over fifty people. All of a sudden the nation was in shock and mourning. I was even more tired than I was already from the chaos and shock. I was rapidly finding that continuous grief was not sustainable, it was just too demanding. Seeing the news suddenly gave me a little hope, as if I wasn't alone in all of this. It felt like the whole nation was grieving with me, and for a few days it felt like it was okay for things to fall apart. Things had fallen apart for everyone.</p>
<p>Last night there was a suicide bomb attack at a venue less than a mile from where I live, a venue I had been to last year. Twenty two people have died so far, and more than fifty are injured. When I see a terrorist attack in somewhere that I recognise and love, it affects me personally. It takes me back to how I felt in 2005, in the immediate wake of Dylan's suicide. Knowing this attack happened in a place I had been to, ten minutes walk from my home, in my home country, makes it even worse. In addition to the normal sense of anger and sadness, I also have sense of personal loss that will never fully heal.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-23425199807725794292016-09-04T05:23:00.001-07:002016-09-04T05:23:29.487-07:00How to tell someone<p>I came across a fantastic article on the New York Times about telling a mother their child is dead. It's spot on.</p>
<blockquote>She is his mother. Now you explode the world. Yes, you have to.</blockquote>
<p><a href="http://mobile.nytimes.com/2016/09/04/opinion/sunday/how-to-tell-a-mother-her-child-is-dead.html">Read the article: How to Tell a Mother Her Child Is Dead</a></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-34277379867641242732015-07-28T09:07:00.000-07:002015-07-28T09:07:15.685-07:00Cyanide and Happiness<p>Yeah, that's about right.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://explosm.net/comics/4000/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://files.explosm.net/comics/Kris/dcw9part2.png" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-29407170720013129482015-07-04T11:50:00.001-07:002015-07-04T11:50:48.791-07:00The first decade<p>Ten years ago today I received a phone call from my mum. She told me that my brother Dylan, had killed himself. Here's what I wrote in my journal the following day:</p>
<blockquote>My brother committed suicide on Friday. It hasn't sunk in yet, and all family and friends are being really good about it. I've never lost anyone close before and I don't know how bad things will get or how long it will take to get through it, but the next couple of months are going to be difficult. It seems very odd that a week ago there were four or us and now there are only three of us.</blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuT9V1CFBVRSs9IR2YUqvUXtVNn3-uin_Pbj9XBxLWMG0vseHU9ZlcQLhP4CaRPOPEzLosImvwDLi5ggcTPlKqJYJsWcvCG2lRacRZ6_D0IpLosDzklmv03neOwVDB1IIivvec1GzOxe0/s1600/Dylan+photos+039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=" margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width:550px;border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuT9V1CFBVRSs9IR2YUqvUXtVNn3-uin_Pbj9XBxLWMG0vseHU9ZlcQLhP4CaRPOPEzLosImvwDLi5ggcTPlKqJYJsWcvCG2lRacRZ6_D0IpLosDzklmv03neOwVDB1IIivvec1GzOxe0/s1600/Dylan+photos+039.jpg" /></a><br />I think is the last photo of all four of us together. It's a shame the colour is a bit off.</div>
<p>Finding a meaningful sense of time was important. As you can see from the quote above, at first I was thinking about a few weeks or months at a time. As things got worse it would be days at a time. Since this was such a huge change in my life I'd occasionally think about years, or even decades at a time. I always told myself that the first decade would be the hardest. I'm in my early 30s, and if I'm lucky I've got another five decades left in me. Looking back at what I've done and where I've been in that time it's been an excellent decade, all things considered. I moved abroad to give myself time and space to come to terms with the loss. That was a long time ago, and for the past few months I've been thinking about moving back to the UK and getting back to "normal", whatever that means. Losing Moritz three months ago sped up that process quite a lot.</p>
<p>After ten years I've moved on from the loss and found new motivations in my life. Occasionally I still wake up thinking that Dylan is still alive, and that I'll see him again. Old memories of Dylan still resurface from time to time. Every now and then I remember that 40 years from now it will just be me and my two sisters, and one of the closest people I thought would always be there for me is gone forever.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugQfn6z7TU7CvZZFP-HKgMuyN3ynoffaueMz99cj7MI-qxNGW9FpbCwQklmZW9FOr-7RVbdQgvbNuKnArvIDfNe8DlTHUAig1hKObkKAwryKsgE7RLYbH_xD2d4DzxlnlsZiYBXP9KnM/s1600/Dylan+photos+036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width:550px;border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugQfn6z7TU7CvZZFP-HKgMuyN3ynoffaueMz99cj7MI-qxNGW9FpbCwQklmZW9FOr-7RVbdQgvbNuKnArvIDfNe8DlTHUAig1hKObkKAwryKsgE7RLYbH_xD2d4DzxlnlsZiYBXP9KnM/s1600/Dylan+photos+036.jpg" /></a><br />On holiday in Wales.</div>
<p>The first decade without Dylan has passed. Losing him was hard. Losing him to suicide made it even harder. The experience has left me more resilient, more daring, and more outgoing, but at the same time it has left me a bit colder than before in some respects. I've always preferred deep friendships over relationships, and losing Dylan reinforced that feeling. I just don't feel comfortable being that close to someone. Seeing parent divorce, then Dylan choosing to die, moving country every few years, and brilliant friends coming and going for over a decade has left me with the impression that nothing is permanent or secure. Looking far in the future can be scary. Losing Dylan has changed me forever and feels as though I've had a shadow cast over some of the best years of my life. Even so I've managed to have a lot of fun and I like to think that Dylan would be happy to see me now and proud of what I've achieved. He would have loved to visit me in California or Geneva or Brussels, but he chose not to. He decided that whatever future lay ahead of him wasn't worth having. If the next decade is the same as the last in terms of opportunities, friendships, work, and travel, then that's definitely something I want to be a part of. I've rebuilt my life, and I'm just getting started. Today's a tough day, but that just gives me more strength to go on.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-77363162782924666852015-05-04T05:44:00.000-07:002015-05-04T14:09:18.418-07:00Moritz's funeral<p>It's been over a week since Moritz's funeral and I've had very mixed feelings (and not much time to blog about them) ever since. The day itself was very intense, and the days after were also very rough. Rather than rewrite what I've already written I thought I'd share some things that's I've written to some friends before and since the funeral. On the day itself I had intended to talk about Moritz and had prepared some text to read out. However in the end I didn't speak up for a few reasons. First of all much of what I wanted to say had already been said and I didn't want to talk for the sake of talking. The second reason was that being at the funeral brought up some very difficult feelings about Dylan, so it feel completely "safe" (or completely polite) to talk about my feelings. Thirdly I'd already sent a message which had been shared publicly, so I had already said something. Finally, while going over all this in my head, I hesitated too long and missed the opportunity. I'm still in two minds about whether I did the right thing in staying quiet. Here is what I had planned to say:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>I first met Moritz in California. It was a bright, sunny day, and we were walking back from the main control room of the BaBar experiment. Moritz is the only person I've ever met whose eyes would actually light up, especially when the sun was shining. However it was only when we were both at CERN together that we became very close. My older brother died very suddenly and if was alive today he would be about Moritz's age. I think this is why we got along so well.</p>
<p>As soon as Moritz arrived in Geneva he started making friends and joining in activities wherever he could. From DVD nights, to hiking in the Jura, to evenings in Geneva and cocktail parties in Saint Genis, Moritz was always very sociable and always brought a lot of joy into the room. Life at CERN can be tough- the work is hard and people come and go so quickly. When you find a good friend it can make a huge difference, and you will often be lifelong friends. I thought with Moritz I would have a friendship that would last decades. He was more than just a friend to me, he was an ally, he'd tease me with jokes and make fun of how seriously we take things in Geneva. We would go to the gym together and afterwards sit in the sauna, talking about life, and work, and our hopes for the future, until it got too hot for me and I had to leave. We'd go out to bars with groups of friends in Geneva and since I organised the evenings I'd spend most of the night introducing people, making them feel welcome. When this got too tiring I'd sneak outside with Moritz to smoke a cigarette. I don't normally smoke, and in fact this was the only time I ever smoked a cigarette. But it gave me a chance to spend some time with Moritz, an old ally from our student days, in another foreign and strange country.</p>
<p>But Moritz was also spontaneous and I think that's what I will miss the most. I remember one time I saw him at the end of the day when I was working late, about to go home. Instead he caught my eye and asked me if I'd like to join him and a friend for some whiskey tasting. That simple and spontaneous act of generosity brightened up my day, and that wasn't the only time. Another time he asked if I wanted to hike up the reculet in the Jura mountains with him. A few hours later we were at the top, overlooking the Geneva valley in all its glory on one side and the sunset on the other. He took me away from the chaos of the lab and showed me how much natural beauty there was just waiting to be discovered, because he loved the outdoors so much.</p>
<p>Although Moritz had a short life, he had a very full life. In 35 years he managed to achieve more than most of us will ever achieve. He had travelled the world, taken part in the world class research, he made friends wherever he went and of course he loved to climb, and to make the most of everything around him. He had a brilliant sense of humour and could find the fun in anything. At one point one of the CERN experiments made its data public, so I decided to analyse it and put the results online to show people what could be done. Whenever we do this there's always a fear that someone inexperienced but optimistic will make a simple mistake and think that they have found a new particle that hundreds of scientists somehow missed. It was only a few hours before Moritz had taken my results and edited them to put add a false peak discovery in the data, and put it on facebook saying "Hobby researchers already found a strong unexpected signal!" I would have been angry, except it was very funny and at that point I was living in Brussels and already missing Moritz.</p>
<p>Earlier I said that he took part in world class research, but that's not quite true. He lead world class research, and only last month his work was presented at the very prestigious Moriond conference. It was Moritz's insight that lead to an important breakthrough, and without him there's no way to know how long it would take to make that step. His loss to the physics community is huge and will be felt for a very long time. He wasn't just a leader in research, he also lead in teaching. He took part in Master Classes, where the students' responses were overwhelmingly positive. He spoke with people both inside and outside of physics, of all ages. Many colleagues and friends have told me how much they enjoyed chatting with Moritz over beer or coffee [and as we have heard from Marco, his conversations inspired others]. The path to becoming a physicist is a long and difficult one, and it is through these kinds of conversations that inspire people and give them the courage to continue. Moritz may be gone, but his legacy will live on for many years. Decades from now there will be physicists who still will remember his kind words and sense of humour as the moment when they realised that they could follow the same path. They won't even know that he has passed away, and they will carry on the work he started.</p>
<p>I think that although Moritz died so young, there is some comfort that he enjoyed his life so much. His career was very successful. He was loved by many people all over the world. He loved his work and he loved his hobbies. From the time I met him to his final day he loved life and every day celebrated it with those around him. And for that I'm very grateful. I'll never forget him, and even though I miss him deeply, I am also very happy to have shared the time we had together.</p>
</blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZioR6jJNJhLu5gBG-j_vgqN7JyMV2GvWfKp_JBV3TBQftwgTOls8IXOWjCdKFYFboiHv_MLljYlFZBwfaIEXCg_PCGePFR9SLazmdtmHWEJ4w0crOgYpMNQGt5vRs5H3MYD35VDgww0/s1600/trier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZioR6jJNJhLu5gBG-j_vgqN7JyMV2GvWfKp_JBV3TBQftwgTOls8IXOWjCdKFYFboiHv_MLljYlFZBwfaIEXCg_PCGePFR9SLazmdtmHWEJ4w0crOgYpMNQGt5vRs5H3MYD35VDgww0/s1600/trier.jpg" /></a><br />After the funeral we got some gourmet food on the banks of the river Moselle.</div>
<p>I went to the funeral with a mutual friend, Marco. Not everyone could go to the funeral, so I wrote a summary of the day for a friend who could not make it. Here is what I told him:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Moritz's funeral was, as you would expect, a very intense experience. The service itself was entirely secular, lead by friends and family. People lit candles and left flowers at the church, there was guitar music and readings from friends and colleagues. We then went to the grave to bury the urn, then to a hotel for a reception. At the reception many people spoke about their memories of Moritz and there were many stories, photos and articles that people had shared. There were also copies of the LHCb document and some toys and school projects from his childhood. It was rather strange seeing these, because we don't often think about a person's childhood when you know them first as colleagues. People spoke about their memories (including Marco and Florian) and was very ambivalent about this, and in the end didn't speak up. I'd already shared some very personal reflections and felt that there was little I could add without repeating what had already been said.</p>
<p>After that Marco and I went to a restaurant and then drove back, but the rest of the physicists (about 12-15) went to a local bar and had beers in Moritz's memory. If we'd have known that was the plan we probably would have stayed another day in Trier. It was a very tough day for me and Marco. As well as losing Moritz, it brought back many painful memories of when my brother died and how hard the following years were.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The weekend after the funeral was spent mostly in my apartment feeling quite sad about everything. I had learned some more about the accident and it sounds like it was very fast and it was the result of Moritz either taking a risk or making a mistake, or both. That means right unti his final minutes he was very happy, and that nobody else has to feel any responsibility over the accident. That should have made me feel better, but I still very intensely sad about the loss, and a deep longing. I kept remembering him and imagining him laughing and joking. His family's words were "We are endlessly sad". I spent some time with some friends in Brussels to take my mind off things, and to talk about the future. That helped a lot, and right now I am in a much better place for it. I can see a bright future ahead of me, even if one my most talented and ambitious friends won't be there for it. There's no doubt in my mind that Moritz would have been an excellent professor, but as I tried to explain at the funeral (and probably did not succeed) I think I prefer to remember him young, brilliant, thirsty for more challenges and full of so much potential. I find that inspiring, motivating, and I'm going to use my memories of Moritz to push me to keep trying new things and keep moving forward with my life. The transition from a morose weekend after the funeral to where I am today (in the UK visiting old and new friends and planning out the next arc of my life) was not easy, but it was quite fast, and I'm grateful for that</p>
<p>Things are still a bit complicated by the grief over Dylan. The more I thought about how Moritz was happy right until the end the more I realised that Dylan wasn't. He was alone and afraid for a very long time. If he'd have contacted someone who could have stayed up with him all night and talked things over he could still be here now. For the first time in my life, after nearly a decade, I realised why my dad was so upset that he couldn't have helped Dylan. There's a fundamental difference between realising that nobody could help him (which was my own understanding at the time) and that a single pserson couldn't help him (which is how my dad felt, and then later on I felt.) The second feeling is one of immense pity, regret, and some sense of failure. By a large margin, that was the worst feeling I had at the funeral and that was the main reason I didn't stand up to speak. Marco did, and he was very brave to do so. I felt very proud to be with him when he spoke, and that compounded my own feelings of insecurity, as if I had failed Moritz and his family by not speaking up. Even so a safe space is a safe space, and I just didn't feel safe in that frame of mind.</p>
<p>Here are some rambling thoughts I sent to a friend on the matter:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>I wanted to make sure that there was someone at the funeral who could talk about how much he'd be missed at CERN, but that was already said by someone else so I didn't feel so much of a need to say all this. I also didn't want to mess anything up- my feelings were very complicated that day, especially since I couldn't help comparing Moritz to Dylan and didn't want to end up saying anything inappropriate or insensitive. I think I made the right decision not speaking, but even so it feels like I failed in a way.</p>
<p>Dylan and I weren't very close towards the end, unfortunately. We didn't fall out or anything- he'd been living in Australia for a couple of years and returned to the UK 6 months before he killed himself. That was the final two terms of my final year as an undergrad at Oxford, and you know how hard I work, so as far as I can remember we didn't see each other face to face in that time. The last time I spoke to him was on the phone. I called my dad and Dylan picked up. I invited them both to visit me in Oxford when my exams were over and Dylan said he'd like that. A couple of weeks later he died and he never came to visit. It can't have been long after that phone call that he decided to kill himself. Obviously I'd have like to have seen him, and probably should have made more of an effort to see him in those 6 months, but I am glad that so close to the end he knew that I cared about him and wanted to see him again. I'm not sure how I'd have felt if I hadn't had that conversation with him. I think I still have quite a few emails from him that I never replied to, because I kept putting it off indefinitely.</p>
<p>To some extent I think that's why things were very hard with Moritz's death. I keep thinking to myself that I should have made more of an effort to spend time with him because I've always had the attitude that work is more important than keeping in touch with people, and that they'll always be there when I want to spend time with them. Obviously that's not the case, but we can't spend our lives trying to spend as much time with everyone as possible, we'd never get anything done. It's hard not have a lot of regrets, for both Dylan and Moritz. They both had short and brilliant lives, and with Moritz I could not think of a better way for him to have gone- he was happy right up to the last minute and died doing what he loved. It's much harder dealing with their deaths than those of older people. I lost three of my grandparents in the years following Dylan's death, and a very inspiring teacher a few years before, all after long periods of declining health. I was sad to lose them, but it was nowhere near as tough as it was with Dylan or Moritz.</p>
<p>Instead of focusing on how I should have spent more time with Moritz I'm trying to see it like this: One day he was alive and loving life, and the next he wasn't. For him there was very little pain or regret or fear. The next day we heard about the news and have to go on with our lives, so although we're sad for our own losses it's better to be happier for the life that Moritz had. Things are diferent for Dylan, as he chose to die and it was only when I became angry at him that I started to come to terms with his death and start to move on. After struggling to make sense of Moritz's death I finally had to confront Dylan's state of mind. He must have been very afraid for a very long time. He drank around a litre of vodka before he died, and wrote a note. He knew that his death woud have a terrible effect on everyone else (although he had no idea how much and for how long the aftermath would last.) If he'd reached out to just one person who could have stayed up talking to him all night he might not have chosen to die. Even then I probably would have rolled my eyes at how melodramatic he'd been. It's strange that dying makes us feel a way that almost dying never can. If Moritz had broken his back and had to spend the rest of life in a wheelchair I'd feel nowhere near as crushed as I have done, even though for him it would probably be a much greater loss. That puts a lot of things in perspective and helps clarify a lot of thoughts, although it doesn't really make me feel any better.</p>
<p>I've been through a lot in the past couple of weeks and it's helping a lot to write it all down, so thanks for giving me the impetus to do that. I got a group email today from Moirtz's family, and the only phot they used was one of mine. It's from a hike in the Reculét, Moritz looks very happy, and for once it didn't make me feel sad to see it again, instead I'm glad I could help his family in some very small way. So things are getting better.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There are still some more things I need to write down before I can move on. Moritz's absence on LHCb is still being felt quite keenly. Visits to see various friends have helped in many different ways and I should explain how. I started my career in particle physics because I lost Dylan and needed time alone to rebuild my life. I don't want to end my career in the field just because Moritz died. To have such a wonderful time of life bookended by tragedies would be terrible. I've got a lot of hope for the next years, so I need to find a way to make that change that doesn't feel as though my life is being dictated by how I react to losing people.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-20733161014919630642015-04-18T05:22:00.000-07:002015-04-18T17:09:02.602-07:00Weekend trip<p>This week I'm coming back to the UK for three days to deal with the fallout from Moritz's death and how it relates to Dylan's death. The way things have turned out I'll be going back in time with a four (now five) pronged approach. First I'll spend time with Lee, who I don't think new Moritz, but was a pillar of support for me when I was at CERN. Then I'll spend time with Tom and Eugenia, who knew of Moritz of California, in his former glory days. Then I'll move on to Tim and Graham who were also out in California at the same time. Then on to Jamie and Debbie who helped me when I was in Oxford, and whom I have no problem being completely open and honest with. Finally there's a friend who's very recently found out about a loss, so we'll be spending the day together. It's going to be cathartic, and although it feels as though I'm most of the way to being okay again, there's always space for a bit more healing before coming back to the real world.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxiwkdehorwC75rcwxThJ7fH3tTZXtn9jFexM8uU8JObeHDWE-rwldfIpvLlVnnK_Zwibh08Ku5AmefQIDHr6ekrvA_qleDBcYzZlVpEL96aAronuk1itsmnMbAHi0-qwmgFnOZE7kcc/s1600/countryside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxiwkdehorwC75rcwxThJ7fH3tTZXtn9jFexM8uU8JObeHDWE-rwldfIpvLlVnnK_Zwibh08Ku5AmefQIDHr6ekrvA_qleDBcYzZlVpEL96aAronuk1itsmnMbAHi0-qwmgFnOZE7kcc/s1600/countryside.jpg" /></a><br />Speeding through the English countryside to the next destination.</div>
<p>The first day is done and I've spent most of that time talking about the future. That's a very important part of grief. When you can think about the future with optimism then that's a good sign that you're healing .</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-17868604356939281362015-04-18T05:17:00.004-07:002015-04-18T16:45:39.117-07:00The house of cards<p>Perhaps one of the worst feelings I've experienced in the past week is that nothing has changed. I felt the same as I had when I was first in California, that I had no plan for the future. I felt like everything had fallen away from me and that I was alone again, struggling to find my place, struggling to find the strength to care about anything. It felt as though nothing I had accomplished in the past decade had meant anything. It took me a long time to get to a point where I was happy, and confident, and where I loved life. That was the state I was in when I was at CERN, and when I was spending time with (among other people) Moritz. I felt all that evaporate as if everything I had done was just a house of cards I'd constructed to make myself feel better. If I end up alone, grieving, finding it hard to care or focus on anything the had I really gained anything in the past decade?</p>
<p>It turns out that I've gained a lot. Having been through a more intense and long lived bereavement I have all the experience and tools I need to get through this bereavement, no matter how much it reminds of my loss of Dylan. In the course of a week I seem to have gone through most of the main phases of grief already, and I'm now planning for the future again. I've almost accepted Moritz's death now, with only occasionally having to remind myself that he's gone. Acceptance is much more important than happiness.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-10472341805090116002015-04-18T04:50:00.001-07:002015-04-18T04:50:00.707-07:00Small details bring big comfort<p>When someone dies unexpectedly there's a tendency to want to know more information. When Dylan died my first question was "How?" When Moritz died I was in shock for the first few days, but as I found out more about the accident the shock became easier to handle. It wasn't just me, a mutual friend was also keen to find out more. What we know is that Moritz suffered a climbing accident, that the conditions were perfect and the equipment in good order. It took me a while to realise what this meant, which is that it was the result of human error. We also know he died on the scene, so it was probably fast. I still want to know more, but I don't think it would be appropriate or helpful to to do so. For days I've been imagining how the accident happened, and its immediate aftermath. Those are the kinds of thoughts I can't seem to turn off, but they're fading away as I come to accept what happened. Right now any small amount of information about Moritz helps. Talking about him in the past tense helps. Learning more about the accident helps. Anything that makes this seem more real helps.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-45224731346435993262015-04-18T04:48:00.001-07:002015-04-18T16:48:39.930-07:00Introverted grieving<p>The weekend following Moritz's death gave me a sobering reminder of just how much of an introvert I am. To avoid confusion I'll describe what I think an introvert is. An introvert is someone who feels emotionally tired after extended social interaction. (Okay, I'm just one person and this is my own experience. Other introverts may have different experiences, mileages may vary etc.) It's a purposefully vague description, but what I mean is that I can't relax when there are people constantly demanding my attention. I have to prepare myself for social interaction, which goes unnoticed most of the time. However when times are tough, or I'm tired from work I find that social interaction can make me very irritable. There have been occasions when I've stayed up until 3am simply to find time to myself.</p>
<p>For two days after hearing about Moritz's death I had to be the CMS Shift Leader for eight hours each day. This means taking responsibility for decisions made in the Control Room and working with four other shifters who usually need some level of "babysitting". At the same time I was receiving a barrage of condolence messages and offers of support. After each shift I did my best to escape and be alone. As I wrote this I was at the lab in Brussels and not in the office. Rather than interact with people and their seemingly inane topics (seminars don't matter to me this week) I was sitting under a tree in the sun, writing a blog post.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWUS-ETLgFTOFH7S0Ai0JD0tE-ZxrByf5QC7wrTuxPdEaKXw8bcONcLau2AChdAxqeb_pmRSvg9Dnwhfi1-qFP3gAdAL7SRmzzxykPLdtJPgxnimT7Rhw8m1nqWrHD9BYChEm1YswD9w/s1600/ControlRoom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWUS-ETLgFTOFH7S0Ai0JD0tE-ZxrByf5QC7wrTuxPdEaKXw8bcONcLau2AChdAxqeb_pmRSvg9Dnwhfi1-qFP3gAdAL7SRmzzxykPLdtJPgxnimT7Rhw8m1nqWrHD9BYChEm1YswD9w/s1600/ControlRoom.jpg" /></a><br />The last place I want to be when I'm grieving.</div>
<p>The problem is that if social interaction comes at some emotional cost then the social interaction has to be worth that cost, and when you're having a tough time it's hard to justify. On top of this there are many things people try to say or do that don't even help. Most people's responses to being told of a death are to fall over themselves trying to sound sorry, and offering help that won't actually help. When this happens it's hard not to think that the other person is doing it for their sake rather than yours, or that they think being polite is more important than being sincere. What is more helpful is to give the grieving person some space and control over how to approach things. When I'm grieving I pick and choose who I spend time with very carefully. Most people simply don't exercise (or have) the social skills that are needed. Among the best choices are the people who have been bereaved themselves. Other good choices are those people who don't feel constrained by social convention or don't rely on etiquette, because to be blunt a lot of the stuff you say when you're trying to cope with loss can sound a little crazy or even crass. What you need is someone who can listen to that and not get caught up trying to work out what a socially acceptable response is (because there isn't one.)</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-38972017420116064342015-04-18T04:43:00.002-07:002015-04-18T16:54:54.577-07:00What not to say to a griever<p>One the strange parts about interacting with people when you're grieving is that everyone seems keen to say something, but nobody seems to know what to say. That can be frustrating for everyone involved. In the first day or two the griever faces a wall of condolences, many of which don't actually say anything helpful, followed by silence. It's hard to find the right words, I understand that, but it's not impossible, and most of the time it's not actually that important.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Nothing</dt>
<dd>It's perfectly acceptable to say nothing at all, especially if you planned to send a message. If you can't find anything to say then say nothing. Sometimes that's an appropriate response. Remember that the griever probably already has dozens of messages stacking up anyway.</dd>
<dt>"I'm sorry."</dt>
<dd>This is a very simple response and that's the beauty of it. If you're genuinely sorry that this happened then say so.</dd>
<dt>"If you want to talk, I'm here."</dt>
<dd>Expect the response to be "No" and don't be offended if it is. Most people need to talk about their loss, but it's usually something so personal that there are very few people they are willing to talk to about it.</dd>
<dt>"If you want to talk, <emph>now or in the future</emph>, I'm here."</dt>
<dd>In my experience this is perhaps the best response. In the first few days after a death there is a barrage of messages and it can be hard to even keep up to date with them. As the weeks and months pass by people's interest fades away, but the loss doesn't. If you are honestly interested in the long term wellbeing of your friend, and are willing to help in the future then offer to do so. Many griving people feel embarrassed or akward asking for help later on, so offer that help now, they'll remember it.</dd>
<dt>"My thoughts/prayers are with you."</dt>
<dd>A bit cheesy to say in person, but in a message this can bring a lot of comfort. (I have a problem with people praying for the sick, but praying for the grieving is fine.)</dd>
<dt>"Let me know if I can help in any way."</dt>
<dd>You would not believe the amount of tedious stuff you have to deal with when a death happens. A lot of people want to do something and want to keep some sense of control, so there are some things they won't let you do. At the same time maybe they forgot to go shopping and have nothing to eat, or maybe they need a lift somewhere. Small practical helps means a great deal, don't underestimate how much a little task will do to help someone out.</dd>
</dl>
<p>Notice that nothing in this list is intrusive, and most of these responses are invitations. They let the introverted griever decide what is best and gives them their own space to respond.</p>
<p>Now here are some things to not say:</p>
<dl>
<dt>"I don't know what to say..."</dt>
<dd>This sounds a lot like "I realise I can't make you feel better, so I want to say something to make myself feel better." And if you say it to someone like me then they might feel bad about making you feel awkward. That discourages people from talking in the future, which probably isn't what you want.</dd>
<dt>"Look on the bright side..."</dt>
<dd>This one really annoys people. It trivialises the loss and also suggests that you think the griever simply has the wrong attitude. You might well have something good to say after this opening, so just skip the opening.</dd>
<dt>Anything with a sexual innuendo</dt>
<dd>Yes, I've had this from a few friends. Don't do it. Let the griever be the first one to crack a joke.</dd>
<dt>"I wish I could make things better/change things."</dt>
<dd>Well obviously. So does the griever. But pointing out the problem so bluntly doesn't help someone to deal with it.</dd>
<dt>"If only they hadn't..."</dt>
<dd>There are lots of "if onlys" involved with death. Going over them again and again doesn't help. It's what often happens to people and it's quite a painful experience.</dd>
</dl>
<p>If you know the person quite well then you can go a little further, but be prepared for people to ask you to stop talking:</p>
<dl>
<dt>"My X died of...", "I was your age when my X died."</dt>
<dd>It really depends on the person you're talking to if they want to relate to you or not. They may not be ready to talk to you, or they may be relieved to hear that they're not the only one who has to deal with loss. It very much depends on your friendship and their state of mind.</dd>
<dt>That sucks.</dt>
<dd>I like this one. It's simple, it's not wrapped up in etiquette and it does nothing except express sympathy. Don't try it with a stranger, but with a friend I find this helps a lot.</dd>
<dt>"I know it sounds trite/a cliché but..."</dt>
<dd>The end of this sentence is almost never pointless, so just forget the first bit. Instead of saying "I know it sounds trite, but it'll take time." just say "It'll take time." Say something meaningful without preceding it with an apology.</dd>
</dl>
<p>One of the important things is that grief goes far beyond the first day. Talk to people afterwards. If they've lost someone very close then weeks or months later you can do a lot worse than occasionally ask "Are you holding up okay?". If you know the person well then asking "How long has it been since X passed away?" can work too. That helps put distance between them and their loss, and gives them a chance to talk, while acknowledging that's okay to need help a long time later, and that it's also okay to have moved on.</p>
<p>There aren't many hard and fast rules about this. Everyone's different, and every bereavement is different, not just from day to day, but hour to hour. Grieving people are usually hurting. When they don't want to talk they really don't want to talk. Try to pick up on the signs as best you can and don't be offended if they don't want to talk. Don't take it personally, because they may not be ready to talk to anyone yet. They may want to talk about something completely unrelated, and that's okay as well. Be there when they need you, and bear in mind that only they can decide when that is. Finally, never talk to a grieving person to make yourself feel better, because that almost never works for either of you.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-15565180318120064992015-04-18T04:42:00.000-07:002015-04-18T05:23:13.259-07:00Whirlwind tour of emotions<p>This week has been a bit of a hurricane of emotions and thoughts. There are so many different things that I want to say, so I'll make a few tiny blog posts about each. In this post I'll talk a bit more about my friendship with Moritz.</p>
<p>As usual I have a lot of thoughts about not spending enough time with Moritz, and regret that I never took some opportunities, always busy with work and turning down invitations. This was worse with Dylan, where there many more messages I never replied to and meetups I missed. So I went back through my messages with Moritz to see how our friendship unfolded, and what I saw made me quite happy. From his very first days at CERN I was inviting him to my place for food and to join in with beers. As time went on we got closer and more informal, and as those who knew him will know, he had a wicked sense of humour. Looking back at this made me realise that although now I wish I could spend more time with him, we already spent plenty of time together. There will always be those times when I said I was too busy and missed out, but there will also be those times when I wasn't. Going back through the archive of messages was a big comfort and helped ease the pain a lot.</p>
<p>It also made me realise a big difference between Moritz and Dylan. Moritz loved life and right to the last minute he was doing what he loved to do. His death was an honest accident that was the result of bad luck. With Dylan it was different. He chose to die. No matter how much he enjoyed life, he decided to die, and realising that difference helped me cope with Moritz's death.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-87936920694451979052015-04-13T02:46:00.003-07:002015-04-13T08:13:05.380-07:00Day off<p>Yesterday I took a day off. A day off from work, and a day off from grief. It's not possible turn off the thoughts and feelings that keep ebbing back, of course, but it is possible to change the way we act about them. So I took up a friend's (Alex's) offer for a fun day in Geneva, and after my last shift was over we headed off. It's important to pick the right person for this kind of thing and to define a few ground rules. The rules were that we wouldn't talk about work, we wouldn't talk about grief or Moritz or Dylan, and Alex wouldn't worry about what he said to me. We'd just have a day out in Geneva, nothing else. With these ground rules, and with someone I can trust not to talk about the boring parts of work, and most importantly someone who is not trying to make me feel better for their own sake, or out of a sense of politeness, there was a good chance I'd get the space I needed.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dMFWQB3zvmQXZYBptLFiebm6eBk9Icm0AnSWvBYkQda5FARO5LEZRZ4yeAB-UYriL9vjXRIX0vgNELDPVS7NBFpagxP7lk7q8i83DRhds66MmYWz5981ywnhTXcMgKjN20Mo3xxYOk8/s1600/Geneva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dMFWQB3zvmQXZYBptLFiebm6eBk9Icm0AnSWvBYkQda5FARO5LEZRZ4yeAB-UYriL9vjXRIX0vgNELDPVS7NBFpagxP7lk7q8i83DRhds66MmYWz5981ywnhTXcMgKjN20Mo3xxYOk8/s1600/Geneva.jpg" /></a><br />A particularly glorious day in Geneva.</div>
<p>This is something I tried many years ago when I was still raw over the shock of losing Dylan. I spent a few weeks travelling between Oxford where I worked, and Crewe, my family home where Dylan died, with both being stressful and emotionally draining. At that time I didn't know what to do. So I turned to a friend in Liverpool to take a day off. Rach offered to listen to me talk about Dylan for as long as I wanted, but in the end I didn't talk about him much at all. We simply walked around Liverpool looking at interesting things and talking about nothing in particular. I think afterwards Rach felt she hadn't done enough when in reality she'd helped me out in a way that nobody else was doing at the time. Grief's exhausting. Just getting used to the idea of never seeing someone walk into the room again takes time and each time you're reminded of this is a bit grating and the only thing leads to acceptance is time. One of the weirdest feelings I had was being simultaneously happy and sad, being able to joke while my heart was still breaking. Having a fun day out can't remove the grief, no matter how hard I try, but it does give some relief.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptcJm8hWfSLI56ghWZmgXRtyfIGfpYNXyCR1JsqNOMNz_wsm_kLue23A4NOTQnHKkVyD167XzBk6fxsgLpY1MyxLBotkOZo2SQEw7iujGSXjSHZb9s2_RHTkPEJ9kAvekPQ3-pGz6l0M/s1600/Rach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptcJm8hWfSLI56ghWZmgXRtyfIGfpYNXyCR1JsqNOMNz_wsm_kLue23A4NOTQnHKkVyD167XzBk6fxsgLpY1MyxLBotkOZo2SQEw7iujGSXjSHZb9s2_RHTkPEJ9kAvekPQ3-pGz6l0M/s1600/Rach.jpg" /></a><br />Being silly with Rach, as usual, providing a much needed break from all the serious at a time when the seriousness was too heavy to handle.</div>
<p>Yesterday, while I avoided talking about Moritz or Dylan, I did think about them from time to time. In the evening we headed back to Alex's for dinner. Preparing dinner with Alex reminded me of my student days when I was at Oxford. There aren't many ways to make me feel more welcome than to ask me over for dinner and to help prepare for food, and that's something I've been missing in recent months. I was already feeling nostalgic immediately before I heard about Moritz's death, so doing something "normal" for once instead of something as an expat or a postdoc was a welcome change. Having had a delightful day out followed by a simple home made meal we finished the day off with some whiskey. Moritz loved whiskey tasting (and often got it wrong when he tried to guess which was which) so this reminded me of when I bumped into him and we sampled some very nice whiskey in Restaurant 1. Being reminded of him in such a pleasant environment was very comforting. After a long time of grieving over the loss of Dylan my memories of him went from painful to wistful, and eventually I was grateful that I had the memories at all. It took about 2-3 years for that to happen with my memories of Dylan, but with Moritz I've at least got the illusion that it's taking a few days. Being able to see things from the happier side of the grieving process has helped a great deal, because that was the most draining part of the process first time around. There's a huge difference between dealing with loss with no end in sight, and dealing with loss with the sense of hope that things will get better. That moment when you get the first memories that make feel a little happier is a watershed. Now I know that I'm going to have the strength to get through the next few weeks between now and Moritz's funeral and come out the other side okay. No matter how much it reminds me of what happened in the aftermath of Dylan's death and no matter how many parallels I can draw between Dylan and Moritz I'll not only be able to get through this, but I might even be able to help some mutual friends too.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepSmRyUY-Swar7ADoZPrmGZxNxDectdXAhdYkALA4n-7lwyAFr7tKAf25Cmt6SkpQp0ewSCoegEdXUaTzDMLsea2omtWLtZfC3OWAfOmPy1iknZ4uzwDUhJcLLzaHSEfOj7yo1ZD680I/s1600/Alex2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepSmRyUY-Swar7ADoZPrmGZxNxDectdXAhdYkALA4n-7lwyAFr7tKAf25Cmt6SkpQp0ewSCoegEdXUaTzDMLsea2omtWLtZfC3OWAfOmPy1iknZ4uzwDUhJcLLzaHSEfOj7yo1ZD680I/s1600/Alex2.jpg" /></a><br />Alex: I'm on a boat!</div>
<p>Thanks go to Alex for the day off yesterday, and to Rach for the day off a decade ago. Those two days made a huge difference in the healing process for me. Getting out of the routine of grief and work, and finding the time to just enjoy life for a few hours is what it's all about. Now it's time to get back to work, because life goes on, and that's okay.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-69339321365789594822015-04-11T12:35:00.000-07:002015-04-11T12:41:52.381-07:00Moritz<p>This week I received some very sad news. One of my friends, Moritz, died very suddenly. He was rock climbing with some friends, had an accident and died on the scene. I've known Moritz since 2008, when we were in California together. Since moving to CERN we've spent a lot more time together. DVD nights, gym sessions, whiskey tasting, nights out in Geneva, hiking in the Jura. He was a brilliant physicist, his work was recently shown at the Moriond conference and his career was about to take off. He's left a huge void in the community that's being felt by a lot of people right now.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-errYd3Pfw4TZIIiiYXma3sZiQWIwC9DDEL5Ue3kDrPF9R4vsx6qUC8Kvqb_fiZdocgQi3YuQM36UQQaut0ItzrXo4CBQ92CQVYBYYyjm2BYi-5b15E7wA5l3dYxHX7yA50CQO-bwhI/s1600/moritz1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-errYd3Pfw4TZIIiiYXma3sZiQWIwC9DDEL5Ue3kDrPF9R4vsx6qUC8Kvqb_fiZdocgQi3YuQM36UQQaut0ItzrXo4CBQ92CQVYBYYyjm2BYi-5b15E7wA5l3dYxHX7yA50CQO-bwhI/s1600/moritz1.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>The time we spent together in more recent months was usually when we'd bump into each other at CERN, chatting over lunch, like old friends. We both worked in high pressure environments, in somewhat ridiculous circumstances, and made sacfrices for our work. It was very comforting to know that he was there, that we could always talk, that our friendship predated our time at CERN and would last for years aferwards, that there was always someone I could share a beer and a cigarette with (and Moritz was the only person I ever smoked with.) That's all gone now. When Moritz died I didn't just lose a friend, I lost a source of support, a comrade, and one of the few people here I would want to chat to right now. Unfortunately life goes on and physics is unforgiving.</p>
<p>If Dylan was still alive he'd be about Moritz's age, and Moritz reminds of Dylan in many ways. I recently found out that he had a younger brother. I can feel parts of my grief about Dylan leaking into my feelings about Moritz. Part of my feels angry at Moritz, as if he did this on purpose. I need to get away for a while to manage these feelings.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqwa4HvcrIugnMIzSLRCeYShn6zP-xqxzLgthD9g1WhNYxS9D7pprqfiiFBdPOTEW8ejAPLVIx3H67uNORFmZTJzAabCYa6XfBU488ke_Lvd05pkOwqUJ723N2R-ReWqnSy_1Sm81YUk/s1600/moritz2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqwa4HvcrIugnMIzSLRCeYShn6zP-xqxzLgthD9g1WhNYxS9D7pprqfiiFBdPOTEW8ejAPLVIx3H67uNORFmZTJzAabCYa6XfBU488ke_Lvd05pkOwqUJ723N2R-ReWqnSy_1Sm81YUk/s1600/moritz2.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>What I want to do is leave and go back to the UK. I want to speak to the people who helped me with Dylan's death. I want to talk to them, play stupid games, make stupid jokes and remember that no matter how bad it gets I have people who know me and know what grief is really like. I find myself in a foreign country, alone, being reminded of not only the loss of Moritz, but the loss of Dylan too, almost a decade ago. No matter how much the people here may care they are still, at the end of the day, colleagues first and friends second. It's rare to find someone I feel comfortable being open with when it comes to grief. Having said that there is a mutual friend I want to spend some time with, as soon as I get a chance.</p>
<p>Moritz is gone. I've lost one of my friends, one of my allies, and now I feel alone and out of place. It's made CERN feel a lot colder. I love Moritz like a brother, and now I'll never see him again. I need to find a way to move on. I miss him so much right now.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-33903553671761568582015-01-12T02:53:00.003-08:002015-01-12T03:02:41.253-08:00Gradually slipping away<p>Readers of this blog may have noticed that I've spent most of my time on here talking about my own life and my future, rather than talking about Dylan. There are a few reasons for this. The first reason is that Dylan's suicide has had a knock on effect on nearly every aspect of my life since he died, so it's natural to talk about my life in the context of this blog. The second reason is that this blog is not about Dylan, it's about me, and my grief for my memories of Dylan is not the same as grief for Dylan (my other family members would write very different posts if they kept blogs.) The third reason is that I've already written a lot about Dylan on an old LiveJournal account, and that was very cathartic. The final reason is that it's sometimes too painful to write about. These blog posts take time, not just to write, but to find the right frame of mind and the time needed for reflection. I'll spend the rest of this post giving an example of something about the loss of Dylan that bothers me.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw36l8HA3aQO3xKCDinPRt0a4wb0ICeibxY_vsuCm8-nD8rDFfs-GY8GA2sVgHosZLzOm-1HSk9H4QnVOJREquVfScqVfvh2uZIxai-ZBKmce_9s7yDPyRGkfNZAKMMrt00Rc0GMjYaoM/s1600/Dylan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw36l8HA3aQO3xKCDinPRt0a4wb0ICeibxY_vsuCm8-nD8rDFfs-GY8GA2sVgHosZLzOm-1HSk9H4QnVOJREquVfScqVfvh2uZIxai-ZBKmce_9s7yDPyRGkfNZAKMMrt00Rc0GMjYaoM/s1600/Dylan.jpg" /></a><br />This is how I remember Dylan.</div>
<p>Dylan and I used to share a very small bedroom. We had bunkbeds and we'd often stay up late at night, listening to the radio and talking to each other. I can still sing the theme tune to the "Late Night Munster Show" that ran from 10pm to 1am (very late for 10 and 12 year old boys!) One of my most vivid memories was one night when we made up our own lyrics to the theme tune to One Foot in the Grave. For some reason I thought that the words said "You silly old fool. One foot in the grave." They don't say anything like that, but that didn't stop us from changing the word "fool" to the worst insults we could imagine. We played that game for about an our or more, instead of getting to sleep. It's one of my fondest childhood memories. At the same time as being a pleasant memory it also scares me. This is the first time I've ever shared this story about Dylan and as much as I'd love to reminisce about it I can't. Dylan's dead and he can't talk to me about it. I'm the only person alive who remembers it and when I forget it will be forgotten forever, and I won't even realise it. Every time I forget about something I shared with Dylan part of him slips away forever. There's already so much I must have already forgotten and will never get back, and it's only going to get worse. It's a kind of loss that follows you around for the rest of your life. I've accepted that he's dead, but that doesn't mean that the loss stops there, I'll keep losing bits of him as the memories fade, one by one.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-70335819447935602532014-12-22T18:15:00.000-08:002015-04-15T13:47:27.092-07:00Back in the USA<p>For the past week I've been in Florida. It's a beautiful place and gloriously sunny. It reminded me very much of the time I spend in California, when I was a PhD student. I love being in the USA, especially when the sun is shining. It's a cliché, I know, but it feels like there's freedom in the air. The wide, open spaces, the luxurious streets lined with boutiques, and dry heat all make me think that I can do anything I want to do. However if I take the time to reflect on this, eventually I'll feel a little melancholy.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAu9H4eW_55x47-R45fjG3cb1d_pXYp_BiV8pGdu8tdgD5dug9jeiHfX7Pc63M2_zq8l7VF6YWNxqUksE2OICtm3e64I_VGqyzMBMyxUEkDBhG9qgfJa53BIhvSU5Y5nfyqQOlQIsL_E/s1600/sunset550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAu9H4eW_55x47-R45fjG3cb1d_pXYp_BiV8pGdu8tdgD5dug9jeiHfX7Pc63M2_zq8l7VF6YWNxqUksE2OICtm3e64I_VGqyzMBMyxUEkDBhG9qgfJa53BIhvSU5Y5nfyqQOlQIsL_E/s1600/sunset550.jpg" /></a><br />Calfornia: where I found solutide.</div>
<p>The reason I first came to the USA was to get away from things. To get away from Dylan's death, to get away from the UK, to get away from my family life, to get away from some of my friends, to get away from my old life. I needed to get away to find something new. I needed time alone to think, to feel the loss, to rebuild my life. I couldn't go back to what I did before. I had to keep going on. I had to find some way to keep living my life. It's unfortunate that I planned to be there for 18 months, and found that this kept getting extended until I was there for 30 months. Looking back I do feel some regret about my time in California. I spent so much time alone there, so much time waiting for the next part of my life. The area was full of promise and possibility and adventure, but I spent much of the first year keeping to myself, not wanting to get close to people. It's a strange feeling when someone asks about you and your interests and you have trouble answering, realising that all the things you used to love doing (in my case student politics, LGBT activism, mental health advocacy) are no longer a part of your life, and you haven't had the energy to find something new to replace them.</p>
<p>Eventually I "came out" as a griever, but only after I'd settled down and gotten to know people a little better. At the same time I invested a lot more of my time into my PhD and developing my skills as a programmer (something which I still keep up and still continue to improve.) I started to heal, no longer feeling the need to be alone so much. Just as I was starting to get to grips with my new life and starting to genuinely feel happy to be alive one of my friends lost her mother. The loss wasn't exactly unexpected, but it wasn't predicted either. Helping my friend in her darkest hours helped me a lot too. It's one thing to feel lost, but I think I would not be able to face myself if I never helped someone else who felt the same way. One of the best healing experience I've been through is helping my friend at that time. We've remained friends ever since and she's going to name her first child after her mother.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD5uPYV3AzT8fl-snA8f_EpEnWOjVvavVNxD6sD3xCaDkcItKhwjgrU3aO9jqLWmV2chfCcCqzM5Ei39r5qS6v40DUjIoPft7D-kKipggnye9QbUsepJvHwUnWd4qbHuLbcEpjfO_ylY/s1600/reflection550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD5uPYV3AzT8fl-snA8f_EpEnWOjVvavVNxD6sD3xCaDkcItKhwjgrU3aO9jqLWmV2chfCcCqzM5Ei39r5qS6v40DUjIoPft7D-kKipggnye9QbUsepJvHwUnWd4qbHuLbcEpjfO_ylY/s1600/reflection550.jpg" /></a><br />On my day off from this week's conference I got away from the conference and spent some time in the Everglades.</div>
<p>After a week in Miami, having these gentle reminders of my time in California I find myself feeling rather melancholy on a flight to Washington DC. I'm traveling to see one of my best friends, Rami. He's only known me since after Dylan died, so he doesn't know about my life pre-grief, except what I've told him. When we met we became close and he helped me a huge amount in coming to terms with the loss. The feelings I went through while I was still in the UK took about 18 months to unfold, and Rami saw most of that. He was incredibly supportive, even when I didn't want to grieve. One of the most difficult emotions I've ever felt is being simultaneously happy and sad. Happy to be around friends and enjoying myself, but at the same time feeling this weight in my chest and tears at the back of my eyes because I know that not everything is okay, and that tomorrow I will feel worse. Rami was there for me when I was at the lowest points in my life and for that I will always be grateful. Rami was also there with me in California. For the final six month we shared an apartment in San Jose and this greatly improved my mood while I was there. In the intervening time we've crossed paths when we can, but slowly moved apart. We keep in touch online and I'm glad to say that Rami's enjoyed some phenomenal (and well deserved) success. He's moved on in his life to a better place and I'm very happy for him.</p>
<p>So now I find myself on a plane going to see one of my best friends in the world. I'm in the USA, alone again, and reflecting on memories of California and before. Music helps. Music takes me back to what I used to feel, and helps me to express my feelings so I can go back to living the rest of my life. This Christmas I'll be in Brussels, away from the family, and that too reminds me that Dylan won't be there. So I'm listening to a few tracks that remind me of how I felt in the low points, reminding myself that for a long time it was a struggle to get up in the morning, that part of me still sometimes thinks I can go back and Dylan will be there, and so will my old life. Remembering the hurt helps. Feeling the loss occasionally helps. Otherwise it eats away from the inside until it causes problems. I don't mind the hurt though. It reminds me that I loved Dylan, that I respect the memories, and that I have a lot of self esteem for the life I've had since he died. Having him as a brother for the first 22 years of my life is worth the hurt. The right response to that is to feel sad from time to time, so I'm glad it still affects me. I'm also glad I have the skills to cope with it and see it as an inevitable part of my life.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9krv7XlwkG3_iORcazdA6kFyevCJ9Lj8KRDAM7ewx71w6qSAQ0g1UDOgWB_uznm1psorycMGvsfasR9n2XjosNEbyuj2Ihmx46TT7RdQ8PVc4X3JFlZ0ECQbnmjObnLI1OD8bjTfO99Q/s1600/DSC_5335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9krv7XlwkG3_iORcazdA6kFyevCJ9Lj8KRDAM7ewx71w6qSAQ0g1UDOgWB_uznm1psorycMGvsfasR9n2XjosNEbyuj2Ihmx46TT7RdQ8PVc4X3JFlZ0ECQbnmjObnLI1OD8bjTfO99Q/s1600/DSC_5335.jpg" /></a><br />Even DC can look wistful.</div>
<p>This post has already meandered far too much, so I'll conclude with a song that helped me cope in the year or so after Dylan's death. One of my favourite albums is Hot Fuss by the Killers. The tracks are dark, and catchy, and they helped me to grieve and party in the same space of time, sometimes at the same time. For the worst six months of my life it was my alarm clock. In the evenings I danced to it with my workmates. One of the final songs on the album is called "Everything will be alright." The vast majority of the song is simply repeating the mantra "Everything will be alright." It's in the minor key, it's disjointed, and it sounds like an attempt to deny the underlying panic and worry. I usually hate songs that try to reinforce positivity, like that, but this song is different. It's ironic without being patronising or even upbeat, which was exactly how I felt at the time. People could try to say "It'll be alright" as much as they wanted but it wouldn't change a thing. Dylan was dead. My life had fallen apart. He wasn't coming back and I had to find a way to deal with that. For a while I didn't feel like everything would ever be alright again. But when people asked I'd reply with something like "I'm okay", or "I'll be okay", or in my darker moments "He's not getting any deader." So to have this mantra repeating ironically spoke to me in a way that nothing else quite could. Finally, once you've accepted that things will never be completely "alright" again there is some comfort to be had. One of the happiest moments in my grieving process was the moment of acceptance when I could finally say to myself "Things will never be completely alright again, but that's okay." I don't think I've ever come across a more powerful or enabling sentiment than that. Once you find yourself in a place where nobody can help you, where you can never put things right again, but where you've come to accept that then life just gets so much better, and you feel like you can do anything. That's why the air in the USA feels full of freedom to me. That's why Rami is worth a trip to Washington DC. That's why I'm sat on a plane, alone, with tears welling in my eyes, feeling simultaneously sad and immensely grateful and optimistic at the same time. And that's where I draw my strength from.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-2800675545036410812014-07-10T07:56:00.000-07:002014-07-10T07:56:09.275-07:00A different Dylan dream<p>Last night I had a dream about Dylan and it was unlike any dream I had had before. In this dream, Dylan was alive again and he was chatting to the rest of the family about something, I can't remember what exactly. At one point my mum had a book that turned out to be a collection of all the books we had made as children. It was all the stories we had written in primary school, one after another, covering about a decade of our lives. I wanted to read what my brother and sisters had written, but of course I couldn't see any detail- I don't know what they wrote in real life, and I only recognised glimpses of what I made myself. Anyway, that seemed to be an important part of the dream, the idea that deep in my past there are things that I'll never get back. In this dream my mum and my older sister were also in the same room and talking to each other, or at least not avoiding each other. They're not on speaking terms in real life (for whatever reason, I've lost since given up trying to work out why or how to fix things between them.) Either two things had happened- Dylan had come back and that was enough to make us all come together, or I had actually gone back in time in this dream to when were still a single family instead of different individuals.</p>
<p>What was different about this dream was that for once I was happy that Dylan was around again. Previously when I had dreams about Dylan being alive again it's always been very disturbing to me, because I know someone died and someone was cremated. When it turns out to be a different person that this happened it suddenly becomes very, very disturbing. Why did my family choose to cremate a stranger instead of burying them? Why choose the one method the completely destroys all evidence of who that person was? Why was I the only member of the family that never saw Dylan's body? There are good reasons behind all these choices we made, and many of them are mundane. For me, I'd rather not have a grave to visit because I'd very rarely, if ever, visit it. I'd rather carry the grief with me as part of me, than have it be something I can "visit". There also seems something very conventional and traditional about burial. By going with with the slightly less conventional and more modern option we said that Dylan was special to us and relevant. I never got to see Dylan's body because it was height of summer and I visited Crewe at least twice- once when it was too soon to see the body and once when it was too late. If I had traveled on a different day I might have seen his body.</p>
<p>But somewhere in the back of my mind is the possibility that maybe he didn't really die. In most of my dreams this possibility is so sinister that I don't even want to consider it. In this dream I accepted that he was alive and I enjoyed his company. It was part way through the dream that I realised the problem, and I wanted to talk to Dylan about it, but for various reasons I never got the chance. (The dream moved on to a standard "I'm back at school, or maybe university, I'm running late, have no idea of where to go or what to do" etc) As I thought about it I remembered that one of the contributing factors to Dylan's suicide was that he had lost a lot of money, was could have been deep in debt. Disappearing for a few years seemed like a sensible way to solve that problem, but it still meant putting me and the rest of the family through the process of bereavement. So I wanted to talk to Dylan about that as well, but again I didn't get the chance. In my head I'd created the possibility that Dylan was still alive and even justified it to myself. I don't even know where to begin finding out what that means. Maybe it means nothing.</p>
<p>It's probably worth pointing out that recently I took part in a stand up comedy act, and one of the jokes, in fact the biggest joke of my set, revolved around the wrong cat being cremated. At one point the character in the joke (actually my mum, as this is based on a true story) finds out that she cremated the wrong cat and she's overjoyed to find her cat still alive and well. At the time it was just a funny joke that went down well with the audience. Looking back, I can't really tell what to make of it. Was that some idea that was in the back of my mind that I wanted to explore? Or did the joke leave something for my mind to wrestle with in the form of a dream? Or was it just a coincidence? I have no idea, but whatever the case is, it is a bit chilling to look back at that joke and compare it to the dream I had.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-30527754246003437632014-07-07T04:20:00.000-07:002014-07-07T04:20:50.053-07:00A walk in the woods<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p>Today I decided to go for a walk in the woods. It's the fourth of July and that means a lot of different things to different people. For me it's the day I found out that my brother, Dylan, died. It wasn't the day Dylan died though. He had decided to hang himself and he died three days earlier. It was also the first day of my new job, after finishing my degree. It was a watershed in my life and even though it happened nine years ago I still a day off from the rest of my life every year to myself space to grieve, to look at the past, and think about the future.</p>
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<p>I've been living without Dylan for nine years now. If I'm lucky I'll be around for another fifty years. Each year that passes gets easier, but it's still daunting to look ahead at all that time in front of me, to try to find some kind of plan and find an identity for myself. This is something that doesn't get talked about much. When you lose someone close you lose a part of yourself and when you lose a sibling you lose not just a strong connection to your past, but a connection to your future. You lose a sense of security and permanence. It affects the other people who were close as well, so my immediate family, which was already in the process of falling apart, collapsed forever. I've always wanted to be independent and strong enough to find my own way through life, but it's terrifying when it's forced upon you. My reaction to the grief was to leave the country for a few years and give myself distance from everything back home. This helped a lot and by doing this I also demonstrated to myself that I can survive alone and that ultimately I don't need someone by my side. The pain of the loss has faded, and so has the sense of injustice. I try not to be self-indulgent with the grief, but there are times when it is very cathartic to say to myself that it's not fair to have to lose Dylan. Thankfully those moments have become more and more rare as time passes. These days I'm mostly concerned about where the decisions I've made in the light of all this have left me.</p>
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<p>Since 2006 I've chosen to move from place to place and follow the physics experiments of the day (I wouldn't say I followed a career, that's the wrong way to think about it) and traveled to new places in the process. It's been a very formative collection of experiences for me and helped me to grow a lot. There are still things I need to improve, but I am generally a better informed, more tolerant, more resilient, more experienced person than I would have been if I had chosen to stay in the UK. In a way, the loss of Dylan is one of the best things that ever happened to me, because it taught me that I can succeed in spite of the pain, and that life is too short to spend all day indoors in front of a textbook. (Life is also too short to never do those things. Recently I had some free time so I opened up a maths book for the pure pleasure of learning something new.)</p>
<p>In the course of this travel I've gone to great lengths to find time for myself. I have a habit of letting work take over my life, but when I make the effort to block out enough time for other activities I find that I get a rush of old memories. Memories from my childhood that I hadn't even realised I'd forgotten about. The holidays we went on in North Wales, how Dylan and I would spend hours playing with Lego (only for Dylan to find it more fun to destroy what we'd created) and the stupid word games we'd play when we were lying in our bunk beds avoiding sleep. (When we were about 10 and 12 years old we used to listen to a radio show called the Late Night Funster Show that was broadcast from 10:00pm to 1:00am. That was the start of my lifelong problem with insomnia.) We also found that we could tune our radio to pick up police radio transmissions. Occasionally they would announce that it was illegal to listen in, but once I realised it was impossible for them to work out if we were listening or not I was fascinated. Dylan used to love making his own radio shows as well, and I keep hoping that maybe one day we'll find the old cassettes we made and be able to play them back. I won't be able to relive those moments with Dylan again, of course, but it would be nice to hear them. All I remember was his impression of Mr Miyagi from The Karate Kid. I would love to be able to show Dylan the videos I'd made about the LHC, and ask him if he ever thought the radio show we made as kids would lead to something like that.</p>
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<p>Well I wrote this post during a pit stop to charge my phone and get something to eat. I'll return to walking through the woods, thinking things over and working out if I'm brave enough to keep going for another year without falling apart. The answer will be yes, of course, but the next question is "How?", and there's no simple answer to that. It used to be the case that traveling the world and working as a scientist was enough to keep me motivated, but these days I find myself wanting to be more grounded, consider a long term relationship, and investigate other professions. For the past week I've felt an emptiness growing inside of me, in anticipation of this day off. It's not just grief over the loss of Dylan, it's also grief over the loss of something that once brought me so much joy that it consumed my entire life for a few years. At least I can do something about that though, and find the strength and motivation to keep on going into the unknown.</p></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-5807449148286834172014-03-06T06:16:00.000-08:002015-01-12T03:01:38.055-08:00Dreams of Dylan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've had some trouble sleeping lately, and there are a few reasons for that (staying up to chat to people about things like their theses, talks they have to give, and having jumbled up my sleep cycle last week with a night shift.) However the main reason that I'm still having trouble sleeping is that I dreamt of Dylan again on Monday.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPll9Yq4qKuddoCDPDsB7VfW6RXUCjmQo7Q8-PuT_NkuhlAazwHr8eF5Qra4iWBqhmK6PQ16cabVTDp3Z90yuKpwhJ7DI83uRVAainvCc_OMSfewQWiE-v7wpcT0pM5anKfJFsziioYAQ/s1600/glasses550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:1px solid black" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPll9Yq4qKuddoCDPDsB7VfW6RXUCjmQo7Q8-PuT_NkuhlAazwHr8eF5Qra4iWBqhmK6PQ16cabVTDp3Z90yuKpwhJ7DI83uRVAainvCc_OMSfewQWiE-v7wpcT0pM5anKfJFsziioYAQ/s1600/glasses550.jpg" /></a><br />
Another night so late it turns into morning again.</div>
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This isn't new, I've dreamt about him many times before. The dreams would always be the same. Dylan would turn up somewhere and I'd usually be one of the first people to realise he wasn't dead after all. Then I'd get a terrible feeling that something was deeply wrong. Dylan's dead. I saw the coffin. We cremated his body. If he's still alive then that means that we burned someone else. There was nothing in me, even in my dreams, that thought it would be a good idea to bring Dylan back to life.<br />
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I'd heard that it's natural to dream of the dead, and that it's asign that your brain is adjusting to the idea and accepting it. So I don't really think anything of these dreams, I just make a note of them and move on. I used to keep track of the dreams of him, but stopped after a while. (From what I remember there was only one dream that I didn't write down, so let's write it down here. For some reason I was at the Brunel campus and Dylan showed up. I told him he shouldn't be there and then we went outside where there were some washing machines and inside one of them was an award for something.)<br />
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Monday's dream was different though. For the first time, Dylan appeared in my dream, alive and well, and it took me a few seconds to realise that quite a few years had passed since he "died". This time I was happy to see him. He told me that he had faked his death and that he was ready to come back to us. This was the first time I'd dreamt about him and felt good about it. I'd love to have him back. All the pain and anger associated with the grief would be forgiven and he'd be welcomed back. This time, even though it no different to what happened before, it was a relief to see him.<br />
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Of course I woke and realised that reality is different, and that I'll never see Dylan again. This didn't make me sad, and in a way it amused to have this dream. It's as if I've moved on into complete acceptance of the situation, but somewhere, in the deep recesses of my mind, part of my brain hasn't quite realised this yet. If that was the end of the story it would have been fine, but unfortunately it's not. Every night since then I've had problems getting to sleep, waking up about an hour after drifting off with what feels like an adrenaline rush, and then struggling to get back to sleep. I wake up later than usual feeling more tired than normal and the cycle repeats. It's made me "late" for work all week (not that this matters too much in this job) so as it's starting to impact on the rest of my life it's time to get it off my chest.<br />
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The problems with sleep patterns are not new to me, and for a long time when I lived in California I felt much the same way. Today has been a bad day so far. My whole body feels sad in a way that's hard to explain. I feel like I want to take a nap, but I'm not tired (and in the past I've tried taking a nap like this, it doesn't help.) I feel this tension within me like I want to cry, but that's not quite what I need either. It's as if my body is caught mid-sigh all day and if I can just find what I need to do to release that tension I'll be okay. Today is an unusually sunny day, which doesn't help. It feels like I'm in California again, isolated, with enough time on my hands to ponder my feelings in a lot of depth. It turns out the only thing that will make this better is time. I won't let it grind me down, I'll smile through it all and in a couple of days time it'll pass.<br />
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I still miss Dylan from time to time, and that's okay. The bad days are getting rarer, but they do come back every now and then. I've had enough practice to know how to get through this, so I'll be fine today, I'll be fine tomorrow and I'll be fine until whenever this passes. In fact, I probably won't even notice when it does.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-86566124167652952262013-07-06T14:48:00.000-07:002013-07-06T14:48:11.920-07:00Sunset? Sunrise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There are many bereavement support groups out there and for some reason many of them like to include a setting sun in their logos. For me the setting of the sun is not the difficult part. The rising of the sun the next day is where things get difficult. Finding the strength to get through the day is draining. I tried to put on a brave face all week, and managed to make it to the weekend. But today I was around friends, and I was mopey, and I don't think they minded. I don't know if any of them know about Dylan's death, let alone when it was. Perhaps I should have told them. Tomorrow is another day. I hope I'm ready for it by then.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-4353078129284934342012-08-14T04:09:00.000-07:002014-07-07T04:22:05.727-07:00Another storyOne of my close friends recently lost his father. I sent him a short message which I wish I had received when I heard about Dylan's death. What helped most was that people said they were thinking about me, even if they had nothing else to say and felt helpless. I felt helpless too. But at least I didn't feel alone.
Here is what I sent:
<blockquote style="font-family:times,serif;font-style:normal">You're in my thoughts and if you ever want to talk about it, now or in the future, you know where I am. Send my love and thoughts on to the rest of your family. It'll take time, and things will get worse before they get better, but they will get better. Until then you know what to do- give yourself time, give yourself space, talk it over with people, and one day you won't need to talk about it anymore.</blockquote>
For me, the part that was at the same time the most reassuring and the most terrifying was that I knew what to do, keep talking. Knowing that eventually it would change, but at the same time feeling that it would never get better, and knowing that things would never ever be the same as they were was what kept me awake at night. It still does sometimes.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNb9anaETueE-p1gtxQm0uPmnmGV5JYa35FyZH7MwzIJXRJdDM-DIefCqmWSmkbway3NrnjDxHhDKiI7f1f7BJ32_YScyLVY13luDMRhNfPIv5Rz6A7uLmWWL0p5Y-TWska3vxokWhBlM/s1600/japan-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img style="border:1px solid black" width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNb9anaETueE-p1gtxQm0uPmnmGV5JYa35FyZH7MwzIJXRJdDM-DIefCqmWSmkbway3NrnjDxHhDKiI7f1f7BJ32_YScyLVY13luDMRhNfPIv5Rz6A7uLmWWL0p5Y-TWska3vxokWhBlM/s400/japan-2.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:10pt;font-style:normal">I still take time to be alone and appreciate the solitude.</span><br /></div>
One day I woke up and it was suddenly easy to be optimistic again. I wasn't happy, it still hurt to get through the day, but at least I had hope again. Every day since then has been better. From time to time I still think about Dylan and the loss (today is one of those days) but they're getting rarer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-56295165753152180892012-01-08T14:10:00.000-08:002012-01-09T02:19:49.428-08:00Music to grieve toI've listened to a lot of music in the grieving process, and Kathleen Ferrier has been by far the most moving. It's warm, comforting, heart breaking and most of all it's dignified. All grief should be this beautiful. It may be painful, but with Kathleen it feels like it has purpose.<br />
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<iframe width="620" height="465" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DKotSGAIu6w?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe><br />
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I think it helps that my mum used to listen to this when I was young (she probably still listens to it0 so it gives me a connection not only to my childhood and Dylan, but also to my mum.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-58369883301674488222011-11-12T13:21:00.000-08:002011-11-12T13:23:21.240-08:00Everybody HurtsIt's been a rough few weeks and finding alone time has been difficult. I took some comfort in physics, immersing myself in my job. Since Dylan died, my physics career has given me a wonderful way to fill the time, explore the world and enjoy my own company again. But then I heard Everybody Hurts by REM, and it brought back a lot of painful memories. It's a song I've known for about as long as I can remember, and I loved it long before Dylan's death (everyone loves it, of course.) We played it at his funeral, and that made it doubly painful and doubly healing to listen to. He must have felt so alone and so helpless if he couldn't see a reason to go on living. And after he killed himself, we were all left alone together.<br />
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We all lost Dylan, but we had to deal with that loss alone, because we can't grieve for each other. Hearing this song brought back the memories of when Dylan was still alive, shortly after he died, and the years since. It's not a coincidence that I've become more insular, more guarded and more transient since losing Dylan. I don't think anyone can fill the void that Dylan's absence has left. Nothing can undo the years of hurt and the slow process of putting my life back together. I had a lot of help from a lot of people and I found many of my best friendships while I was grieving, often keep hold of them because of the grief. (When you find someone who's willing to hear you talk about bereavement one day and go for a picnic with you the next, or even from one hour to the next, you don't let go of them easily.) But even so, there has been nobody who has been at my side the whole time. I've had to find my own path, and I picked a particularly tough one. It gave me strength, hope and confidence to keep going. Having lived through all that I doubt I'll be able to ever fully commit to a relationship or be fully open with another person. I'll always find it easier to withdraw into myself, and find it harder to think that anything else has any permanence. It's as if all the things that have shaped me have already come and gone, and I was the only one to see them happen. It's almost pointless to get an impression of someone's grief and its aftermath. It's not enough to be able to fully understand what someone has been through and why they are who they are.<br />
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Anyway, here's the song, for all its power and its many interpretations. It's been there for me many times and this won't be the last time it's helped me sum up the sense of loss and then find strength.<br />
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<div style="width:420px;margin:auto"><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ijZRCIrTgQc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-41414872188140675342011-08-10T07:47:00.000-07:002011-08-10T07:50:06.872-07:00Some good adviceI think the best advice I ever got was from Dylan. We were both teenagers and I was frustrated with how boring I found my hometown. (The feeling didn't go away until I started university.) It was simple and to the point and since long before his death it's changed my life for the better:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>If you're bored then don't sit around feeling sorry for yourself.</blockquote><br />
In the months and years that followed Dylan's death it was easy to get bored and to slip into depression. So on the anniversary of his death I've tried to do something different, to get away from work and spend a weekend with friends. Most of the people I spent time with didn't know it was a special day, since Dylan died on July 4th.<br />
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Here are some photos from previous years:<br />
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A weekend in London with family and friends (2011)</div><br />
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A road trip to Yosemite with Eugy and Manuel (2009)</div><br />
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A trip to see family in friends in Crewe and Birmingham (2007)</div><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-36007135096326161562011-07-14T09:00:00.000-07:002011-07-14T09:00:27.685-07:00JournalI kept a journal about my life and when Dylan died I used it to record what had happened. Here is the first entry after his death:<br />
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<blockquote>My brother committed suicide on Friday. It hasn't sunk in yet, and all family and friends are being really good about it. I've never lost anyone close before and I don't know how bad things will get or how long it will take to get through it, but the next couple of months are going to be difficult. It seems very odd that a week ago there were four or us and now there are only three of us.<br />
</blockquote>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5217355802219523096.post-52665140632982726332011-07-13T13:22:00.000-07:002011-07-13T13:22:38.408-07:00Music to grieve toOne of the most powerful ways to express grief is through music. I haven't found a lot of music that helped me to grieve, but here is one song that made me feel a little better, a little less alone.<br />
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<iframe width="640" height="510" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qTVsCGque0Y?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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The image is from Christ Church Meadow in Oxford, where I'd often take long walks when I needed to think.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00418951857173254621noreply@blogger.com0