Black Armbands

A few mornings ago, I woke up and lazed in bed with my eyes shut. I’m not sure how awake I was. I just tried to feel comfortable in my skin. As I finally opened my eyes, I let them stare and was immediately reminded of seeing Michael in his bed at the nursing home, awake, eyes open, curled up on his left side, staring at his knees. I felt a kinship. I felt a peace that I hope Michael felt.

I want to be at peace.

I think I have to name this grief: that it has to be labelled, has to look a certain way. “I don’t know how I feel”, I keep saying. But I am feeling whatever I’m feeling. The label isn’t important.

A friend of Jim’s, commenting on David’s death three and a half years ago, said that in the 19th century, people were not expected to take on social obligations for a year after the death of a close family member. Wikipedia says British siblings worn mourning clothing for six months. Michael died less than a month ago. Maybe I need to get my psychological black armband on.

When I say, “I don’t know how I feel,” I think that if it doesn’t feel like sadness it doesn’t ‘count’. I can’t use it as an ‘excuse’ not to do something unless it has me doubled over in pain.


Carl emailed everyone a sketch for a stained glass design he is working on. It's three angels: Dad and Mom with a smaller, child angel between them: Michael. Carl  wondered what color to make Michael’s angel. Maggie reminded us that Mom made an afghan for Mike that was like Joseph's coat of many colors. She had made afghans for each of her children as they married and used the remnants for Mike's. It's wonderful symbolism: we each are a part of him, he's a part of each of us. Years ago I cross-stitched "Merry Christmas" in German: Frӧhliche Weihnachten, and gave it to Maggie. Since our last name is Hazen, I hung two stockings on each of the four Hs: green for Maggie's, purple for mine, brown and blue for Carl's, yellow for Timothy's, red for Steve's, a blue one for Mom, a red one for Dad. And a mix of all the colors for Michael's, to go between Maggie's and mine.

Yes, Mike was a part of each of us. He helped make us who we are.

Bobby Moses

I dreamt of Bobby Moses. His sparkling brown eyes smiled at me and I instantly exclaimed, “Bobby Moses!” I hadn’t seen Bobby Moses since I was in high school.

The summer after my brother Michael moved to Woodbridge State School, later named Woodbridge Developmental Center, I was 17 and couldn’t find a full-time summer job, just a part-time janitorial position at a local restaurant and bakery, Geiger’s. My mom, always a source of creative ideas, suggested I volunteer at Woodbridge. I liked to swim and got an assignment to help at the on-site swimming pool.

Early in the morning I’d clean toilets and vacuum the dining rooms, then I’d spend the afternoon with the Woodbridge residents at the pool.

Bobby Moses was a large young man, probably about twenty. He had a mischevious grin and a gregarious nature. His favorite activity was belly-flopping into the pool and splashing everyone who wasn’t paying attention to him. He had a long, ugly scar across his abdomen. I never asked him, but the head lifeguard said it was a gunshot wound. It was hard to imagine Bobby being in a brawl, he was so easy-going and sweet-tempered, but we had no details, just the fact of the scar. I loved calling his name. There is something wonderfully stirring about that name.

As I reminisce, I hear our snow-plower’s pickup truck rumble up the long drive and around the center tree. It looks like fun, swinging around the circle, slamming into the snowbanks he is creating. Hard to imagine the hot New Jersey sun beating down and the aroma of chlorine on my skin. And Bobby Moses.

Processing grief

Wednesday, Jan 30, 2019, eight days after Michael's death

I debated about whether to go to DBSA-Boston tonight. I left the Lynnfield Family History Center, where I volunteer, at 6 p.m.: plenty of time to make the 7 p.m. support group meeting. When I arrived home, I realized that it was Mill St Open Mic Night, so groups wouldn’t start till 8 p.m. At about 7, I got my coat on and went out the door. The wind was whipping snow onto the porch and the flag was flapping wildly, cracking like a whip. It was much colder than a half an hour before. So, I went back inside. Sat at my computer, then decided that I shouldn’t be a wimp. These are my friends: I should be there for them.

When I arrived, the last performing group was singing “House of the Rising Sun”. I leaned against a pillar, not wanting to commit to a chair. The group coordinator walked by and told me that G. was facilitating the Newcomers Group, which I often do. I thought about leaving, but at home I had decided that if I didn’t facilitate I should go to a group and talk about my weird state of mind. I was undecided. I thought I’d go to the Depression group: the Mania/Bipolar group can be pretty energetic and might not be the best place for a discussion of grief. I approached the room of the Depression group and saw a few empty seats, but hesitated. I turned around and walked toward the area where the Mania/Bipolar group was forming. There was a large square pillar between me and the circle of chairs, easy to hide behind, and I stood for a minute, uncertain of what I wanted to do. I turned around and walked toward the Depression room, but there were no longer any empty seats. I turned and walked towards the exit. Maybe I should just leave. But I drifted back toward the Mania/Bipolar group. Seeing friends around the circle, I decided to risk it.

At my check in, I said my younger brother had died last week and I just wasn’t sure what I felt. I couldn’t articulate it in a few words, so I said, I’d like some time after. That’s the protocol: check-ins are for a brief update, after which we can spend more time focusing on issues. The check-in continued, and then the facilitator asked me if I wanted to speak.

I said I wasn’t sure how I felt. Perhaps it was something about the fact that in the past 5 years my mom, then my dad, then my son died. Perhaps I was protecting myself from the pain. I wasn't having the double-over-in-pain reaction I'd had when my son died; I didn't want to have it again; it was awful.

T. said, give yourself time, lots of time. He said that when his mother died he didn’t feel anything at first. Several months later something reminded him of her and he cried for an hour.

I know one thing that complicates my feeling: I feel guilty that I’m free of the burden of visiting him every month.

In November I met a mother at church who’s young adult daughter had been killed in a bicycle accident. When I saw this mother, desperate and grief-stricken, I recognized that I am no longer in that desolate place. I fear that facing the grief of Michael’s death will send me back again.

Thursday, January 31, 2019

I’ve been in shock. I’m still in shock. T., my friend from DBSA, pointed this out to me after the meeting last night. And that’s exactly what it is. I’m in shock from my younger brother Michael dying. I’m also feeling the shock of his life. All those years of limits on him: physically being delayed in walking and talking, never being able to do the things we take for granted: middle school, high school, college. And then, after he came out of the state of constant seizure when he was 13, more limitations. I lost part of my brother that summer. And have been slowly, over 46 years, losing him further.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

I just got home from Compassionate Friends, my support group for grieving parents and siblings. I told them about Michael and about my experience at DBSA. I've never been so indecisive about going to a group as I was last Wednesday. The facilitator could identify. She said she had felt, after her son died, that she was holding it together, until she went out to dinner and stared at the menu, unable to make a selection. Exactly.

I'm grateful for the connections I've made, the friends I have, at these two groups. I have a place to go to process my feelings and not be judged. Not that anyone anywhere is judging me, except myself.

(Name initials have been changed to maintain confidentiality.)