Stages

I have heard that there are five stages of grief. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross was the doctor to develop the theory – though in time she went back to say that she wish she'd explained the stages in a different way because society had taken them as being linear and universal – which she did not intend. Her work was meant as a kindness, not a cage. I have not looked up the stages of grief. I know anger is one, acceptance is one, and I think denial is another – but that's the extent that I'm familiar with. I have opted not to look up this process because like everyone, my sorrow will be unique. There is no sense in trying to assign a sequence of events or a right/wrong to what's happening in my body and mind. If I over-analyze (which is my natural tendency) I run the risk of harming myself more rather than allowing my natural process to unfold. At least that's where I am right now.

However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.

I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.

But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.

My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.

When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.

There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.

Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.

Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.

So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.

It’s a Boy (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)

By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister) 

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Luke and I are expecting our third child in April. It’s a boy. He’ll have two older sisters as his traveling companions in our family.

Ted knew that I was pregnant. When we told him the good news, we didn’t yet know the sex of the baby. He was hoping for another nephew—wanting to even up the score. I was hoping for another girl. We found out it was a boy about a week before Ted died, but we never got around to telling him. He knows now.

I was a little disappointed when we found out. I was already immersed in little girl stuff and was  ready to add another one to the gang. I thought that raising three girls would feel like year-round summer camp. I didn’t know quite what to think when the nurse told me, “It’s a boy!”

I sat with a friend the day after we heard the good news and talked it over with her. I finally came around to the idea of raising a boy when I mentioned, “I love having a brother. Now our girls will get to have one too.” And that thought did a complete 180 on my disappointment.

Less than a week later, I lost my brother. And now, I couldn’t be more thrilled to bring a little boy into our family. What a gift our kids will be to one another. My girls don’t even know how lucky they are to get to grow up with a brother. They will, all three of them, learn so much from each other and I can’t wait to see it unfold.

As Luke and I walk through our house, imagining what it will be like to have three kids running around, I explain to him a little about what to expect. Luke grew up with only one sister who is 13 years older. He didn’t have quite the same experience as I did and can’t quite anticipate the chaos that is about to ensue.

I was the middle child with Ted less than two years older and Berkley, about three years younger. We were a three-pronged unit. We were three slamming bedrooms doors. Three sets of coats, hats, mittens and snow boots. Three bikes in the garage. Three different favorite cereals. Three seats taken up in the minivan, three lifejackets in the boat. Three performers in the “shows” we put on for obliging family and guests. We were totally different from one another—people often congratulated my parents on raising three complete individuals. But we were always three.

I tear up (and often all-out sob) when I anticipate our next family gathering. Ted’s absence will be a force. There will be only two of us siblings taking up spots at the table. Two siblings exchanging in sarcastic banter.

I’ve come to realize that Berkley and I will be now known as the two remaining Welles kids. But what we actually are is two-thirds. We will not be a whole number. ‘Two’ does not acknowledge our missing and missed brother. We will be a pie chart where 33% is left unshaded.

As sad as this realization makes me—and it hits me again and again like punches in the face, I am so very glad that I will get to raise my own three-pronged unit. I will teach them to love and appreciate each other. To be their own person but to also remember that they’re a team and to stand up for one another. Hopefully they will grow to learn that a sibling is never to be taken for granted and perhaps the greatest gift their parents ever gave them.

Samanthics

The experience of sudden loss is jolting. I am left aimless and alone in our house with remnants of you everywhere, but you are not to be found. It's confusing.

I see your things. I can't walk into my closet without walking through yours. I see your shirts – hung meticulously and color-coded ready for your next wear. I see your hats – arranged in order of preference on a shelf meant for shoes, still smelling of your sweat and hair. I see your yoga shorts – waiting for your next Downward Facing Dog and quickly improving Kundinyasana. I see your pajama pants – the ones that say 'Dog Gone Tired' with cartoons of sleepy pups that you would lounge in on our lazy days. Your towel still hangs on its hook by the shower. I have been using it to dry off. Some days I don't though, instead I just grab it between my hands and smell it as deeply as I can, as if maybe I'll find you in the scent. I'm looking for you in everything, Teddy.

Yesterday I walked into a restaurant we only went to once. I was there to pick up some to-go salads for April and I. I made a quick choice on what to eat, my appetite is nothing like it used to be. I didn't allow my eyes arrive to the spot on the menu that contained sandwiches, because I knew that's what we'd shared that day we dined there together a few months ago. Conscious avoidance is key for me right now. They handed me a buzzer to notify me of my order being up. Damn, this was so familiar.

Buzzer in hand I walked over to the high-top tables to wait. I saw the table we'd sat in that day. I studied the man who was sitting there alone now. I noticed how much he was not you. I felt the new and familiar sense of panic land in my gut. I was about to cry. I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in before the tears hit. It was a single restroom and in the midst of my onset of panic, I remembered how I'd gone pee three times during our lunch together that day. We'd been drinking hibiscus tea throughout our meal. I'd sweetened mine with stevia. You didn't sweeten yours. The bathroom felt all too familiar. I gripped the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Ugly tears streamed down my face. "Teddy," I cried out. I felt needy.

Even though it was a place we'd visited just a single time, it still carried our shared experience. And every experience we shared was so beautiful. Just that one lunch was special, even though it may have been mundane at the time – you and I never let anything be insignificant. I remembered sharing our plates, passing them back and forth. "I win!" one of us would claim, happier with our own meal. Then, we'd swap dishes, making sure the other person got half of the winner. I stood in that bathroom so alone yesterday. I knew that the last time I'd walked out of that stall, I'd walked back to you sitting at the table where now a stranger was seated, unbeknownst to my pain. And this time, I'd walk back to a buzzer buzzing to let me know that my salad, for one person, was ready. And that there would be no you to share it with from across the table. No you to win.

Coming back to the house after nearly a week of traveling and wandering has been heavy. Things are in order, thanks to compassionate friends and family, but items are starting to be put in different places. And to be completely honest, it's irritating me. Your Playboy magazines peep at me throughout every bathroom stack. They used to always be on top, your favorite 'reading' material, but now they've moved lower in the tiers; family and guests have shifted them more out of sight. I always loved that you read Playboy, one of your boyish habits that kept you unpredictable. In the kitchen, the salt and pepper shaker isn't in the window sill where you kept them, tidily. The olive oil is left on the counter, instead of put back in the pantry. The food in the fridge isn't organized in the way you put it and the selection has shifted. I think your almond butter has been eaten. 'Justin's,' we would call it – an inside joke, because the brand was actually 'Justine's' and I'd pronounced it incorrectly one day. We just decided that's what we'd call it instead, 'Justin's', no mind the mistake.

You always adored my incorrect pronunciations or mashed up linguistic expressions. A few months ago we sat on the couch in the den. "Killed two birds of a feather together!" I said, after booking airplane travel and a car rental on one website for an upcoming trip. The edges of your eyes brightened, your smile lines deepening, "I think you mean, 'Killed two birds with one stone,'" you said, "or maybe, 'Birds of a feather flock together,' but that doesn't really make sense." I blushed. You laughed. We both looked at each other and at the same time said, "Samanthics!" It was our made-up word for Samantha-semantics. They occurred often enough to deserve a nickname. You never criticized me when I made a mistake. You'd correct me maybe fifty percent of the time, but often let it slide with just a hint of an all-knowing smile on your face. You appreciated my imagination just as much as proper English.

Now I'm sitting on the same couch in our den where we booked those tickets. We were planning our trip to Chicago, which we took just weeks before your death. We went to visit your new, and unexpectedly early arriving nephew, William. We flew directly to Chicago. I got very nauseous on the flight, you rubbed my back and made sure I stayed hydrated. We took a taxi to your sister Berkley and her husband, Bob's, house in Roscoe Village. The taxi ride was more nauseating then the flight. When we arrived, my headache disappeared and the joyous reunion with your sister and my great friend/someday-sister-in-law ensued. I'd never been to her house before.

We laughed as we told Berkley and Bob the story of how I'd lied to my mom on the first night you and I had gotten together, nearly two years prior, also in Chicago. It was the night of the first Pink Party, a fundraiser Berk and Bob hosted for their late baby girl, Jane. They'd created a foundation in honor of Jane and were raising money for local maternity wards. We had both come to Chicago independently to support them. That was the night I reconnected with you after nearly sixteen years.

I'd told my mother that I'd gone back to Berk and Bob's house and fallen asleep on the couch until six a.m after the party, which was why I hadn't come back to the hotel room my mom and I were sharing. The truth was, I'd spent that night with you, in your hotel room at the Trump International after the Pink Party. A night that was prompted by flirty conversation, champagne, and you looking incredibly dashing in a well-fitting suit and a pink tie. I claimed I was on a 'man-strike', coming off a terrible breakup and a questionable choice in a previous partner. You ended my strike. I suddenly wished I'd shaved over the past month, an act that was supposed to prevent me from entering into a situation such as this one. My self control was drunk and disorderly.

That night that turned into the early morning too quickly. You whisked me past the concierge into your room, a suite I didn't know at the time was adjoined with your parent's suite. The turn-down service had left opera playing. We made love to an aria. We whispered, laughed, and told each other our deepest secrets until the sun began to rise. I kissed you goodbye and left, hair a mess, shoes in-hand, a run-of-the-mill walk of shame from the concierge's perspective. But it was a night that couldn't end there, because the next day, as I reconnected with my mom in Chicago and you flew to Florida with your family, we couldn't stop thinking about each other. Lust skipped in my stomach like a bouncy ball. I thought of the fancy suite and the good sex, but more, I thought of the laughter, the conversation, and simply the way you made me feel when I'd shared my secrets with you. As we continued to converse after that night: through texts, Facebook, phone calls, and online hangouts – we nervously agreed that the lust wasn't fading, that we had more in common then we knew how to handle, and that we had to give this, us, fate, a shot.

A year and a half later, Berkley and Bob welcomed a healthy baby into their lives. We were there, in their home, the day William came home from the hospital. We watched them, nervous new parents, as they sat his carrier on the kitchen counter. The cat sniffed him cautiously. The dog hid in a corner, nervous about the new noises, the new smells, and the audience. Berk and Bob watched their baby, hand-in-hand, not sure what to do next, they looked around like, 'OK. Baby's here. What now?' They'd been waiting for years for a healthy child in their life. They'd experienced a grievous and painful journey to get there, and now they were there. Still missing their daughter, but delirious at the arrival of their son. Ted, you took one photo with William on that trip. You held and oogled him. My ovaries screamed at me with giddy excitement as I watched you cuddle your nephew, a pure tiny infant. You looked over at me, "Uh oh!" you said when you saw my face, turned on by the sight of my soul mate loving on a baby. We laughed, a knowing laugh. We were both excited – for William, for Berkley and Bob, and for the future and cousins we would create someday.

You died less than a month after that trip. You died before knowing that your other sister, Hopie, was also going to give you a new nephew. You died before knowing what I could give you. And now I sit here, on our couch, in our den, snuggled up in a blanket that is made for two. A blanket we used to playfully fight over, and then share, both winning, as we sat, watching a sitcom at the end of our day. Now I have no one to share the blanket with, no one to share my meal with, no one to book travel with, no one to tell me not to end this sentence with a preposition with, and no one to fantasize about our future family with. I have lost and I am aimless.

I Will Not Be Strong (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)

By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister) 

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Over the last two and a half weeks since my brother died, people have said to me, “you need to be strong.” Or complemented me: “Wow, you are so strong.” They say it as they see me doing the things required of me—taking my children to school, picking up groceries, organizing the house, calling my parents and my sister, Berkley, to check in.

But strong is not what I want to be right now.

Ted was my brother. He was my lifelong companion. Besides my parents, he knew me the longest and the most completely. In high school, when people asked me to name my best friend, I said Ted. He was there on every family vacation, every Christmas, every family dinner. He was my bridesman at my wedding. He and Berkley are a part of me like no one else will ever be. 

I will not be strong because losing a brother should completely wreck you. It should send you to your knees over and over again. It should make you fall to pieces on your bedroom floor, force tears from your eyes in the middle of a fitness class. It should make you cry every time you drive to the grocery store and once inside the store, you will dry your tears and you will tell yourself you can do this, you can do this, when all you’re trying to do is buy cereal. This grief should make you wonder if you will ever be okay again.

Weak with grief is what I want to be because that is what the loss of this relationship deserves. 

In tragic times, we assume that we need someone to stay strong so that everyone else around them can fall apart. This time, it will not be me. The truth is, I don’t think there needs to be a strong one. The most supported I’ve felt in the last few weeks is when Sami, Berkley and I laid on my Aunt Ginny’s bed the day that Ted died. We were a heap of tears, hair, blankets and sobs. No one was being the strong one. We cried together, shoulders shaking, tears flowing—there were no words of comfort, no strong one to hold us together. Because this kind of loss should make you completely fall apart.

I understand why they say it—they want to see strength so they can be assured that we will survive this. They need not worry. We will survive. Sami, Berkley, my parents, friends: we will even thrive. 

Someday, I will have to choose strength. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. Or maybe I will choose strength for an hour or two a day. Strength will come and healing will come—people who I trust have told me this. But for now, I will be weak with grief. Because I lost Ted. I lost my brother. And my weakness is my best and boldest tribute to who he was and what we had.

Happy Birthday, Big Brother (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)

By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister) 

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I don’t remember most of Ted’s birthdays growing up. Memories of childhood birthdays in our house are a blur of sheet cakes decorated by Mom, birthday dinners with our grandparents around the formal dining table, fighting over new presents, one of us ending up in tears… 

But I do remember Ted’s 18th birthday. It was a Tuesday. He was a senior, I was a sophomore, and Berkley was 13. Our parents were out of town and our middle school math teacher, Ms. Winney, was staying with us. Ted told me I was welcome to join in the birthday festivities and I was beyond thrilled. Ted was cool, his friends were cool and I got to be a part of it, if only for a Tuesday afternoon. 

After school, Ted and I drove around to various friends’ houses to pick them up. We picked up Hunter. He had something wrapped in a gray sweatshirt. I asked him what it was and he said it was his pet, José. “What is it???” I asked, so naive. “Want to see?” Hunter replied. “No! If it’s a snake, I am NOT touching it!” Ted and Hunter and the other friends laughed and laughed.

By four in the afternoon, a small group had assembled in our backyard, drinking beer and tequila, smoking cigarettes, laughing in the gray midwestern November. I have no idea where Ms. Winney was.

Somehow, in the midst of the partying, Ted managed to get me to and from my tennis lesson and I also ended up on time for my choir rehearsal, but I think someone else drove me there. I didn’t drink or smoke anything that day. “Someday, Hopie…” his friends taunted. “Hey, I think it’s cool that she’s doing her own thing,” Ted said in my defense. “She’s here chilling with us and making her own choices. That’s awesome.” It felt so good to be tucked under Ted’s wing like that. I was so safe there. I could be myself with Ted. Guaranteed. 

It was one of my best days in high school. Hanging out with all these guys I thought were so cool. And feeling like I totally belonged, because my big brother said I did.

After choir rehearsal, I went back to my normal school-day routine—homework, chatting with friends, going to bed at a decent hour. Ted’s celebration, however, carried long into the night. They moved the party to Don Pablo’s, a mediocre Mexican restaurant where Ted had worked and was buddies with the bartender. He also got a tattoo that night—his astrological sign, scorpio, on his calf. 

On Ted's more recent birthdays, I could always count on him to actually pick up his phone--something he normally never did. We’d talk for a good long time. He’d ask me all about what was going on in my life, how his little nieces were doing. He’d listen to my stupid stories about the cute stuff they were saying and he’d laugh. I always thought it was so generous of him to have such a long phone conversation on his birthday because I knew I wasn’t the only one he’d be talking to that day. 

My generous, welcoming and extremely accepting big brother, thank you for making me feel awesome at the peak of my awkward years. Thank you telling me I was okay for being the way I was, when all I felt was that I should be something different. 

I will miss our birthday calls. I will miss hearing your laugh on the other end of the phone. I will miss having someone to talk with who was so validating, so affirming, so ready to tell me how awesome I’m doing, without a hint of judgment. 

Ted, you got some pretty awesome gifts for your birthdays over those years. But you gave even bigger ones.

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Thank you Hopie for this beautiful submission.