Thirteen Years Later

It’s been thirteen years since little 15-year-old Maria sat with her parents in a hospital room and watched her brother, Andrew, take his last breath. That last breath signified freedom: freedom from a body which did not serve him for his 20 years of life, freedom from pain and suffering, and freedom to do and see and hear and live in a way he was never able to do here.

My thoughts, thirteen years later, are still scattered and nonsensical, and not well formed enough to put out into the world. I learned a lot on February 28th, 2007, just like I learned a lot the 15 years before that, and just as I continue to learn for the rest of my life. Here’s some things Andrew taught me:

1. Music is a gift. It can change your mood, connect you to others, and make sense of the thoughts you may not have even known you had.

2. Be kind to the people who take care of you. Always say thank you, always offer a smile, and if you’re in a bad mood, that’s fine, but try not to take it out on the people around you.

3. Any person can make a difference - no matter how improbable, you have impact, and you should use that impact to make sure you’re putting out good into the world.

4. You should be proud of every accomplishment you make. Made your bed this morning? You go, girl. Moved your body when you really didn’t want to? Hell yes. Scheduled that doctor’s appointment? Proud. of. you.

5. Long distance friendships, relationships, families are to be treated with just as much care and loving as those physically close to us. Text, call, send something, honestly just like an Instagram photo: just let people know you’re thinking of them.

6. Don’t get embarrassed about stuff. Just don’t. It’s not worth spending time on and you don’t have the right perspective about it.

7. Root for your favorite team and do it proudly. There’s no shame in being emotionally affected by the outcome of a football game.

8. Take time for yourself. If you need to take a nap, take a nap. If you need to ask for help, please do.

9. Use what you’ve got. Know your limitations and use them to carve out your own way to accomplish things.

10. Be there for people. Do your best to just listen and learn.

11. Believe that there’s a higher purpose. Whatever that means for you. Make sure you believe in something and work toward bettering yourself in the name of it.

12. Go outside when you can. It will make you feel better.

13. Try. Just try.

To learn more about Andrew’s story, click here. Go tell someone you love them. Love you, Andy. ❤️

Twelve Years Later

For many years now, I try to write my thoughts down about what it meant when Andrew died. It was twelve years ago and, every year, I think it gets a little more complicated. For twelve years, and even the fifteen before that, I never knew the right way to answer the question: “How many siblings do you have?”. Before Andrew died, it might have invited questions, killed a conversation, or welcomed pity I never really thought I was entitled to. After Andrew died, I sometimes literally don’t know the answer.

The most confusing part for me about Andrew and his life and death was that I didn’t know anyone else in the same situation. Yes, one of my best friends grew up with a developmentally disabled sibling, but in her home, not 90 minutes away. And yes, I have another best friend from college who lost his brother, but in extremely different circumstances. I hope these two, as well as anyone else who I value and love, know how important they’ve been for me throughout the years in trying to piece together answers for a question I always knew I’d be asked.

The one person on this earth who knows almost exactly my experience, is our other brother, Dan - he’s the only other one I’ve ever met who knows what it’s like to be asked that question and have the exact same circumstances to run through before answering. He and I don’t talk about Andrew a lot, partially out of habit, I’d guess, and partially because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to put into words all of my feelings or questions.

This day is always a little sad for me. Sometimes not even because of Andrew, because I know he’s in a better place, or at least he’s not in this place anymore. Sometimes I’m sad for fifteen year old me who had a life changing experience no one could relate to exactly. And I know that’s selfish and self-centered and probably not something I should admit, but until you’ve been asked a question you don’t know the answer to, and you know it’s a question you know you should have an answer to, you might not know how you’re going to feel.

My life is extremely happy right now. I’m very grateful. And I spend a lot of time with our other sibling, something I never would have guessed twelve years ago. But just as happy and grateful as I am right now, life is extremely complicated. Some days, life is so complicated it can be overwhelming and I spend the whole day trying to find someone to relate to my experiences. Some days, life is so simple, it’s funny, and sometimes it feels so easy to be a person.

Today is somewhere in between.

Click here to read more about Andrew’s story.

Eleven Years Later

I was just telling someone that I've lived my life in fours - four years of high school, four years of college, and now nearly four years of living in Los Angeles. I say this only because I'm basically heading into the "Freshman" year of the next phase of my life. 

My actual Freshman year of high school was so interesting and colored by the experience I had, now eleven years ago. Six months into high school, I was watching the Oscars with my mom when we got the call that Andrew wasn't doing very well - I had to take care of school first, though. Had to call someone I was working on a group project with and tell her I wasn't going to be in class the next day and she'd have to present without me. I was full on panicked. No real idea why, I just knew it was about to be bad and I didn't want to lose control of another thing. 

The cool and weird and sad thing about Freshman year is that you're finding your place - learning who the cool kids are, figuring out your routine, and trying to carve out your new reputation. I was trying so hard to be cool and relevant and popular that I completely ignored the trauma I had just been through. I went back to school on March 1st, probably in an effort to get back some of that control and routine. A few of my friends, but definitely not all of them, knew Andrew had died the day before. They knew I had watched him die, texted them, left the hospital with my parents, and then driven back home. But some people didn't. They came up to me in the hallway and asked how my brother was and I literally said he was "okay". I mean, I guess he was, he was more okay than he was when he was suffering for the twenty years of his life in a body that betrayed him constantly. 

It's been over a decade now. I'm coming up on my new "Freshman" year, but I'm thankful and grateful for what that first one taught me. I learned it's sometimes okay to be sad and panicked about things because sometimes things are really sad and panicking is the only way to let that out. But I also learned that having control over everything still won't prevent some bad stuff from happening. I learned that people genuinely care about you - I still specifically remember messages or conversations with people who I was not at all close with, but they still wanted me to know that they cared about what happened. Still, though, I'm learning to let people in and let them care. And I also learned that being cool and relevant and popular only really happens when you're trying not to be cool or relevant or popular. It happens when you support someone or try things or just plain care. 

I'm heading into this Freshman year having learned those lessons and realizing there's so many more to learn. I'm sad that Andrew isn't here anymore to see me learn them, but I'm forever grateful that he taught me so many while we had him here, and I'm even more appreciative that I've learned so much more in the eleven years since he's been gone. 

Andy, I had no doubt, but I hope you know, you've had an indelible mark on my life that I never, ever could have predicted. You taught me the things I didn't know I needed to learn. You taught me more about compassion and subtlety and pure joy than most people get to learn in a lifetime. And most of all you've taught me that you absolutely do not have to be perfect, or what people think of as perfect, to be perfect. Better than anyone I've ever known despite all of the imperfections. Love you and miss you. ❤️