Monday, November 1, 2010

104 weeks

I wasn't sure I was going to write about it this year. I was waffling back and forth. This blog is personal to me, obviously, but I'm a surprisingly private person most of the time. I was going to write regular posts this week, but I don't think I have it in me.

This week sneaks up on me. I know the date, of course. But it's more than that - I think my body responds to the season itself, picking up on the tiny cues that let me know the day is approaching. Pumpkins and trick or treaters, the Santa Ana winds in the air, election ads running constantly. I find myself feeling restless and stressed and then the crying starts, out of nowhere. 

A partial list of places I've cried in the few days: in the grocery store, on the bus, at two different airports, in my office at work, in the car, in various bathrooms, over dinner in a restaurant, at home. I almost never cry, so it's shocking to me every time. It hits me randomly, and I feel the tension build up behind my cheekbones and suddenly there are tears. I hate this loss of control. I feel weak.

Two years ago, Dave had his accident. Last year, we had only just managed to get the physical injuries under control so that he wasn't constantly being sent back to the hospital - I wrote a little bit about our experience then, as the big healthcare debate raged. We were at the one year mark, and while we certainly knew that the brain injury was impacting our lives, it had taken a backseat throughout the recovery process because the physical injuries were immediately apparent, demanding of attention.

After that first long day of waiting, while the doctors worked furiously to figure out exactly where all the injuries were, they sent a resident out to talk to us. He was young, with bleached hair and ear stretchers. He was muscled and hardcore and I remember being relieved, because hardcore seemed like exactly what I wanted. Someone tough, someone willing to take risks. He sat us down and tried to talk to us about the various injuries. We wanted to know about the leg, about the bleeding, about his face. He kept trying to talk to us about a brain bleed that they hadn't noticed upon admission that had rapidly bloomed. We would go back to the other injuries, relieved that they had stopped the bleeding, that he might get to keep the leg. The subdural hematoma was just a speck, a tiny little spot of blood in the brain. It was hard to focus on it in the midst of everything else.

Two years later and that speck is front and center, long after it dissolved. We're lucky. Dave came back, he came home. In so many ways, he is still himself. He has his memory, he loves the same music, he has his bizarre sense of humor, he writes just as beautifully. And yet.

He is utterly different. A brain injury changes a person, in ways that are hard to predict or explain. Dave has no temper problems, no inappropriate behavior, for which we are incredibly grateful. He simply isn't Dave in certain indefinable ways. He remembers that he loves us, but the brain injury makes it difficult for him to think of other people, so the generosity and care that we'd come to rely on no longer exists. The love feels like an artifact, rather than an action.

Dave married my mom when I was thirteen, old enough that the transition wasn't exactly seamless. I have a father, and I adore him. My mom and my sister and I had been an independent unit for most of my life, and I was happy with it. But Dave brought so much joy into our home, unexpectedly.

He loved music of all kinds, including Nine Inch Nails, which instantly endeared him to me. He took us on camping trips to the desert and taught Dustin how to rock climb. When I crashed my first car (I was fifteen, sans learners permit, let alone a license, it wasn't my car, and I rammed it through an actual wall, leaving a VW sized hole in an apartment complex laundry room) I told Dave first and he helped me tell my mom. He got me an interview for my first real job, at his company (but in a different department) and when I landed it we carpooled to work every summer while I was in college and then for a few years after. When, while working on my thesis, I accidentally filled my entire lab with hydrochloric acid fumes, Dave is the one I called. He was so calm - How badly are your throat and eyes burning? Is there anyone else in the building that you need to warn? Okay then, I think everything will be fine.

I miss that Dave so much. I miss knowing that I can call him when I have an emergency. I miss his voice, which has a completely different tonal quality since the accident. I miss having him ask me questions about what I've been doing at work. I miss him loving me and being proud of me.

It's hard, this ambiguous loss. Dave is here, he is alive, and everyone expects us to be grateful. And we are grateful, but it's possible to be grateful and also incredibly angry about what you've lost. When someone dies, everyone around you understands the script. It is a tragedy and you grieve. When someone miraculously survives, it is a miracle and you celebrate. We aren't supposed to grieve because we had a miracle. We're supposed to be happy, joyful, overwhelmed. But it's unbelievably hard, seeing Dave walking around, taking care of him, hearing him sound almost but not quite the same, and then being hit over and over again with the realization that he is only partially here. It forces us to live with the loss, constantly.

So much of what we love about people is the way they love us. When that love is gone, or completely changed, it's hard to figure out how to go on. What we have left is the knowledge that he adored our family and that he needs our love now. We continue on as best we can, which means some days are better than others. We live with that commingled loss and love, trying to appreciate what we have left while somehow allowing ourselves to mourn what we'll never have again. Yesterday Dave carved pumpkins for us, just like he always used to. We ate dinner together and he told a joke and we all laughed. He didn't call me girl in his old tone and he forgot to hug me tightly before I left. I have to be okay with that. I don't waste time thinking about how things could have gone differently. There are a million ways in which it could have been worse and a million others in which it could have been better and you can say that about everything in life.

And I am learning. I have always loved control and plans. I like to make schedules and lists and try to find the right time for everything. It's humbling when you realize that everything you've planned can be changed in less than a second. It's taught me to value resiliency. I want to be a person who can set goals and move towards them wholeheartedly but is willing and able to change as necessary, bending without breaking. I am practicing doing my best and then letting go, because I can't control outcomes. I am admitting to myself that above all, above anything tangible I might be able to accomplish in life, I want to be a person who loves well, and who is loved, and who does things right as often as possible.

This all sounds sort of hippie dippy and I prefer to identify as kick ass rather than new age. So I approach it more like that, as a challenge. It's a process, and sometimes it feels like zen and sometimes it feels like I really want to hit someone, hard. I am a naturally anxious person, so training myself to focus on the process and not just the outcome is difficult. But I keep reminding myself that I am moving and changing and growing. This is hard, I am allowed to feel sad, but I'm also allowed to have joy in my life, and I do. I am going to figure out how to keep moving forward.

But I'm taking a break until next week, when I'm over this crying in public business. It's hard to feel kick ass when you catch yourself weeping in the produce aisle.

88 comments:

  1. Keeping you and your family in my thoughts this week!

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  2. This is beautiful & moving. There are situations in my life in which I can identify with this- not completely, as each situation (and person) requires a different grief, but it's so true- there are a million worse things, but also a million things that could be better, but it's not under our control. I'm so glad I read this, Rachel, & I am so sorry for your loss.

    Here's to figuring out a new wonderful & beautiful life- a new normal with great things in it. :)

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  3. I can't find any words with which to appropriately comment on this post. I've been a reader for a while now, and a fan of your store. It sounds dumb to say, but you are a friend. A feel like all the blogs on my reader are my friends. We sit and have coffee together daily, each in our own space and time. Anyway...dear friend, thank you for sharing this post. My thoughts are with you. And here is a huge hug too.

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  4. As a long-time reader, let me add my good wishes to you and your family as you go through this strange anniversary.

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  5. You and your family have been through so much, Rachel. My thoughts are with you as you all continue to heal :)

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  6. i know it can't seem like much when one is going through what you and your family are, but i was very touched by your honesty, your willingness to expose what must be very raw and delicate in a very real, intelligent, and beautiful way.

    my great grandma lived until i was in college and i remember how she changed as she went through a series of strokes in older age. thank god i had her in my life that long but i know we grieved the loss of her personality quirks even as we rejoiced in the miracle of her life being spared. alas, life is lived in the grey areas, not in the black and white. i hope you and your family can find comfort in eachother and i'll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.

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  7. rachel, i am so sorry for you and your family. that is certainly something to grieve. take all the time you need. hugs.

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  8. i love the way you said this: "So much of what we love about people is the way they love us. When that love is gone, or completely changed, it's hard to figure out how to go on."
    thank you for sharing this with us, it helps people like me, to whom this hasn't happened, understand this tragic story better.

    thank you from a soon-to-be priest.

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  9. I’m a long time reader and know what you’re going through, my older brother had a head injury and the same thing happened – he’s the same, but not. You have put into words what I have desperately tried to explain to myself and others . . . thank you.

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  10. Thank you for sharing this. So beautifully expressive and undeniably tragic.

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  11. oh that's so tough. thinking of you and thanks for sharing. so many people are affected by brain injuries. My uncle had a similar accident and has never been the same.

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  12. Rachel, you are in my prayers.
    I'm also a relatively private person and I admire you for being able to write and publish this for everyone to read.
    Stay strong.

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  13. easily one of the most profound things i've ever read. it was heartbreaking and deeply emotional, but raw and true. thank you for sharing what you and your family have been going through these past two years. nobody can understand what it's like, but we can all strive to love well, be loved and who do things right as often as possible.

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  14. Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful and heartbreaking post.
    I'll be thinking of you and your family, sending (kick-ass!) positive energy your way.

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  15. I can totally identify with you writing about needing to control things. I have been trying to embrace this line in one of my favorite songs that goes "you can learn to love uncertainty". It seems like a huge feat to love uncertainty but I at least try.

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  16. i've been a longtime reader and fan but most of the time i'm just so up to my ears in subscriptions in my google reader that i don't have the time to comment. i'm so glad that today i had the extra time to actually sit down and read whole post and comment. it made me tear up thinking about all that you've been through. you are so incredibly strong and you've been through such a devastating experience with all of this. thank you for sharing your experience with us all.

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  17. What a beautiful post. I can't imagine what it would be like to feel that the person you love has changed so much. Thank you for sharing.

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  18. It is so brave of you to share this with us. I also think it is incredibly hard to write well, and even more so when writing about something painful. Thank you for sharing your grief and your talent with us.

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  19. You relate this experience and your feelings about it so eloquently that tears welled up as I read your post (and I cry fairly rarely, too). I haven't had exactly the sort of loss you describe, but because of how clearly you express it, I think I understand, at least a little bit, why your sadness is an enduring one. While of course not losing Dave completely is reason for gratitude, you and your family still suffered a profound loss, one of which you're reminded constantly. I, too, commend your bravery in sharing this.

    The priority you've identified - "that above all, above anything tangible I might be able to accomplish in life, I want to be a person who loves well, and who is loved, and who does things right as often as possible" - is a beautiful guiding principle, an essential truth about what makes life meaningful.

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  20. your essay today told me so much about your family and about families in general. the way we take 'love' for granted. thank you for writing this. i want to love more deeply and show those around me. like you said love is an ACTION. thank you for such a touching reminder. we must make the most of these moments. my prayers are with you. xo.

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  21. Rachel,
    I've come to really enjoy your blog, and think of you as a friend even though, I only know you through your blog. That said, I grieve with you through your trials, and will pray for you as I would any friend.

    I have a friend from high school who endured a traumatic brain injury in a car accident on July 4th weekend. He's going through much of what it seems your step-father did. I completely understand your loss, and at the same time, your blessing in still having that person to some degree.

    If you find yourself crying in the produce aisle again... blame it on an onion. :)
    *hugs*

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  22. you are brave and eloquent and do so many things right. quintessentially kick ass.

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  23. i'm a long time reader, but i've never commented. this post moved me so much. thank you for writing it.

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  24. thank you for writing this. it is raw and real and moving and so beautiful. thank you for sharing this. it touched me in ways i wasn't expecting. thank you.

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  25. I read this post just a few hours after I wrote a post about the loss of my father, nine years ago. It's easy for me to get lost in the fact that we did lose him and think that it's the worst thing that could have ever happened. But I can honestly say I have never until this moment thought about how things would have been different if he had lived. Would he have been different? Would he forget his nicknames for me and the little jokes that we had. The pain and loss I would feel from that would be a different kind of heartbreaking, for sure.

    Thank you for sharing this. It's not easy to share such intimate emotional details, but you did it beautifully and in a way that opened my eyes a little bit more.

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  26. the way you articulate the loss makes so much sense -- it's a moving story, and i think anyone could appreciate how you feel. thanks so much for taking the time to share.

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  27. This was a beautiful, honest, real post and I thank you for opening up enough to share it. I think you have perfectly articulated a part of grief and sorrow that typically would be hard to identify and identify with. Take care this week.

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  28. Hey Rache, you amazing woman, thank you for such an honest, moving post. P has struggled with similar feelings after some of his buddies suffered TBIs on their last tour in Iraq. It's such a flummoxing reality to have this person you love LOOK like the same person but, in certain ways, no longer exist as the same person we knew before the accident. You're brave, you are indeed quite kick-ass, and there's no shame in crying in the produce aisle. We love you, we're with you, and we're proud of you. xoxo

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  29. Rachel, you write beautifully and so much of what you said resonates with me. I don't comment often but your blog is a daily read of mine and I wanted to say how much I appreciate your candidness and your resilience and mostly your amazing grasp of reality. I always thought you presented yourself on this blog with a kick ass personality and I don't doubt you are kick ass in real life. I hope your week off bodes well and you will return recharged and grace us with your brilliance next week :)

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  30. rachel, thank you for so eloquently sharing such personal thoughts + reminding us that life is precious and fragile.

    even "kick-assers" need to take a break from their "kick-assiveness" now and again, although i think you're showing great bravery tackling this head on. that's kick ass if i ever saw it.

    sending you light and love :)

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  31. Thank you so much for sharing such an intimate story. I can understand that you feel that you have to be grateful, but that it's not only gratefulness you feel inside. I think you are doing great; allowing the sadness but also feel happiness for the things that you do have.
    Losing the feeling for generosity might by one of the most difficult things to lose... I send you a well-meant hug, all the way from the Netherlands. Know that many people who read your blog think of you.

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  32. Thank you for sharing this! That must be so hard. It sounds like you could really use some comfort right now. Please take some time this week to do what nourishes you!

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  33. What a beautifully-written, heartfelt post. Thanks for reminding us that grief and heartbreak can come in all shapes and sizes. Thinking of you!

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  34. I'm a lurker too, which feels shameful with such an honest, beautiful post. Thank you for writing it. I wish you every good thing.

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  35. You are the kicking assest.

    x. also, o.

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  36. thank you so much for sharing. you're words are so wonderful and really translate to many areas in life and to different situations. you've summed up exactly how i'm trying to live my life in a way i never could. and i thank you for that.

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  37. You said so many true things here. My grandma struggled with this as she lost her husband to alzheimer's. She was grieving the loss of a person while he was still there. It was ambiguous and painful. I'm so sorry for what you're going through.

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  38. Thank you Rachel for sharing this beautifully written and moving post with your virtual friends. Big hugs and best wishes to you and yours.

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  39. That was beautifully said and brought me to tears. My cousin is dealing with a similiar situation with her husband who miraculously survived a brain aneurism... I didn't feel like I understood exactly what she was going through until I read this. Thank you for that.

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  40. rachel: thank you for being so honest and brave and rad. love, love to you and your fam while you figure out what this new life is going to look like. if i knew you in real life i would take you out for pie. in the meantime, hugs from boston.

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  41. This was so beautifully written and so moving that I cried at my desk. (I'm a crier, but still.) You draw attention to some important issues - brain injury first and foremost, but also the emotional impact that a grievous injury and a long recovery can have on family. I'm thinking of you and sending you healing thoughts. I know from experience that public crying can be very therapeutic so I encourage you to indulge and get it all out. And buy yourself some flowers before Friday. Big hug, P.

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  42. I know that you are writing about something sad and difficult, but this was a beautiful post.

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  43. rachel
    i feel so lucky that you shared this with us. thank you.

    i'm thinking of you friend...
    xoxo

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  44. This post touched me in such a deep, meaningful way. I emailed it to my sister so she could read it as well. Thank you for being so open, so honest and so you!

    I can’t even begin to describe why I relate to this story because I am at work and have already begun to try to swallow that lump in my throat and fight the tears.

    But just know that you’re not alone. Although my situation is not exactly the same, it’s very similar.

    I really, really, really appreciate you writing this for us and for yourself. I hope it helped you a little to get it out and to make it public, and just know that it helped me.

    Thank you!

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  45. Rachel, I can't thank you enough for writing this. As a speech therapist, I feel like we constantly need to be reminded that we are not only working with our patients, but with their families as well. It's definitely the hardest part of the job, helping families and patients come to terms with their brain injury and the likely "new normal"...The first day I observed at a rehab hospital, I went home and cried my eyes out. I found it to be so depressing, but because of families like yours, I am constantly inspired by their resiliency and strength. And now, there is no where else I'd rather be, coaching from the sidelines, holding tissues & hands, meeting some of the strongest and most loving individuals. Thank you so much for sharing. I am passing this along to all of my colleagues this morning.

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  46. Having a brain injury, and knowing, what Dave might be experiencing, I can't tell you how amazing it is to read your words. This injury has turned me into a different person, a person that my family doesn't seem to understand or want to get to know.

    Reading your words, Rachel, makes me hopeful that one day that will change.

    And reading your words, I know that Dave will continue to recover.

    Thanks,

    Dorian

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  47. Tears are reflective of inner strength -- you've been through something impactful, powerful, and traumatic. Your tears are reminders that you have made it through. I hope Dave continues to do well and make your family laugh more and more as years pass and time erodes some of the sharpness of the memory of Dave's accident.

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  48. Thank you for sharing. Sometimes we forget the difference a second, much less 104 weeks worth, can make.

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  49. Your post is extraordinarily moving.

    Even when you'd only started to lead into the story I realized what you live with is much more difficult than the recent deaths of my remaining grandparents. Yes, it hurts, and I don't mean to make light of it, but living with something every day, with such an emotional loss is so difficult.

    Thank you for sharing yourself with us. It's one of the highlights of my day (when you're posting that often), and today's was especially sobering.

    Thank you for helping me reflect on my own experiences in a new light, and to remember to be thankful daily.

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  50. "So much of what we love about people is the way they love us," these are such beautiful words that I won't be forgetting. Thank you for writing these beautiful words. Your strength is inspiring, as well as your vulnerability. My thoughts are with you and your family.

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  51. i am learning that some losses never leave us, and some days are just harder. until your days get less hard, i'm sending you kind, warming thoughts.

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  52. Huge hugs. It's September that's hard for me, so I know. The fall light hits in a certain way and I'm sobbing re-living it all. Wishing you the strength to go THROUGH it, not around it. Because that's the only way.

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  53. Thank you for this post. My situation's not exactly the same, but I'm dealing with the aftermath of my daughter's heart surgery that was supposed to be "simple" with a quick recovery & no long-term problems & turned out to be quite the opposite. It's hard to explain to others the combination of gratitude & grief, but you've done it beautifully.

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  54. Thank you for sharing such a personal, important experience. You put into words something that is hard to say/explain and I think each of us can identify in a certain way from our own lives.
    Thinking of you and your family this week.

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  55. Rachel, I know I have already commented, but I wanted you to know that your words on the situation were so beautiful and so moving that I came back to them at the end of my work day to read again. I also printed it out to keep with me as a reminder of some excellent points you made.
    Again, thank you for being so open with us and sharing this. Your words really helped me today and I hope they helped you.

    My prayers are with you and your family!

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  56. I have chills just reading this. I'm so very sorry for what your family lost that day. I know exactly what you mean about not knowing how to grieve in a situation like this. Although you are much stronger than I - I tend to get lost in the 'what could have been' too easily. What a beautifully written, honest and raw post. Thinking of you all and sending love and prayers.

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  57. Dearest Rachel, Thank you for sharing this story. I know how hard this post must have been to write, but I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you to live this. I'm sorry you've had to go through this. My admiration for you is boundless.

    After I finished my BA one of my best friends and classmates was working overseas and collapsed with a brain tumour. We were told he could die and our class came together in a way we hadn't since graduation. He didn't die, but the surgery left him changed. I feel like I lost that friend and have spent the years since making friends with this new person.

    But that's not family and it's not to say I know what you're going through. Because I don't and couldn't possibly. But I know that you're a woman with an amazing capacity for love and that's what strikes me from this post. You're incredible.

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  58. wow, what a beautiful post. thanks for sharing Rachel. I can only imagine how difficult this week is for you. I have experienced loss, my brother died in a car accident 9 years ago, but I haven't experienced what your family has experienced. losing a part of someone, but they are still here. it's a lot to deal with, a lot to carry. you are a strong lady and an inspiring one at that. take all the time you need... cry as often as you need. you know, sometimes it's just necessary to let it out. xoxo

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  59. SO SO SO much love for you Rachel <3 you are a beautiful, strong, talented woman, and you just cry, mourn, rejoice, and do whatever you havta do; your readers love you and support you! xo

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  60. I have nothing to say that could make it any better, I just wanted to send you a big love. A big warm love xx I hope the tears become less and less

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  61. I will be thinking of you this week. I think it's especially hard being a private person and dealing with a loss of love like that. You only rely on a few dear people in your life for problems, and when their love is gone or forever changed, it leaves a gaping hole inside you. Thank you for sharing your story with us. It helped another private and mourning person.

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  62. You are in my thoughts this week. I loved this post. Thank you so much for sharing what you and your family have gone through. Life is a tricky thing and they way you are handling this unexpected change is so humbling. I love this line becuase it's true: strive to love well, be loved and do things right as often as possible.

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  63. it's amazing how our bodies and minds might respond to an anniversary of a loss subconsciously before our rational brains can even realize why we're acting and feeling so sad/crazy/forgetful/bitchy/etc.

    i've been thinking a lot about grief lately- the complexity of it, the many forms it takes and the many reasons we experience it (not just death, but any loss- divorce, sickness, etc.) when you're grieving over someone who is still alive but not the same, your heart breaks in a slightly different place each day. in some ways, i suffered more over my brother than my dad, and i think it's for that very reason.
    thanks for sharing your heart with us! i will see you this weekend i think!

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  64. Rachel-
    Isaac forwarded the link to your blog as we have suffered a similar loss with our son Daniel's mental illness. The grief process is a long road, which can teach us much. I strongly recommend to you a book,"The Grief Recovery Handbook" by John James and Russell Friedman. Also, my wife and I each participated in grief recovery peer groups that were most helpful. Your writing about this is healing for you. We learned in the groups that speaking your feelings to another person is essential to healing. My heart goes out to you and take good and gentle care of yourself.

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  65. This post is my life in a nutshell. Different people, different things wrong, but the wrench of not being able to do a damn thing about terrible things that have happened? I just got some really bad prognosis news last night, and man...I am just getting so sick of this. The heartbreak that comes from inaction is surely one of the worst kinds, because it doesn't lessen over time. Awful.

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  66. Hi Rachel,

    I've been reading your blog for a couple of months now but haven't yet commented. Thank you for sharing this. I was moved to tears by your words and am thinking of you and your family tonight. Sending a bit of love, light and strength your way.

    Kayla

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  67. Rachel, this was one of the most beautiful posts I've ever read, mainly because of the sheer honesty and love you can feel coming from every word. Take some time to cry it out and know we'll be here when you get back. xo.

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  68. thank you so much for sharing this part of your heart -- beautifully and honestly written. big hugs to you <3

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  69. Love to you, Rachel. Love to your sister. Love to your mom. Love to Dave. I miss him, too. And I am grateful that he is still here. You so eloquently expressed what everyone who loved him (especially my dad) feels. Thank you.
    ~Natalie

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  70. All I have for you is a big *hug*

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  71. You are truly remarkable, Rachel. Thank you so much for being brave. For posting on this sensitive issue. So few understand exactly what it's like to lose something so intangible and yet so powerful. It's impacted nearly every facet of your life and your family's. Words fall short... I just wish we could lift you up, your family and Dave up, buoy you with our love and appreciation. The intensity of your love for Dave and the sweetness of your memories will see you through.

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  72. Thank you for sharing this.
    I was knocked down by a motorcycle earlier this year and what you wrote touched me. The pain of any accident or calamity is not solely manifested on the physical scars, but also in the suffering of the people around you who care the most.

    I know how you feel about being in control. Back then, too often have I been upset because things didn't turned out as I had planned. Now I have learnt to let go. I truly admire your strength and your attitude towards life. I cannot imagine what you and your family had to go through, it makes me happy to know that Dave has been able to assimilate back into his daily life. Everyday I am filled with gratitude and happiness to be able to live, and indeed the smallest things in life are worth celebrating for :) I will keep you and your family in my thoughts.

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  73. I was in an accident. A long time ago. Life and death; a hiccup in the universe.

    Everyone said I had changed.

    And I did.

    ...But I was still me.

    It was so hard... so hard to live knowing that in everyone's eyes, I was only a ghost. A ghost of what I had been. Of who I had been.

    I missed myself too, but inside... I was still there. Raging against everything that had been stilled and frozen within me. The me that everyone missed.

    I will never again be that person.

    But today I am myself. I am different. I am the same. I'm me. And Dave is Dave.

    ...Dave is there. Believe me.

    I am still here.

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  74. Thank you for sharing! My daughter had a brain injury when she was 16. She was on a church hay ride and some boys were horsing around and one boy flew head first into my daughter's head and jolted her brain back and forth in her skull. It was a very long recovery process. She lost her short term memory and struggled with too many directions at one time (still does 6 years later) but still remained good at science and math but not history or english. She didn't laugh or smile for months! When she did finally laugh for the first time...we celebrated! I could go on and on about the recovery but you know how long it takes. 6 years later she still tires easily, still gets frustrated easy and just isn't exactly her. I'll always get a funny feeling about Halloween and hayrides.

    Thanks again, I'll be thinking of you!
    Kim

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  75. Praying for you and your family darling. 'hug'

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  76. I read occasionally and have never commented, but I wanted to say that this was beautifully written, and I wish you comfort.

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  77. Rachel -

    Thank you posting this. I don't know you, I simply follow your blog, but this brought forth a connection. As I read it, I teared up because I've been in your shoes before, at least somewhat. A dear friend of mine was in a terrible car accident 6 years ago. After a long coma, he got the opportunity to start his life over again from scratch. He is still him, but there so many things that have changed. He has a new childlike-sense of wonderment and a simpler approach to the world that is beautiful and heartbreaking all at the same time.

    When this happened, no one understood that my daily crying jags were for my mourning of who he once was. I was so grateful to still have him on Earth but he was so different. He's been lucky - he's healed and married and is now a new dad. We never thought he'd live, much less be a happy productive member of society. But it was a long road and he'll never be the same. His life is a beautiful miracle, but I still occasionally feel those pangs of anger and resentment and sadness for the loss of those part of him that changed and disappeared forever.

    Please hang in there. Remind yourself every day of the positive. And keep crying and talking about it. It'll get better, I promise.

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  78. I understand exactly what you're going through. It's this very weird thing to be confronted with greif when outside the world tells you to be relieved, grateful even. My cousin was in a car accident in 2003 and was very lucky that he had been wearing his seat belt and that a fire station was literally 2 minutes down the road. He suffered a major brain injury and hardly any other physical damage. One of the first things he said to me when I visited him in the hospital after he woke from his coma, was a nickname. I was overwhelmed with relief. He was still there. Inside, he was alright even though his body wouldn't move and he couldn't remember new things, what made him him was still there.

    Over time though there was this saddness that seemed to settle inside of him. He was very active before the accident and it was very clear that never being able to play hockey again, or to learn how to drive a car, or go off alone took a tole on him. It may seem small, but he loved video games and even that was difficult because he couldn't control both hands well. And then there was his memory. It wasn't that he was unkind or uncaring, it's just that he couldn't remember, why we were there, things that had just been said, instructions simple or otherwise. And it made him bitter, confused and frustrated which seeped into the rest of us. It's that realization that the person before the accident isn't ever going to come back and instead you're left with this kind of doppleganger who is exactly like your person, but still, different.

    My story turns out a bit differently, I'm afraid. My cousin and I were 18, (born 5 days apart), when his accident happened. He struggled through and had a relatively good life for 3 years before he passed away in August just 2 months before out 21st birthdays. It almost felt like this cruel sick joke, how could he have suffered through so much only to be taken away so soon.

    So then the grief you feel becomes this very weird thing, who are you grieving for, who he was, who he became, what he could have been. It's been four years now, and I still don't have my brain quite wrapped around it. But if I can share anything with you it's that at the end of the day when you go through all the motions, the grief, the guilt, the resentment, the 'how unfair life can be,' you must try and settle with the feeling that a piece of him is still here, just a piece. It's not always a comfort, sometimes it's a cruel reminder, but it's the best out of a really bad, shitty, no good situation.

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  79. thank you for sharing this. praying that things will get better and all our tomorrows will be better than our todays. love.

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  80. hang in there Rachel, im sending you lots of strength and good thoughts from Estonia xoxo Kat

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  81. I am catching up reading the blog after a little absence. I cried when I read this post. I could really relate. 3 years ago my 16 year old cousin was in a car accident and suffered extensive traumatic brain damage. At first our focus was on his survival. We were told by the docs that he wasn't going to make it, so the fact that he survived did indeed feel like a miracle; so did the fact that he managed to relearn how to eat, then talk, then walk, then even graduate highschool. But, like Dave, he is different now. He is a different person. The boy I knew and who was loved by his friends, siblings, parents and extended family, is gone. He is unable to work or go to college because of the brain injury. I don't know what the future holds for him. Like you say, everyone expects you to move on. If the person survives you're supposed to be eternally grateful... and we are. But there is so much else involved with a brain injury. The tragedy changed my life in ways I'm not prepared to post on the blog... let me just say that it permanently changed the way I look and approach my life.

    I'm not sure what my point is, other than just to say, I am sorry about Dave, and thank you for posting these intimate thoughts. I also want to say thank you for the other readers who also shared their stories here.

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  82. Thank you for sharing. This post is so moving and heartbreaking and honest. I'm so sorry for your loss. I really do admire your strength. I'll say a prayer for you and your family this week.

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  83. Hi, got to this post because of your three years post. I am very sorry for your loss. this post is beautiful and makes me think of a lot of love related things.

    I specially like the part you say: "So much of what we love about people is the way they love us"

    hope you are all doing well! Take care

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