People in my family tend to live long lives. I lost my grandparents when I was a teenager, and they were all very old at the time. Although I have always had a morbid obsession with death and dying, it was never really much of a part of my life.
It wasn’t until I started teaching that I had funerals to attend. For teenagers. Experiencing the resilience of families losing young people was the first lesson I had in how to grieve. There is joy you inject into your life to temper the sorrow, but the sorrow does remain and changes your life forever.
Within 3 years, I lost my life partner, a young person I mentored for 15 years, and one of the most important mentors in my life.
Carl was my debate and English student. A tall young man with a rough life, but also an infectious smile and a love for music and his friends. He was the first person I knew who had COVID, and at 31, he lost his life to it. Carl was one of the first students to genuinely challenge me to be better. He and his friends would hang out in my classroom during lunch, which let me know I was doing something right as a first and second year teacher. However, he never let me rest on my laurels. He made me a better teacher and human being.
It was my first Zoom funeral, and it felt like such an injustice. He had so much love around him, and only a select few could attend in person. It was one of the first of many Zoom funerals, which meant there were more than a few technical glitches. It was a painful reminder of the dangerous world we were living in and would be followed by many more.
A year later, Karen Lewis passed away from a long battle with brain cancer. My own wife, Erin, was struggling with metastatic breast cancer. Karen and Erin would check in with each other through Facebook messenger. Karen loved my family so much and we loved her back.
Like Carl, she pushed me to be a better person. She and I would have long phone conversations during the first few years of our union caucuses existence. She wanted me to understand politics beyond my limited experience at the time. I still am reminded of her impact on my life whenever I get involved in politics and organizing. She also taught me how to show love and receive it.
I did not know that a year later, I would lose Erin as well.
In 2013, when our kid was barely one year’s old, Erin was diagnosed with stage-2 breast cancer. She spent the next 2 years in chemotherapy and going through multiple invasive surgeries. Through all of it, she remained positive that she would beat it and she wouldn’t let it stop her. In this time, she developed a family program for our temple, and led our local school council through many struggles, using her organizing acumen to get things done. It was inspiring to see her hooked up to a chemo drip, making phone calls for her re-election campaign.
In 2016, the cancer was gone and we were ready for the rest of our lives, thinking that this traumatic and painful period was behind. To spend more time with her and your son, I took a big pay cut and returned to teaching, which kept me in Chicago and available for fun weekends and school breaks.
This relief was short lived and in 2018, the cancer returned. It was our worst nightmare that came to life. Stage-4 metastatic cancer is not the same. It means that the goal is no longer ridding the cancer from the body, but trying to prolong life as much as possible while minimizing the pain. The cancer spread slowly at first, and sped up over the years. She had to spend much of this time in pandemic lockdown mode as she was immunocompromised. This was awful for a person who loved being social and organizing events. She made the best of the time. The first year of the pandemic, her health was fairly stable and the three of us found some joy within our sorrow.
Her health started to rapidly decline the following year. I had multiple mental breakdowns. I got help. I got better. As my mental wellness improved, Erin became sicker as the cancer spread and caused her much physical pain. I felt immense guilt and shame for this. She passed away on January 29th from an 8 year battle.
For the past 5 or 6 weeks, I relapsed into my depression. Recovery ain’t linear, as they say. I received overwhelming love and support from friends and comrades. I am now today just responding to these heartfelt correspondences.
I owe my ability to recover to Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) in addition to the love and support I’ve received. The basic concept behind it is that you can hold two seemingly opposing ideas in your head at the same time. Even though I am still filled with sadness, I can still find joy in life, and share that joy with my son.
I highly recommend DBT for anyone who has experienced trauma. 10 years in therapy, but it wasn’t until last fall that I started getting better, when I discovered DBT in a group therapy program.
It’s funny how the same people I am mourning are people who have prepared me to be a stronger person in this moment. Not stoic, but tender enough to allow the sorrow to flow through me while creating what is going to be a fulfilling life for myself and my son.