#griefblr

Today, I'm thinking about the time he told me that the next civil rights movement in the United States was going to be for immigrants' rights. This was long before the current loon meaningfully entered the political stage. At the time, I thought he was wrong. Now, I think my dad was right, but not in the way he thought.

Once my dad's career settled on law, he spent the majority of it as an immigration attorney. He prevailed on the one case he argued before the 9th Circuit, which was published, making good law for immigrants. He was 1 for 1!

My dad was passionate about immigrants' rights because he had been an immigrant himself and because he really deeply believed in America's promise as a liberal democractic beacon for the world. My dad was empathetic before he was anything else. He listened to people's stories. He wanted success for everyone and their families and he truly admired the hardworking spirit shared by so many immigrants, from the immigrants of his parents' generation to his own peers and those that followed.

I know he would be appalled by everything that's happening right now. Before he got sick, he told me he didn't think he ever wanted to retire. He wanted to cut back, but hoped to work more pro bono cases. Once he got sick, he told me he was frustrated because he felt like he had just hit his stride in his profession. He would have been doing such great work right now.

After 2 weeks on little/no running, I felt the urge and energy to go again. Grief is exhausting, and during this past week since being home I have taken long calm and quiet walks instead. My soul has needed vast amounts of quiet, gentle and slow movement, and naps. Yesterday I smiled and genuinely laughed again, and today there have been no tears - just a happy recognition that my parents are both happy again, together. I know this will not last - another grief tsunami will hit - but today feels good. 

I ran down to Boulevard Park and beyond this morning and it was gorgeous as always. I also walked this route last night and then I photographed the lit up cheer of my new ‘hood.

My mom and I are lending them a wheelchair that we have from (multiple passed family members), and when she found out that my mom had cleaned it up and driven it over to our office right away, she started to cry.

One of the things she said was that this is the worst pain she has ever felt, and now, all the time we've been talking about my dad dying this same way, she feels so sad for me for having been through it too. I had those same feelings for my friends too.

There's a special part of the service in Judaism on Yom Kippur called Yizkor (remembrance or memorial), that's for people who have lost a close family member to remember their loved ones on the holiest day of the year. The tradition is that if you have not yet lost someone close (parent, spouse, sibling, child), you do not attend the service. Some congregations put this service at the end so people can leave before it starts or congregants just step into the hall before coming back once its done.

I'm sure there are lot of reasons Rabbis give for why the tradition is for only people with close loss to attend the Yizkor service, but at this point in my life this tradition just makes a lot of sense. Losing someone that close is like passing through a veil. It forever changes you. That level of grief is so difficult to understand until you've experienced it yourself. I've seen people breakdown at their first Yizkor, with full body-shaking sobs. And no one ever wants to see children there (but we do).

My colleague is passing through the veil. There is nothing I can say to make it easier or better for her. I can only listen when she talks. And tell her truly that I understand.

All this is to say, it's also bringing back a lot of emotions for me right now. My role here is to take care of work so she doesn't have to think about it. I'm trying my best but I'm definitely sadder than I expected I would be. I knew it would hit her eventually.

It sounds like his dying process is happening much faster than she expected. She was hoping he would make it to February. I'm not sure he'll make it to the new year.

She texted me to let me know an update on his condition so I can help cover some of her work stuff. I shared my usual offers of help and words of support and encouragement.

I said to her the thing that weirdly gave me and gives me the most comfort in my adult life: the only way out is through. I think a friend who is on here said that to me years ago and I've hung onto it. Sometimes you just have to experience the worst thing you're ever going to experience and there's no way to avoid it or hide from it. You just have to live it.

I cannot make sense of this loss. This family is not close to me but very close to my cousin that I just lost and her family, including her young kids.

I keep picturing all of them around the time of my cousin's death, just a month or so ago. At her bedside in the hospital, in the waiting room together, at my cousin's funeral and shiva. Her mom helping with all the food in the kitchen - she baked hundreds of hamentaschen that she kept bringing to the house. Her dad's very generous hugs - he barely knew me but he kept hugging me. Her grandmother and grandfather, my own departed aunt and uncle's longtime friends, showing up every day of the shiva. Her uncle hugging me so tight in the hospital hallway, again and again.

I cannot make sense of a 26 year old dying out of nowhere. My mom said she'd just gotten engaged. I'm too far away from the family to be of much use but my gosh, I just feel so much sadness for all of them. I can't imagine what this feels like to my cousin's kids who just lost their mom. This is someone they grew up with, used to take family vacations with.

It's three o'clock in the morning and I can't sleep. I lost my cousin, Sarah, yesterday morning. I know I have said this before, but I can't even begin to describe the giant hole she is leaving in the world. She was so funny and so loving and so beautiful. She leaves three wonderful children who are much too young to lose their mother, and a husband who adored her. She was 47 years old. It is so unbelievably unfair that she is gone, but here we are.

She was my childhood playmate, she and my sister and me forming a rambunctious trio of which she was undoubtedly the leader. She got us into trouble, and taught us the best games. We climbed trees together and played baseball in the backyard, and epic games of cards. She was the one who taught me how to ride a bike. We sang together and giggled together and swam endlessly together. She was effortlessly cool when we were growing up and into adulthood.

I wish you all could have known her. She had this charisma that just attracted people. People who met her loved her. She was fiercely loyal. Even though we were so different as kids and into adulthood, she never made me feel excluded or like her love was conditioned on me being as cool as her. She just loved me and accepted me for exactly who I was.

And she was so fucking funny. Her sense of humor could range from the cheesiest dad jokes to the most hilarious pranks. One time at a family friend's Hannukkah party -- a big party with nearly 100 people -- she surprised the hosts by ordering Christmas carolers to perform. And then every year after that she tried to one up herself -- there was a mariachi band and a drag queen performer and a Sinatra impersonator. The hosts never knew what to expect at their own party.

Even before her diagnosis, but especially after, she really leaned into life. She did not waste a single moment of her time. She created beautiful and hilarious memories with her kids, her family, and her friends. She worked hard too. She was traveling all of the time. But she really loved that. She liked feeling and being high-powered. She earned it.

She gave the fiercest hugs. The last few days that I've been spending with her friends, I feel like we're all trying to hold onto each other so hard, just like she did.

They're expecting over 300 people at her funeral. When we got to their house today, there was a team of her friends there working away at making the arrangements so we didn't have to do or think of anything. Which is exactly what she would do for anyone else. And then make sure there was food there.

Cancer is such a fucking son of a bitch. It takes everything from its victims until there's nothing left.

There's no light left in my cousin's eyes. There's nothing of the vibrant, joyful person she was. I wish everyone could have known her. Everyone she met loved her. Her hospital room is overflowing with people who want to be with her and see her. And it's just so hard to see her the way she is now. I know she would hate all of her friends seeing her how she is now, but none of them care.

She's not really there anymore. I'm not sure when we lost her. I've spent the last two days in the hospital, holding her hand and trying to make sure she and her family are not alone. I'm not all on my own. We all take turns. There are so many people who are taking care of her and her family. But it's still so much. I'm exhausted.

They've moved her to hospice care. I don't know when we'll get the call.

I have to go back to the office tomorrow and try to lift up my law clerk after her horrible bar experience and celebrate her birthday.

My friend Susan's dad died last weekend, and his funeral was today. It was family only, which I'm not going to lie, I was a little relieved. It's a lot easier to pretend like I have broad shoulders to carry her right now when all I need to do is send texts and let her know I'm here if she needs me.

I'm so tired. It's not even 7 o'clock and I want to crawl into bed. I have to try to get work ready tomorrow, with an eye towards being able to leave it to my team at a moment's notice.