The Grief

in the two weeks since Pinko left my life, i’m sad to say i haven’t dreamed about her once. i keep wanting to and asking her to visit me, but she hasn’t yet. maybe that’s because i’m sleeping poorly and there hasn’t been many solid stretches of time when dreams can happen. i’m hoping both these things will change soon, because i’m chronically tired from the lack of sleep and chronically sad from missing her.

i get that she is not coming back. there is no “magical thinking” happening where i’ve saved her things with the expectation that she will need them when she returns home. wherever home is for her now, it’s no longer with me. accepting this has made the grief more manageable. i don’t come home expecting to see her sweet face, despite thinking about her all day long. of course, the house is hollower without her. of course, my life is, too.

but once i made my way through the initial devastation — when i cried until i ran out of tears and drank until i felt numb — the dull, familiar ache of heartbreak settled in. i realize it will dissipate with time, as all my other heartaches have, flaring up intermittently when triggered. sometimes, it’s by my memories of her, like how she had one floppy and one upright ear and how she would put her face on the edge of the bed to greet me every morning. other times, it’s the realization that i’ll never see that face or hear her howl again. 

a few friends suggested i get another dog right away. i know this is good advice and there will certainly be more dogs in my future, but a new dog can’t fill the void of wanting my old dog back. i need to heal first and prepare myself to appreciate a new dog’s unique personality and idiosyncrasies instead of searching for one that reminds me of Pinko.

at least i have Juice. this is another refrain i’ve heard, and it rings exceptionally true. i couldn’t imagine walking into or living in a dogless house, now or ever. i need to see a tail wagging daily and have access to a furry face i can nuzzle. it’s good for my mental and spiritual health. Juice has delivered, though she’s less affectionate than Pinko was, so i find myself following Juice around the house and trying to coax her into giving me love and attention, as Pinko used to with me.  

if there is any bright side to this, it’s that i now have more opportunities to connect with Juice — and in many ways reconnect. Pinko’s rough origins made her slightly needy and insecure, while Juice has known no other life than the one she’s been living with me since she was six weeks old. rightly or wrongly, i gave Pinko more attention, sometimes at the expense of Juice, who has become more solitary over the years. but now, Juice has begun falling asleep with her head across my lap more, something she used to do regularly as a puppy.

i keep wondering what she is thinking through all this. i worry that she is lonely and bored without Pinko. i know i shouldn’t project my human sensibilities onto her, but there have been several times when we’ve locked eyes for a good while and i recognize a certain sadness in her, the same one that lives in me now. after these moments, i’ll always kiss her head and whisper, “i miss her, too.”

i know Juice understands that Pinko is gone. she stayed in the room with me and smelled Pinko’s still body when it was over. sometimes, Juice smells whatever remains of Pinko’s scent on my clothes and begins wagging her tail and pawing at me. she also seems far more interested in her dog toys, which Pinko routinely stole out of Juice’s mouth, but they are now carried around the house and brought onto the couch to snuggle with.

then there is Tico and his grief. in the days following Pinko’s death, he painted the basement, planted much of the front yard, vacuumed and washed my car, built a shelf for the hallway closet and reorganized the spare bedroom and bathroom cupboards — all while i sat on the couch, drinking, crying and looking at old photographs. i guess this sums up the difference between how men and women grieve. thankfully, he also slowed down plenty to offer his comfortable arms when i needed them most, cushioning this journey for me immensely.

i’m also indebted to my friends and family, whom i’m convinced are the most amazing people in the world. from them, i received money for vet bills, condolence cards, flower and food deliveries, a spa certificate, and several personal messages of love and support. i take none of it for granted and vow to absorb these inspirational lessons in friendship and pay them forward.

and even though i’m brokenhearted and going into the holidays with a member of my family missing, i still consider myself lucky for the many remaining blessings in my life — and for the six years i had with a cuddly creature that howled in my ear, warmed my side, brightened my world and grew my heart with her limitless love. i would do it all over again.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Pinko/Cheddar (2007-2013)

 
my favorite photo of her

when i first began drafting this blog post several days ago, the first sentence read, “a week ago, i thought this post would be an obituary.” after considering whether it would have been better if she went right away instead of lasting that extra week — a week that kept her alive needlessly, in pain and in vain — i’m certain that right away would have been better.

of course, i have the gift of hindsight and the scourge of jewish guilt that makes me think that everything i’ve done i could do better if given another chance, but reality is a merciless beast and my reality is that my dog is dead and the well-meaning chorus of “you did everything you could for her” rings hollow for me and will never remove the feeling i have inside that i didn’t.

i don’t say this to evoke sympathy or soothing words, just to state a fact that i would have done many things differently. i realize that none of it matters now. i realize that she’s gone and i’m tormenting myself with options i no longer have. i suppose it’s part of the grieving process and i will get through it. but still, there remains a secret hope that we all get one do-over in life. i would choose the past week as mine. 


at four months 

like the cliche, i never saw it coming. when my little Pinko (whom i call Cheddar nowadays) started walking funny on Thanksgiving, i assumed it was just a sprained muscle that would resolve itself in time, like it has in the past. so i continued on with the long weekend, visiting with friends who were in town and enjoying a daytrip with Tico to the Salton Sea. in other words, i stayed out of the house most of the weekend and didn’t notice that my dog’s health was in a freefall.

this was my ultimate mistake because by sunday night, Pinko stopped eating and seemed feverish and weak. by monday morning, when i took her to the vet, her nose had begun bleeding. the vet put her on an IV, took chest x-rays and drew her blood, which showed that all her organs were failing and producing enzymes to shut her body down for an imminent death. her temperature registered at 105.8 degrees (106 is fatal in dogs). she also had blood in her lungs.

with no time to waste, he sent me over to Animal Specialty Group in Glendale, a referral-only hospital staffed 24/7 with animal oncologists, internists and surgeons. more x-rays were taken there and ultimately an ultrasound that couldn’t locate a tumor in her body, ruling out the possibility of cancer. instead, she was diagnosed with thrombocytopenia, a blood disease that causes one’s body to attack its own platelets as though they were pathogens. at intake, Pinko tests showed 11,000 platelets (150,000-300,000 is normal), and she was bleeding internally.     

after i hastily signed some paperwork, she was admitted to the hospital’s intensive care unit and given a drug used for chemotherapy that tells her bone marrow to begin reproducing new platelets, a high dose of the steroid prednizone to shut down her body’s immune response so it would stop killing her platelets, and antibiotics to fight off any developing pneumonia or other infection she might catch because of her newly compromised immune system.

that day was a fast-moving blur and i know i didn’t ask all the right questions or understand all the details, but there are a few things i will always remember about it, such as watching my dog’s legs buckle from weakness on the slope in my front yard, almost causing her to slide downhill until i caught her; the sensation i had when she expelled a mighty sneeze that covered my face and white shirt in her blood; and the way Tico wiped the tears off my face after i cried hysterically on his shoulder once we left the hospital.


right before i left her at the hospital

the emotion that best characterizes that day for me was bewilderment. not that there is some ideal time for all of that to happen, but the surprise and urgency of events left me in a fog that had me wondering if the day actually took place. surely, i would wake up at any moment. surely, i would open the door of my house after leaving my dog in the hospital and find her waiting there for me with a wagging tail.

but as reality set in, the vodka flowed and tears blurred my vision, the only thing i could do was wait for news with a heart full of hope. i talked to the vet twice a day and visited her at the hospital every night after work. and every night, she would walk over to me with a wagging tail, collapse against my body and fall asleep with her head in my lap while i petted her through rubber gloves and cried.


hospital blues

most days, she looked horrid, her half-dead eyes barely registering the life happening all around her. she shook constantly and gagged often for no reason. one night, she burrowed her head under my arm and scratched at my pants when it was time to part, making for an extra difficult goodbye. that was the same night she had a seizure and i ran out crying from the ramen shop where Tico and i were having dinner after leaving the hospital.


the nightly scene

every day seemed to bring both good news and setbacks. she had more energy but her stool was bloody. the platelet count was still too low (14,000 two days after intake) but the pneumonia cleared up. i never knew how optimistic to feel from one day to the next, so i did the best i could to quell my anxiety, calm my pounding heart and reduce the grinding of my teeth. sometimes, my best amounted to very little food and sleep. other times, i got very zen about it and resigned myself to dealing with news as it came instead of fretting over the fact that i couldn’t control the news. (but mostly, i didn’t eat or sleep.)


my rock. he came to the hospital with me every night.

five nights after Animal Specialty Group admitted Pinko to its ICU, i received word that the platelet count was at 56,000, a number that exceeded everyone’s expectations and caused an eruption of joy with requisite happy dance in my kitchen. with that, she was released to convalesce at home with a bag full of medicine, detailed instructions on monitoring her eating and stool, and appointments for future visits when her platelets would be tested.


her first night back home

she was at home for three nights, also a fast-moving blur of hope and despair. she refused all food, even her favorite ones, and the force-feedings through a syringe felt like abuse, especially after the trauma she had endured. her backside was leaky, causing me to line the furniture with puppy pads as she had frequent accidents.

the first day at home, i could do nothing but cry my eyes out. i think i began the grieving process then with the instinctive knowledge that there would be no bouncing back from this and that my dog was already gone. i asked Tico to handle all the syringe feedings that day while i sat on the couch, overwhelmed by helplessness and in tears, apologizing. 


all the meds that i’m convinced did more to harm than help her. after i called the hospital complaining that her body was not handling them well, they told me to stop giving her half. i was incensed i wasn’t advised of this option before.

she had to take 15 pills a day — an immune-suppressant steroid, anti-vomiting drugs, appetite stimulants, antibiotics and antacid — all of which she resisted, creating another struggle. her skin smelled of chemicals, and she spent most of the day shivering, drooling, droopy-eyed and immobile in a zombie-like state, a shell of her former self, looking as though she would pass out at any moment, though never actually falling asleep because the medication made her wired. she didn’t howl or bark once and her tail never wagged.


one of the few good moments at home as a reunited pack. as expected, Juice was an incredible support to both me and Pinko through this ordeal, staying by her sister’s side through the difficult nights and feedings and often licking tears off my face. 

the second day at home started better, with a visit from my mom, before taking a nosedive when the baby food i fed Pinko at lunch, thinking she would like it more (which she seemed to), came back up. i saw blood in her vomit. after that, she had trouble getting comfortable and seemed weaker than before, so i laid down next to her, stroked her ears and kissed her face, while Tico called the hospital for advice. i apologized for feeding her the baby food and asked her what i should do. i listened to her breathing, which sounded labored. i worried she had blood in her lungs again and was becoming dehydrated.

that night was her last on earth.


glad my mom got to see her a final time.

i spent that last night lying awake in bed, grappling with the thought of ending a life i loved so dearly. i didn’t think i could do it. i considered taking her back to the hospital, but was worried about the bill, which was already over $5,500 (all on my credit card). i told myself that i could make more money in my life but i could never make another Pinko and the expense would be worth it if i had a healthy dog at the end of this.

at 5 am, after staying up all night with my stomach and heart in a knot, i meditated and asked for guidance. my maternal grandma came to me, as she has many times before in moments of crisis, and said only one word: rest. i fell asleep for two hours and awoke understanding what the day would bring. i went to Pinko and kissed her face. she looked as though she had been awake all night. she put her head on my arm and sighed, her eyes exhausted and resigned. i told her to hang on, that we were almost there.


Juice held vigil next to her sister all day and night. this is the last photo of the two of them together.

an hour later, Tico and i were dropping her off at the hospital so she could get her medicine and nutrients from an IV. i told them to give her something for the pain and call me after they ran their tests. they told me they wanted to keep her in the ICU another two nights. i told them one at the most and then began calling around for a holistic vet. i went home and laid on the floor next to Juice, asking the universe to make it very clear for me: either make this manageable and i’ll manage it, or make it impossible and i’ll do the impossible.

the vet called back in the afternoon and gave me every diagnosis imaginable — diabetes, hepatitis, anemia, pancreatitis, liver failure, GI tears and blood in the intestines. she suggested more medication, a blood transfusion and a feeding tube. i thought about calling her a cunt for never suggesting euthanasia, but instead handed the phone off to Tico so i could regain my composure. once i did, i told her to get the shot ready. i would be there in under an hour. i had no doubts anymore.


at six months, with the love of her life.

i want to state now that i don’t see my dogs as my actual children, despite referring to them often as “my furry babies.” i imagine that once i’m a mother (which i very much hope to be), i will feel differently about my child than i do about my dog. more to the point, there is an understanding when a pet is adopted that the pet will never outlast us and that we’ll one day have to make that decision we refuse to entertain until circumstances force us. i knew that day was coming, but given that Juice is 11 (almost twice Pinko’s age) and has begun having issues with her bladder, i never considered that day would come for Pinko first. not even once.


she was a deep thinker.

but still, love is love, and the nature of my love is protective. through this ordeal, i wanted only to shield Pinko from pain above all else, even at the expense of her recovery. every instinct in my body told me to toss aside the pills that were making her sick, to stop with the demoralizing force feedings and to find another, perhaps more natural approach. yet i did none of these things and instead marched toward a false promised land that filled us both with anguish, hers more excruciating. these are regrets i will need time to process, along with my grief. i’ve made promises to Juice that i won’t repeat these mistakes.


she was a cuddler.

the last few moments with her were far more beautiful than i thought they would be. i brought Juice along so she could understand what was happening and find her own closure. when the two of them saw each other, they touched noses briefly but purposefully in what i took to be their final goodbye. Juice then sat by Pinko’s side while i sat on the floor and brought Pinko’s head and chest across my lap.


her first time in the snow.

i talked to her for a few minutes, praising her for brightening my life in infinite ways for six years. i thanked her for being a difficult dog initially so i could learn about unconditional love. i apologized for extending her life that extra week, asked her to forgive me for yelling at her when she misbehaved and said i hoped she could reincarnate as a future dog of mine, to be adopted at an undetermined time, so i could see her again. i also told her that i put her name tag on my keyring and would keep her collar in my purse.

then i went through the list of all the things i loved about her — how she howled when she wanted attention, herded me toward the dog treats, sat on me when she didn’t want me to leave, jumped on me so she could stretch her back, pushed my legs apart so she could sit between them while i stood, and ran ahead during our hikes, though not too far, before running back to jump on her sister’s head. she was a funny dog, both sassy and sweet, equal parts fire and sugar, sometimes needy and always loving. i told her i hoped her sister and i gave her as much love as she gave us.


she had soulful eyes.

then i put my hand over Pinko’s heart so i could feel its final beat, leaned back into Tico’s arms, told the vet we were ready, and let my tears roll off my face and onto hers so she could take some of me with her. less than a minute later, i felt her heart and breathing stop. i kept petting her tan fur until her body began getting cold. then i kissed her still face goodbye and told her i would miss her every day for the rest of my life. she passed on Tuesday, December 10, around 4:45pm. she was a month shy of her 7th birthday.


goodbye, sweet girl. you live in my heart now.

Related Posts

• on bringing her into the household: Introducing Pinko
• on her adjustment to the household (and obsession with Juice): Puppy Love
• more on the adjustment: Puppies!!!
• a video of her howling: Chatty Pinko
• the time she was sprayed by a skunk: Somebody Was Sprayed in the Face by a Skunk
• the differences between the two dogs: Dogliness Update

please consider making a donation to help with the vet bill (roughly $6,600): Help for Pinko’s Medical Bills 

My Friend Sasha

four years ago, i blogged about the murder of my ex-boyfriend, Alexander Merman, who was stabbed to death in his Santa Monica condo. for four years, nothing happened with his case and it seemed as though it would never be solved.

about two months ago, i got an email from an LA Times reporter who had found my blog entry, saying that an arrest had been made in the case and asking to speak to me for a story he was writing. i agreed and then spent the morning reading every article i could find on the arrest.

apparenty, Sasha’s financial advisor, Daniel Becerril, had been charged with the murder as well as grand theft for stealing money from Sasha and several others, a sum that totaled millions.

Sasha had figured this out and was about to blow the whistle on the guy when he was killed. i spoke with the LA Times reporter, who wrote up a small story for LA Now that day, with a quote of mine included.

the same day, i also found a story on the LA Weekly website that had a photo of Sasha (and me) lifted from this blog and reproduced without permission. this pissed me off to no end, and i shot off a few angry emails to LA Weekly demanding that they take it down immediately.

it wouldn’t have bothered me that much if it were just a photo of Sasha, but i was also in there despite having nothing to do with the story — as part of a smiling, happy couple at my cousin’s wedding in 1999 — with a headline that read “Murder for Hire,” which pretty much made me look like the killer.

eventually, the photo was removed and i received an apologetic email from the writer at LA Weekly, Tessa Stuart, along with a request to speak on record for a longer story she was writing about the case. that came out as this week’s cover story, Murder on Montana Ave, which i’m also quoted in. it is a great piece of reporting, well written, informative and full of detail, some of which is heartbreaking and difficult to read.

from it, i learned that Sasha and Becerril were close friends, so close that Sasha attended his wedding. strange to think that this same close friend could come to his home and kill him with a knife a few years later, incurring multiple stab wounds around the head. i also learned that his mother had been there when they discovered the body and that she once told her son that Becerril had “the face of a killer” (his mugshot is in the LA Weekly story).

i called Sasha’s mother the day of Becerril's arrest to offer my sympathies and support. she asked me to come visit her in West Hollywood, no doubt so i could take her to see Sasha’s grave, which i will absolutely do. he’s buried maybe 10 paces away from where my grandparents are buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

last time i was at the cemetery, for my great-aunt’s funeral last year, i stopped by to visit him, leaving a penny behind as i didn’t have flowers with me. it was odd to see his young face staring back at me from the headstone. he was 36 when he died, the same age i’ll be next month.



admittedly, Sasha and i were not close in his final few years, having both moved on with other people, so i’m hardly an authority on his life. still, it’s weird when someone you’ve dated dies, no matter how much time has elapsed, as there’s a deeper intimacy there than with friends, a greater familiarity with that person’s inner world. although i hadn’t been part of that world in many years, i remember it vividly now, especially after sifting through a photo album i had of the week we spent together in Acapulco.

i gave a few of the photos to the LA Weekly reporter to scan, and some of them made it into the story. in that same album, i found a very sweet email Sasha wrote to me and a napkin he drew on. i hadn’t seen either in years and they did a good job of stirring up memories i hadn’t thought of in years, all of which i will file away in a special part of my heart reserved exclusively for him.

even though we didn’t make it as a couple, i always knew he was a good guy at his core — very loyal, generous, genuine and caring as a boyfriend, friend and son. that is evident in the stories i’ve read since his murder, the conversations i’ve had with the mutual friends we shared, the kind words his students wrote about him following his death. Sasha was an art teacher at a middle-school in Watts as well as a talented artist himself. he was also a good dancer, a jokester, an athlete, a devoted son and an amazing spirit.

i hope his killer is convicted and sent away for a very long time, i hope his mother finds some semblance of peace after all this, and i hope that Sasha is ok, wherever he is. rest in peace, my friend.

Of Fasts, Pasts and Funerals

i fasted this year for Yom Kippur, something i haven’t done in over 10 years. i’m not even sure why i did it — probably to prove to myself that i could. anyone who’s read this blog for any length of time has probably guessed that i’m not a very religious Jew. i love bacon cheeseburgers and gentiles way too much for that. but being Jewish is definitely part of who i am, even if it’s not the main part.

you can find it in my numerous superstitions, my always expecting the worst in every situation and the fact that i know the words to countless Neil Diamond songs. the Russian part of me is a whole other blog post but trust that it’s present in many ways as well. there’s also the Angeleno part, but this is already getting too narcissistic so let’s go back to Yom Kippur, the Jewish holy day of atonement.

so yes, i fasted that day. 24 hours of no food and lightheadness and bad breath and a growling stomach that made me spend most of the day in bed reading. what was i reading? a book on witchcraft, of course, but that’s also a blog post for another day.

i broke the fast with my also-fasting parents at Jerry’s Famous Deli, a restaurant i absolutely loathe, but they offered a multicourse kosher meal for a fixed price and you know us jews and our deals, so we went for it. during dinner, we got the call you never want to get during dinner, especially a Yom Kippur dinner: a relative had died.

she had been sick for many months, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected. still, it sucked, especially for my mom as it was her favorite auntie. to me, it was my great-auntie Tyotya Moosya, my grandma’s sister who lived down the street from my grandma for as long as i could remember, even long after my grandma died.

by Jewish law, the dead have to be buried as soon as possible, so the funeral was scheduled for monday afternoon. i came to the cemetery a little early to meet my parents and sister so we could visit the graves of my grandparents on my mother’s side, who are also buried there.

i also wanted to visit my friend Alexander Merman, whom i knew was buried at the same cemetery, though i wasn’t sure where. Alexander, or “Sasha” as i knew him, was an ex-boyfriend who was murdered three years ago during a freak killing spree in Santa Monica. the police never found his killer.

after dropping off flowers for my grandparents, reading a psalm and kissing their headstones goodbye, we started making our way to the temple for my great-auntie’s service. i was talking to my mom about Sasha, saying that i was going to find the directory to see where he was buried when i saw a headstone with MERMAN etched into it. and there he was, buried just a few paces away from my grandparents, when he was 36 years old.

he looked handsome in the photo on the headstone, just as i remembered him. some of his art was also embedded into the stone right next to an inscription from his mother. i couldn’t find a pebble anywhere, so i left a shiny penny nearby to let him know i was there. then i kissed his headstone, got up, walked away and burst into tears.

my great-auntie was one of five sisters. they were known as the Kravitz sisters, their maiden name. they were also known for being made of steel. with that strength came a fair dose of bitchiness. i well remember hearing my father tell my mother that she was “acting Kravitz” plenty of times while i was growing up. the Kravitz sisters were the matriarchs of their families in that iron-fisted Soviet way that didn’t stand for bullshit.

they were a close-knit family, staying together through the war that killed their only brother — and then their mother, whose weak heart gave out when she received the news about her son. (their father died a few years later.) the Kravitz girls endured, putting down roots in L’viv, Ukraine, where i was born some 30 years later.

three of the five sisters immigrated to the States with their families, leaving behind the oldest two, one of whom died six months after her sisters left, reportedly of depression. all of them married, changed their surnames and had children of their own (except for one, i believe). most of the sisters had daughters who also had daughters. on my mother’s side, there have always been far more women than men, and all of us have a little Kravitz in us, myself very included.

my great-auntie had a lot of Kravitz in her. she was a colorful character in every way, from her perpetually sparkly clothes to her vibrant personality. she was a gossip, but a kind-hearted one, generous with everyone and with an opinion on everything. a life force not easily dismissed, she hung on until the bitter end, dying from kidney complications at 88. with her death went the Kravitz legacy and the last link to a past that is nothing short of incredible.

to be honest, i don’t think it’s a past i’ll ever fully understand. it’s one filled with war, fear, hunger and a communist republic with state-sanctioned antisemitism that put my Jewish family at a disadvantage. it’s the reason my relatives left for the promised land, my then-twenty-something parents leaving with them with two kids under 10 and no english skills. i was 3 years old at the time and completely clueless as to how lucky i was.

i know it now, though. we all do.

my mother loved her auntie tremendously and visited her often — in her final days and in healthier ones. she was like a second mother to my mother, especially after my grandma died. “make your face before you make your bed” was one of my great-auntie’s more famous sayings. she was slightly vain that way. i’ll never forgot the bright pink lipstick she wore well into her eighties.

when they lowered her casket into the ground, everyone stood by watching, tearful and sad, while the Rabbi said a few final words. then we heard a boom that brought the service to a standstill. it was a big boom, too, one that seemed to shake the entire sky. everyone looked around for the smoke, certain that a bomb went off. but all we found was a blown tire on one of the cemetery’s golf carts. it had popped without warning or reason right as dirt was being thrown on top of the casket.

“she went out with a bang,” everyone laughed. that was exactly her style. it was the Kravitz way.

goodnight, great-auntie. you were a fighter until the end. i hope you’re enjoying a happy reunion with your sisters, brother and parents. be sure to tell my grandma i said hello.

standing sister is my grandma Zhenya; from left: Fanya, Riva, Manya, Moosya

Awful

a good friend and former coworker of mine lost his baby boy this week. the kid was not even a year old. he underwent chemo for an otherwise untreatable tumor and died of toxic shock three weeks later, leaving behind two devastated parents and a twin brother who won’t remember him. his name was Braeden Bond and he was 10 months old.

i met Braeden and his brother Logan earlier this summer at a friend’s barbecue. they were the ultimate cuties — chubby, dressed alike and sucking on their fists. i spent some time playing with the munchkins while catching up with their dad Jeff, whose copy i used to edit when we both worked for this magazine you’ve never heard of. he told me about how great (and hard) fatherhood had been, about the new magazine he was working for and how he hoped his sons would grow up to be sci-fi geeks like him. he said Braeden was the fussy one. less than six months later, he sent the following email to a group of his friends:

“Just before noon Monday morning our son Braeden passed away. For the past three weeks Braeden had been mostly unconscious due to toxic shock from a massive infection that resulted in extensive damage to his liver and kidneys. Our doctors told us that children who undergo this normally either die very shortly afterward or recover quickly, but Braeden stayed in critical condition for three weeks following the initial event, which says to us that were it not for his willpower and stubborn disposition he probably would have passed away weeks ago...”

i don’t know what to say about this beyond that it’s tragic. fucking tragic. i want to say that parents aren’t supposed to outlive their kids and that death is supposed to only happen to the old. i want to say that bad things shouldn’t happen to good people. but i know that’s naive and that the only thing i can do about fucked up shit happening is just accept that it happens and will continue to happen, without trying to make sense of it. so that’s what i’m trying to do.

Braeden is the third person i know who’s died this year. the first i didn’t write about because i was too furious with the way he died. not a suicide, but close enough. his name was James Tabler (pictured left) and i used to party with him back in the day, about seven years ago. James was a good egg, always spirited, kind and with a sunny disposition that charmed everyone who met him. he was part of a rather large crew of weekend warriors i partied with back then, doing things i no longer do today. while his death was also fucking tragic, it was not surprising. he was 28.

the other person i wrote about not too long ago, Alexander Merman, a friend and former boyfriend who was murdered in his Santa Monica condo last March. the picture of us at right was taken at my cousin’s wedding in 1999. i contacted some of his friends after i heard the news a few weeks ago, who invited me to the memorial to mark the six-month anniversary of his death. i went and saw the mother Alex left behind, the mother he called every day. she looked smaller and shorter than i remembered, like she had shrunk. she remembered me as the girl from san francisco and asked me whether i was married. i gave her the flowers i brought her and told her that i loved her. then we both started crying.

forgive me if this blog is sounding too much like the obituary section. i don’t want to be writing this. i don’t want any more reasons to write anything like this again. i understand that death is part of life and all those platitudes, but when a perfectly fine little boy is plucked from the universe, i just have to say enough. so please, enough.

My Friend Sasha

i’m not sure how i missed the news earlier this year that my friend, Alexander Merman, had died. can i still call him my friend? i hadn’t talked to him or seen him in many years but on those rare occasions when the thought of him did pop into my head, i remembered him warmly — and will continue to remember him warmly.

though right now i’m sad. crushed even. i could barely sleep last night, my mind flooded with his memory. he wasn’t supposed to die so young and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be murdered — with not a single suspect in custody, warrant issued or arrest made. seems like Santa Monica has been safe for so long that the local cops have forgotten how to conduct an investigation. it’s been six months and still nothing.

i read every google entry i could find on the murder as a way to convince myself that it actually happened. but each one left me with a greater sense of disbelief as i searched for the punchline that never came — that it was all a big joke, that none of it actually happened.

but it did happen. my friend alex was murdered in such a random, violent way that doesn’t fit with the life i knew him to lead. when i knew him and saw him regularly, about eight years ago, he was decent and funny and driven. he was a talented artist who produced beautiful work, some of which he gave me. i still have a piece in my parents’ garage signed “love, sasha.”

we dated for a few months, long-distance dating as i was living in SF at the time, he in LA. we managed to see each other every other weekend, with his visits to SF always accompanied by a dozen roses. he was sweet like that, and faultlessly polite, raised well by a single mother, the only russian i’ve ever dated. things were going well until we spent a week vacationing in Acapulco, where we realized that we were completely wrong for each other. we split up soon after.

still, i’d see him around. we stayed friendly and kept in touch. he even came out to a few parties i hosted once i moved back to LA and entered a new relationship. all the while he kept working on his art, and with the students at the Watts middle school where he taught — the students who gave him an endless supply of funny stories to share. he loved those kids, and judging by the message boards that erupted after his murder, they loved him back.

about five years ago, i saw him walking down Santa Monica with his mother as i was walking out of the Whole Foods in West Hollywood. i had moved into the neighborhood a few weeks earlier following a big breakup and couldn’t handle running into an ex-boyfriend, a reminder of another failed relationship. so i crossed the street to avoid them while feeling embarrassed and sorry for myself. now i just feel immature. i could have at least said hello. it was the last time i saw him.

i figured i’d run into him again at some point, randomly and unexpectedly, or that i would open up an LA Weekly and see his name attached to a local gallery show. instead, i see him on the internet, the word “murder” attached to his picture, with a story on how he died painfully and alone. stabbed to death.

i keep trying to chase those images out of my head by flipping through the small photo album i have of our time together in mexico. i keep trying to remember the way he looked the last time i saw him, smiling with his mother on his arm. i keep trying to remember the conversations we had so i don’t imagine the sound of his voice yelling for help and then being silenced forever as he bled to death in his apartment. i keep trying to be ok with this.

Angela Phipps Towle -- 1973-2005

copied verbatim from her funeral program:

Angela Marie Phipps was born in Burbank on December 21, 1973 -- the eldest daughter of Robert and Diana Phipps. Just 14 months older than her sister Michelle, the two were good friends and playmates from the start, a relationship that grew stronger through the years.

Growing up, Angela consistently baffled people with her announcements in mid-December that "I'm 8 now, but I'll be 10 next year." With her birthday late in the year, this was of course possible, but she loved to watch intelligent adults struggle with the concept.

Angela was creative and extraordinarily loving. She connected deeply with others, gave her full attention to people when she spoke with them, and always gave the warmest of hugs. Her charm and manner made it so that people just did not want to say no to her.

Music and dance were important throughout her life; starting with her first ballet, piano and singing lessons at age 5. She grew up performing in musical theater workshops, sang with her choir behind REO Speedwagon on the Goonies movie soundtrack, and co-starred in her high school production of Grease. After high school, her love of music and dance continued on a more personal level and were often deep methods of expression for her.

She was a voracious reader from a very young age. Her parents encouraged this by allowing her to stay up indefinitely past her bedtime, so long as she was reading. However, during her parents' dinner parties, Angela could often be seen in the corner with a book in her hands -- not actually turning the pages -- as a ruse to stay up and listen to the adult conversation!

Writing played an equally large role in her life. She majored in creative writing at UC Santa Cruz and made her living as a professional writer. She wrote short stories, essays, poetry and journalistic articles. Her first poem was written at age 8, and her first professional writing was published while she was still in high school.

Angela was so full of life that everything interested her. She studied languages, becoming fluent in French. She lived abroad for 5 years, and gained a new perspective on the world through those experiences. She touched people everywhere she went and has close friends in many different countries. She was socially aware, and always enjoyed engaging others in friendly debates -- as a way to learn varied perspectives and further her own causes. Colleagues describe her as "sweetly combative" and cite her "unique way of blending an exceptional gentleness with an utter commitment to her beliefs." Through writing a story on them for The Hollywood Reporter's Philanthropy issue, she discovered Chrysalis, a charity which helps the homeless and disadvantaged prepare for and find jobs. She was moved to volunteer many hours toward their work.

Angela packed more living into 31 years than most people do in 80. She was an amazing lady, adored and beloved by many. We are all better for having known her, and she will be deeply, deeply missed.

*****

i really dug this chick. like -- A LOT. soon after we first met in 2001 we were each others' new best friends and spent countless hours just hanging out without purpose. i wasn't around her much this past year, for which i will feel eternally guilty. i'm not saying that i could have single-handedly changed anything, but i would have liked to have had the opportunity to try. or to just be around her. i don't know.

i thought that going to her funeral the other day would give me some semblance of closure, but i feel like i'm just getting started with my grief. i've been lucky in that i haven't experienced too much loss, so this is new for me. i'm heartbroken, but not in a lovesick kind of way -- it's more lifesick, more wretched.

i lost it when i saw the coffin. i lost it at many points throughout the day, especially at the reception when i was reviewing old photo albums of her. and especially when i spoke to her mother, whom i had been afraid of speaking to for fear of not being able to offer more than my putrid and meaningless "i'm sorry." she was a gracious hostess, making the rounds to meet the hundred or so folks who turned out for her daughter's funeral. i had met her before once or twice but figured she wouldn't remember. "i'm milla," i said as i took her hand. she held on tightly to my hand, as she did to everyone else's while she spoke to them. Angela would have done the same thing.

"right, milla. i remember you. Angela talked a lot about you." i just stared at her. i tried to contain it, but the hot tears raced up and spilled over in an instant. "i'm sorry," i muttered, embarassed. "i know," she said, "it's tough. it sucks, but we're here now to celebrate her life." i just nodded and breathed a "yeah" while watching the dead girl's mother walk away in a jiffy. she took a moment to compose herself before moving on to the next group of nobodies.

it would have been nice if we were there to celebrate her life, like a birthday, but we weren't. and i'm still so fucking pissed off at Angela for doing this. i'll probably never understand it, and that's probably ok. and i'll always miss her, and that's ok too. and i know that it will all be ok eventually. i understand that. but the now really does suck. it is tough. and sad.

Drained

that sums it up pretty accurately. these past two weeks have been like an I.V. working in the inverse. i find myself less nourished and alive lately. it's akin to going through a meat grinder and coming out unrecognizable and undesirable, yet still congealed, at the other end. i'm fucking exhausted. i have no more thoughts to spare, no more tears to shed, and no more energy to invest in all the crap that's been swirling. i just want to crawl under a rock and wait until the hurricane passes. hopefully it won't blow my roof off. my insurance may have expired. a lapse. collapse?

i'm burying my friend soon. i'm still heartsick -- and pissed at her for doing this. the disbelief has passed and i'm stuck in the anger phase, with one foot in the acceptance door. but it's all been tiresome, this trying to make sense of nonsense. it won't resurrect her, and peace will come with time. so in the meantime, i'm trying to accept and understand, but i'm failing because all i think about is how much i'll miss her.

and i'm spent. and i don't know how to crawl my way into a better place, so i allow myself to be paralyzed by sadness, figuring there's some greater, hidden purpose i'm not privy to yet. but i must be honest: optimism is a pain the ass. i want to tell people to fuck off. i want to tell them exactly what i think of them.

but i can't so i don't. i do my job without pride or prejudice. the alarm goes off like it always has. the mail keeps coming. i endure these weeks and their abject misery, with ex-boyfriend encounters and doctors' appointments. more shit than i care to get into. my pot stirs and emotions escalate and then dissapate, leaving me so drained. so fucking pained.

she's not coming back.

My Friend Angela

you couldn't help but fall in love with her. she had a contagious good energy. she was the type of girl you adored from the start; she didn't have to grow on you. she'd throw her head back when she laughed and she gave hugs often. i don't think she had a bad bone in her body.

i met her when she interviewed me for a copy editor slot for the hollywood reporter's features staff back in 2001. i think both of us knew then that we'd be fast friends because we just had too damn much in common. she hired me that same day. we'd take our afternoon coffee breaks each day around 3pm. she's walk with me to the starbucks across the street, but insisted on getting her own coffee at the ma-and-pa cafe so she could patronize local business. she was a lefty like that -- in the purest of ways. she went to UC santa cruz. she never shaved her legs. she even worked once for Ms. magazine, but left when she realized it didn't meet her idealistic standards. she was a heartfelt liberal with a fiery intellect. full of compassion, those doe eyes of hers, framed by a shiny black bob and cat-rimmed glasses, burned with a childlike wonderment. she was fascinating, and easily fascinated. a great listener.

we worked together for about a year, and hung out often outside of work. we'd have hours-long conversations on my couch, her socked feet always dug in between the couch cushions. her husband, an aspiring filmmaker, shot a short film at the house on spaulding where i lived for two years. he brought in a full crew and she catered the whole thing single-handedly. her cooking was terrific. so were her writing and editing skills. she was published, talented, vivacious, beautiful, always sincere and very loved. i loved her. she was my friend Angela.

i found out the other day that she killed herself. she wrote a few goodbye letters, then hanged herself. just like that. and i really don't get it. i'm bowled over, crushed. i left work early and spent the afternoon crying in bed, trying to understand what could have happened to extinguish such a powerful life force. she could brighten a room with her smile. she touched your arm when she talked to you. she was incredible.

our mutual friend dave says she got sick, fell into an abyssmal depression that she couldn't wriggle free from. he heard that her letters likened this depression to a demon that possessed her. that's why, he says, she didn't return our phone calls or emails this past year. she isolated herself, saying she was too busy, too much going on, and she would catch up with us when things settled down. she divorced her terrific, terrific husband for no good reason. she told me she was meditating and had a vision that they should no longer be married. she told me that she stopped attending the weekly dinner with her close-knit family. she told me that she started seeing a psychologist and wanted her career to be more purposeful. she was doing some soul-searching, she said. i told her i supported her, which i certainly did, but privately i didn't understand all her choices, which seemed out of character. and then no word from her for many months. and now comes this final word.

i feel guilty, like i failed her. dave says not to. he says to remember her warmth and the beautiful soul she was before the disease arrived and ravaged her. i still don't get it. this is not something you do when you're 32 and your possibilities are, essentially, limitless. this is something you might do when you're 16 and stupid, when you can't see beyond your summer vacation. but Angela had everything she needed to make her life work. disease, dave reminds me, took her will to live. zapped. 'mind over matter,' i think to myself, but what the hell do i know? i do know that depression ran in her family. she told me stories of her father's depression and how it taxed her. perhaps that's why she isolated herself -- she understood the burden better than anyone. but if she stayed open, if she accepted help, things might have been different. they would have been different. i'll miss her. my friend Angela.

Brevity & Gravity

not to be confused with ebony and ivory, nor entropy and misanthropy.

many years ago, i read an interview with some super old geezer -- i can't even remember who he was, only that he was old -- and the interviewer asked him what surprised him most about life. his answer: "its brevity." i was stunned, and deeply affected. i remember thinking then that i better appreciate my twenties because i wouldn't have endless years to squander them. and i better die way old and without regrets. and i better be independently wealthy and retired by the time i reached 30. what a dreamer i was.

i still dream, i suppose, but i took the stars out of my eyes long ago. now i'd just rather be healthy (must quit smoking!) and i'd really like some peace of mind -- something to quell this restless soul i must have had since birth. terrible affliction, it is. my tarot teacher says spirituality brings peace of mind. perhaps i should start my own religion: Millaism. our bibles would be Dr. Seuss books. it'd be real simple stuff, with maxims like "thou shalt always look people in the eye and smile at least five times a day." did that make you smile? what the hell am i babbling about?

my new boyfriend (moniker: Momo, pronounced with two long O's), i'm still crazy about. his father died last week. you can read about it on Momo's blog and on his brother's blog. from what i've gathered, the father's life was quite storied, though not always charmed. strained, problematic relationships.

still, you only have one father, so this has been a difficult time. a few days ago, i called my own father to check in with him. i had seen him only a few weeks prior, and sat with him at his kitchen table shooting the shit like we always do. per usual, he was asking me about work and the state of my finances, trying as he does to make me a responsible member of society. i reassured him as i always do, knowing he would worry anyway. then he stared at me for a long moment before he said, "by your face, i'm going to guess that you have a new man in your life." daddy knows. hiding anything from him was always impossible. a new boyfriend, a bad grade, a dent in the car -- forget it. those strong hazel eyes would pierce into you and extract your bullshit. daddy always knows.

i get him on his cell phone and i'm near tears. i remind him of the new man who's been brightening my face for the past few weeks. "sounds like he hurt you, baby," my daddy says. no, no, his father died. "his father died and i need you to know that i love you. i love you so much."

i implore you, precious people: call your parents, if you're still fortunate enough to have them. call them and tell them. life's greatest surprise is its brevity.

Momo's sad, so i'm sad, too. we go through his old photo albums. he tells me stories. i hold his hand and kiss his forehead. it's a helpless feeling to see someone you care for suffering and know that you can't do much to alleviate it. one would think this would put a kibosh on the swooning, but it seems to have accelerated the mush metamorphosis. certainly, there are beginnings in all endings, and i find myself suddenly invigorated in the saddest of ways. it's made me snap out of the deadened detachment i've been so proud of these past few years, this numbness that has kept me from embracing the full spectrum of emotions i'm capable of experiencing. this has all been tragically life-affirming, and i find myself feeling like a woman again, where i can nurture and caretake and support, and offer the best parts of myself at the worst possible time. it's like a flower growing out of the manure. the gravity of entropy.

back on the phone, my father tells me he loves me, too. his voice gets shaky, and i can sense him getting teary as well. he asks the hows and whys (massive heart attack at 79) and offers apologies. i tell him i love him twice more. then, ever the doting husband, he says, "your mother is at home alone. call her and tell her you love her, too." so i hang up with him and do just that.

and i love the rest of y'all, too, especially you, Momo. :-)