My brother's keeper

musings about grief on September 18th

My younger brother Pradheep, were he still with us, would have been 38 years old today.

I had originally planned to mark the occasion by spending a few moments at the pond here in Washington where my son Rohan and I scattered some of his ashes. Due to the weather and a busy work and school day, we couldn’t make it.

Instead, I thought that I should tell you a bit more about Pradheep, who passed away at the beginning of last year.

Because we had an eight-year age difference, I left home (the suburbs of Dallas) for college in DC when he was still very much a kid. And for much of the years that followed, I lived and worked abroad, meaning that we saw each other rarely. So admittedly, many of my memories of Pradheep are of him as a little boy or a preteen. I was reminded of many of these when we were visiting my parents this summer and watching old family videos, which they had digitally remastered.

The home video that my dad shot of him (and us) when he was a toddler, obsessed with trucks and dogs (a love that would endure), with me providing much of the “script,” the doting older sister who had always wanted a baby brother. Another video was of a play that he was in when he was around 6 or 7. Subsequent recordings were of family trips to Las Vegas and London in the mid-1990s.

And while we didn’t see each other often in the later years, Pradheep — as I wrote in informing family members of his sudden passing — was someone who lived life on his own terms (I dare say this is a trait we shared). He was into progressive politics (he was VERY liberal), video games (like his nephew), football (watching the Dallas Cowboys play on Thanksgiving was our family tradition) and cooking (he was a great, curious cook). He was a lover of animals, especially his dogs Barnaby and Eugene. Pradheep was bright, kind, quiet and reserved, always there for his family when it really mattered. An avid reader, frugal, respectful and dedicated to the idea of a more progressive world.

And the world would certainly be a better place with him still in it.

So today, on his birthday, I’m choosing to remember the moments we shared. Like when he unexpectedly spoke up at my wedding (Pradheep being a man of few words), making me cry with a beautiful speech about how much he admired me. The delicious pumpkin cheesecake that he made during the last Thanksgiving that we spent together. The long weekend that Rohan and I spent with him a few months before Covid started in Dallas, where he lived. We retraced our footsteps – driving by the house where we grew up and the high school we both attended, eating at Taco Bueno and having ice cream at Braum’s. And of course our visit to the State Fair of Texas, where we consumed crazy fare that can only be found at the State Fair of Texas (fried guacamole bites, anyone?!) and he patiently took Rohan on every ride he wanted to go on. Privileged moments, all of them.

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“Everywhere, behind closed doors, people are dying, and people are grieving them. It’s the most basic fact about human life — tied with birth, I guess — but it’s so startling too. Everyone dies, and yet it’s unendurable. There is so much love inside of us. How do we become worthy of it? And then, where does it go? A worldwide crescendo of grief, sustained day after all, and only one tiny note of it is mine.” — Catherine Newman in We All Want Impossible Things

I know that I’m not alone in loss.

In the last weeks and months, people that I know have lost siblings, cousins, parents, best friends and baby nephews. So many of us are grieving, and losses only compound the longer we’re privileged to live. So if there’s one thing I can say for sure in my experience of grief, it’s that I’m a member of a club that no one wants to join. And yet here we all are.

I’ve also learned that your tier of membership in said club may change and shift over time. In one moment, you’re speaking with funeral homes and receiving the initial calls from family and friends. And in the next, you’re observing your kid’s metamorphosis into almost teenager. Going to work. Finding community, maybe even love. Listening to beautiful music. Belly laughs. Life goes on. And yet you’re not the same.

Peace lily that my friend Mei-i sent to my parents upon Pradheep’s passing - it’s now thriving in their backyard outside of Atlanta

The membership is also deeply personal, as it turns out that we have deeply varied experiences of grief. For some, it can be deeply embodied, while others of us may tend to compartmentalize and relativize (the jury is out as to whether this is a consequence or a coping mechanism – maybe it’s a bit of both). While some may seek and find solace in connecting with others, for others grief is a profoundly private and inward journey. There’s no right or wrong way to do this thing, as far as I can tell.

It must also be said that for those of us who join the grief club unexpectedly or prematurely, our membership might be tinged with a particular brand of regret. Perhaps for words left unsaid or bridges burned. Distance — whether figurative or literal — that maybe could have been traversed. Things that could have been different or a simple wish for just a little more time.

Somehow connected to this, I read a beautiful essay by Caroline Donofrio this week that recalled the idea of “the ghost ship” from the brilliant Cheryl Strayed in her “Dear Sugar” advice column:

“And yet, there remains my sister life. All the other things I could have done instead… I’ll never know and neither will you of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”

In other words, we can’t change what we can’t change. Of the past, we navigated it with the knowledge, abilities, dispositions or resources that we had or didn’t have at the time. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. To move forward (which by the way, isn’t necessarily linear – sometimes it’s like one step forward, two steps back), we can only give ourselves grace, make different choices when possible or appropriate and honor those we loved.

Telling you about Pradheep seemed like a small way for me to honor him today, and I thank you for reading.

“But what is grief, if not love persevering?” - WandaVision

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P.S.

In case it’s helpful for anyone, I thought I’d share some of the tools and strategies that I’ve used in my grief journey. As noted, grief is deeply personal. Just because these were helpful to me doesn’t necessarily mean that they will translate for someone else. But in case it’s useful for even one person, here is what has helped me:

• Therapy: I used Better Help and was satisfied with the experience, though there are many online therapy providers as well as in-person therapists, grief counselors and others who can provide mental health support. I welcome suggestions on how best to access other means of therapy.

• Books and essays about loss and grief. I’ve been particularly drawn to memoirs/flash memoirs, fiction and personal accounts, as they are powerful reminders that our feelings and experiences around loss are not unique to us. The last book I read, We All Want Impossible Things by Catherine Newman, a memoir based on the author’s real-life experience of caring for her best friend after a terminal cancer diagnosis, was one of the best I’ve ever encountered in this realm – so tender, funny, raw and real. On Substack, there are many folks who write beautifully on the subject of grief: Mary Roblyn, Tiffany Chu and others. Many Modern Love essays in the New York Times touch upon grief, because of course with love comes loss.

• Touching grass aka spending time outside. I often feel closest to Pradheep and others whom I’ve lost when listening to the birds sing in the oak trees surrounding my balcony. Not infrequently, a cardinal will appear (we call him ‘Cardi B’!). I take midday walks or sunset strolls. Almost always, putting down the screens, breathing fresh air, moving my body and being in nature is a balm.

• ‘All There Is,’ the podcast from Anderson Cooper, in which he talks about the death of his father when he was a child, his brother’s suicide and the much later passing of his mother Gloria Vanderbilt. He does so in the context of conversations with a range of people (Stephen Colbert, Elizabeth Alexander, etc.), all of whom have had their own experiences and insights. It’s thoughtful, real, raw and – for me at least – has been hugely helpful. Available on all the podcast platforms.

• Community: Again this may be specific to me, but I’ve found it helpful to experience connection with others who are experiencing grief. I joined an online ‘Waves’ grief circle organized by Rachel Cargle that I found to be grounding and healing, and there are many such gatherings and communities around. Some may have a religious or spiritual bent but many do not. Here too, I welcome suggestions.

• Journaling: As I’ve written before, my particular jam is morning pages, which is writing three pages freehand upon waking each morning. I’m not necessarily regular with it (case in point: this month) but getting my thoughts onto the page almost always feels therapeutic. And as for the broader practice of writing, well I wrote a love note about it.

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I’d be most interested and honored to know more about your experiences and thoughts on grief and loss, if you’re willing to share, as well as tools and strategies that you’ve used in navigating this journey. Please leave a comment or send me a message!