The Jean and the Friend Vault

As many of you know, my life is in a state of flux, a time of conflict, an era of grief. This past week was rough, so I dug into my friend vault, the place where I keep my some of my oldest and dearest friends. It is as if I got out fancy jewelry (which I don't really own except for my pearls) instead of the everyday stuff that I normally wear.

This weekend, I went to Chicago to celebrate a friend's birthday. I've known DJ since middle school in Columbus, Ohio where we were both transplants from suburban Chicago. After college, DJ lived two blocks away from me in Lincoln Park in Chicago so we became friends again as adults. I stayed at Jack's late Great-Aunt Jean's condo in the Streeterville neighborhood behind the Drake. Jack's Aunt Margaret decided to keep the condo and use it as a pied a terre for family when they are in the city. This is the first time I've stayed at "The Jean."

I met Aunt Jean at Jack's medical school graduation. I arrived early before Jack and his parents. As I was waiting, I stood next to an elegant elderly woman She has a blue coat, coifed light brown hair and large pearl earrings. On the east coast, a woman this refined might have a scowl on her face, unimpressed by everything and anything. True to her Midwestern roots, Jean instead had a radiant and welcoming smile. We saw each other, smiled and nodded. I had this urge to reach out and introduce myself to this friendly woman, but I didn't.

Of the many regrets I had, I wish I said hello then this woman who turned out to be Jack's Aunt Jean before I knew she was Aunt Jean. It would have been an epic way to have gotten to know her, to say "I liked her before I knew she was family." Aunt Jean never had kids and lived in downtown Chicago for most of her life. During World War II, she held some amazing job where she was the admin for the Secretary of the Navy or something like that.

I love both Aunt Jean and Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret is the matriarch of a family of ten, plus all of the extra people she brings in as needed. She is a caring and compassionate woman. Her well of giving runs very deep and is always full.

Here are two strong women: one with no kids and one with ten. Both made space for me in their lives as I was the new woman in Jack's family. They brought me in and welcomed me, treated me as if I belonged.

I don't know why this is important to me today, but it is. Maybe right now I miss them, Aunt Jean has since died, but Aunt Margaret is still lives, but in Iowa. I miss their courage and compassion and kindness. I wish they were here, telling me what to do.

I have friends, many friends, but what I really miss is family. In some ways, my friends are my family: DJ, Cork who I visited this weekend, Betty who I talked to last week. These are my friends in the friend vault.

With the loss of the Boy, I am also missing the other "family" I had created here in Seattle: the family of moms on the soccer sidelines, the parents at the band concerts and cross country meets. What I want is permanent family, family that doesn't go away after the soccer game is over, when the concert is finished.

My mom is gone, my brother is crazy and my dad lives in Ohio. My daughter is lives in Maryland and my son in Montana.

Oh my god. I feel like Job. I have nothing left. Okay, I have my job and my dog and my friends, which is not nothing but I am living with large losses. Jack's therapist said I have had some pretty big losses in my life -- my firstborn Ada, my brother Michael, my mom, my son.

My son, my sun.

We live to love and what I love is gone. Of all of those losses, the Boy is the worst.

I met a friend of DJ's this weekend who is also a writer. Years ago, I was in Chicago where I was one of ten people who read their essays published in a small literary magazine. This guy was also there years ago at the same reading. After talking to him for a while, I recognized his voice. I asked if he wrote about his uncle's death from alcoholism (he did) as I was reading about my brother's battle with schizophrenia.

"A shitty life makes a great story," I told him, but I am tired of the misery. This is fucking rock bottom, the worst moment of my life. I suppose this is where I need to have faith, to say that my life will someday be fine and full of love and affection and tenderness and caring.

Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to wade through this, get to the other side. Maybe I need to accept this slog through the mud for what it is.