My life is bigger, but sometimes the pain is too...

Today is one of my son's birthdays. He turns twelve. He was born the day after my brother's birthday. The one who is dead.

Jaime died from a drug overdose. I miss him everyday, but I am not sad everyday. I was not sad yesterday on his birthday, but the day before I was and spent the whole day trying not to cry, except for when I did cry.

I spoke at my father's funeral in March. The only thing I really remember saying is that I would often call my father to talk about Jaime and I remember gritting my teeth and saying something like, "and he would say, 'why are you so angry?' " as I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes.

Jaime called me, drunk. I told him he was an idiot, or something along those lines. Two days later I called him to tell him that Hotel California was on the radio. When we were little he locked me in my room and wouldn't let me out until I memorized the whole first side of the album by the same name. From that day on I would occasionally call him when I heard any of those songs. He didn't answer so I left a silly message on his machine. He was probably already dead when I left that message.

My brother Vinnie had a visitor at his shop. A friend of his. He came to offer his condolences. Vinnie had no idea what this guy was talking about so the guy just came out and said, "Jaime is dead."

Vinnie called his wife who called all over the place trying to find out if Jaime was dead. He died in a different county and she did not know that so it took a little while to find out for sure.

Vinnie and his wife went to my father's house to tell him. My mother had just moved and no one had her new address. She lives an hour away. We couldn't call her and tell her we were visiting, we had to tell her over the phone. Have you ever heard the wind howl? That is the sound of a mother mourning her child. I believe it is the collective cries of all of the mothers who have buried their children since Eve herself.

There was never an official notification. No police officer ever knocked on our door. That only happens on tv.

I called the funeral home and set up an appointment for the family to go and see him. We needed to know for sure. It was kind of funny, because no one ever said that. It was just something that we felt. Vinnie didn't go and my stepmother waited in the waiting room. My mother had had surgery on her feet shortly before this so she was in a wheelchair. My stepfather wheeled her up to the coffin and my father walked up there beside her. We all waited respectfully until they walked away. When I walked up I was overcome with anger and I started yelling at Jaime. Then I, literally, ran out of there. My husband followed me and held me outside. Whenever I drive past that funeral home I imagine myself running outside and my husband holding me and I wonder if anyone saw me that day and what they thought if they did see me. My mother cut a lock of Jaime's hair and we went back to my house.

The memorial service was held at the Salvation Army church. It was standing room only. The foyer was so packed with people that they were shoved up against the side lights. I spoke. Have you seen that little movie that has been traveling the Internet called the dash? I haven't seen it, but it is about the dash between the dates on a tombstone. The dash is what really matters, the stuff that happens between the day we are born and the day we die. I said that at his funeral long before someone made it a movie. I told these people, the ones he tried to stay sober with through AA, and the ones that he spent so much time with at the Salvation Army shelter, I told them that I knew a different Jaime then they did. Jaime never called me when he was sober. He didn't spend time with his family unless he was drunk. We were not a drinking family. He was not avoiding temptation, he was avoiding us. I told those people, as I looked into the faces of my children and nephews, that they should make sure that their nieces and nephews don't get to know them at their funerals. I was told later that a lot of them called their families after the service. I wonder if that is true.

The pastor who spoke said that the pain will not get smaller, but our lives will get bigger and it will make the pain seem smaller. I didn't agree, my father did. As far as I am concerned, five years later, the jury is still out.