Breathing Underwater
One night, many years ago, when I young and foolish, I got seriously drunk and became violently ill.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said quietly. “Breathe through your nose.”
It was good advice, and I find myself employing it now, eight days after Peter’s death, when the grief becomes too much for me to handle.
I turned 68 years old on Saturday, and I had gotten used to getting his phone call each year wishing me a happy birthday.
Such a strange time, when I get both a birthday card and a sympathy card in the same day’s mail from my Aunt Sara, who became a widow in January when my Uncle Joe died.
Talking about Peter is the past tense is eerie. I pray each morning that my parents will rest in peace and now I’m adding my brother’s name to that list.
Peter and I shared a room for so many years, with me on the top bunk of our two-level bed and my brother on the lower one.
Whenever the room became too messy, Peter would loudly declare, “we have to clean this shithole!”
A huge Jimi Hendrix fan, Peter had a black light poster of the rock icon in our room as well as a huge concert photo of Hendrix at the Monterey Pop Festival.
Our musical tastes varied, and for a while, my brother was a fan of a jazz fusion band called the Mahavishnu Orchestra, which was formed in 1971 by British guitarist John McLaughlin and included Jan Hammer, who went on to compose the Miami Vice theme.
I can still remember watching Peter vigorously playing air violin to the band’s “Birds of Fire” track.
Last week I looked up the Mahavishnu Orchestra on YouTube and to be honest, it’s not my kind of music, although you never know; it may grow on me.
Shots on Goal
Peter was a devoted Ranger fan who went to the Garden as often as he could to see his favorite hockey team play and he was a frequent concert goer as well.
Shortly before his death—Jesus, I hate saying that--he told me about having to leave a family Thanksgiving dinner one year to attend a show, but I've forgotten the name of the band.
I think of the things he taught me growing up, tying my shoes, riding a bike, telling the time and putting a knot in my tie. That was all Peter.
As an adult, (more or less) I always ran any questions I had about the stock market by Peter. And he was such a neat freak, I would get his suggestions on various cleaning products.
My apartment is an unholy mess—a shithole, you might say--and Peter advised me to start off small, clear out one room at a time and move on.
I’m thinking that a good way to honor his memory would be to finally clean up this place after so many years of broken promises to myself.
When I was in my twenties, I dreamed that Peter had been killed, but he had somehow given a brief reprieve from death.
The details are sketchy after more than four decades, but I remember that he was sitting at the family dinner table even though he had died.
I knew he was borrowed time, and he knew that I knew, and the pair of us started crying because we knew he’d be gone soon.
Dreams are usually inspired by something in our waking lives, but I have no idea what was going on with me at the time. And I don’t begin to think that this was any kind of premonition of Peter’s death.
I think of this dream now as a warning that we should treasure our time with our loved ones because we never know when they’ll be taken from us.
Today I had a fabulous birthday dinner with my sister, my aunt, and Peter’s daughter Kristin. I feel so lucky to have these people in my life and I really needed to see them.
I’ve been doing some crying over the last few days and I’m sure I’ll be doing a lot in the days to come.
And when it gets bad, I’ll remember Peter’s advice and breathe through my nose.
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Take care and best wishes to you and all the ones you love.