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. :-)