Finding Nilimo

  October 2nd, 2022 Dear Nandini,      One Wednesday, a few Wednesdays ago, I met a teenager who was admitted to my team.  A college student majoring in chemistry and interested in bench research -- the first day she was unable to tell me any of this.  Found in her dorm room by her roommate, she was completely out of it.  Thrashing around, totally agitated, unable to say anything meaningful -- it took her a full two days to recover from what we found out was some combination of cocaine and an intentional overdose of her antidepressant.  Not able to get a story from her, I met her mom in the emergency room.  Tired, weary, terrified -- she seemed so familiar and at the time I somehow couldn't piece together why.  I explained what to expect medically and was met with the same questions we used to ask about you: "Is there something else we can do?", "She doesn't want the help -- how are we supposed to help her?", "How long can she go on like this?".  O

There's a certain Beauty in Loss. Lose a game, lose an object, lose a Loved One. Learn a lesson from things and people gone. But only gone from physical existence. Never gone from your heart -- never       gone from dreams. That's it then, isn't it? The secret to grief and mourning. The realization that perhaps Death isn't final. Death - what we feared, evaded,       spend our careers preventing. Death, the always unwelcome - often unexpected. Death - sometimes the usher of relief, an end to       suffering, the establisher of peace. Death & Life, two sides of the same coin. Both a transition in this visible world - both       transient in  the grand scheme. Death, always a reminder of Life. To force the question - was this Life fulfilled?       Complete? To make you wonder how you could live without -  To make you realize there is always a way. To send you down a road of memories that though       at first  cause pain, will later bring Joy. To task you with the job

March 30th, 2022 Dear Nandini,  She doesn't know I hear her in the early morning hours, crying for you. They don't know I hear their hushed chatter, whispers surely after a poor night's sleep -- haunted by your dream-time visits. Everything these days reminds us of you. The songs on the radio, the heels in the store -- their height, their shape, their color. The gifts you gave me over the years -- the clock, the aquarium too. The clothes you left behind, your favorite foods -- all of it brings us back to you. When I'm home, I pass by your room a few times a day.  No replaced furniture or paint job could ever wipe the memory of the disheveled, smoke-scented, cigarette-stained carpet, the lavender walls, or the pile of empty bottles underneath your bed.  I'm still reminded of what I was wearing that night I stood between the door and you as you tried to leave -- the liquor store not too far by car.  I remember the night you came home at 2 -- I awoke to hear the clatte

June 1st, 2020 -- 5:15PM   Dear Nandini,       I've come back to this opening line for the past 1.5 years though every time I did, I was never really sure what to say or how to organize my thoughts.  Every few months, I'd pick up this journal -- stare at the words and set it down again.  To be honest, I still don't know what to say but I think it's time.  So, here goes.     We somehow got to a point in our lives where I dreaded talking to you.  In fact, I couldn't even stand to hear about you from Mom + Dad.  If I didn't know what was going on -- then I couldn't feel all the emotions I usually did: anger, confusion, sadness, but most of all -- helplessness.  I could protect myself, I guess -- bury myself in the obligations of school and casually continue to think that my friend- and me-centric views would erase anything that was going on with you.  It was selfish, I suppose -- immature.  I'm embarrassed to say that I felt relief every holiday I knew you