I Wish I Wasn't Writing This

I'm not sure if I am ready to tell this tale, but I am emotionally at a place where writing about my cousin will be cathartic. I will stop and cry many times before this is published, and probably a few times after. I will leave this blog and come back to it many times. That is a good thing. I want to honor Paul "P.D." Nelson for the rest of my life. This is one avenue.

Since the day he died, I have struggled to figure out what his absence really means. I haven't known how to feel. I have desperately been trying to find ways to stay connected to him. Some things feel somewhat fulfilling, but nothing is the same as laying my eyes on his sweet face and feeling one of his huge hugs.

I will start by telling the story I shared at his funeral, because it has been important in my grieving process. One of the earlier memories I have of PD was from when our grandmother, Maria Avelina Naranjo Wishard, died. The moment was tragic because of its unpredictability and its proximity to the family. It was Christmas day in 1998. I was 16 and PD was 9. Grandma took her final breath in my living room with her entire family surrounding her. As the event unfolded, there was utter chaos around my house. At one point my mama grabbed me and asked me to gather all of my cousins in a separate room so we were together and not in the way of paramedics. I had PD in my lap and Aaron next to me. We were terrified and in complete shock. A room full of Wishards is not normally silent, but in that moment all you could hear was the breath we were all clinging to after watching our grandmother let her last breath go. No one knew what else to do. Well, no one but PD. I distinctly remember looking down to my right and seeing his beautiful, blue eyes well up with tears. If you knew PD, you remember those eyes with those long, velvety eye lashes. It was impossible to not feel what those eyes were feeling. In that moment, his gaze was expressing deep sorrow, and he was begging me to give him permission to do so. I remember thinking, "It's okay to cry PD," and then I burst in to tears. He looked almost relieved as the tears rolled down his face mere seconds after. It was as if he was thanking me for crying with him and not making him feel the sorrow alone.

PD, Me, and Aaron
Christmas 1998

Even before PD was gone, I always held that moment dear to me. PD was the one to grant me permission to cry. He was the one who broke the shocked silence for us all. He was the one that couldn't hold back the way he was feeling. It was as if PD was training me how to respond when I would one day get the phone call telling me that he was gone. I shared this story at PD's funeral to remind us all about just how sensitive his heart was, and just how much he wore his emotions on his sleeve. Or maybe it was to remind us all that it is okay to cry, that we shouldn't deny the emotions we are feeling because of our loss when he chose to leave us.

I started writing this blog hoping to document many of the memories I have of PD, but there are far too many. I will share just one more. At the beginning of his Senior year, I got to take PD out and shoot his Senior photos. This may be my favorite day I ever spent with him. We wandered around Downtown Denver and Capitol Hill taking photos in alleys and on railroad tracks. We laughed at each other, sang along to Sublime in the car, and vented to each other about some of our personal struggles. During that time I was getting over a relationship that ended in betrayal. As we were out taking photos, we ran into the betrayal I was trying to get over. PD immediately sensed my grief. He was so empathic that he knew my distress before I expressed it to him. He didn't seek revenge for me, although I'm sure he wanted to. Instead he took my hand, turned us in the other direction, and we walked away. Once again, he protected my heart by helping me find a space to honor what I was feeling.

In his novel The Fault in Our Stars, John Greene wrote that "pain demands to be felt." I believe PD understood this. I believe he recognized the pain in others and chose to be gentle with it and help them feel it. I believe that now, after his death, he wouldn't tell me not to feel pain. I believe if he was here right now, he'd help me find the space to experience it genuinely. I believe that when I get quiet, his spirit is still here helping me find a sacred place to grieve for him. I believe that he felt his own pain so strongly that he didn't know what to do with it. I only wish that I could've been there to help him find a place to safely process his own hurt.

At the end of the same novel John Greene wrote, "You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices." I feel so blessed that I got to choose to love PD. Those who never got to make that choice missed out. They didn't get to learn of his empathic hugs and transparent eyes. They didn't get to experience his infectious giggle or his heart-felt ability to listen. I may be experiencing more hurt than I have ever known with his loss, but I still LOVE my choice.

I wrote this letter to PD a month after he died. I only share it here in hopes that he hears my words...
Hey, cousin. I'm sending this message hoping you'll receive it somehow. I just want to say, "I'm sorry." I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you. I'm sorry I didn't see you enough at the end. I'm sorry I took for granted that you would be there next time. I'm sorry I didn't know the pain you were in. I'm sorry I couldn't relieve it. I'm sorry I detached from the family in your last few months 'cause I couldn't stop thinking about my own pain. I'm sorry I was selfish. I hope you found what you were looking for. I hope your weight has been lifted. I hope wherever you went after this life is accessible to me one day. I hope you are sitting in bliss. I hope you know just how much we all love you. I hope you know I'm not angry with you. I hope you know that I still feel utter selfishness and wish I could have you back here with us. I love you cousin, since the day I met you until the day I can't love anymore.

Sending all that love right back to you, primo!