Memories of my cousin
Today would've been my cousin Petya's 37th birthday.
As I've written before, out of all of the relatives I lost, his death hit me differently. He was a teenager, only a year older than me. When my mom told me he died, part of me just couldn't quite process it. This couldn't be right. How could he die? But I also knew that there was no way my mom would tell me something like this unless she was absolutely sure. It had to be true. And I remember just feeling lost and alone, and wishing that I could be back in Motherland to at least properly say goodbye.
It's been 22 years since he died and, honestly, I don't think a week, two at most, goes by when I don't think about him, at least for a few minutes. Sometimes, I just find myself thinking about Petya out of nowhere, walking down the street, or sitting on the beach. I think about him when I look at his sister's, Iya's, Insagram feed. Not every single single time, but whenever she posts about her accomplishments, the day-to-day stuff at the school where she teaches, or shares photos of her daughters, chances are pretty good that, sooner or later, my thoughts turn to my cousin, some variation of either "look at what Iyka did - I think you would've been proud" or "I'm sorry you don't get to see it."
It was only natural that I thought about him at Iya's wedding, and not just because his name was on the program among the list of people the newlyweds wished were there on that day. But I also thought of him at my own sister's wedding two months later. Not just because Iya and her husband, CJ, attended, but because it couldn't help but think that it was so unfair that Anna got to have her big brother at her wedding and Iya never did.
I think of him when I think about Tima, my youngest cousin, the younger brother he never got to meet. Not every single time - Tima grew up to be a talented, clever and empathetic young man, and I'm proud of so many things he has accomplished - but when thinking of one cousin, thoughts do sometimes drift to another.
The last time Tima and I met IRL, back in June of 2020, I ended up gently, broaching the topic ("we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to"). And he told me a bit about what it was like to live in the shadow of a brother he never got to meet. He mentioned how his mom worried about him, especially when he turned 14, the age Petya was when he died. And I just kind of stared in mute horror. I didn't even think of that! I remember thinking You poor kid!.
Sometimes, it's the unexpected things that bring the feeling of loss back. Like hearing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" - not the first time I watched that movie, or even the second time, but when I was putting together my last post on this anniversary, I watched the clip on Youtube and... something about the increasingly sad Ana begging for the return of a dear family member struck a very different cord (and, bear in mind, I already thought it was a sad song). I suppose, as mysticowl once pointed out, grief doesn't always make sense.
And I will admit that, when I had COVID, especially during the first few nights... I was afraid of falling asleep. I was almost grateful that the sheer exhaustion took that choice from me. You see, COVID can cause breathing issues, and although I only experienced shortness of breath once, literally one time...
It's strange, but I have this weird thing where I have to really struggle to say, or even write out, how Petya died. I can talk about the fact that he died, but I struggle to mention it. So... suffice to say that he died in his sleep, and breathing issues were involved.
I got over it a few days later, when it was clear that, for all of the symptoms that I did get, breathing issues weren't going to be one of them - but I still thought about Petya a lot more than usual until I was firmly on the path to recovery.
At the same time, in the last couple of years, I realized that while Petya was a constant fixture in my life, there were so many things I didn't know about him, so many things I just wasn't curious about. When Tima and I met up and talked about Petya, he got curious, even a little excited, as he realized that I knew him personally, and I could tell him stories about his brother that his parents and his sister couldn't tell. And I tried... But I feel like so much of it is sort of a compilation, a quilt of memories and experiences that had huge holes. I hated that I couldn't remember more. And I think that Tima, my sweet cousin, felt bad for me. For me.
Last time Petya and I saw each other, during a visit to Russia, I remember us sitting in his room filled with music - I think some of them on CDs and some were on cassettes. Even though he was only a year older than me, he was a teenager, and remember thinking how grown-up he looked. But I also remember how excited he was to talk about music and games, and how he quizzed me about American pop culture. I don't remember the details for the life of me, but I remember that it felt so great to see him, to talk to him. I remember thinking about mentioning a girl I had a crush on at the time and deciding against it - because I held up hope that something would happen and I'd have a much more interesting story to tell later. And I remember thinking that we'd have so many interesting things to talk about when we see each other next year.
Aunt Anya, I thinks, likes to remember him the way he was when he was younger, the quieter of the trio of kids that used to play together at family functions. And that was part of him. But I also like to hold on to the glimpse of the older him I got the one last time we met. Someone who made mistakes, and didn't always make the best decisions - but someone who, I think, I would have had some interesting conversations with as we got older. If nothing else, I feel like we would've bonded over having to sit through his grandpa's tendency to go on endless tangents in his stories.
I'm choosing to do something a little different this time, Petya. I will mourn you, just like I always do, but I will remember the good times. I will be happy for your sister, and your brother, and your mom and dad, for both of us.
And I will go out onto the beach. I will look out over Lake Michigan, toward an apartment an ocean away, and play some songs from my personal playlist.
I'm not sure what you'd think of my musical taste... But I think you would appreciate that I'm not self-conscious about what other people think of my taste anymore.
As I've written before, out of all of the relatives I lost, his death hit me differently. He was a teenager, only a year older than me. When my mom told me he died, part of me just couldn't quite process it. This couldn't be right. How could he die? But I also knew that there was no way my mom would tell me something like this unless she was absolutely sure. It had to be true. And I remember just feeling lost and alone, and wishing that I could be back in Motherland to at least properly say goodbye.
It's been 22 years since he died and, honestly, I don't think a week, two at most, goes by when I don't think about him, at least for a few minutes. Sometimes, I just find myself thinking about Petya out of nowhere, walking down the street, or sitting on the beach. I think about him when I look at his sister's, Iya's, Insagram feed. Not every single single time, but whenever she posts about her accomplishments, the day-to-day stuff at the school where she teaches, or shares photos of her daughters, chances are pretty good that, sooner or later, my thoughts turn to my cousin, some variation of either "look at what Iyka did - I think you would've been proud" or "I'm sorry you don't get to see it."
It was only natural that I thought about him at Iya's wedding, and not just because his name was on the program among the list of people the newlyweds wished were there on that day. But I also thought of him at my own sister's wedding two months later. Not just because Iya and her husband, CJ, attended, but because it couldn't help but think that it was so unfair that Anna got to have her big brother at her wedding and Iya never did.
I think of him when I think about Tima, my youngest cousin, the younger brother he never got to meet. Not every single time - Tima grew up to be a talented, clever and empathetic young man, and I'm proud of so many things he has accomplished - but when thinking of one cousin, thoughts do sometimes drift to another.
The last time Tima and I met IRL, back in June of 2020, I ended up gently, broaching the topic ("we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to"). And he told me a bit about what it was like to live in the shadow of a brother he never got to meet. He mentioned how his mom worried about him, especially when he turned 14, the age Petya was when he died. And I just kind of stared in mute horror. I didn't even think of that! I remember thinking You poor kid!.
Sometimes, it's the unexpected things that bring the feeling of loss back. Like hearing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" - not the first time I watched that movie, or even the second time, but when I was putting together my last post on this anniversary, I watched the clip on Youtube and... something about the increasingly sad Ana begging for the return of a dear family member struck a very different cord (and, bear in mind, I already thought it was a sad song). I suppose, as mysticowl once pointed out, grief doesn't always make sense.
And I will admit that, when I had COVID, especially during the first few nights... I was afraid of falling asleep. I was almost grateful that the sheer exhaustion took that choice from me. You see, COVID can cause breathing issues, and although I only experienced shortness of breath once, literally one time...
It's strange, but I have this weird thing where I have to really struggle to say, or even write out, how Petya died. I can talk about the fact that he died, but I struggle to mention it. So... suffice to say that he died in his sleep, and breathing issues were involved.
I got over it a few days later, when it was clear that, for all of the symptoms that I did get, breathing issues weren't going to be one of them - but I still thought about Petya a lot more than usual until I was firmly on the path to recovery.
At the same time, in the last couple of years, I realized that while Petya was a constant fixture in my life, there were so many things I didn't know about him, so many things I just wasn't curious about. When Tima and I met up and talked about Petya, he got curious, even a little excited, as he realized that I knew him personally, and I could tell him stories about his brother that his parents and his sister couldn't tell. And I tried... But I feel like so much of it is sort of a compilation, a quilt of memories and experiences that had huge holes. I hated that I couldn't remember more. And I think that Tima, my sweet cousin, felt bad for me. For me.
Last time Petya and I saw each other, during a visit to Russia, I remember us sitting in his room filled with music - I think some of them on CDs and some were on cassettes. Even though he was only a year older than me, he was a teenager, and remember thinking how grown-up he looked. But I also remember how excited he was to talk about music and games, and how he quizzed me about American pop culture. I don't remember the details for the life of me, but I remember that it felt so great to see him, to talk to him. I remember thinking about mentioning a girl I had a crush on at the time and deciding against it - because I held up hope that something would happen and I'd have a much more interesting story to tell later. And I remember thinking that we'd have so many interesting things to talk about when we see each other next year.
Aunt Anya, I thinks, likes to remember him the way he was when he was younger, the quieter of the trio of kids that used to play together at family functions. And that was part of him. But I also like to hold on to the glimpse of the older him I got the one last time we met. Someone who made mistakes, and didn't always make the best decisions - but someone who, I think, I would have had some interesting conversations with as we got older. If nothing else, I feel like we would've bonded over having to sit through his grandpa's tendency to go on endless tangents in his stories.
I'm choosing to do something a little different this time, Petya. I will mourn you, just like I always do, but I will remember the good times. I will be happy for your sister, and your brother, and your mom and dad, for both of us.
And I will go out onto the beach. I will look out over Lake Michigan, toward an apartment an ocean away, and play some songs from my personal playlist.
I'm not sure what you'd think of my musical taste... But I think you would appreciate that I'm not self-conscious about what other people think of my taste anymore.