It’s been 10 years, two months and three days since my little brother, Brent, died. When it happened I couldn’t imagine life going on without my pesky little brother, especially 10 years into the future. I thought if that day ever did come, I would have something really profound to say – some important life lesson. Maybe it would allow me to find some meaning in the horrible cliché I so often heard from well-meaning people, “everything happens for a reason.” I secretly hoped 10 years would be my pay day on that cliché.
The 10 year anniversary came and went. Facebook remembrances and accolades poured in from his friends around the world who will never forget him (We read and appreciate every one of them!). And then it was over. For me there was no moment of profound insight. I couldn’t even bring myself to write something about it as I had every year previously.
I’ve spent the past two months and three days feeling guilty. I’m wondering why I haven’t paid a proper tribute to my brother on such an occasion. Because a Facebook status update is clearly the “proper” way to pay tribute, right? Ugh. Not to diminish social media as an outlet for expression – it’s very useful for that and I enjoy it daily. But for some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not then. Not there. I didn’t have the words.
The reality is that It. Still. Hurts. If I would have written that day, that’s all I could have said. It hurts. Still! When I see his picture it shocks me. I’m writing this at my grandparents’ house and they have his picture framed on a wall. Every time I walk by, I have to hold back tears. I’m coming to grips with the fact that this pain will not go away. He really isn’t coming back. You would think after all these years I would have accepted that. But I’m finding there is still a need to embrace this reality and every time I try, it shocks my soul. It feels like a constant internal scream simmering just below the surface shouting “This can’t be true!” I wanted to meet his wife. I wanted our children to grow up together. How could this have happened?
Life has gone on. It just kind of does that whether we like it or not. The first New Years Eve celebrated without him ended in tears. I couldn’t bear leaving his final year in the past and starting a new one without him. I worried I would forget the sound of his voice. When someone dies, there are only so many things you can cling to…memories being the most important. I didn’t want to forget anything and was always afraid my memories would fade over time.
I’ve learned memories don’t fade because there are reminders all around me of my brother. Some are reminders I’ve placed in my life intentionally. His shirt hangs in my closet and it still smells like him. His ukulele sits on the bookshelf in our study, waiting for little hands to strum its strings. Others pop up out of nowhere…like the dreaded empty seat at the table. We used to be an even number family. Now we are an odd number. Or, happily, the wry smile my daughter gives me before she’s about to do something naughty.
Today I’m okay about time marching on. Time has brought me some wonderful things, including an amazing husband and a beautiful child who carries her uncle’s ornery spirit. It’s brought healing and deeper understanding within our family. It has compelled me to press into my faith. I more fully appreciate the gift of life and the finality of death.
Perhaps the lesson is that grief and joy are not mutually exclusive. Grief sucks. And it sticks around FOR EVERRRR. Trying to make it go away is a waste of energy. I guess the good news is that it doesn’t get any more painful, right?? Eventually you realize that grief doesn’t negate joy…if you don’t let it. Joy is awesome because you can have as much of it as you want! It’s all up to you.
That first laugh after my brother died – what a relief! It was after the viewing. Our family had gathered with all of his friends from high school and the Young Americans at the Driftwood in Blair for drinks. There were many rounds of margaritas and Guinness. Someone said something so funny and I laughed out loud. I remember looking at my mom and seeing her laugh too. We hadn’t smiled in days. It was like a ray of sunshine after a very dark night. One of the best things you can do for a grieving person is to make them laugh.
That first laugh was the start of a new life for me. It was proof that I could be happy again. I wanted to laugh more. And I think my brother would approve of that. So 10 years later I’m reconnecting with that notion of laughing more and appreciating our endless capacity, as people, to experience love and joy. I can’t say I’ve always done a good job of pursuing that ideal, but I’m going to try harder starting today. And I think that’s the best tribute I can give my brother.
Happy Birthday Gweedo. I love you and will see you again someday.