I've always had a pretty sick sense of humor but I think it's developing at an obscene rate. I'll catch myself thinking things to myself that I know are so far past the line that I would never utter them out loud. I wonder if that's normal. These are the things I think to myself while sitting on a Southwest airliner making its descent into Newark, knowing that the casket carrying my only brother's dead body is somewhere in the darkness below my feet, crammed in amongst rolling suitcases and duffle bags.
Other thoughts that pass through my mind.
When will this seem real?
How can I make this easier on everyone else?
How can make this easier on myself?
Are Sarah and I going to be "enough" for Mom and Dad?
Will I ever stop hating myself for letting this happen?
Is Mike okay?
Does Mike know how sorry I am?
(Continued the next day...)
And now that I'm sitting here on the day that I'm going to bury my brother, I still have the same thought pushing its way, unbidden, through my brain. It's not real. None of this is real. Any minute now, I'm going to wake up. There's no way this is real life.
And why didn't I do anything to stop it?
Some friends and family know that my brother and I hadn't spoken to each other for almost the last ten months. I made a mistake that caused a rift between us and that was that. Mike was already dealing with depression and he was one of those people who had the tendency to push people away when things got bad. And I was angry enough with him that I let him push me away when I should have been doing the opposite. There were things I said to him and about him that I'll never forgive myself for and I don't know if I'll ever get over this feeling that his death is at least partially my fault.
Knowing that I'll never see or talk to him again is harder than I can even explain, but that's not even the hardest part. The hardest part is knowing the pain he was in, trying to picture his last moments on earth, and knowing that my brother died thinking that he was utterly alone and that no one cared about it. Seeing my parents and sister look so utterly broken. Thinking about how we're a family of four now instead of a family of five. Knowing that I'm the oldest child now. Thinking of the rest of my life saying, "I had a brother" instead of, "I have a brother." Watching them load a big, rectangular-shaped crate onto a commercial airplane and knowing that that's my brother, lying on the tarmac like any other piece of cargo. Those are the hardest parts.
So, today I bury my brother. And tomorrow...I don't know what comes tomorrow. We get on with our lives, I suppose, but even returning to normal life seems like an impossible task -- let alone the fact that I have a job search looming, a trip to London that doesn't even seem possible anymore, and everything else on top of that.
By far the most difficult part of all of this is me just wanting to know that, wherever he is, my brother is okay. More than anything else, I want him to know that I'm sorry for all his suffering but most sorry that I contributed to his loneliness. This is the first mistake I've ever made in my life where there's nothing I can do to fix it, and that hurts the most. I can't bear to picture him in pain, but lately that's the only stuff that's been running through my mind.
I wish I could tell him that I love him and I'm sorry he had no idea how loved he was. I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry.
(Continued the next day...)
And now that I'm sitting here on the day that I'm going to bury my brother, I still have the same thought pushing its way, unbidden, through my brain. It's not real. None of this is real. Any minute now, I'm going to wake up. There's no way this is real life.
And why didn't I do anything to stop it?
Some friends and family know that my brother and I hadn't spoken to each other for almost the last ten months. I made a mistake that caused a rift between us and that was that. Mike was already dealing with depression and he was one of those people who had the tendency to push people away when things got bad. And I was angry enough with him that I let him push me away when I should have been doing the opposite. There were things I said to him and about him that I'll never forgive myself for and I don't know if I'll ever get over this feeling that his death is at least partially my fault.
Knowing that I'll never see or talk to him again is harder than I can even explain, but that's not even the hardest part. The hardest part is knowing the pain he was in, trying to picture his last moments on earth, and knowing that my brother died thinking that he was utterly alone and that no one cared about it. Seeing my parents and sister look so utterly broken. Thinking about how we're a family of four now instead of a family of five. Knowing that I'm the oldest child now. Thinking of the rest of my life saying, "I had a brother" instead of, "I have a brother." Watching them load a big, rectangular-shaped crate onto a commercial airplane and knowing that that's my brother, lying on the tarmac like any other piece of cargo. Those are the hardest parts.
So, today I bury my brother. And tomorrow...I don't know what comes tomorrow. We get on with our lives, I suppose, but even returning to normal life seems like an impossible task -- let alone the fact that I have a job search looming, a trip to London that doesn't even seem possible anymore, and everything else on top of that.
By far the most difficult part of all of this is me just wanting to know that, wherever he is, my brother is okay. More than anything else, I want him to know that I'm sorry for all his suffering but most sorry that I contributed to his loneliness. This is the first mistake I've ever made in my life where there's nothing I can do to fix it, and that hurts the most. I can't bear to picture him in pain, but lately that's the only stuff that's been running through my mind.
I wish I could tell him that I love him and I'm sorry he had no idea how loved he was. I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry.
Oh Becky, you are a writer. My father will be proud. I am including something I wrote tonight for your dad and aunties...
ReplyDeleteIn my creative imaginings I have a place I visit: Your mother and my mother are together at a dining room table, it is always 8:30 a.m., the coffee is always hot and the conversation is always wise and gentle. (Jack is always running late and has lost some valuable folder or file.)…..They assess our lives, the happenings in our world and arrive at the best possible conclusion.
My mother was there waiting for your mother when she arrived. In my imagination Mary joined Dorothy little by little, bit by bit, during the course of her final time with us. They always go straight to the heart of the matter at hand.
Today they are 20 steps ahead of us, as they always were….They are holding each other, comforting each other and making sense of something that seems impossible for us to understand. They are watching us with great compassion….. I like to think that Michael has joined them and that they are comforting and counselling him, as only they could. He is a welcome guest at that table. They love him.
Of course, these are circumstances that only exist in my imagination….How comforting it would be, if we knew that they were always there for us, at that table, or in the office, whenever we needed guidance, if we could reach out and actually hear them today….
I send my love to all of you, as you travel through this difficult time together, which was their design; that we move through the difficulties and the joys of life, together.