the last time I was here...

change.

I've been meaning to update this blog for a long time. My life has been filled with change over the last two months. Happy change, welcomed change. I met my now husband in October of 2009, became engaged in August of 2010 and we were married on May 22, 2011. In less than two years my life changed.
When I began planning our wedding I wanted to remember Brian in some type of way. I wanted it to be a small gesture - nothing big. As a child and teenager I often would dream about my wedding and my brother always played a role. I wanted him to read scripture and maybe be a groomsman This dream died with my brother. It was a reminder of similar dreams that died that night. I decided upon a floating candle in a vase that had his name and dates etched into the glass. I also put a small mention of the candle in the bulletin. I am happy with these choices.
Now in the months after our wedding I can't help but realize where I am. I've moved to a different state, and changed my name. I wear a diamond and a simple band on my left hand ring finger. I call a house without my parents my home. There is little in my new life that connects me to my brother. For a while I've felt something missing and I have finally been able to name it. Would my brother recognize me now? Would he know where to find me?  These questions have sustained me throughout the last three years and now I'm not sure of the answers.

Three years.

Last Thursday was the three year anniversary of Brian's death. I didn't plan anything to do except dinner out with my husband. I never really thought about it. I thought maybe if I ignored it - it would go away. This didn't help. I've become weepy at bedtime and stay up late crying - waking up in the morning with puffy eyelids. Last night I found a picture of my brother and studied his face. I looked into his eyes, looked at his nose and mouth - the shape of his check bones and chin. I'm so worried I'll forget what he looks like. I'm so worried I'll forget the stories of him or the memories I have of him.

Fear.

Tomorrow we leave for my parent's house. This weekend there is a family camp out up in the beautiful hills of western Mass at our family owned small camp. It's a tradition in my family for the last ten or so years. Every second weekend in August we gather - except for the year my brother died. His funeral was held on the second Saturday in August. The last time I was at this camp my brother was alive. You see the camp holds treasures for a boy and young adult man - woods, dirt, fire. My brother loved being at camp. He always set up his tent in the same location, would take walks in the woods with my younger cousins and was always messing with the camp fire pit. He'd sit for hours in front of it, poking it and adding branches. Our young male cousins would sit next to him and learn from his wisdom of fire. After dinner, and once it became dark we'd roast marshmallows, but Brian would try to get the jiffy pop popcorn to pop. The small alluminium pan which was not meant to be used on open flame would sizzle and pop. One year he caught it on fire but still ate the twenty or so semi popped kernels inside. He got better at popping it though, and would sit and eat his popcorn happy to have mastered it.
One year I slept in the small camp building and woke in the middle of the night to squeaky noises of mice. Against my better judgement I had agreed to sleep in the building and not in a tent. However, in the middle of the night, and even though I was afraid of bears or other animals outside (which were unfounded fears) I gathered up my blanket, grabbed my flashlight and walked across the small camp towards my brother's tent. As I unzipped it he woke with a jolt and I told him I was sleeping there because there were mice in the camp. He fell asleep and so did I. I know he wasn't happy about me sleeping in the tent with him, but he dealt with it. I knew his tent offered me safety and protection. I knew he was the one I could turn to in the small crisis. These are the memories that I'm fearful  of reliving when my husband and I camp out this weekend.
Even though I'm fearful I need to go. I need to camp out this weekend and be with my family. I need to go back to the place where my brother and I once went together. I need to make new memories there and invite my husband to do the same. I can't run away forever.

Maybe this sudden sadness is fleeting and will pass just as suddenly as it came about. Is this the new grief of my heart? Is this the new pattern that will continue for the rest of my life. Or could this be more serious? Questions abound without answers and the only thing I know for certain is that my eyelids are puffy, my eyes hurt and there is no one left to call me sister.

in a dream

Last night I had a dream. I was at a bridal shower or party at my grandparent's old house. There were bits and pieces of weirdness. I was traveling in a car at one point, left my purse in another car and somehow ended up missing a teddy bear from my childhood. However, the part I remember most was hugging my brother. He was at the party at my grandparent's house and in the dream I hadn't seen him in a while. I walked towards him and he asked if I had grown taller. I slipped my shoes off and then he gave me a hug. I remember feeling happy because it had been so long since I saw him. He was smiling and happy.
When I woke up, hugging my brother was not the most odd part of my dream. I didn't even process that I couldn't really hug my brother until I told my fiance about the dream. That is when it all became real. I don't forget that my brother died, but sometimes it's not always consciously present in my mind.
Even though the dream makes me sad, I am happy. I'm happy that in my dream I got to hug my brother and tell him how much I miss him.

Birthday, Anger and Lost

My brother's birthday is fast approaching. For the past two years I've made a Facebook event to have people celebrate his birthday by paying it forward. I like the idea of celebrating on this day, and it excites me to think of people remembering my brother. I'm toying with the idea of making a page for this annual event. I like the idea of April 3rd becoming a day when people intentionally do a good deed. It's like a gift.
Often I think about what my brother would think about this crazy idea. But when I start to think like that I realize how long it's been since I've heard his voice or watched him roll his eyes at me. This August will mark three years since his death. It's been three years since I began my struggle with understanding his death. I still remember sitting at Friendly's with my Pastor as she told me it was okay to be angry with/at God. I never bothered to ask her how long was it okay.
I find myself upset when I read happy psalms praising God for looking out for people, and guarding them. I'm angry that the psalmist felt that way. I'm angry that I felt like that once. The problem is that this is transferred anger. I'm not really angry at the Psalmist for composing a beautiful Psalm praising God. I'm not  angry at myself because I use to praise God for the amazing things God does. I'm angry because my brother died. I've realized that the steps of grief, or whatever, are not linear, and that there are no time limits associated with the steps. I'm still angry. I've just pushed it onto things that have nothing to do with my brother's death.
I'm currently writing a paper about Psalm 121. The beginning the psalmist looks up to the hills, for that is where their help comes. The help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth. I can't read this Psalm without thinking about my brother. I can't help but think of his death and that God, the God who made heaven and earth, not helping. In the following verses, the psalmist talks about God as one who guards. The protect of God is praised. When I read that God protects and guards I want to fully embrace those words. I want to run with those words, wrap up inside those words and embrace them: but I cannot.
Where was God when my brother died? Why did God not protect or guard my brother? Can I believe that God guards over me? How can I reconcile this?
Honestly, I don't know. I know that the idea of God protecting me is something I can't completely wrap my head around theologically. Sometimes bad things happen. Does God control these bad things? I'd like to think that God isn't pulling strings and that God allows us some type of free will. Therefore it would follow that God doesn't cause bad things to happen. If God does not cause bad things to happen then where is God? Surely God could protect us, and guard us from these bad things that God does not make happen. I guess I don't know what God is really up to. I guess I can't answer why bad things happen. And I don't know why God did not guard my brother as he drove his motorcycle home from work that clear, beautiful August evening that quickly turned into a nightmare.
I continue to be in awe of God, even though I'm angry. I continue to give my praise, even though my voice is not so strong. I continue to live, even though sometimes it's hard. I continue to cry, a lot, for the brother I've lost.

August 14, 2010

I am engaged. I wear a diamond on my left ring finger. This is who I am now. I am a fiancee. I am someone who my brother can not see. I am something that he never knew. I don't define myself only by this, but this part of me my brother did not know.
I often think of my brother now that I am planning a wedding. I think about the times when I was growing up, like many little girls, I planned all the details of my future wedding. I always believed that my brother would be a groomsmen, and that he would read scripture. These were non-negotiable. Yet, in the reality of my brother's death, his role cannot happen. The wedding is not about my brother's death, nor is it about painfully remembering the fact that he is not with us. Yet I cannot bear letting my wedding day go by without remembering that my family is not complete without him. I cannot be whole in the celebration of my new life without remembering the life of my brother. Brian did exist for however short a time on earth, but my brother lived and breathed and I cannot forget that fact. I cannot cease to think that he was a live and that there isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about him.
So, I ordered a vase and a floating candle. The vase is engraved with his name, and will sit on a small table in the front of the church. I'm hoping that my mother will light the candle as she is seated. I'm planning on putting something small in the bulletin. It's something small, but for me it will make all the difference.

years

today will mark the two year anniversary since my brother's death...

last year I drove to Florida with his friend Jessie, and spent the day with her and family friends, who my brother lived with for a few months while he was in Florida.

today, this year, I am going to the beach and camping one night, with my boyfriend.

just wish that today could be normal...but now I don't think I could ever let this day, or any day really, pass without thinking about my brother.

Asking and admitting

Last week I e-mailed and requested information...and a few days ago a medium sized envelop came addressed to me in the mail. My name printed, from a computer, neatly on a label, a sticker in the upper left hand corner with the exact amount of postage needed. This sticker mostlikely from a business postage meter, which saves time, and I use to work at a company that had a similiar machine. In the upper right hand corner, the return address. This envelope contains information about The Compassionate Friends. Its been nearly two years since Brian died, and I thought it was the right time to start figuring things out.
Inside the evenlope is tons of information, a form letter, signed by a worker (who emailed me back) and a hand written note indicating the local chapter leader and phone number, a few brochures, copy of their most recent newsletter, a copy of a supplement for siblings, grief fact sheets, and a few pages of material for other people in grief.
There is a special section devoted to sibling loss among all this material. A supplemental photocopied stapled handout, and an article in the magazine. I find comfort knowing that I am not really alone. While somedays I know that there are many siblings out in the world who have lost a brother or sister, there are many more days when I feel utterly alone. I feel alone in part because there is no one around me, in my circle of friends, who has experienced a loss of a sibling. While losing an Aunt/Uncle, Grandparent etc. may be difficult, and grief still unexpected and hard to deal with, it is not the same as sibling loss. I do not discount the heartache and loss people feel. Everyone grieves in his/her own way. But there is a connection between siblings that is completely different, a way of understanding each other, and their parents that no one else in the world understands. My brother and I remembered certain things about my parents that would make us laugh--only us.
Is asking for help truly a sign of admitting that you do need help? I've been telling myself that I should find someone to talk to about my grief, but kept putting it off. I knew that the morning I woke up on August 5, 2008 that I needed help (the day after my brother died) but its taken me two years to move forward into the realization that I need help. Better yet, I need to talk with other siblings, I need to be around people who understand the random crying, understand the need for quiet alone time, understand the worry for and about my parents, understand the laughter and the anger.

Do you have any siblings?

To tell, or not to tell. That is the question.

I think that if push comes to shove I could write this in the vein of Hamlet, struggling with my inner thoughts, and my very life, as it hangs in the balance. But I will spare you the Shakespearean language, and explain.

There comes a point in every conversation I have with someone I meet for the first time when I'm asked if I have any siblings. When I can since this question forming in the person's mind; I cringe. (And yes I believe I can tell.) Sometimes the topic of siblings happens by mistake, sometimes I bring it up--unconsciously still thinking I have one--and sometimes it's just random.

I have two choices; lie or tell the truth.

The truth is that  my parents only have one child, but that doesn't seem to quite fit my situation. The truth is that I am now an only child, not by nature of my parent's inability to produce another child, but because of death. The lie, while quite easy to say, "I'm an only child," brings with it unexpected results. Either I have uncomfortable exchanges with people when they feel sorry I did not get to experience siblings. (I usually just smile and say I have a big family, which is at least true.) The lie can also produce a horrible result. A few months ago, I was sitting in the dinning hall at a table with a bunch of people and a person turned to me and asked if I had any siblings, and I said "no." He said, "Lucky."
It was in that moment when I realized that the lie, which I thought would be easy, cut deeper into me than anything else. Deeper than the thought of his death is my denial of my brother's life. I had a brother that died. It's a simple sentence. And I can be strong enough to endure people's polite "I'm sorry"'s  because at least I acknowledge Brian's existence, however short.
The insistence upon the truth also prevents me from trying to remember who knows and who doesn't know. If I tell someone I don't have any siblings and then the next day they hear me talking of growing up with a brother, what will they think? Yes, I do honestly think of that, and it bothers me.
Today, I shared the death of my brother with yet another person I met. She said "I'm so sorry." and I said "Thank you." And we went through the details, when, how, and how old. It's a formula that I'm use to. It's a formula that I'm sure will never end.

I think that there will always be a part of me that wants to lie and not share the deep pain that accompanies sibling loss with a possible stranger. It is much better than tearing apart my heart to appease someone's weird fascination with asking questions about a deceased person. I often wonder if I said my brother was an infant, if people would think of it as less of a loss. Or if I said it happened 20 years ago, if they'd believe that is an acceptable time period and I should be over it. And if they catalog the death stories they hear and believe that some means of death don't need sympathy. I know people mean well, but all of this coupled with my grief make it just so tempting to lie.