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.

home

Today is the last day of my visit home. I've spent nearly three weeks in Massachusetts. Tomorrow I will be flying back to D.C.. My Florida trip has made me not scared of planes anymore. Thankfully.
It's an odd feeling being at home again. The last time I was here was January. Not much has changed in this small New England town. The house hasn't changed either. But little changes in my brother's room have started to happen.
The door to his room is no longer covered with the random assortment of buttons, pieces of paper and various printed versions of my brother's name. There are things taken down from the wall, and a box of random things on the tv stand where the eight-track player once lived. My boyfriend came to stay for a few days, and honestly before he came (and stayed in the room) it looked like my brother had just been home. The top of the dresser has his deodorant, random papers, mints, etc.. All signs of my brother's life. And now all pushed into the top drawers of the dresser, in hopes of presenting the room as empty. Although the wall still have posters, and if you really look around it is full of my brother's possessions. It at least no longer looks like my brother is simply gone away for the weekend.
It's a change that will be finalized soon. At least that is what my parents keep saying. My father remarked that its something he wants to do, clean the room, but every time he tries to, he cannot part with anything that once was my brother's. Its a double edge sword, because my brother is gone, and the things he once used does not bring us any closer to my brother now. Yet, its hard to hold something in your hand, and realize that Brian used this, or Brian use to play with this. It is especially hard to throw something away if you remember Brian using it.
My thoughts this afternoon have to do with home, and what it means to be home, and who makes up this "being home." After my brother died I use to wish him to just return home. I remember sitting up late at night on the computer waiting, hopelessly, for him to come home. When I moved to D.C. I was worried that my brother didn't know that I would have left home, so somehow he wouldn't be able to find me-if he was watching me.
I call my dorm in DC home. I call the house I am now staying in home. Depending upon the person I am speaking to, and where I am. Is my dorm really a home. Not really, but it where I live, and a person who I love lives a few dorm rooms down from me. But the house in Massachusetts will always be my home. Even years from now when this house is sold. This is the last place my brother lived, and regardless of the fact that my old house, with much more family history, that I moved out of when I was twelve, will always be the "true home" for me, this house holds much more memories. I hashed out the troubling times of my teenage years in this house. I spoke on the phone to my first boyfriend in my room, and last night I spoke with my current boyfriend, on my cell phone, in my room.
I miss my brother when I am home. When I am away, I always wish that when I return home, that maybe Brian would be home too. It's something that, after two years, I should know just cannot happen. It still catches me off guard when I realize that it has almost been two years since he died. And I'm growing into the realization that I will always be able to feel the weight of his death in the depths of my soul. And I am still trying to figure out what it means to truly be at home, or really go home. I hate the trite saying "you can never go home again" or some version of that idiom. Except that my home has so radically changed over the course of the last two years, that what remains is a working house, with the remains of a life, lived fast and ended too soon.