Yet Another Book that Has Nothing to Do with Me

I suppose I should say “two other books,” but I forgot I hadn’t written about the first one yet. Last year, I read a book that, despite potential surface similarities to my situation, didn’t resonate with me. Over the past 2 weeks, I finished 2 more books that were recommended to me, and I came away with the same reaction.

First, after hearing about RJ’s Christmas Eve breakdown, my two cousins suggested I read Day, the third novel in a pseudo-trilogy of writings by Elie Wiesel. Cousins were very eager, referencing the novel at nearly every juncture of RJ’s story, insisting that I would find it very meaningful.

So I read it. Mr. Wiesel, himself a Holocaust survivor, writes a fictional tale of a man obsessed with death and misery, and the friends who try to diminish that obsession. While I can certainly see Cousins’ point about the usefulness of the book (the friends consistently pushing the idea that we should not be miserable, and that our misery affects not just ourselves, but others around us), I found myself recoiling from the story. I didn’t like the implications for myself, for 3, or for RJ. For one, I don’t want to be the one to tell RJ that she should stop being bitter because it’s hurting others. I’m reasonably certain her response would contain plenty of four-letter words and plenty of martyr-ish claims (“Oh, suuuuuure! Let me just stop missing my brother and best friend so YOU feel better!”). Since I’m reasonably sure that 3 was neither morose nor obsessed with death, I didn’t like the implication that the he was like the suicidal main character. Plus, in my interpretation, the book didn’t end happily; the lead guy was still miserable and stuck in the past! As for me, I don’t think I’m obsessed with guilt over 3’s death, so I couldn’t relate to the main character, either.

Then, I read Wild, Cheryl Strayed’s memoir about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail after her mother’s death. My fabulous godfather gave it to me for Christmas, saying that, since Ms. Strayed has inspired a lot of people, he thought of how I inspire people. This dubious claim aside, I read the book as I sat through several hours of layovers last week.

And, though I’d never say it to Godfather, I kind of hated it. I don’t, at all, see how Ms. Strayed is inspiring. I think she’s an idiot who’s lucky to be alive. Not only did she fail to prepare properly for her trip (she drastically overpacks, but fails to try on her pack before actually hitting the trail, resulting in a bag she can barely lift), but she shoots heroin the day before leaving. I didn’t find her inspiring; I found her annoying. Her way of handling grief is entirely different from mine, and, thus, I got virtually nothing from the book (other than a way of passing the time in New York’s JFK airport, which is no small thing).

I’ve always been overly judgmental, so it’s not that surprising that I’m so harsh on books about grieving or tragedy. I just really don’t empathize with any of these people or characters. I suppose that goes back to one of the reasons I started this blog: in the months after my brother’s suicide, I couldn’t find anything that related well enough to my experience. Therefore, I thought I’d put my thoughts out there, just in case someone else was feeling the same and looking for affirmation, like I was. And still am.

Two Years

My family members are all memorializing the day of 3’s death differently. RJ got a hotel room to spend some time alone; SL bought a few of 3’s favorite books and movies. Mom and Stepdad made a steak dinner and are watching Star Wars (3’s favorite film). Last year, I posted my eulogy for my brother. This year, I’m sharing the essay I wrote for my university magazine, as a reminder of what we went through and how much we survived.

7:30 a.m. is way too early to be answering the phone on a Sunday morning. I hear my sister’s voice on the other end of the line: “Mom has something to tell you.”

Now I’m wide awake, with just enough time to think of every horrible possibility except what Mom says next.

“3 shot himself.” No, he didn’t. “He’s dead.” No, he’s not. It’s December 30th.

I’m on the floor, because standing isn’t an option right now. Mom is still talking, but I can’t listen. I’m too busy trying to form words. It seems really important to tell her that 3’s car was impounded last night. I know; I talked to him less than 10 hours ago. I still have the texts on my phone he later sent.

I say “I love you” and hang up the phone, acutely aware of my own breathing. My thoughts are oddly action-focused: I have to get home. It’s a nine-hour drive from my apartment, so I should probably get some more sleep before I get back in the car. Okay.

It only takes about 15 minutes in bed for me to realize I’m not going to get back to sleep. I’ll figure out something else. My brother is dead.

I get online to search flights back to my parents’ house. I have some Christmas money that will cover a one-way flight. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, so I don’t plan for a trip back. The airline website doesn’t work, so I have to call the hotline. The man on the phone is very nice. I wonder if they get sensitivity training for people booking last-minute flights.

Now I have three hours before I have to leave for the airport. I call O, even though it’s only 7 a.m. where he is.

“Tell me it’s going to be OK,” I whisper, before even saying hello, because that’s all I want right now.

“It’s going to be OK,” he says, without hesitation.

I got what I needed. I hang up and let O go back to sleep.

I repack my bags, still open on the floor from my trip home for Christmas. Have you ever noticed how many people at the airport tell you to have a nice day? It’s a lot. I hope I’m responding civilly. I’m not really sure.

I have a layover in Detroit. I buy coffee, purely out of a sense of obligation, and I call another friend, JMo. I ask her to tell people. I don’t want to bother telling anyone else, but I know that dozens of extra prayers can’t hurt at this point, and JMo knows plenty of people who are really good at praying. It seems like an efficient plan.

At my parent’s house, three of my mom’s five siblings and their families, four of my eight siblings and their families, and a few neighbors and friends crowd the kitchen and living room, because that’s apparently what you do when someone dies. I make my way through the crowd, hugging lots of people and trying to come up with an honest answer when they ask how I am. How am I supposed to know how I am? My brother’s never died before. I settle for telling them I’m in denial.

As usual, I am the last one to go to bed. Somehow, in a house full of people, I end up with a room to myself. Alone, I cry harder than I have all day, mentally screaming at my idiot of a brother. His responses are so clear, it’s as if he’s sitting on the bed with me.

“Sorry.”
“Jerk.”
“Sorry again.”
“What were you thinking?!?”
“My bad.”
“That was really stupid.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”

The next day, I start receiving phone calls. Each time, I am humbled and grateful for people taking the time to offer their condolences. Most of the conversations are short; no one knows what to say, myself included.

Then one more friend calls, direct from the seminary. For the first time, I want to continue the conversation beyond just thanking him for his thoughts.

“Tell me he’s in heaven,” I beg, because if a seminarian says it, it must be true.

His response is beautiful and compassionate, and I share his words with family countless times over the next few days: “God reaches out to all of us in our darkest times. Sometimes he doesn’t catch us until we’re on the other side of this life.”

On New Year’s Day, two of my friends drive down to take me to lunch. I’m still not hungry, but watching bowl games seems like a reasonable distraction technique, only I want to hear something else first.

“Tell me he’s in heaven,” I ask again, more calmly this time, because Not-Father-Pete is a theology doctoral student, and if a theologian says it, it must be true. Pete’s response is logical and educated, with facts, history and quotes. I am now armed with assurance that neither God nor the Catholic Church is sending my brother to hell for killing himself, in case anyone tries to tell me otherwise.

That night in my room, 3’s voice isn’t as clear as before. For some reason, this is nearly as wrenching as the initial phone call. “Don’t go!” I sob. “Please don’t go. Your voice is all that’s left. Please let me keep it.”

The calling hours are on Thursday. We decide to hold them at the high school to accommodate the expected crowd. My family arrives an hour early. I can see the coffin through the glass doors. Not yet. Instead, I help set up the displays and pictures.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. If I choose to hide in the car all night, everyone would probably let me. I don’t want to do this. I do anyway.

I walk in the chapel and force myself to look at my baby brother’s body. Every muscle in my body tenses against this unnatural sight. My 21-year-old brother is dead and his body is lying in a coffin in front of me and WHY IS NO ONE HUGGING ME?!?!?

I try to moderate my tears as Mom comes over. The second-worst moment of my life passes, and I tell her that his makeup looks funny. I can’t imagine there are many ways to make a dead 21-year-old look good, anyway. In my mind, God tells me that 3 doesn’t need his body any more. 3 tells me he’s even better looking in heaven. I’m inclined to stick my tongue out at both of them.

The babies are running around before the crowds arrive. Mom asks my niece Princess if she’s said goodbye to Uncle 3 yet. Princess nods and, in her perfect, little 3-year-old voice, repeats what her wonderful parents told her: “Him’s gone to a place to be with baby Jesus!” It’s the most beautiful and horrible sentence I’ve ever heard. On the chairs along the walls, 18-month-old Munchkin gleefully points to the picture on the prayer cards, then to the coffin. She’s proud that she recognizes Uncle 3, even though she won’t remember him.

The calling hours are scheduled from 4 to 7; they last until 9:30. Friends, co-workers and distant relatives all wait for hours in line. Someone comments, “It’s like he’s a rock star.” 3’s classmates from elementary school hug me, and I nearly break down at seeing these boys’ devastation. In my mind, they’re still 6 years old, throwing water balloons in our yard.

The church is full for the funeral. The procession arrives just in time to hear my sisters singing “Fire and Rain,” 3’s dreadfully appropriate favorite song. I’m holding the words to the eulogy in my hand, because I have to give a eulogy for my little brother. My stepbrother and cousins are the pallbearers; none is older than 25.

3’s friends take up the gifts, their sobs incongruous against their bearded faces. I barely know most of them, but they are in as much pain as I am.

It’s after Communion, and my sisters are singing “I Can Only Imagine.” I sing along, possibly out of key and definitely too loud, because I have to stand up and speak in a few minutes, and if I can sing the song maybe I’ll be able to make it through the eulogy. He’s in heaven. He’s in heaven. That’s all I have to hold on to right now.

Father D introduces me, and I start talking, giving less of a eulogy than a collection of stories. 3 made for a lot of great stories. I talk for more than the suggested five minutes, but no one seems to mind. I try to end with something conclusive:

“3 could be a lot of things. But he is and always will be a son, a grandson, a cousin, a nephew, an uncle, a friend, a brother and a rock star.” And now, he’s in heaven.

Stories from the Holidays

Nearly 2 years later, I didn’t necessarily expect a flood of 3-related events around Christmas, but I suppose being around so many family members makes such events inevitable. It didn’t help that Gram had offered Christmas Mass in 3’s memory, the same service at which I sing with L and SL every year. (After the intentions, including the one for 3, the priest added “For all the souls of the departed, especially those suffering in purgatory,” which I found both mildly amusing and wildly inappropriate for a joyful Christmas service).

On Christmas Eve, however, RJ and I drove down to Dad’s hometown for his family’s traditional evening get-together. While I harbor sharp, lingering bitterness toward Dad’s family, I’m mostly ambivalent. I don’t waste a lot of time being angry at that family and their walking incubus of psychopathology. RJ, on the other hand, barely manages to conceal her rage. The S family largely wrote us off after our parents’ divorce and completely ignored the emotional and psychological harm that Dad inflicted on us throughout childhood. Since 3’s death, they have continued their tradition of deliberate ignorance, never really checking up on us or asking to see how we’re doing. [Editor’s note: when I make these claims, I am referring entirely to my dad’s siblings, not their children/my cousins. I blame the older generation for failing to protect us from Dad, not our peers, who were all too young to really understand what was going on.]

Anyway! Soon after RJ and I trudged into my aunt’s house, gamely acknowledging the fake smiles and holiday greetings, RJ noticed a wallet-sized photo of 3 on our aunt’s Piano of Death (the piano in the sitting room hasn’t been played for years. Instead, it now serves as a makeshift memorial, housing pictures of all the dead family members). RJ, somewhat rightfully noting the hypocrisy of our aunt posting a memorial picture of a nephew she had nothing to do with during his lifetime, went into a tailspin. Fighting back furious tears, she stormed out and waited in the car while I (having not noticed either the picture or my sister’s ire) kept up the kind of bland, faux-cheerful conversation that Dad’s family is known for. Luckily, our fabulously eager and uncynical cousin, JP, noticed RJ, and came to tell me it was time to leave.

On the drive home, RJ sobbed and ranted, begging me not to let her attend the family get-together next year. I never quite know how to react to RJ – she’s been known to despise friends and family members for many an unintentional misstep – but I let her rage, then asked if she’d considered professional help (she has, but doesn’t like the idea of “scheduling” time to talk about 3) and told her that I just want her to be happy.

So that was RJ’s Christmas. Angry, raw, and bitter. I, on the other hand, got what I considered to be a fabulous present from 3. As I started my car to head to Christmas morning Mass, I heard the very first bars of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” I grinned, because it’s one of 3’s favorite songs, the one he played for his Eagle Scout ceremony 5 years ago. However, as the music continued, it turned out to be a Christmas parody. “I…am…SANTA CLAUS!” Hilarious. What a wonderful, funny way for 3 to wish me Merry Christmas.

I so wish RJ could have those moments. 3’s death was always going to be hardest on her, but I *hate* that she’s still so miserable, or at least so liable to be miserable at the slightest provocation. My brother’s death doesn’t necessarily make the holidays awful for me, but my sister’s continued reaction does.

“I’m So Sorry You’re Alone”

The title of this post is the very first sentence Mom said to me over the phone, after telling me that 3 was dead. Not too long after that, it occurred to me that I was glad that, if any one of my siblings had to be alone hearing the news, I’m glad it was me. Obviously, all of my siblings are incredibly strong people, but I’m used to handling shit by myself. I’ve lived alone for almost 7 years now, taking care of everything from the mundane stuff like bills and grocery shopping to the more unexpected crises, like flat tires and urgent deadline.

So I was alone when Mom called to tell me about 3. As I’ve mentioned before, the miracles of technology means that I wasn’t isolated. My magnificent friends responded by phone, e-mail, and Facebook. Still, I didn’t physically see anyone that I knew until nearly 9 hours later, when my godfather met me at the airport back home. I’ve been thinking about it a lot for the past few weeks, and I think this physical alone-ness at the beginning has had a huge impact on how I’ve dealt with my brother’s suicide.

I took one of those “What’s your love language?” quizzes a few months ago, and the results told me, unsurprisingly, that my most desired expression of love and affection is physical touch. This is probably true; I love hugs, I love cuddling, I love high-fives, hand-holding, resting my head on someone’s shoulder. In a quiet moment the week after 3’s suicide, I pulled Mom onto my lap to hold her for a little bit, trying to comfort the mother who had just lost her son.

I think that helps explain just why being alone for those first few hours was so definitive for me. My friends and family were incredible, of course, but I was still physically alone. And in handling those first few hours alone – re-packing, buying a plane ticket, getting to the airport – I was unconsciously, necessarily laying the groundwork for grieving alone. I handle things; I choose with whom to share my story, and when, and how. I reach out when I want to, but, for the most part (I think), keep my grief, my process, confined to this blog and my own mind.

It’s been helpful, I suppose. In knowing, deciding, that I am physically alone in this process, that I have no husband or roommate who is, by default, responsible for taking care of me, I have managed to keep my grief confined. I haven’t let it grow. It now fits into a carefully constructed part of my life, and that’s just how it is. Mom may have, in those first moments, been sorry that I was alone, but it has ultimately worked out pretty well for me.

A Comparison of Grief, 23(-ish) Months Out

Over the past few weeks, I’ve inadvertently found myself on the receiving end of commentary from Mom and RJ about their respective grief processes. Though the situations were completely different, the implications were similar.

Unsurprisingly, RJ’s candid mini-confession came when she was drunk. For the first time in 5 years, she didn’t have to work at the bar the night before Thanksgiving. So, naturally, she chose to drunk at said bar, instead, enlisting me as her designated driver. On the way home, RJ started ranting about Mom, as she is wont to do. This time, she told a story that Mom had relayed: Mom ran into one of our uncles, Dad’s older brother, at an education conference. For whatever reason, Uncle told Mom that his younger son was having a hard time with 3’s death (said son was 3’s age, and they had been close). Mom replied that Son and RJ could “compare notes.”

Mom meant this in all earnestness (Mom is a remarkably uncynical woman), and probably thought she was being helpful in telling this story to RJ. RJ, however, wanted none of it. She was insulted at the presumption that Son’s grief as merely 3’s cousin could possibly compare to her own. Of course, RJ didn’t explain the story with quite this level of introspection, but she’s pretty easy to read when she’s drunk.

Then, just this past weekend, during my weekly phone conversation with Mom, she casually mentioned how the holidays are hard and told a story of a transferring coworker who would give her sporadic hugs after 3 died.

While I wasn’t exactly surprised to hear such comments from Mom or RJ, it was still a bit unnerving. Nearly 2 years later, here I am, still having a way easier time dealing with my brother’s death than my mom and sister. Hell, at this point, I don’t even consider it something I’m “dealing with.” It’s just something I live with, something that’s part of me.

It’s frustrating, of course, hearing about my family’s pain and not being able to do anything about it. Especially RJ – I’m convinced she’s not being healthy in coping with 3’s death. She’s angry at virtually everyone (it’s a constant balancing act to keep from getting pissed at me), and I know she hasn’t gone to any therapy or support groups. She has good friends, and has kept in close touch with 3’s incredible group of buddies, but I don’t think it’s enough. 23 months later, and everything is still there.