It's Been a Long Day Without You Brother
“Grief is like the ocean: it's deep and dark and bigger than all of us. And pain is like a thief in the night. Quiet. Persistent. Unfair. Diminished by time and faith and love.” — Samantha Walker, OTH
As I mentioned in my post about him yesterday, 16 years ago today; October 16, 2004, I lost my brother. My hilarious, talented, wicked, artistic, creative, wild and often dark but deep, and big hearted, generous and loving baby brother, Christian. And it ripped my heart out. It was the single worst day of my life; and I’ve had many, many ‘worst days’. It was the greatest loss I’ve ever experienced; and there have been hundreds of losses in my life.
Some years, it feels far away and others, like it just happened. This year is one of the latter. One of unexpected periods of sobbing, and alternating laughter and singing at the top of my lungs. Of listening to songs that remind me of him, and doing air drum solos along with the music in his honour. Of re-reading letters from him and looking at pictures of him. And, of ‘feeling’ it deeply and with way too much pain. It’s a close-up year for me. Sixteen years later, and it’s like it happened sixteen minutes ago.
I remember my ex-husband, J finding me crying in our bedroom one day. I was listening to a song that reminded me of my brother, Christian and it had triggered me and, the tears had just started flowing. When J asked what was wrong, I told him I was crying over Christian. Because the song made me think of him and the sadness at losing him. That the grief had hit me like a wave. His response was, “Haven’t you got over that yet?”; it was less than six months after he died. Then, when I told him that you don’t “get over” grieving the loss of your loved ones. And that it takes time and distance from the initial shock of the loss to start remembering and recalling them without as much pain in your heart, he suggested that, if the song made me sad, I shouldn’t listen to it. I told him that it had come on the radio, and that there will always be triggers of some kind, like that one.
I explained how our senses remember things, even when we don’t; a sight, sound, or smell, that triggers a memory, and reminds us of someone. Or, the taste of a food, or the feel of something (like the children’s stuffed toy that reminded me of the feel of Christians baby blanket) that triggers memories of something or someone that we have lost. That, grief has an ebb and flow like the ocean. And, its associated emotions and emotional reactions come in waves like this. That, it takes some people years to get through some of the process. That there are stages of grief, but they’re not on a timeline. The timeline is not linear; some days you’re processing and accepting, and others you’re right back at denial again. Other days, you sit and dwell in anger or depression; or both. Some, never get through it. Some do. But, no one ever gets "over it". I tried not to be angry with him. It wasn’t necessarily his fault for coming across as callous as he had that day. He had never lost anyone but a 102-year-old Great Grandmother and a few animals.
The funny thing about that conversation, is that I recalled it when his mother; who was his closest relationship that existed in his life, other than his kids, died. When she got sick, and then when she later died, I thought of that conversation. I thought, “now he’ll understand”. I would never wish this feeling or process on anyone; ever. Not even him, after all he’d done. But now he understood, at least.
As I said, the funny (or perhaps sadistic) thing about the grieving process is that it has no sense of time. Six months, six years or sixteen years, like this year for me, can feel like six minutes or sixty years. Some days they're further away and some days they're right there, in your face. This is one such year for me. One of the ‘in your face’ years. It’s raw and heartbreaking, and just keeps gnawing at me. I think this is, in part because of COVID, and all of its consequential existential observations and ponderings. And, in part because of my Granddaughter; because he’s not here to meet her. He didn’t get enough time with my kids, and never got to know my son. My son, whose daughter is my Grandchild, and who is the spitting image of Christian in nearly every way possible. He’s even a drummer, too.
Although this is a heartbreaking and often painful anniversary, I have made it my tradition to mark this anniversary every year since, by celebrating his life in a way that honors his memory in a positive manner. So, each year I do something either brave and exciting, fun and hilarious, creative and inspiring or daring and adventurous. All of the traits that sum up Christian and his life; the mountain man, drummer, hippie adventurer that he was.
I've gone on adventures, travelled to places he would love to travel, done things he'd like to do, seen things he'd like to see. One year, I even acted in a play that he would have loved to even see, let alone be in. In 2008, I got my G-License for both of us (he never got his).
This year; both because of the pandemic, and because of the rawness of this loss for me, this time, I’m at a loss with how to honour him. Which is, I guess why I’ve written two blog posts, and multiple social media posts about him. To tell anyone who will listen, that I had a baby brother. That his name was Christian. That he existed. He was real. And, that he was incredibly special; not just to me, but to the world around him. That, he changed lives and forged incredibly strong relationships; even in death. His life was short but his light was bright. He was a very bright light for so many. Unfortunately, the brightest lights, usually burn out the fastest.
I feel the loss of him deep inside my soul this year; every single day, really. The pain of losing him sometimes comes out of the blue like it has this year, as the quote above suggests, like that “thief in the night. Quiet. Persistent. Unfair”. But that this is how I know he lived. How I know that he was loved. How I know that I loved him.
As Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.”
I agree. If I had a choice between never having had him in my life, of never having known him; and having to suffer grief and pain like this at the loss of him, I would take the pain. He was worth every single tear I’ve shed for him. I would rather have had him, and loved him, than to never have had him at all. Because, for as much as this has hurt me, and still hurts now, my life wouldn’t be the same without having known and loved him. I wouldn’t be the same. No-one would.
I used lyrics from the song, "See you Again", by Wiz Khalifa ft Charlie Putnam, in the first blog post I wrote about Christian a few years ago. They lyrics go,
“It's been a long day without you, my friend, And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again. We've come a long way from where we began. Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again, When I see you again”.
And, they resonate strongly with me every time I hear them sung. Because it sums up grief; a 'long day' that feels like minutes, or months, or years, or centuries. Or seconds. Or minutes. And, the pain of it all sometimes comes like a thief in the night.
And, because it has been a long day without him.
I miss you brother. It’s been a long day without you, my friend. But I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again. In the meantime, I’ll keep honoring you and telling the world who you were and what you meant to me.