Drowning in Grief

Hello, Sunshine




It's been one of those days again. The kind when I'm barely hanging on to the tightrope of my emotions. My eyes have been burning with unshed tears all day. I don't know why.

It could be that I ran into the mother of my brother's best friend when he was a kid. She hugged me like it was my brother she was hugging. She told me she loved me.

It could be that Summer Slam, a big WWE event, is on tonight, and normally my brother would be at my house with his big, disgusting feet at one end of the sofa and his arm thrown over his head at the other.

It could be because it's a Sunday. Or it's raining. Or it's August 21st. Or it's sundown. Or any other inconsequential thing. It's just one more day without my big brother.

Most people would say I've been the rock of my family. I was the one who made all the funeral arrangements. I held it together that week when we had friends and family at the house. I was the one who answered the phone calls. Now, I'm the one my mom calls when she's having a bad day. I'm the one who goes to my grandmother's house to talk her down from the crazy, old lady ledge. I'm the one putting together this 5k fundraiser. I'm the strong one.

I'm the stone cold, stoic, tin man with no heart. My brother was the one who cried at the drop of a hat. Irony, right?

So, it's days like these that I feel like I'm drowning. I'm like Alice when she drinks the bottle to make her grow, and she cries big fat giant tears and they fill up the room, almost drowning her.

But then she drinks the other stuff and shrinks down to fit into the tiny bottle, and she flows through the key hole into the ocean. Then those weird birds dance around her.

That's me. Maybe I fell down a rabbit hole, and I'm having a crazy acid trip of a dream. Maybe I'll wake up, and my brother will still be alive. Maybe.

Really, though, I'm just trying to hold my breath for as long as I can while I meet this wave head on. I'm trying to not hit my head on any sharp rocks as it drags me around, spins me upside down. I'm trying to swim to the top, see the sunlight through the murky waters. I'm trying to reach for whatever lifesaver I can, the goddamn half a door Rose wouldn't share with Jack. 

It's eight months later, and I'm trying. We're all trying. I'm just wondering how much further I have to swim until my legs stop cramping up and the saltwater stops burning my eyes. 

This grief thing is hard. But as Christopher Jackson as George Washington once sang Lin Manuel's lyrics, "Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder." You fucking got that right. 

#TheBoatsAreHereJack

Suz

What Even is Sadness?

Hello, Sunshine

Like the Carpenters said, rainy days and Mondays always get me down. And I’m blue today.  I’ve tried to put this off, but I think it’s come to the point in my little blog journey where I need to tell you about the worst day of my life.

The day I leaned what sadness is.

I mean, I thought I knew. I’ve read Me Before You. I’ve watched Titanic. Hell, I’ve held the hand of my grandfather while he took his last breath. I thought that was the saddest thing I’d ever go through.

I was wrong.

I’m a creature of habit. I was born and raised in the same town. I live three blocks from my parents, who still live in my childhood home. I only ever shop at Giant because I have the aisles memorized, and I always order the same thing at Cold Stone. My parents are still married, and I’m the younger of two children. I’m still best friends with the people I grew up with, and I met the man I married when I was eighteen, we have a cute little house and some furry babies. Better yet, I get paid to do what I love. To say I have a charmed life is pretty accurate.

The thing is, I was always haunted by this dream I had. When I was little, maybe five or six, I had this vivid…vision? Nightmare? Fever dream? I don’t know, but everything was white with a single rope, thick like on a boat with three knots tied in it. The first two were close together, leaving the space between the second and third about triple the length of the first. Then a voice said, “This is how long you’ll live, and this is how long your brother will live.”

Rightfully so, it scared the shit out of me, but I kept it a secret. I’d been having panic attacks since it’s happen, freaked out that I’d die by the time I was 27. (But if you have to go, you might as well join the club with Jimi, Janis, Kurt, and Jim, right?) The closer I got to the magic number, the more I opened up about it, telling my closest friends, basically giving away all my worldly possessions, mainly my *NSYNC CDs and favorite DVDs. I reached 27 without incident, then 28, 29, and finally 30 last November. At that point, it was a big joke to everyone. I made it to the big 3-0, life was gravy! I’d pretty much live forever, ah-ha, suck it dream!

Then, on December 15^th of last year, my brother died suddenly.

It was a Tuesday, around 9:30 when my mom called me screaming. I can’t tell you how I functioned to speak to the police and the coroner. I don’t know how I held my mom as she cried, or got it together to call the people I was supposed to. But I do remember quite clearly how it hit me a few hours later. How I went outside and just…lost my mind.

It was supposed to be me. The dream told me so.

But it was my brother. He was the one who didn’t make it. My brother, my first friend, my protector, my favorite person, made it to 33 years-old. (Just like Jesus. That’s a pretty sweet club, too.)

A few days later, the coroner told me it was a massive heart attack, his heart was three times the size it should have been, something about arteries and blockages, and more and more science words until finally he said, “It would have happened immediately like an electric shock.”

My brother was a obese for a lot of his life, but he was finally getting healthy, losing weight, going to the gym, and visiting a nutritionist regularly. Funny, cause he died outside the gym after a workout. He had texted his girlfriend to meet up with her later, got in his car, sat down, put the key in the ignition, closed his eyes, and took his last breath. He didn’t even close the goddam car door yet.

It happened in a second. He was alive, and then he wasn’t.

I had a brother, and then I didn’t.

I was a younger sister, and now I’m an only child.

And it happened in a second.

That was December 15^th, 2015. That’s six months, 150 days, and some 3,600 odd hours since my old life came crumbling down. It was the day I learned what true sadness is. The day I become a different person.

My brother left two little kids, who are too young to fully grasp what happened but cry none-the-less because my brother was a great daddy. He left 120 middle school English students, all of whom wrote letters, came to the funeral, and threw a fit when the school finally brought in a replacement, who tried to take down his posters in the room. He left the high school football team he coached, who actually had a wining record this past season! He left his writings unfinished, his iPod only halfway charged, and his Star Wars:The Force Awakens tickets unused in his wallet (He'd been practically jizzing in his pants over that movie.) 

He left the world before he should have. And it fucking sucks.

So, there you have it, my saddest day. I'll continue to write about my big brother because he is a huge part of my life. He's the reason I started writing to begin with. He influenced the music I listened to, the movies I watched, and the books I read. My brother is as much a part of me as I am alive, so there is no way I won't be able to write or blog without mentioning him at least a few times. 

#AndrewJamesDoran

Suz