Letters to my brother, the weird things I remember

(written the day before Sage was born)

Dear Bryan,

When I heard you had died I was eight weeks pregnant--at the peak of how sick I would feel. It was a typical morning. I blogged, I played with River. I had no idea you were dead. I didn't sense a thing. My mind couldn't have gone there. I had just laid down to take a nap with River when Jason came home and walked into the bedroom. I could tell by his face that something was wrong and beneath my alarm I was seriously annoyed that he couldn't have just waited until I woke up. I was so tired. So sick. At first I guessed he had lost his job. My stomach dropped to my toes.

He was crying. He said, "No, it's much worse than that." I knew then, "Someone died!" and I didn't think it was you. When Jason told me I was lost for a moment. Saying things I wasn't aware I was saying, rocking, clutching my toes with my knees to my chest. 

I know what I wanted to do then. I wanted to sleep all day and not talk to anyone, but in moments like that I don't think people generally have the liberty to do what they'd like to. Instead I wondered around in a fog making phone calls, speaking randomly like I was drunk, packing, not eating, trying to make myself eat. Heather came by at some point and I wonder what it was like to watch someone in the state of shock I was in. I remember when my dear friend's mother died. I wasn't there right away, but Jason and I stayed with her before and after the funeral. It was like seeing her strangely all together, but reeling. If I looked in her eyes, I could see she was a little bit crazy with it. That's how I felt. Somehow holding it all together but really just plan crazy. I felt horribly, physically ill from being pregnant at the same time.

But in moments when we need to keep our shit together, I think most people do amazingly well. You don't know how hard you can push yourself until life collapses beneath your feet. 

I think I got three hours of sleep that night and then got up the next day to drive all the way to New York solo with River going 80mph the entire time. I didn't want to speed too badly but I knew if I got pulled over--the raw grief in my face and easy to flow tears would probably get me out of any ticket. 

When I got there mom had been arranging photos of you into about a billion frames for collages. I was incredibly drained, but started arranging all these photos. The ones I'd brought up first. Then all the others. It was easy. I knew just where to set each photo. I quickly got that done. My hidden talent--arranging photos into collages. Somehow still keeping an eye on my son and doing it well enough that he was his normal, cheerful self. All having known you were dead for just less than 48 hours.

I guess I am shocked by how when the most horrible happens people still find the strength to function, to get through it, to even move. The following weeks are a blur. I know I walked around feeling as if everyone could see my hurt in my face. That being social was a challenge because I was so raw inside. I cried often, I yelled, and raged. When spring came round, I started to feel better. Grief had become a part of who I was. I had to live with it.

Bryan, your birthday is coming up and once again my pregnancy is getting in the way! I want to donate money to a local animal shelter since you were always taking in and feeding stray cats. That means I'd like to take River to visit there to see the animals we'll be helping. And it's hard to remember to do that, to find the time to do it, to remember that your birthday this coming Saturday when all these days stretch in front of me as possibilities for my daughter to be born. It doesn't seem fair to you--that my life catches me up. That I can feel happy and distracted and excited and thankful when you aren't hear to experience any of those things. I sat in the rocker on the porch, hands folded over my belly (your niece) and told Jason, "The closer it gets to the end of this pregnancy, the more sad I am that Bryan isn't here."

Life goes on without you in it. It seems horribly wrong. You would have been twenty-six on the fourth. Maybe baby girl will come tomorrow (indeed she did), maybe she will come on your birthday, maybe she will come after. But every year we will think of your birthday should have-beens and my daughter's increasing age. She will change, you will always remain the same.

Happy Birthday little brother.

Once you puked up soda and spaghetti all over the kitchen floor. Mom was always pissed when you were going to be sick. You never even tried to make it to the toilet. You would just heave over wherever you were, ignore her frantic yelling, and vomit all over. It was vile.

You also would cry when you had to swallow pills. Our mom would have to crush it up in jelly. You drove me nuts always carrying on about everything--much more quick to tears than I was. Dude, Bryan just stop freak'in crying.

Together we helped our cat, Gypsy, give birth to her first litter of kittens. She yowled after that first baby came out and ran away, diving under your bed. You cursed and dove after her leaving me watching a kitten squirming in it's sack. I tore the sack open, you returned Gypsy to her birthing box. Together we watched two more babies be born.

Happy Birthday, Bryan.

I can't believe I have to grow older without you.

Love,

Sissy