I will call my mom today. I always call. 12 years ago my younger brother, Matt, died on this day.
They don’t make cards for death anniversaries and many people don’t remember, or they never knew to begin with. I am far more aware now of how many people have unwanted anniversaries that mark defining points in their lives. It’s a hard day for me, but I know it is more difficult for my mom. Every parent expects to die before their child.
I have given birth to all of my children in the years since Matthew died. It seems impossible that such significant people have not shared the same earthly soil. There are brief moments when my heart stops to think of life without one of my kids. My view of my parent’s grief has deepened over these years. I know my mom lost part of herself on this day.
It’s been 12 years – that seems long enough doesn’t it? Before I was acquainted with death, I truly believed that time healed all wounds. There is a particular instance that I remember clearly. I had a friend confide in me about her young brother’s death – a suicide. She gave it to me as if it were part of her soul. I knew it was delicate, and I was grateful to be a recipient. At the time it had been 8 years since his death, and I wondered how it could still be so raw for her – how such pain and sadness could join her so freely.
Here’s what I believe now: Time is not a healer. Time is an inconsiderate and sloppy surgeon; he doesn’t tell you that your wound may reopen occasionally, or that you will definitely have scar tissue, or that it might not heal at all. But time does teach you how to cover it up, and how to hide your ugly scars from the crowd.
I am grateful for the small and simple things that make this day less sad. For the call I will get from my friend that grew up with us – who knew Matt and still talks about him to me. There are so few people in my life now that knew him. And even fewer people who did not judge him.
I’ll think about the one true and good friend that would visit Matt. They would play guitars and bake brownies almost every Sunday. I’ll remember how this friend showed up at my wedding reception; he wasn’t expected to be there. It was a great day, barely six months after Matthew’s death. I know we were all keenly aware of Matt’s absence. We needed a celebration, but we needed to acknowledge our aching. His friend came with a small gift. He handed my mom a box of brownie mix and said, “I miss him too.”
Mom and Dad will go to his grave and clean the marker and change the flowers. They will think about Matt – not those difficult and complicated last years – it’s too painful to revisit that place. But they will think of Matthew as the sweet and sensitive child that spoke so honestly. They will think about the boy that built dragon traps in the backyard. The teenager that skied expertly, intensely, and gracefully. The kid that rocked “The Star Spangled Banner” on his bass guitar.
I will spend today thinking about Matt. I will try to remember the sound of his voice. I will wonder what he would be like now – what he would think of our family and my little family. I will try not to make the list of regrets – things I should not have said, opportunities that I missed. Instead, I will make a list of small things other people might need from me.
When my dad died, I realized how many times I hadn’t acknowledged someone else’s death–a friend’s parent or sibling–and regretted not reaching out when I should have.
I can hardly bare to think of my kids leaving home one day, let alone never coming back. A parent’s death isn’t the same thing. I’m acutely aware of this fact. Even so, knowing how much I miss my father and how often I wonder what he would think of my youngest (whom he never met) or of any of my kids at this point in their lives–or of me, for that matter–makes it hard to cover up what time should be taking care of. I don’t know how I would ever get through the same missing and wondering about a child.
Last Sunday, our family went for a drive, and on the way back something made me think of my dad, and I cried for 15 minutes straight–six and a half years later. It’s the hardest I’ve cried since the months following his death. So you’re right: time doesn’t heal anything. And one of those stitches pulls or the scar tugs, it’s fresh all over again.
I’m sorry about your brother, for your sake and your parents’.
So eloquently said…. especially time and healing (or not). I miss my Dad so much I can’t put it into words except to say that he was my one and only champion in my family – the only one who loved me unconditionally, and… well – now he’s gone – and way too young.
I can’t imagine your family’s pain at the loss of your brother. For a parent to lose a child, it is just unimaginable, isn’t it? I’m thinking of you all today. I know it is a cliche, but I do think that those who are not with us here on earth do stay with us in some way, which… of course, often makes us sadder. It is strange, isn’t it, to know that people who were so important to us at one time have never shared the earth with our kids. My Dad only knew two of mine. It is a strange when I dwell on it, and. of course, very sad.
I really appreciate that you posted this. There are times when I don’t know how to act around a person who has lost someone: Do they want me to talk about the person? Or will it be too hard on them? What would I want if I were in that situation? The wound analogy was helpful. I hope you’re able to dwell on those good memories today.
My rule has always been that it is better to say something than nothing – even if you don’t know what to say. I also think that people are probably more willing to talk about people they’ve lost than you would think. I’m usually pretty inquisitive if I find out, gauging their reactions carefully. I am grateful for the people that have asked me about my brother and what he was like and how I remember him. I am particularly grateful that you married someone who knew him, even if it was very, very, long ago:)
I knew your brother had passed away, but I had no idea it was 6 months before you married MB. That shows you what a self-centered college student I was. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you and your family. I would love to hear more about your brother. I really don’t know anything about him. I do remember you saying one time that (and I could be totally wrong) the song by Green Day “I Hope You Had the Time of Your Life” was played at his funeral. Is this right? I always think of you and your brother when I hear that song. I was wondering if you will talk about your brother with your kids today? Or do you do that normally, not just on today?
I hope you feel more peace than pain today. You wrote a beautiful post.
You are right – we did play that song at his funeral. I do talk to my kids about him – I don’t make a point of doing it today, but I show them pictures and I tell them stories about us as kids.
I’m sorry. You know me, much better at being a smart mouth than saying anything with emotional depth
But I’ve been thinking about you guys today.
Emotional depth is not my strong suite either. I would rather crack jokes and make irreverent comments.
I read this earlier and cried and tried to think of something helpful or comforting to say. Not my strong point either. But I’ve been thinking of you and your mom and family today too.
You know, I almost didn’t leave this open for comments because there is always this pressure to say something comforting. I don’t think I need comfort to tell you the truth – I think it’s just acknowledgment that I want. It’s hard to bring it up because there is just this awkwardness of people not wanting to pry and then me not wanting to overshare. I’m not good at telling people what’s important to me.
I am lucky to have such good friends like you.
I haven’t read the comments yet, I have to get my bake on for Nicia’s camp tomorrow (have been procrastinating too long already) I just wanted to quickly say thatnk you for sharing this w/us, I couldn’t help but cry. I agree, time heals nothing. Love to you.
Don’t cry – go eat some of your baked goodies. Tell me, what do Aussie’s bake?
Oh no, the crying was great; I love a good cry.
T is dealing w/his grandad having given up in hospital and the family trying to sort through their feelings about that. T’s father said his last goodbyes yesterday and when he came out of the room he was crying. The response from other family members was, I thought, a bit odd. They were annoyed at him for getting so emotional and told him he had to be strong for everyone else. T however, said that he was proud of his dad for allowing himself to show his emotions and for showing everyone what they need to do, i.e. say goodbye and laugh and cry w/their grandad/father/husband because he has chosen to let go and everyone needs to respect that.
As for baked goods, my waistline can’t handle that right now, it’s bikini season here you know! I baked a banana cake and a lasagna for the school camp. Have you ever had a lamington? http://gourmettraveller.com.au/lamingtons.htm
mmmmmmm!
No I haven’t had a lamington. I can see this needs to remedied. Looks so yummy.
Sorry to hear about T’s granddad. Everyone reacts in such different ways. I hope they’re able to pull together instead of a part.
go to the beach for me:)
Time is the trick played on us in mortality, and memory, once consulted, will often play the tyrant, bringing unwittingly to us those things we most long to forget, while hiding away those which we most want to remember. It takes conscious effort to remember the good when we feel overburdened by grief, but it is there.
There will always be the before and after, a stark contrast of life before he died and life after, although the older I get, that polarization is less and less as the prior life shrinks in comparison with the amount of years that have passed since that day. I was young, as was he. My scars are old. I still call my parents, too, to check on them; this month, because it is his birthday, and Good Friday because it is his death day. My mother will want to talk, but my father will avoid contact, still a shadow of his former self, even after so many years.
Still, I firmly believe in opposition in all things–as much as that phrase may sound cliche in its familiarity–those things that bring us the greatest depths of sorrow will give us the greatest joy in their resolution, in God’s time, someday.
True. It has given depth to my human experience and an urgency to embrace life as I know it.
I am so thankful for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who freely offered himself as an atoning sacrifice to satisfy justice and mercifully rescue lost lambs. I look forward to the Resurrection with unbounded gratitude for the One who broke the bonds of death and offers it to all. YES, better than showing up for Oprah and finding out its her Christmas Special favorite “things” give-away. Whether we know it or not the price has been paid and freely given. I love Easter, I love Jesus Christ, I love my family and know with the certain steel of whispered spirit that He lives and the resurrection is REAL.
BEB – only you would bear your testimony and include Oprah:)
Beautifully said. My brother’s death was under such difficult circumstances and I think it has affected me in a different way but I forwarded this to 2 of my good friends who lost a brother recently. Thanks for sharing your heart. LY-Cath
LY back.
You made me cry. Seriously.
As usual, I’m a little late, but I wanted to tell you that this is a beautiful post. Matthew is one of my favorite names, gift of God.
I didn’t call. I suck, I have so many excuses but they’re all lame. I always think about him (and your fam) on Halloween and will never forget “the call” I got the next morning. I loved that kid. I really do look forward to seeing him on the other side.
You don’t suck.