Holidays can be especially hard for those of us who have suffered tremendous loss (and it is my finding, that most of us have.) I already have started to feel the more frequent pings of melancholy and the ache of missing my brother Chris. We are almost eleven years from his death, and I can say that for us, time does dampen the pain, but it never goes away.
For me, reading my words from the months after losing Chris is cathartic. Grief is complicated. Words still escape me to explain life after profound loss. But coming back to this post helps for some reason.
Original posting date October 11, 2012
Since the accident happened, scores of essays, articles, and testaments about my brother have come out. Over the past eight months, I felt shame and guilt that I was unable to express the sense of loss or share the admiration I have for my brother, but I was unable to put words to paper. Even still, while writing this, my thoughts are erratic, the emotions intense, and the ability to express myself is clumsy and weak. I stumble over the words, and fall into clichés that do him or my sorrow no justice. Some call it writers block; for me it was a paralysis. I went into torpor, unable to put any words down to begin to communicate what I was feeling. At the risk of being melodramatic, writing this can only be compared a paraplegic learning to walk again, so forgive me if it seems jumbled and confused.
When it first happened, when I first got that call from my parents telling me news about my brother, the air was sucked out of my life. I felt as if all the gravity of my world as I knew it was imploding down on me; like some sort of concentrated black hole. I was left paralyzed and disbelieving; gripped with an agonizing sense of loss and confusion. After an excruciating plane ride over the great wide Pacific Ocean, alone, half conscious, I fell into the arms of my equally devastated sister, mother and father. Grief and loss, with the force of an Atom bomb, had descended on my family. My extraordinary brother, Chris, had been snatched right out of our lives.
Extraordinary is a word I never understood. When breaking it down, “Extra”, in our normal day to day use is synonymous with “very” and when paired with “ordinary” its literal connotation conjures the idea of something being more ordinary than exceptional. However the meaning is quite the contrary, as was my extraordinary brother Chris. Chris had a robust spirit, with charm that was undeniable. His crooked smile, a signature that he wore, punctuated almost all conversations. A fiery and insatiable zest for life, Chris was never one to say, “let’s do it tomorrow” (unless it had to do with cleaning…) He lived his life in way as if to inspire everyone he met to get out and get after it. Chris was always full throttle. Hilariously clever and dedicated, he was the perfect big brother. In discussions with others who have lost a loved one too soon, the statement “quality over quantity” applies. We did not get the quantity that we so desired, but we received the most supreme quality. Chris was the highest caliber of person, a white hot beacon of positive energy and on February 19th 2012, our brightest star was obliterated in a moment.
With the death of my brother a peculiar relationship with the mountains was forged. The mountains were always a place where my fondest memories with family were held, a place of wild discovery: a place of communion between self and nature. My parents had raised us to keep the mountains close to our heart (as the beloved John Muir preaches), and we were all propionates of the idea that going to the mountains truly was going home. The mountains: the place where I have always felt the most comfort, had taken my brother. It was the ultimate betrayal. Chris’s love for the mountains was immense. Chris had an other worldly bond with the mountains. They were his church; the peaks and crags his cathedrals and confessionals. I used to look upon the mountains like old friends, serene and enduring, from which I learned valuable lessons. Now, I look upon the mountains as unfeeling, cold, tyrants, doling out both dangerous and beautiful experiences and taking what they desire at their own unpredictable whim. And yet I am still drawn to them like a moth to a flame. It is where I can feel him. He is there, he is in the streams, he is in the granite slabs and pockets of wildflowers. He is in the falling flakes on the steep faces. I see him standing at the crest of the peaks, walking with me through the meadows, letting me know he is with me always when I am in the arms of nature.
Grief is complicated and shifty. This given, every person experiences grief differently. In the weeks after the accident, I felt as if every molecule in my world was saturated with it; the air thick with my loss and longing. Every minute passed as slow as an eternity, each blink causing a flash of pain. The thought of it getting any easier was unfathomable, that this is the way the world will be forever: monochromatic, void of joy: distorted and excruciatingly difficult. Slowly, the minutes passed, and the hours became more bearable, days began to slip by and grief became a heavy familiar feeling, and I grew accustom to its company. I still often squeeze my eyes shut, re-opening them hoping for a different reality, that this is just all part of a bad dream, and I can pick up the phone and call Chris to tell him how much I love him, and how long its feels since I’ve seen him. I curl up with grief, wrapping myself in the pain and sadness as testament to my loved one. It is my own, and nothing and no one can take it from me. Grief becomes as intimate and integral to your being as your own skin and it never goes away.
With loss, the sense of yearning is piercing. How badly I wish to spend one more moment with Chris. I yearn for moments passed: all the years of our childhood, spent pretending, imagining, creating and exploring. I yearn for his guidance, he was always able help me make my way. I yearn for his sense of humor and think of how he would know just what to say to make my day. I yearn for him to be there in moments to come, and think of how he won’t see me at my wedding day, or meet my children, or see Clare’s children gown up. I just miss him so damn much.
When Chris died, the light from my life was extinguished, or so I thought. Little did I know at the time, a small ember of light still burned. Friends and relatives fanned this small flame, tending it with fastidious and unwavering care. Some days, a strong gust of sadness all but puts it out. But the memory of Chris, and the love from friends and family keeps it lit. As for my sister, mom and dad, we take turns tending each other’s flame. We seek out the beauty that surrounds us, and we venture to gather as many meaningful experiences with loved ones as we can, knowing now how quickly they can disappear. We laugh, we smile, we cry, and we live. We keep our flames lit, because Chris would want it that way. Chris’s ferocity for life burns within us, and each person whose life he touched.