Mourning My Brother

Grief is a weird thing. My son and I were watching an old movie the other night, Private Benjamin. Very funny but totally unrealistic.

A scene came on showing soldiers marching and singing -- the military term is "counting cadence" and here's an example. As I listened to the voices I felt my eyes well up with tears. 

In my mind's eye I saw my brother marching down that road. I heard my mother's voice describing the pride she felt watching her son walk in formation, singing, so many years ago.  

My brother gave a dozen years to the military including a tour in Iraq. I think he loved and hated the military in equal measure. He was never really happy with the authority over his life. However, he embraced some aspects of it.

We often watched movies that included scenes of soldiers and he would freely express disgust at how movies got things wrong. He hated Forrest Gump. He loved a movie called Fury.  (In contrast, I loved Forrest Gump and I didn't care for Fury at all, but then I have never been in the military.)

below, Bruce in his dress uniform as a young lieutenant, me when I was a college student 

Since I learned of my brother's death on November 10th I've survived the worst part of my grief journey. I don't cry every day now. I only feel quick stabs of pain when I think about him. 

I know from mourning my parents that every time we mourn someone we love deeply we have to let go of expectations about how that journey will go. Every death is different. Every grief journey is unique. 

The part that doesn't get discussed too often is that we never truly "let go." That's normal.

For the rest of my life I will see my brother's face when something reminds me of him -- a scene in a movie, a song, a scent, the sound of laughter. That's all right. He was an integral part of my life until a few months ago, even though we had a falling out a few years back because I was so worried about him. 

The last 5 years of his life weren't calm and peaceful. He was struggling with several enormous weights

1) Grief for our mom, who died in 2020 [he wouldn't even discuss her]

2) PTSD from his tour in Iraq [he would always change the subject when that topic came up, too]

3) Addiction to alcohol [something he had just started to deal with a few months before he died, one of his friends told me]

As a general rule, I can tell you this: topics that you cannot discuss are the ones that will break you.  

I wish my brother had been able to write. That's how I cope with big feelings. I write blogs, I journal, I write short stories, poems, even books. It's a release valve, reducing the pressure. Talking to a psychologist is similar; a way to pull feelings out from the recesses of our souls and examine them in a [hopefully] objective way. 

My parents were taught to not acknowledge grief or anxiety or other big emotions. They were taught to just forget those things, that time would make those feelings go away. I remember my dad telling me once during a family crisis "Just forget about what happened. Don't talk about it to anybody. Look ahead, not backwards." The problem is that if we don't have a release valve those big feelings can overwhelm us. 

Ignoring a problem doesn't solve it.

I am not a churchgoer or a traditionalist when it comes to matters of Faith. I do believe in an afterlife, though. I take great comfort in knowing my brother's life ended when it was supposed to end, and now he is in a place of peace. Despite the occasional tears I will shed in the coming years, I will try to remember that. 

People die. Love never does.

 

below, my brother and I at the lake, a happy place for us 

 #mourningabrother, #agriefjourney, #theimportanceofmanaginggrief, #deathandfaith