The path I’ve followed for the past seven years has left been an unpredictable spread of emotions that trying to map out would look like a buckshot blast across a moving target. There have been days where I wanted to bury my car into a jersey barrier convinced that I had nothing left but desperation. And on the other end of the spectrum, there was joy and elation where I knew that the story was incomplete but remained hopeful. And while it was missing one character that I thought was integral in plot development, I discovered that which seemed to be a trivial memory was so much more formative and defining. I began to understand how timeless and spanning memories are and that they carry on much longer than any one of us could ever dream.

Distilling the emotions down into something more compartmental was the only way I could get to a gripping point with how incomplete I felt after life turned that unexpected corner. Despite my comfort and overconfidence in how things should progress in my life, I was reminded in 2004 that nothing I expected, planned, or dreamt of could possibly be absolute. And with that dog leg in the path of life, I learned that the road dirt my clothing endured would be stained into my core and I couldn’t wash out the lessons that the loss taught.

Now down the road a bit with my shoes fairly dirty, I’ve become more matter of fact about it. Believe me; it wasn’t always this easy to talk about the variety of emotion that was experienced. So instead of moping around as frequent as I used to, I found that I want to talk about the healing process more and reflect on the lasting and timeless memories. I still struggle with the loss more than most people would ever be led to believe. And it’s a challenge to be alone at times. But I’ve come to a point where the spectrum of emotions is two distinct categories.


TORTURE
It starts with shock and dismay. The phone rings and on the other end is a somber voice telling you something that you do not want to hear. And in an instant, you’re confused. Your brother has been in a car accident and isn’t expected to live. You hang up the phone and scurry like a rat to pack your bags. You’re 1000 miles away. The phone rings again. He’s gone. It’s too late. You fall to the floor sobbing just like the movies. That’s how it happens. Unscripted.

He left without saying goodbye. I took it personal like a slight against my own existence. How could he leave forever without saying goodbye? I was pissed for a long time. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. I never had anything planned out but I just knew it couldn’t be like this. I guess I tried to deal with loss and loneliness by trying to blame him for leaving. It wouldn’t have been any easier or more tolerable if he would’ve said bye. Maybe it was the guilt. I didn’t talk to him the weekend before he died because I was ‘too busy.’ He went to a swapmeet with my father over that weekend and I was pissed he didn’t call that following Monday. The call I got wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t a goodbye.


TOLERANCE
But you gain a little perspective after driving down the road a bit further. At least then you can reflect back on the twists and turns and try to make sense of it. For me, I started looking at it like the neighbor with the annoying rice burner car. That is, it’s just the way it is and no matter how much you hate how loud the nasty ass exhaust is or how fast he drives on the side street, it’s just the way it is. It won’t change. And like that crude metaphor, losing my brother is what it is. By some sort of divine or prescribed intervention, we were left holding memories and not his hand.

Clinically, the quacks talk about ‘acceptance.’ Well, let me tell you something about that. It’s bullshit. I don’t know anyone who has ever accepted losing a loved one. It’s not OK. You don’t accept, you learn to tolerate the new landscape of life without them. You tolerate the pain. And down the road, you realize the beauty that’s born from the despair. And you worry about the guilt of being happy after they’re gone. I hate that I’m in love and have been successful. But my brother would want that for me. It’s OK to tolerate the loss and know that the path in front and behind you was defined by the loss.


I know there‘s nothing I wouldn’t do for my two boys. And I know there’s nothing more dangerous than a person who has lost their hope. For my brother, I can’t lose my hope. There’s a constant struggle with the reality that my boys will never know their uncle other than the stories, pictures, and an occasional visit to the cemetery. To me that‘s unfair. As articulate and emotional as I am, I just don’t feel like I could ever impress upon them how influential he was in this life and how important it is having that one person unconditionally believe in you regardless of poor decision you make at times.

I once heard, “You can live without Chaucer and you can live without calculus, but you can’t make it in the world without common sense.” As we get older, we understand the importance of this. Adulthood is nothing but a series of choices: you can say yes or no, but you can’t avoid saying one or the other. In the end, those who are successful and happy are those who adjust and adapt to life and the decisions they’ve made and make the best of them.