image by Anaiptol
If there is light
It will find
you
— Charles Bukowski, The Harder You Try
My 21-year-old brother died on the Spring Equinox in 1999.
When the phone rang and I learned that he was dead due to a combination of drugs and alcohol, part of me left the world, too. I was instantly propelled out of what had been my life before (drinks with friends, sarcastic jokes, changing jobs, dating) and into something metallic and raw and shocky. Into the in-between.
The in-between was terrible. At first it meant gagging. Saying, “no, no, no,” over and over, the words rolling out of me. It meant I couldn’t sleep or eat. Mostly it meant I couldn’t believe this had happened to my family, to me, to my brother.
It meant leaving my little life in Maine and returning to my childhood home in Alaska. It meant reading my brother’s autopsy report and breathing in the sick-sweet smell of flowers filling our house. It meant long days in my pajamas and smoking on the porch. It meant watching my parents shoot out into their own orbits of grief.
I was no longer in my life before, the familiar, comfortable, confusing place. But I couldn’t see my life after. I could only see what was missing.
Days and weeks bled into months.
I spiraled deep into my own pain over my brother’s death. If he could die, so could I. It wasn’t hard to imagine what my own death would look like– it would look just like what was happening– devastated parents, a house full of fading flowers, an obituary. Before, I’d had a bubble of protection around myself and my family. I hadn’t known it was there, but when it popped, I woke up. I could and would, someday, die. If my brother’s life was complete at 21—which it had to be, because there was no other option now—then if I died at that moment, my life would somehow be complete, too.
There was something about this new world where I found myself without the one person I was supposed to get the most time on this planet with, the only other person who knew what it was like to grow up in our particular family. There was something about being so sad that nothing could fix it—not a haircut or a cute boy, not a pizza or a rum and Coke. There was something about drilling down so deep and dark that unexpectedly, I hit light.
I started to breathe again. I started getting dressed before noon. I went to grief groups and I spoke. I stopped hiding, for maybe the first time ever. I started writing down the memories of my brother that flitted through my mind, unburied by his absence. I met some amazing women who had also lost loves, and suddenly there was some magic, some newness, some spark. We sat together and ate greasy food. We talked about the stupid things people say when someone dies, and worse, about how some people say nothing. Our suffering braided us together. It entwined me with the people I saw on news stories, with survivors names in obituaries.
With time, I started noticing small, good things: the symmetry of the veins on leaves. The warm, sweet taste of the lattes a friend brought me. The heart-deep purr of my cat vibrating against my chest.
I thought about how my brother died on the Equinox, on that day when light and dark exist equally. How they only really exist because of each other. Without death, the little and big moments of our lives, our loves, wouldn’t mean as much.
And slowly, like drips of honey, this became my after. This life where we ache and love and die. This life where if we dive deep, we might come out the other side, dripping with light.
Oh Lynn… you have such a gift with your words. This is so powerful. Incredibly rich. Inspiring. Your grief is painted in vivid colors…
Thank you, Chris! I appreciate it!
I remember sitting in an office in our old workplace and you telling me about your brother, Lynn. I appreciated your honesty and your words then. I do now. They are beautiful.
Thanks Jen. We’ve come a long ways since then! : )
Dearest Lynn, thank you so much for writing your life. You have articulated something that will help others wind their ways through the varied but similar paths that losing someone as special as Will lead us along.
Oh, thank you Beth! I appreciate your words.
Beautifully written. Please continue to paint your After with thoughtful drips of honey.
Thank you, Bill! I appreciate your kind words!
I posted your story about Will on my FB page. I am not articulate enough to write down the things I felt I just knew I wanted to share it with my friends. I did
first write that it was beautiful then deleted that as I felt that wasn’t appropriate. Your words are very powerful Lynn. I’d enjoy everything of yours that I have read. Thank you. I met your Mom Terri on a game site several years ago.
Barb Leavitt.
Hi Barb! Thank you so much for your kind words and for reading and sharing my writing! My mom speaks fondly of you! Take good care.
Dear Lynn,
I think of you often. May the light of your life continue to burn brightly for yourself and for your dear dear family, Scott, Max, Violet, Terry, and Roger, and may you continue to be a voice that itself is a beacon.
Love,
Cousin Genevieve
Hi Cousin!
I think of you often, as well. Thank you for your sweet words. Meeting you that first time years back, and then spending the Christmas holiday with you and your beautiful family was such a special treat, and I hope that our paths cross again before too much more time goes by.
Much Love to you!
Your article has touched me like nothing else I have read. My only sister died when I was 14 and I could not see the light through my own pain then substance abuse until I had a family of my own at age 30. being a mom and wife have healed my survivors guilt. Mainly bc of my relationship with Christ…finding his light and getting the strength and courage to live in the light is such a blessing to me. I would love to meet up online or something with a grief group..they just didn’t have them back then. I still contemplate having one more child to lessen the risk of my own kids being only children but I am on the fence on that one. I got to this blog from your mommy post and a fur baby will probably fit the bill. Thank you so much for your brilliant brave words! You are so gifted.
Hi Sarah. Thank you so much for your comment. I’m so sorry for the loss of your sister. It sounds like you’ve had a lot of pain in your life, and I’m glad you’ve found comfort and a family.
For a long time, I thought I’d have three kids because what if I had only two and something happened to one of them? I didn’t want them to go through what I went through. Time helped with that, and now, with two kids, I can barely keep my head above water most days! A fur baby sounds like a great idea! 🙂
Thanks again for your kind words. Take good care, Sarah.
I just wanted to reach out and thank you for your writing, and your experience. I lost my Mom very unexpectedly September 2011, and my first son was born almost exactly one year later. His middle name, Luca, means bringing light. And does he ever!
I look forward to reading more from you on these two very important topics of parenting and grief. Thank you again!
Hi Aldwyn! Thank you so much for reaching out. I am so sorry for the loss of your mom. I love that you’re son’s middle name is Luca! One of the names on my list for my daughter was Lucia. It’s not what she ended up with, but it sure suits her!
Thanks again for reading, and hope you keep coming back. My best!
Beautiful, poignant, inspiring words.
Thank you, Parri! Mwah!
Great article. Thanks for sharing.