We all know that there are different kinds of losses.
The good kind:
- Weight loss
The pretty darn sucky kind:
- Job loss
And the tragic kind:
- The loss of a loved one
Fortunately, I am working on the first one, and have been grateful to not have to experience the second (knock on wood). The third, however, is something I’m still dealing with on a daily basis.
Most of you know by now (though some newer readers may not), that I lost my younger brother in a car crash seven years ago today. Seven years! It’s so hard to believe. I can’t believe he’s been gone for seven years. He was my only sibling, 3 1/2 years younger than me. He died a week before his 22nd birthday.
I won’t rehash what happened on the day he died since I posted all about it last year. You can read the story by clicking here.
My brother’s death had a profound effect on all areas of my life: mental, emotional, and physical. It rocked me to my core. Every year at about this time, we (my parents and I) think “We’re having a really hard time this year.” And then we realize that we have a really hard time every year and will probably continue to have a hard time every year.
We like to talk about him, remember the good times, and even the not so good times. We’re lucky in that all three of us enjoy talking about him, but are somewhat sad that no one else seems to. Most of our extended family members almost immediately stopped talking about him at all. Perhaps it was too painful or they were afraid of hurting us. It hurt us more that they stopped talking about him.
As the years go by, I get more and more scared because his memory becomes somewhat blurred around the edges. The fact that nearly 22 years of memory can start to blur after only seven is terrifying to me. I remember the major things, but some of the other things – like the sound of his voice – are starting to disappear. I think that after he died, I called and recorded his voicemail message. I need to go back and see if I can find it.
My heart still aches for all of the things that he won’t experience and the things that we won’t experience because he’s gone. I miss his smile; I miss his laugh; I even miss our rip-roaring arguments (man, we could have some doozies – I’ll always regret the memory of telling him to go to hell during one of our worst). But I also remember the silliness (that we both inherited from our mom), the closeness, and having that family member that I knew I could completely be myself with.
As we do every year, we’re taking the day off of work. My mom and I are going to see “Valentine’s Day” in the morning. After that, it depends on the weather as we’re supposed to get more snow. Normally, we get Little Caesar’s pizza (his favorite) and head to the park that we always went to with him. I’m not sure what we’ll do if we get the bad weather they’re calling for.
So if you’ve got a moment, take a few minutes to read the story of what happened on the link above (buried in there is a link to a picture of the accident scene). If not, that’s okay, too. Either way, I hope you’ll take a few moments to give your loved ones a hug if you can, or a call if you can’t.
A picture of my brother and I as kids (he carried that stuffed Donald Duck around with him everywhere):
One of the last pics taken of the two of us – sadly, almost four years before he died (and now that I think about it, in this picture, I was about the age he was when he died):
Your sensory-based memories of your brother may fade with time, but your love for him won’t.
I’m so sorry for your loss; I can’t even imagine what it would be like if something happened to my little sister.
.-= Christy´s last blog ..Spinning =-.
Thank you, Christy. That means a lot. And you’re so right. The love definitely won’t fade.
My heart aches for you, Pamela, whenever I think about you losing your brother. Coincidentally, a friend of mine lost a son to suicide a year or so ago and yesterday she posted this on FB. I thought some of the comments would resonate especially since you mentioned you and your parents talking about your brother, but others not. I hope it provides some comfort … it did for me when I was remembering my friend’s son.
How to help me…when my child (or sibling) has died
♦ Speak my child’s name, to me and to others. The sound of my child’s name, remembered and spoken by others, is a precious gift.
♦ If you used to remember my child’s birthday, or even if you didn’t, call me. Send me a card. Send me an e-mail. Send me a rose. My heart is breaking with lonely memories on that day.
♦ If you remember my due date, or the date my child was to be born, mention it to me. Don’t worry that you will remind me or make me sad…I will never forget.
♦ Do you remember the day my child died? Tell me you remember. One of my greatest fears is that my child will be forgotten by all but me.
♦ On holidays, mention my child in your card. Don’t worry about reminding me of my pain…each holiday is painful now. Your words comfort and soothe my broken heart, and let me know I’m not alone.
♦ Tell me if you think of my child…tell me what reminded you. Did my child make a difference in your life or teach you something? If so, tell me, please.
♦ Do you miss my child? Please tell me so…
♦ Your memories of my child may be the last new thing I’ll ever hear about my son or daughter. Please, share them with me.
♦ Stop by my child’s grave site and leave a flower, or bring a flower by my house in my child’s memory. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers what I lost, and that no one knows the pain I hide behind my every-day smile.
♦ Speak my child’s name aloud to me, and let me hear one more time the name so carefully chosen, bestowed on someone so beloved and so deeply missed
.-= Sherre´s last blog ..More Whys and More TV Therapy =-.
You will definitely never forget. Certain things made fade but others will never be forgotten.
I totally understand i had a cousin that was murdered several years ago and we were very close and to this day certain things i do will bring back memories of the two of us and other things i just barely remember. I’ll never get over it but it does seem to get better.
Hi Pamela. I lost my mother nearly 18 years ago now. At around the 2-3 year mark after losing her I was at the deepest point of pain over it. But after 5 years it eased considerably.
I don’t think you “get over” the loss. Rather that you get used to it. It does become easier over time.
I got worried at one point that I would forget what she looked like. But you don’t forget. Your brain may be distancing you from those memories for the moment to protect you from some of the pain. That happened to me. My memory of her is better now than it was.
Hope you are OK tonight.
Bearfriend xx
.-= Bearfriend´s last blog ..Gari experiment and pics of the pub! =-.