About My Brother

The phone rang. 2 am.
I heard my mother’s voice on the other end: “Andy’s been hurt. He’s at Grady Hospital.”
I woke the kids — just toddlers then — and drove them to their dad’s, then made a beeline to the hospital. I approached the information desk and asked about my brother. A nurse led me to a room — a small, quiet room. My mother and my brother’s friends were huddled together, crying. And then I saw the chaplain.
This is not good.
I remember the day my brother came into my life. I had no idea my parents were even considering adopting a baby. So, I was pretty shocked when my parents showed up at school, plucked me out of my first-grade class, and announced, “Let’s go get your baby brother!”
I was over the moon. So proud to be a big sister. And gosh, he was cute.
We were opposites from the start. I was the “golden child,” always aiming to please, always performing, always doing what was expected of me, always coloring within the lines. He bristled at authority, questioned the rules, marched to his own drum, and boy, did he color outside the lines (and gave the lines the finger while he did it).
But we were close from the start, too. Our hearts were made of some of the same stuff, I guess. His heart was way bigger and way purer than mine, though — so loyal, so loving, so selfless, so quick to forgive.
He was only three when our dad died. Being the older sister, I saw it as my responsibility to take care of him. I so desperately needed for him to be okay. He wasn’t.
Honestly, none of us were, but he was the only one who was honest about it. My mother and I were busy pretending that our shattered hearts weren’t really shattered at all — we were desperately trying to act “normal.” Andy never tried to act at all. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to just shut away his pain and pretend. His pain burst out of him in angry outbursts, tears, poor performance at school, dangerous friendships, drugs, knock-down-drag-out fights with my mom, quitting high school, living in his car, and short stints in the county jail.
He was the only one telling the truth.
I wish I could talk to him now and tell him that he was right. We were all so broken, so much more broken than we could admit — it wasn’t just him, he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t alone. He was just the only one being honest. And I could not bear the honesty.
I am ashamed to say that somewhere during those hard, tempest years, my heart — the part that was connected to him — shut down. My survival depended on denying my pain. He refused to deny anything. I couldn’t take it. He was just too much truth for me. Too messy. I couldn’t fix it, I couldn’t fix him, I couldn’t make it all alright, so I just needed to block him from my heart. It was subtle — I don’t know if I acted differently toward him — but there is a part of me that gave up on him, cut him out, shut him off, built a wall between him and my heart.
I didn’t recognize this or admit this to myself, of course (denial!). I just told myself that the weird distance I felt was because our grown-up lives were so different. I had a job, a family, a house. He was in and out of jail, often unemployed, sleeping wherever he could. Most holidays we weren’t sure where he was. But always he would resurface — sometimes even for months at a time — and it was good to see him. A few more tattoos, a new piercing, but still, the same mischievous smile, and that hug that made you feel like he was your greatest champion.
And he was your greatest champion.
So I wasn’t surprised when I heard the story that his friends told me in that sad, quiet room, as the chaplain consoled my mother.
Andy and his friends had been at a concert that night. The group of friends included a pregnant young woman and a developmentally-challenged young man — people to be protected from the craziness of moshing concertgoers. And my brother was a born protector. So when a group of aggressive, moshing guys came near, my brother asked them to keep their distance, explaining the delicate condition of his friends. There was an argument. My brother held his ground, “I don’t want to fight you. I just want to keep these people safe.” This dance of aggression and deflection continued for a couple of tense minutes, but the guys eventually left. But two hours later, they were back, and the leader was gunning specifically for my brother — “Watch what I’m gonna do to this guy.” That’s what he said to his friends as he approached my brother that second time. What he did was sucker punch my brother, sending Andy flying backward, hitting his head on the concrete wall behind him, cracking his skull.
He was brain dead.
We turned off the machines two days later. And that was the day he left my life. It was very quiet, and very surreal.
I have heard it said that the circumstances of a loved one’s death can have a profound influence on how you grieve. I can say that the circumstances of my brother’s death definitely impacted my grief — in the wake of the loss, there was a wave of grace knowing that my brother died with the very best parts, the very truest parts, of himself on full display. Because underneath his punk exterior and general sense of anarchy, he had a heart bigger than most people could have imagined — a heart that loved fiercely, wholly, stubbornly — a heart that prompted him to stand up for what he believed in, even if it cost him everything. He was a misfit who died a hero. The hero he had always been.
That was 11 years ago. I have to be honest with you, my heart is still not working right when it comes to my brother. It still feels mostly numb, cut off from him. And at moments I feel ashamed about that. But then I think about him, his stubborn honesty. He would want me to face that part of me that is still broken. He would want me to call it out for what it is. That’s what he always did.

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Other posts you might like:
Lessons in Grief
Time Is Lousy Healer
Eleanor Can’t Handle It
