Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die.

Before I get started with this post, I am issuing a general disclaimer upfront that this post is nothing like my usual lighthearted posts and is simply something weighing on my mind. 
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The title of today's blog is the quote that was on a t-shirt that I gave my little brother for his 16th birthday.  About two months after I gave him that t-shirt, he was killed in a car accident.  I remember feeling sick to my stomach thinking about  having given him that t-shirt... like I had been tempting fate in some way.  But, when my mom and I went through his stuff to pick out the "things" of his that we wanted to keep, that t-shirt was the one item of clothing that I felt I needed to hold on to.  Kind of a contradiction that the one thing that made me feel so disgusted was the one thing I wanted to keep.  But, the truth was, it was the last gift I had given him, and he had absolutely loved it.  It was totally "him" and I knew it was something that would forever remind me of who he was and the time we had together.

With that little explanation out of the way, there are two reasons that my brother is weighing on my mind, and one of them helped me decide to write this blog entry to get it off my chest.

Reason 1:  Monday night, an acquaintance of mine asked if I had any siblings.  I hesitated for a second, and then I said "No, it's just me."  I regretted my response and felt guilty immediately after I said it, and I started thinking of some way to tell her the truth the next time I saw her.  What would I say?  "You know how I said I had no siblings... yeah, that was a lie."  How ridiculous would that sound?  Who lies about that?  Me, that's who.  The truth is, I have always struggled and still struggle with what to say when people ask me that question.  I told my husband about it, and asked him what I should say.  He said "Say you have a brother, but he died."  I told him, "Do you know how terrible that sounds?!"  Seriously, when you tell someone something like that, people get this look on their face.  They automatically feel sorry for you and don't know what to say.  It's awkward for everyone, and frankly, I hate feeling like people feel sorry for me.  I hate feeling pitied.  Especially by people who barely know me and who definitely didn't know my brother.  And, then to have to say the obligatory "Oh, thanks" or "It's okay... it was a long time ago."  I just hate it.

I seriously rehearse scenarios in my head of what to say when someone asks me if I have a sibling, and I weigh the pros and cons of each.  Obviously, the easiest, least-explanation route is to say "No."  Then, comes the guilt trip about not recognizing my brother's existence and his importance in my life, which comes every time I use that explanation (like Monday night).  Sometimes I just say that "Yes, I have a brother."  But, then when people ask about him, I have to inevitably explain, which can sometimes be even worse after they know you have a brother... having to then explain that he's deceased.  And, of course, sometimes I say "My brother died when I was in college."  I'd say it's a pretty even split between how often I use the three explanations.  It's been over 6 years since he died, and I still cannot for the life of me figure out how to explain it to people.  Maybe I'll never figure it out.  Life is a game of trial and error, but sometimes it feels like it's just too filled with both...

Reason 2:  Well, Reason 2 is the reason I'm here writing about Reason 1.  Today, I came to my blog because I have been so busy lately I haven't had time to write an entry, and I finally had a free moment to start a new post.  I signed in, and I saw my page view count.  It read: 555 views.  555.  05-05-05.  That was the day of my brother's funeral.  I will always remember that day because I thought it was so fitting for my brother.  That number is something that gave me peace of mind, that helped me believe that there was a reason and a plan for my brother's life... and his death.  You see, many people who knew my brother would know that he had a fascination with numbers.  His favorite time of the day was 11:11 because it was "all ones!"  He would always point out repeating patterns like that.  When I saw the date printed on his funeral program, the pattern hit me.  And, I thought, how fitting.  It could have felt a little like a cosmic joke, but instead, it gave me comfort.  It made me feel like it was just "meant to be."  Regardless of how painful it was and how unfair it felt... at that moment, I accepted it.


And, today, seeing that number, I again felt that moment of acceptance.  Accepting that as much as I don't want to admit it, I still struggle... I still feel that loss.  I can still feel it hovering under the surface.  Sometimes I can't remember what his voice sounded like, and I feel that sense of panic.  Sometimes I can't remember what my life was like with him in it, and it makes me want to cry.  I curse my mind for not being able to hold on to him better, for not locking all of those memories away somewhere safe, where they can never leave.  I wish he was still here every day.  Every day.

I guess sometimes it's just hard to match the outside with the in... to find a balance between what you feel and what you show the world.  I don't want to feel pitied, but I also don't want to ignore this person who was and is such a big part of my life and who I am.  I suppose all that anyone can ever do is take it day by day.  And, I'm working on it...