My Very First Best Friend – My Brother, My Buddy

Today I should be calling my little brother and wishing him happy birthday. He would be 43 years old today, unfortunately we just marked the 9^th anniversary of his death… Part of me is tempted to say, “tragic death” or “untimely death”, but one thing I have learned over the last decade is that all death is tragic and untimely on one level or another. Whether it is saying goodbye to your 8year old daughter, or 91year old grandfather, when you cherish the people in your life, any age is too soon.

Another thing I have learned is that you must find the silver-lining in every situation. For instance, I have found, for me at least, the silver-lining to death and loss is that it is a reminder to not take a single day for granted, not to allow too much time to pass before you let the ones that matter to you, hear from you. You may “think” your loved ones know that you love them but when was the last time you told them, showed them, made them smile just because they make your life fuller. This is the most important lesson I can impart about loss. It is so easy to allow life to get in the way and time to speed by until the Fates cut the golden thread of another loved one and you pull up short realizing that you were letting life control you again instead of living your life.

My earliest memories

Looking back, I can see little vignettes of moments of my brother as a baby, others of him as a toddler and of us together, but I think my earliest full memory of my brother was seeing him in a barber chair getting a buzz cut. Maybe it was his First Haircut, I don’t know, but I remember watching him get his hair buzzed away and thinking how precious my little brother was. As the years cycled through, a buzz cut became Rossi’s signature hairstyle, and with the exception of a few random times in his life where he let it grow a little longer, my little brother had a fuzzy head that was always fun to rub and annoy him in so doing. As a little boy my little brother had these rounded cheeks that may make you think he was a little chunky, but he never was a chunky kid. Sturdy and strong but never chunky. He was doing chin ups at 3years old.

Fast forward only a little bit and my brother and I would be playing in the backyard whipping up magic potions with the mushrooms that grew off the wood logs. We would watch ThunderCats, GI Joe, Voltron and other Saturday morning cartoons. His He-Man would date my Barbies, and we would play together every day.

I am sure we fought when we were little but honestly, I don’t remember fighting till I was 8years old and our parents were getting divorced. Before then, we played together constantly, he was my permanent friend and somehow was able to blend my girlie stuff with his rugged boy stuff. I remember I would wrap a blanket around my waist and secure it with a belt letting it drag behind me pretending to be a pretty princess then we would crawl around the floor with our heads rubbing across the carpet pretending to be Rhinoceroses, with my pretty princess train dragging behind me. He was my favorite person to play Barbies with, especially since our little sister, Tasha was six years younger than me and a baby in those early years. Even a few years later when we gained a bonus sister and brother and we each had someone else to play with closer to our own ages, I missed playing with him.

Rossi was always one to bring laughter to any conversation. Lying on our stomachs in the overhead bunk of the Motorhome watching out the window chanting “Moo Cow” with the rise and fall of rolling hills as we traveled the country with our parents. Being each other’s anchor as we watched in frightened excitement, magnificent lighting storms dancing across a blackened evening sky. It may not have been a treehouse, but it was our favorite spot to see the world from. Be it exploring the natural wonder of our great country or learning about ourselves through play, Rossi was by my side in nearly every memory until I was 8years old. But where I was the girlie girl and a little timid, Rossi was always the self-assured entertainer. Whether he was mimicking Elvis Presley moves or dancing for himself to pass the time while he stands on stage as a shepherd in the Christmas Nativity play, he had a natural way of making people smile simply by being himself. Either performing on demand for others or to entertain himself, he was often oblivious to what others were saying or doing around him, he was going to enjoy himself either way.

The terrible teen years

Being three years apart in age we often did not have the same friends in school which allowed us some independence, but we also grew up in a close-knit church community (where half the youth were made up of us five kids and our four cousins – built in best friends!), that put us together with our bonus siblings, Nikki and Ryan, Cousins, and the same group of other kids for most of our youth, till we all graduated, and ran off to embrace adulthood with arms wide open.

Because our church community was small, in the predominately Catholic villages of New England, we spent years together going to church dances, youth trips, floating down a river in Vermont every summer on inner tubes, apple picking each fall and sitting in the front pew each Christmas season listening to our dad sing O Holy Night for the congregation.

These experiences brought us all closer together and eventually our closest friends had to become comfortable with our siblings, and cousins too. In a close-knit family, raised in a close-knit religious community, we spent so much of our “free time” away from school with the same people since we were in elementary school, that today, many of them feel like extended family. But we were not perfect angels either and Rossi often made the best partner in crime.

Once, us four older kids stole a beer from our grandparents’ house and hid it under a bed in mine and Nikki’s room till one day we were home alone, and all drank it. Problem was our parents didn’t drink so to get rid of the evidence we tossed the can in the woods beside the house thinking it would be fine, no way our parents would ever find it… Yeah, right! Dad found that can but since I was already in trouble at the time, I took the blame for the beer to protect the other three. It didn’t make sense for everyone to be in trouble when there wasn’t much more, they could do to me since I was already “grounded for life”. Other shenanigans would provide Nikki and I the opportunity to protect our younger brothers and in return, well, although younger, Rossi, played the role of protective brother to perfection.

We spent a lifetime protecting each other, being each other’s safe place, biggest fan and keeper of secrets. When my brother ran away in High School, I was already living on my own in an apartment, having followed my parents and youngest siblings to Colorado. Because we had a strong relational foundation, I was able to convince him to come crash at my place and I kept it a secret that he was living with me till he was ready for our parents to know. In the meantime, I was able to give our parents updates of how he was doing, all the while, knowing he was safe and not out on the streets or with unsavory characters.

The adult years

In 1997 I couldn’t leave small town New England fast enough for the broader world, while my brothers entered the Marine Corps. I was so proud to be their sister, grateful for the sacrifice, since 9/11 happened right as they were each preparing for boot camp. We knew, when they both graduated the likelihood of them seeing combat in the Middle East was probable and sure enough the call eventually came that they were both being deployed to the Middle East. Ryan was fortunate in some ways that his first tour in the Middle East was prior to the start of the Iraq war, and his second tour was after the war. However, Rossi, Rossi was with the advancing forces entering Iraq.

The first day of the Iraq War, my brother Rossi held a bridge, gunning down the “enemy”, for 12hours waiting on re-enforcements to rendezvous at their position. He later got a tattoo of the date and hash marks of his confirmed kills that day. Morbid perhaps, but what he and his unit experienced during the Iraq war would forever change the lives of these young men.

This tattoo and the other he got of the Greek Comedy and Tragedy Masks, were reminders of what he faced, the range of emotions experienced and the permanence of the effects of war. Over the following weeks, and months, my brother buried enemy combatants and held dying friends, drove through and survived three IEDs one after the other. He stopped a flatbed of missiles from entering Syria, saw children die and heard stories directly from the Iraqi people about what life was like under Saddam Hussien.

He and his unit were later featured in a documentary, Between Iraq and a Hard Place, with actual audio and video recordings directly from their helmet cams, about what it is like for a combat unit to return state-side and transition from war to peace. And, while his second tour was after the war was declared over, and his objective was to help train the Iraqi police, it was not without danger. For someone gregarious and fun loving, the horrors of war left him with nightmares. His PTSD was so severe that, like so many of our Veterans, he self-medicated with alcohol, drinking himself into oblivion each night to keep the nightmares away.

Returning to the States, and eventually to civilian life was not an easy transition for him. At the time, PTSD still was not treated by the VA, so they would only treat him for Alcoholism, but it never got to root of his trauma. His story is so like many of our brave Veterans, and while improvements are being made, so many of them suffered, and continue to suffer, some finding success with cognitive therapy, others still locked in battle, fighting alone. Watching my brother struggle for years after the war was hard, seeing him wasting away bit by bit was heartbreaking. Here was this once strong and affable young man, now paranoid, dependent on alcohol to ease his anxiety and be able to sleep and no one around him to truly understand. Still, he persevered.

Eventually, he reconnected with an old friend from the Marines and fell in love with his little sister. A gorgeous and wonderful girl and things began to slowly improve in his life. It wasn’t overnight, and it was not easy, but he was madly in love with Nicole, her two kids and eventually the son they would have together. The look of pure love, joy and wonder on my brother’s face as he held his son in his arms is one, I will never forget. Seeing my brother so happy in that moment is one of my most favorite memories of him. In fact, it may be my first memory of being purely happy because of the happiness experienced by another.

Nicole was the love of his life, and he had the family he always wanted. Nicole was patient and supportive of my brother through his recovery and relapses, with his PTSD and the effects that had on other aspects of their life. His newborn son was now 18months old, Christmas was a few short weeks away and he was finally feeling in control and happy in his life. All the hardships and hard work finally culminated in success when, in a single moment, it was gone.

The last goodbye

About a week before my birthday that year, in the last week of August, I was going to meet family for a religious ceremony honoring my daughter who had been gone just over a year and I stopped by my brother’s apartment because he was moving up to Cheyenne, WY, about an hour or so north of where we lived in Colorado. It was unfortunately not surprising to find my brother intoxicated but I just wanted to hug him and tell him I love him and that I was going to miss him, perhaps I had another reason for stopping by too, I can’t remember now. But my brother was drunk and angry. He ranted about our parents, our religion and other things, and while I knew he was not yelling at me, he was yelling and saying hurtful things.

Now, don’t misunderstand, we had always had the kind of relationship that we could always be open and speak freely about how we were feeling, vent to each other and be a listening hear. This day, however, I was already emotionally raw knowing where I was headed. I couldn’t be a sounding board for him on this day. His words pushed me to tears. I couldn’t stay, I told him I loved him, but I had to go. I drove away in tears, overwhelmed with my own emotions and the weight of my brother’s pain. This was the last time I saw him alive.

A week later my birthday came and went without a call from my brother which was not at all normal, so a couple days later, I called him instead. He admitted that he was nervous to call me on my birthday because of how things were when I left his apartment. I assured him that he was my brother and that I loved him, and that family can fight and have bad moments but that would never change the fact that he was my brother and that was more important. We cleared the air and by the time we hung up, we were both happy in our brother-sister relationship again and shared our love and goodbyes. What I didn’t know at the time was that these would be the last words we would ever share.

Tragedy hits

Late in the evening, close to midnight, on December 3^rd 2015, my mother called in ragged tears, telling me my brother was gone. The shock and tears that followed were heavy and all encompassing. Gone. How could he be gone? My little brother was my brave, strong hero. Overcoming alcohol and getting his PTSD under control with the help of the VA in Cheyenne, WY. He had a wife, a young toddler and two beautiful children that saw him as a dad, how could he be gone?

But the truth was evident. My brother and his infectious goofy laugh were silent.

He had been working under his truck when it came off the blocks. Small mercy, they say it was instant. But how random. How does one go through two tours in Iraq, battle back from all he been through to die in a freak accident when his truck comes down off the blocks? It was surreal.

I now had to live with the fact that I hadn’t spoken with my brother in just under 4months. I often reprimand myself for having let that much time pass without checking in. My world may have been in chaos, but it was not an excuse to not let those still living know I loved them. I am still guilty of this, although getting better. Life gets away from me, certain seasons hit, and my emotions are raw. Getting through certain times can be difficult but I am making progress yet that doesn’t mean I am perfect and getting out of my own head and sharing my appreciation with those that matter most in my life can still be challenging.

Still the one thing that brings me peace where my brother is concerned is that I made that phone call back in that September. Had the last time I saw my brother also been the last time we spoke, leaving things as they were, me unable to empathize with his anger, unable to be that shoulder he needed, the pain and guilt I would feel would be thick with regret. The silver-lining was that the last time I spoke with my brother we hung up knowing we were good, and that we loved each other. This was an unexpected gift and one I am grateful for every day, and it taught me the importance of not letting disagreements or hurt feelings, prevent you from expressing your appreciation for the ones you love.

One hour on a park bench

Are you familiar with the meme about who you would pick to sit on a park bench for an hour with?

Many who know me might initially think I would pick my daughter. While I would do anything to sit and talk with her, hug her and catch up on everything under Heaven and Earth, I wouldn’t be able to let her go. Having to say goodbye to her again would gut me and so while it may be tempting, I wouldn’t pick her, I couldn’t. Until I lost my brother Rossi, I would have picked my Grandpa Burt. He was always the one I went to for knowledge, to be centered and he has been gone so long, there is so much I would love to ask him now that I have more years of wisdom and experience under my belt. But no, now, my choice would be my brother Ross.

The bond between siblings who have protected and shielded each other, been a safe haven, always having each other’s back and been each other’s biggest supporters, is one that is nearly impossible to sever. I still long to hear his goofy laugh, his blunt advice and what new thing he is reading up on. I know if I were to sit with him for an hour, he would catch me up on all the happenings with our loved ones, with my daughter, on the other side. We’d laugh about the ways his son has so many of his characteristics and the power of genetics. We’d talk about the family and maybe he’d have some advice for me on how to help heal some bonds in the family that are fractured. I imagine he’d pontificate on the numerous things he has been learning, and he’d call me out on my shortcomings in the loving yet direct way he can that helps me get back on track.

I miss him. I miss the laughter he brought to our lives. I miss the way he loved his family, all his family so fully and completely, with little judgement. Sure, he’d get frustrated and annoyed with folks but when push came to shove, he was always the first one to come to his family’s aid. His bravery, and MacGyver tendencies, sentimentality and jovial manner still spark walks down memory lane when the family gathers. My life is richer for having spent 33 years with him in my life. We are blessed to have a piece of him live on in his son, who seems to have inherited all of Rossi’s positives and little of his wilder side.

So, while I wish I was able to ring on up to Heaven and wish my brother happy birthday, thank you for letting me celebrate him here instead. Some cultures do not speak of the departed and I would love to understand how they see grief. I have learned much about grief and loss this past decade but that is one aspect I’ve yet to be confronted with. For me, those that passed did exist, and I do believe in an afterlife. And while I understand not everyone does, and we all handle and process loss individually, this is what speaks to me and brings peace to my heart. Speaking of my missing loved ones helps keep their memory alive not just for me, but for future generations. Someday we will all be forgotten ancestors but while I can, I want my kids to know and remember those who have departed. Each person that has come into our life touches it and alters us in one way or another so why not honor that influence by keeping the memory alive?

I realize this may not work for everyone, and that talking about the dearly departed can be painful, I still struggle to say my daughter’s name, although I have had moments over the last year where it was possible, but as bizarre as it may sound, somehow by not saying her name, I am able to keep a layer of distance between the memory and the pain. So, if you can’t talk about your loved one, that’s okay. If you can’t look at photos yet, that’s okay too. It took me 10years before I could happily look at pictures of my daughter. Until now, I couldn’t look at them because the pain was too great.

Grief may have stages but there is no exact order or measurable timeline. It is an individual process and can vary depending on who it is that has passed, so give yourself grace to experience your grief on your timeline. Just know you can always reach out to me if you need to chat about your loved one and there are numerous resources out there to help you when you are ready.

In the meantime, tell me, do you honor your loved ones in a different way? Do you have someone you want to celebrate and express love and gratitude for their time in your life? Comment below and let me know.