My Brother
My younger brother and I have been paddling in white water for decades. My outgoing, risk-taking, grab-life-by-the-balls self often bumping up against his private, sensitive, grounded way of approaching life. There have been calms as well as Class 5 rapids that threatened our relationship. Yet we’ve made it through several weddings (mine), the death of both our parents, and many other ebbs and flows of life.
Twenty-two years ago, as I was trying to decide if I should go to work that morning, my water broke and labor began, three weeks ahead of my due date. We had planned a water birth and were definitely not prepared. After an uncomfortable drive to pick up a portable tub about thirty miles from Portland, my wife driving fast while I quietly doubled over with cramps, we got home, and I laid down on our bed, exhausted. My brother arrived and like a guardian angel, put the tub together, filled it with water, got the room ready, and made sure it was the right temperature before inviting me to slip into the life-saving liquid. He held space quietly, allowing the women to tend to me. I'm confident he fed people, ran errands, screened phone calls, but I was busy and didn’t see these other acts of love. I felt him, steady and in awe of what he was witnessing. After Hunter was born and safely in my arms it became clear that while the baby was fine, I was not. My skin was gray and my placenta stubbornly resisted delivery. I was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. When I returned eight hours later the birthing tub was gone and the nursery had been put back together as if a stork had delivered my baby. I had lost a lot of blood and it took all my energy to nurse and tend this little one. Did I even thank my brother?
On August 28, 2020, he got the devastating call that Hunter had died at home, in what was later determined an accidental overdose. My brother, who lives 20 minutes away, came the minute he got the call. I could not see him through my tears, but I felt his presence and knew, no matter what, he had my back. Like a sentinel, he was at Hunter’s feet as we sat in an awkward circle in the hallway saying goodbye to my only child, holding space for those in the family that couldn’t be there with us.
Tim was with me, two days later, when I left the funeral home after an hour of excruciating questions, ones that easily could have been answered if they knew how to use a computer, things like what is your son’s date of birth? How do you spell his name? How would you like your names listed on the death certificate? I wanted to scream into that horrible room decorated with death but instead, I left sobbing, my brother at my side. He knew there were no words for this pain, and he didn’t try to make it better. He was simply and powerfully with me, protecting me from the brutality of making arrangements for my child’s burial. I remember him confirming that this was horrific, validating my outrage at the insensitivity of the situation. I felt seen and accepted.
In the days following the burial, we sat Shiva in the front yard with masks and some semblance of social distance. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so uncomfortable and comforted at the same time. Tim was quietly in the background, honoring a tradition that was mine and not his, making sure the details were handled. I remember sitting on the back deck after everyone had left except family and a few close friends. People were talking about recipes and dogs and I moved into the living room, sobbing uncontrollably. My brother was right there, by my side. He said, “It’s completely understandable that you want to go home. I don’t know how you’ve been able to handle all of this. I would be in the woods, screaming, alone.” At that moment I felt permission to grieve however I needed to, with people or alone, with rituals or without. In that moment I felt loved.