Losing a brother, gaining a muse
How writing my brother’s eulogy unearthed the writer I’ve always claimed to be.
On July 29, 2012, I sat in my car in a parking lot, tears streaming down my face, and wrote a eulogy for my brother Douglas. It poured from my soul onto my keyboard, and helped to soften the pain, anger, and broken heart that had grown from his lifelong battle with alcoholism and addiction. On that day, I came to the realization that I could not fix him, or save him, or even help him. All I could do is write, and write I did.
39 days later, he was struck and killed by a car while running across the street at 4 in the morning. I am still unable to comprehend this.
I wasn’t physically or emotionally able to read this at his wake. I share it now in an act of pure vulnerability, trusting in the healing that can come from bearing one’s soul. I also hold hope that there is someone, somewhere who can benefit from knowing that they are not alone.
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7/29/12
When people lose someone they love, they tend to talk a lot about the last time they saw that person alive, the last conversation or argument, or simply the desire to have just one more moment to spend with that person. I dont feel that way about Douglas. The last several years of his life are not something I would want to relive, or have him relive. He is no longer on this earth, and in someways he has finally found the peace he sought for so many years.
I had few great moments with Douglas in this lifetime. The ones that stick out are of conversations we had during times of clarity in his life. Talking about life, about our childhood, and how differently we perceived some of the exact same experiences. My favorite moments of late were those when Douglas would plan— what he was going to do with himself when he got clean, how all he wanted was a house with a yard for his dog, and a place he could work out. He spoke of a simple life, of watching tv and going to the gym, playing with his dog and having me over for a visit. It wasn’t the things he said that impacted me, but the way he said them. Maybe it was desperation, but when Douglas painted a picture—no matter how far fetched it was—I wanted to believe him. His eyes would light up as he described a perfect day: working hard, coming home to his dog and watching his favorite show on tv. That was his dream of normalcy. It may seem a simple and boring life to most, but to Douglas it was outright unattainable.
I don’t see alcoholism and addiction as diseases, I see them as distractions. Distractions from a past you refuse to deal with, and a future that you are too scared to plan for. It’s funny, the Buddha teaches us to live in the moment, which many of us struggle to achieve. With alcoholism and addiction there is only the present moment — a moment of numbness and haze. There is no past, no future, only a current state of nothingness. It’s not enlightenment by far, but millions make a daily pilgrimage to achieve it none the less.
And so the cycle continued with Douglas, until this his final year of pain. If only he were here to help me paint a prettier picture of this future without him.
I’m sure I’ll remember the bad times in Douglas’ life, but just as I challenge myself to live in the present, so will I challenge myself to remember the boy that was and not the half-man he became.
I don’t have many memories of our childhood, but I do have one picture that I keep close to me. It’s a picture from Christmas morning, when Douglas was maybe 3 years old. He is sitting on a brand new red tricycle in front of a Christmas tree. His face is so bright with joy and excitement, and in his eyes, deep within his eyes, I can see a sparkle. Maybe that’s just my imagination, but it is none the less. That snapshot of his life is what I choose to remember, that simply joyous boy enjoying a moment of happiness. If I could choose an age for Douglas to live in for eternity, it would be this very age. It brings a smile to my face to see that beautiful smile on his. Rest in peace, big brother.
There it was, on my iPhone notepad for no one but me to see. I held on to it for a month and a half, reading and re-reading it as his final days silently ticked away. I had for years claimed to be a writer, but couldn’t find the right medium for my musings. The eulogy tapped into an unending spring of pain, confusion, and depth, offering words where there had been none before, and a profound motivation to heal my wounds. After Douglas’ death, the wounds had become me.
Writers write, and I will.
