On Repeat

My brother is dead. He died. Phil is gone.

I knew this day would come; I talked about it with my husband many years ago and many times since. Phil had epilepsy which caused him to have intense seizures. The hospital was memorized, and he was memorized by the hospital. He had a total of three brain surgeries to help with the seizures. Surely, I just knew that a seizure would be the end of him. It was so obvious. How could a seizure not take his life?

So then, how am I to process when a blood clot dislodging into his heart is what takes him away? What am I to do when the expected happens in an unexpected way?

My freakin brother is dead.

His face won’t grow old. There are no more memories to be had and, as C.S. Lewis is teaching me in A Grief Observed, the memories I do hold will only be a mere shadow of my brother; not even a true shadow. My mind will form its own truths of who he was. How shitty is that? I won’t even be able to look back on memories and know they’re true. What I say is a memory might be an inaccurate representation of what truly was. It’s often said that “he/she will live on in your memories.” The awful truth is that he/she won’t. No memory I have will make my brother live again. I hate that so much, but at the same time it’s kind of comforting. If a person could truly be held completely in our memories and, therefore, “live on”, were they really a full person? My brother had so many facets to him. Some I knew; some I thought I knew; some I had no idea existed. So I guess in knowing that, I’m glad my memories aren’t where his life will carry on.

I can’t believe he’s gone.