Tribute

My brother Tim died on January 6^th, and I find myself googling his name, searching for an obituary that doesn’t yet exist. I am illogically expecting the internet to know my brother, to succinctly explain his life and, most especially, his death. It’s surreal to see Tim’s name on Legacy.com, with an end date attached. Google can’t help me understand that life is not fair. I know this to be true but I often try to forget, even though this life won’t let me forget. My brother Tom and I, my aunt and uncle, our parents: we should still have our family’s oldest son. The one who remembers all the birthdays and always sends cards. The surfer, the reader, the expert on all the things medical. I miss the boy who remembers who our mom was before the accident that she claims turned her into a “bad mother.” I was five years old when she fell at work and injured her back, but Tim was nine. Tim is the one who remembered everything. When I don’t remember how things happened, because I was too young or possibly too self-absorbed, I call him, my personal childhood historian. The fact that I can’t call him anymore feels impossible.

“Do you remember Mom ever making cookies?” I asked him a few Christmases ago. Our mom had told me that the bake aisle reminded her of “all those cookies I made when you were kids.” My memory is devoid of cookies.  So, I go to the memory keeper.

“Ya when we lived in LA she did.” I pause, trying to imagine my mom in the kitchen, baking. My brain refuses to conjure up the image, even when faced with truth.

“Like, what kind of cookies did she make?” I’m a baker, I need to know specifics.

“I don’t know, the frosted, cut-out kind. Santa Clauses and stuff. They were good.” Sometimes I feel like my brother and I had different moms. The one he remembers was a bit more… mom-ish.

People might not know that Tim was an actor on Days of Our Lives as an infant. Or that he was so calm that even as a child, he slept in on Christmas Day, knowing we’d wait for him before opening presents. Tim was the one who hoarded his Halloween candy so he could eat it in front of Tom and I in December. As a child, he had amazing self-control. My brother was also the one to call out the injustices in the family. We could count on him to speak up when things felt unfair, and to get louder when he had to. Even though he didn’t share his Halloween candy, and I never did find his hiding places, he did share his music, his love of books, advice, and so much love. To be included in his orbit was the biggest compliment to this little sister.

The world will miss a million kindnesses from my brother. He found his home in his wife Kathleen and he became a grounded, responsible adult when his daughter Leah came along. He was a parent who believed in experiences over materialistic things. He taught his daughter to surf, and planned amazing trips for his family. His wife called him her Buzz Lightyear, and he was the family dog’s favorite “boyfriend,” as his daughter jokingly calls him.

I’m having trouble with tenses. I think you understand. I told myself he wouldn’t die. I lied and I believed my lie to myself. It’s human nature to look for something to blame. It’s hard to blame cancer; it’s not like cancer is a person with free will, and even if so, what other choice could it have made but to kill all of the Tim cells? Finding no one to blame, I land on myself. Blame is a compass and I am north.  I should have called more often. Written longer messages in the birthday cards. Checked in more. Visited. Planned more trips.

I miss him so much already. I miss knowing he’s here, breathing the same air, reading books and telling me about them, sharing the planet with me. He died while I was acting like we had plenty of time. And now I am barely breathing, heartbroken. I’ve lost another pin in the very small map of my family of origin. And somehow, I feel so much smaller because of it.

Grief is a heavy weight on our house. Therapy helps. Having a therapist feels like a warm embrace. A cape, a truth serum, a gavel, a safety net, a parachute, a wetsuit, an escalator to a higher self. Even with that, there is no fix for this fog of sadness. My therapist says someday it won’t feel so heavy.

Tim, come away with me where the grass grows wild, where the winds blow free, come away with me and I’ll build you a home in the meadow. I love you brother. In the next life, there you will be, along with me, and I promise to listen to you talk about baseball into eternity.