I was home for four weeks. It was Winter Break and the solaces of being home had found a place in my life once again. That year it was different though. Things weren't as bright. I returned home to remember that my grandparents were living with us through the Winter months to escape the Minnesota chill: their presence affected all of us in some way. "I know it is a little hard to have them around," my mother would tell us in one of the rare moments of quiet, "but they love to see us...They love it here." I asked what good that is for if they are the only ones enjoying their trip.
I answered the phone driving home late one evening. My mother's words quickly sent me into haziness. Sam, my brother Jeff's best friend, had a sudden brain aneurism a few hours earlier and was being kept alive by life support only until my brother's hockey team returned from Denver. The coaches were waiting until after the game to tell my brother and his teammates why Sam was not with them to play.
My hands shook slightly, a gentle stream of tears rolled down over my lips. Jeff didn't know yet. He is the most important person in the world to me, and on the brink of tragedy and out of my reach there was no way for me to protect my little brother. Throughout the night of being at the hospital, seeing Sam's family, and crying with strangers, my thoughts were focused only on Jeff. The first time I saw him after the news I pushed through the crowd to find myself in his arms, squeezing tightly, feeling his chest heave with sobs. He had not cried in years. In that embrace I sent all of my love to him, trying to let him know that in all uncertainty, he can at least find solidity in the company of his sister.
The next week was a disconnect. My parents and Jeff did all that they could to help Sam's family after that night. We kept busy as an attempt to keep distracted, but were all faking composure and retreated into ourselves. My grandparents felt the need to interject as well, to participate in the grief, and took it upon themselves to become involved in the funeral. My brother was a champion enduring consistent questioning from my grandparents asking if he was alright, and giving him scripted comfort like "Well, he is in a better place now." In a tragedy that was something that my family shared, it seemed insensitive of my grandparents to force themselves into the heart of the issue. That was the problem for the time following Sam's death: my mom, dad, brother and I needed to confront the pain as a family but my grandparents left us no room to do so, so we each shielded the reality of our emotions.
This pattern finally broke at the burial. My brother stood blankly with the other pallbearers by Sam's family as they lowered the casket. Staring at him, I was reminded again that I was powerless in my desperate desire to take Jeff's pain away. There was nothing I wanted more for him. As the crowd began to disperse I turned to hug my parents silently. Moments later we saw Jeff walking quickly towards us with fresh tears covering his deeply sorrowful expression. He shrunk into us and my parents and I wrapped around him with our heads tucked together. I found my brother's hand and clutched it sturdily. Twenty minutes passed and none of us moved or said a word. It was finally the four of us, experiencing the rawness of our feelings, weeping, snot covered, huddled in the snow. We remained still and were eventually alone. Our grips slowly loosened, and we drifted back to our cars.
We have never talked about that afternoon, but we walked away from that situation a different family. We were equals. We saw each other not as parent or child, man or woman, but merely as a human who struggles, who can't fix every problem, and who needs others. Prior to that day we had never shared such intense love and companionship all together, and I carry that moment with me every day.
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