I woke up this morning with a jolt. “In two days, Andy is
going to die”. There was immediate absurdity in that statement for knowing I
cannot foreshadow Andy’s death. He’s already dead. But that is where I am,
reliving the week of Andy’s death. It’s interesting to me that as you come up
on a 1 year anniversary, you start re-feeling and re-seeing the events of those
days. I can’t remember what I felt last
week on a Wednesday morning. But I can tell you in minute details exactly what
I thought and felt Wednesday a year ago. It’s as if an anniversary possesses
gravity and orbit which pulls our body right back in to the moments leading up
to, and the moments following, a significant life event. My mind is telling me that
in two days I will once again be standing in my bathroom looking in the mirror
trying to figure out how exactly I am going to get down the hallway, out the
door, and into my car and drive. At that moment in time, I didn’t know if Andy
had been murdered, or what had happened. I simply remembering thinking while looking
at my reflection in that mirror having just hung up the phone, Andy was lying dead
next to his car.
I remember driving to Andy’s house that morning, knowing I
would be the first family member to arrive as my parents and sister lived out
of town and my husband was away on business. As I turned the corner to his
house I saw the street packed with cars as people had begun arriving to console
the family. I remember how strange that felt, seeing all the cars and knowing
the house would be flooded with people. As an introvert, I didn’t know how to
walk in that door and see all the people, most of whom I didn’t know, on the
other side. Having not yet been able to process the shock of the news delivered
just an hour before, I knew this flood of people would bring out the emotions
that had not yet surfaced. I don’t remember how I felt last Wednesday, but I
can recall with great detail the feelings of that morning as I stared over the
steering wheel at the front door of his house.
I remember standing in the cul-de-sac with my father trying
to make sense of all. The lines etched on his face deeper and more meaningful than
I had noticed before. It was as if he and I had aged 20 years in appearance and
wisdom in the 5 hours that had passed. I don’t remember the expression dad had
on his face when I saw him a few weeks ago. But I recall in detailed memory the
look on his face as we verbally grasped for any sense of how and what following
the death of his son.
I remember standing around the kitchen island after putting food on my plate. I can feel the weight of its balance in one hand and texture of the cup in the other. I can see myself carrying it to the table and then sitting while I pushed the contents around on the plate. Although, I can't recall the taste of the food because not a single morsel made it to my lips. I feel even now the pit in my stomach while wondering if I would ever eat again.
I remember later that evening when my husband walked in the door. Having driven several hours to get back home after hearing the news, he bee-lined it straight from the door for me. I can vividly describe the details of that scene, the details of his clothing, and the look in his eyes. I don’t remember what he was wearing when he came in from work last night, but I can tell you as he came with arms wide open exactly what he wore.
I remember two days later seeing Andy’s body for the first time. He was
laying in the casket. Hands folded exactly so. His hair the exact shade of red I knew it to be. My first thought was “Where are
his glasses? How is he going to see anything without his glasses?” I knew it
was finally true that he had died, because he would have never sat there
without his glasses. I don’t remember the feeling I had when I walked into a
work meeting a few days ago, but I vividly pull to mind the details of surrounding
that casket with family over in the far end of that room.
I remember walking down the aisle in the church and seeing
the room flooded with so many familiar faces, almost a thousand people gathering
in the love of Andy. I don’t know where anyone sat at Christmas dinner less than a month ago, but I
recall the exact position of our entire family and that of many friends in the chairs
of that room.
I remember walking up to Hank (as I call him here), the man
who found Andy, in the lobby. I wanted to know who had experienced this moment
with Andy and I wanted to pray for the impact this heroic moment would later
have in Hank’s life. I had such concern for what trauma he may be experiencing in
the days leading after. There are
moments when I can only recall the large aspects of my grandfather’s face, but
I recall that of Hank's which I have only seen once.
I remember standing cold in the grass as people gathered around.
I can now recall how amazed I was that people continued to show up. I don’t
know who all was at my wedding, but I still know the faces of that crowd.
I remember the night before Andy’s death I was out to dinner
with 3 of my friends, as my husband was out of town. I see us sitting with me
telling them how run of the mill life had been that week and showing them
pictures of my dining room, having finished painting it only 2 days before
during the snow storm. My life had been so trivial, I recall, as one of the girls
was discussing a significant life event in her workplace. I remember thinking
how blessed I was in my job and having the feeling of “low key” in my life. I
can’t remember sentences said in a conversation I had last week, but I remember
this discussion almost 12 hours before Andy died.
Some people block out the memories around a traumatic event.
I somehow have locked in my mind several, if not most, of the moments in time
from that week. They are rich in texture and ripe with emotion that finds a way
of flooding you in times of great loss. They have woven themselves into my
daily activities, on occasion, but stand in the forefront now in the days
leading up to “a year after”. Total recall. To be determined if it will be a
blessing or a curse. But for now they give me comfort in reminding me of the
love of relationship which surrounded us and which would ultimately softened
the death of Andy. I’ve tidied up the “firsts” that come in the year following
and I’ve somehow navigated the seconds, minutes, hours and days that come in the after, but the “I remember”
of the details following his death forever (thus far) locks a piece of me in those
moments. And it’s where I want a piece of me to always be. The sweetest of
moments when Andy suddenly was more than just simply my brother.
I’ve faced the frailty of my own life having faced my own
prospect of death with Lymphoma. But it wasn’t until experiencing the moments
of losing Andy that I absorbed the “split second” landscape of life. In two days, Andy will be gone. How would I do
these next two days differently if I knew that going in? What would you choose differently
for your next two days, so that in looking back later you will almost nostalgically
find yourself saying “I remember…”. It is probably very different than what you
currently have on your to-do list, and just maybe, now is the perfect time to
rearrange.
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