(TRIGGER WARNING: DEATH AND SUICIDE)

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. All of my grandparents are gone. My dad is gone. My stepdad is gone. My older brother is gone. I make the distinction because I still have a younger brother that lives with me. He is disabled, so he will always live with me. He’ll have his own story here. Today I need to talk about my older brother. 

There are a handful of deaths that fall under the suicide umbrella. Death by cop, jumping from somewhere high up. You can also stop taking medicine that is keeping you alive. That’s how my brother, S–, chose to go. He was 50. The cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs made him look nearly 70 at the end. 

Our communication was sporadic; off and on for decades. He was from our dad’s first marriage, where my mother was the second. When I was 5 and he was 17, my parents were planning to move to Florida. There was a recent incident where my mother was coming home from somewhere and spun the car out in the snow. We were all fine, but we had to trudge in the snow (uphill both ways, I’m sure) to the nearest payphone. If you were born after 9/11 you will just have to ask your parents what that is. When my dad picked up the phone, the conversation was basically, “Come pick us up, and we’re moving. I can’t do another New York winter.”

The plan was for S– to come with us. He’s my brother, so of course he’s coming. But he didn’t. He had a girlfriend he didn’t want to leave and he had all his friends and planned to go to college up there. Instead of compromising or making accommodations, we left him behind. No matter how we all feel or felt about it, that’s what happened. This was 1988, so the rules about leaving someone “underage” were a little more lenient. 

I didn’t see him again for about a decade. He’d had two daughters by then, A– and K–. I don’t know how soon after we left that he got into drugs. Mostly crack, but he was an equal opportunity addict, so there were others. During that whole time he was drinking and smoking. My parents divorced when I was 8. This was better for everyone, trust me. Mom and dad got along much better when they weren’t under the same roof. But hey, now I got two birthday parties and two Christmases. 

Kidding aside, it was a very amicable divorce. My mother said “You will move out. The kids will stay with me. You can see them whenever you want, but you will see them every weekend. You will help with clothes and school supplies and you will attend every function or event they are involved in. In return for this, I will not take you to court for child support.” I’m paraphrasing, but that was pretty much the situation. 

Please understand, my dad wasn’t a monster. He was a good dad. Not perfect, of course, but he loved us all very much. He followed all the rules and we grew up having a good relationship with both parents. When I was old enough to drive and had my own car I would take my younger brother and we’d stay the weekend with dad. I don’t remember the exact day or year (I believe 1999), but one Saturday afternoon, I show up at dad’s apartment with R–, my younger brother, and S– was there. 

This was one of the happiest days of my life. A core memory. I don’t think I’ve ever hugged anyone harder. The brothers were back together! I didn’t quite understand at first why dad wasn’t as happy as I thought he should have been. I had a feeling that there was something going on, but I didn’t care at that moment. Having him there, in front of me, was what mattered. I really wish I could stop here and say that we all lived happily ever after. That’s what should have happened. 

Turns out that S– was basically fleeing from New York because he’d crossed some bad people and they wanted him for a nice, gentle conversation, probably. He was still deep into drugs and alcohol. I didn’t see it because dad was an addict, and his demon was alcohol. The behavior wasn’t foreign. Nothing really stood out at first. I mean, hell, I’d been sneaking cigarettes from dad for a few years at this point. He’d buy them by the carton and stick them in the freezer to retain freshness. This was back before smokes cost 10 million dollars a pack or whatever it is now. 

The exact amount of time escapes me, but I think it was maybe three months that S– stayed with dad, claiming that he was clean, except for cigs and beer, of course. Then he stole some money and some items to sell for money for drugs. Dad kicked him out, and S– slowly made his way back up north. Avoiding the shadowy characters, I assume. 

Fast forward to late 2010. A woman reaches out on Facebook. It was K– . “Are you my uncle?” the message read. I didn’t know what to say. Yes? We’d never met in person. We still haven’t, as of this writing. Shortly after a different woman reached out. S–’s current girlfriend, J–. They had recently had their second child, S–’s fourth. He now had a son, W–, and another daughter St–. After some awkward messaging back and forth, there was an awkward phone call.

Hearing his voice again; it was hard not to get emotional. We started calling each other often, maybe around once a week. Just talking. It was great. I knew he was still using, but I didn’t want to push him away now that we were talking. There was even talk of me moving up there with him (I hated Florida). He and his girlfriend broke up shortly after. He was a shitty dad, to all of his kids at various times. His relationship with them was complicated, at best. I didn’t really understand it because I didn’t have any children at the time. Then dad got sick.

By “got sick” I mean that 40 years of smoking two packs a day and alcoholism caught up to him. They call COPD the smokers disease, which is pretty accurate. He started needing supplemental oxygen, and passing out when he would forget to use it. He was withering away in front of me. He knew what was coming. His affairs were in order, last will and testament and what have you. 

Dad and S– hadn’t spoken since he kicked him out. Not a word. I tried to get them to speak. Let everything go and just talk. I asked, I yelled, I begged both of them. They were both too proud, and it didn’t happen. I had set up hospice care at his home about a week prior to his passing. I promise dad will get his own story eventually. 

One day I pulled up to the parking garage at my job and I got the phone call. “Your father has expired”, the nurse said with a heavy Creole accent. I said “Ok, I’m on my way”. Then hung up the phone and started cry-laughing. She said he “expired”, like a cup of fucking yogurt. It was the most absurd thing to hear in that moment. 

The whirlwind of all that followed with his passing, at least that first week, will be in dad’s story. (Spoilers: if you’ve dealt with the death of a family member, it will be pretty unremarkable. Just details, you know?)

After the dust setted, I called S–. “Hey, dad died. I thought you should know.”

He said “Did he leave me any money?”

“No”, I hung up the phone and never spoke to him again. 

Fast forward to 2020

Summer. Lockdowns, all that shit. About a month previous, my last grandparent died. He was 90, had a great, full life. More grandkids and great-grandkids that you can count. Still sad, but easier to process. September rolls around, I get a message from J–.

“S– is in the ICU. I just realized you didn’t know. He maybe has a day or two. I’m so sorry.” There was a medication keeping his liver functioning after all the years of abuse. He decided to stop taking it. Didn’t take long for his body to become septic. If you’re in the medical field, that’s not a word you want to hear. I wish I could stop here and say that I flew up there and we hugged and said I love you and had a proper goodbye with all the bad blood in the past. That’s what should have happened. 

I hesitated. We were broke, I was out of work due to covid shenanigans. We had three kids and needed every penny. I felt I couldn’t justify the plane ticket. My wife was involved and sending messages to my niece to get information. My wife urged me to go. “Don’t worry about the money.” I didn’t go. The next morning my wife got a message from K–, “He’s gone.”

Even surrounded by loved ones, grief can be a lonely road. My wife held me as I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever hugged anyone harder. We were all too proud, too stubborn to get over our own bullshit and be a family. My grief turned to anger. His two oldest children were adults, but does that matter? How could he leave them all behind? His four babies. You don’t do that. You don’t get to just leave. You stay for your kids and you do the work. But he left. 

My anger turned to bitterness. Bitterness at S–, at myself. I should have tried harder. He should have tried harder. I still cry about it, but I’ve mostly made my peace with it. I’ve had a few attempts to start and maintain a relationship with S–’s children. The two oldest have three kids of their own. Does that make me a grand-uncle? A gruncle? That sounds like a wound or something that happens to your balls. Uncle is fine.