5 Years & Counting

It hasn’t been a great week. It’s been almost atrocious, actually.

Typically, all of December is like that. This year, it was different, it had been going well.  The first two weeks of the month, I didn’t think too much about the 18th. I didn’t think about what it would signify.

I didn’t think about how it’s been five years. Five. A number after which I can’t quantify my brother’s death in a way that’s acceptable to me in my head. What’s acceptable? Being able to talk about the time that has passed since then, in words, rather than in numbers.  I was okay with saying ‘oh it happened a couple of years ago’, or that it’s been just ‘a few years’. Five worked too, I’ve been able to say it’s been a ‘handful of years’. But what now? Now that the 6th year has started, how do I quantify that in mere words? I can’t, anymore. There is no phrase of words in existence to quantify 6 years, or 7 years, or 8, or 9. The next acceptable phrase hits comes after 10, when it will have been ‘a decade’. So what do I do for the next 4 years?

It’s become bigger than me, something I don’t think I can make peace with. I’ve read about grief hitting in waves, blinding and overpowering at first, manageable and visible later. These aren’t waves, though. It’s like driving without breaks – you can manage long distances well, because there’s nothing to stop for.  But there are speed bumps every now and then, and though they’re quick, they’re still brutal, because there’s nothing you can do to lessen the impact. It leaves you shaken all over, and your stomach lurches up to your throat for a moment, and then just as suddenly as it happened, it’s over. You’re back to cruising on the road, one elbow resting against the open window.  You ease into it all again, focus on the song on the radio, the comfortable speed, and you forget the bump ever existed. Until it comes back.

It’s a ruinous process, one I’ve plundered through on my own. Sure, the loss of my brother impacted the whole family, but the grieving hasn’t been a collaborative effort. We’ve all stumbled our way through these past five years on our own, warily glancing at each other to ensure we’re at least all at the same pace, and no one has fallen.  It’s been dark, it’s been lonely, and I wonder if that will change, if I can let that change. It’s almost been a sordid badge of honour in a way. ‘Look what I can get through alone.’  Just because I have, doesn’t mean that I still need to. I’m not brave, just withered.

That’s the beauty of seeing death so close – it teaches you things you could have never known any other way.  It takes you into a deep, dark tunnel where you’re never quite sure if the ground will give away, or if you’re about to chance upon some treasure. You keep going, anyway, and you decipher clues from writings on the wall, uncovering one life lesson after another. It’s not reconciliation, but it is comforting.

Death informs life. My brother’s death has taught me a whole lot about mine. Even though I have no way of eloquently quantifying the 6th year of his death, here’s hoping it’ll teach me more than what I’ve understood in the last 5.



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