The Tree

He chose a maple tree.

A strong, beautiful maple, the symbol of our county, the true north strong and free. To me the maple is a symbol of strength and endurance, which produces sweetness.

The meaning of the maple tree can vary depending on country, culture, and region. There are over one hundred types of maple trees around the world. Ten are native to Canada. The maple tree has been a source of great value long before settlers arrived on this land. The Haudenosaunee, Anishinaabe, Wolastoqiyik, Mi’kmaq and many other Indigenous peoples tapped the sugar maple for their sap. Some maples have edible inner bark. The wood can be used to make things from fishing traps to snowshoes to baskets, or even clothing. The maple tree has sustained human life longer than time can be tracked. Yet my brother chose a maple tree as the method to end his journey here on earth. Poetic and beautiful, haunting and sad, reason or random, how I see it, it depends on the day.

He chose a tree we grew up running past as children. Riding three wheeler ATV’s through the fall leaves it dropped. Pulling potatoes from the ground in its shadow. A tree that still stands today. I’m not sure how many times Dad almost cut it down. He didn’t. It stands rooted in its spot. Holding stories I can’t tap out. Stories that will never run like the spring sap. Or be heard like the brook that runs nearby. The only story that tree will ever tell is one of continual change. As summer changes to fall, the chlorophyll fades, which allows the red, orange and yellow colours to emerge into a vibrant natural canvas of stunning art.

The art dulls and drops away as the cold of winter settles in. The tree knows when to let its leaves go to prevent damage from ice and snow weighing on those leaves. The tree knows it’s time to rest. Its dormancy ensures it’s survival. Growth is stopped, but life continues. When spring brings longer days and shorter nights, with warming temperatures the buds burst open to start the growth process again, actively living instead of surviving. The tree is a clear example of how the process of change does not kill but allows for rest and time to spring into new growth. Displaying that growth without rest is not possible. When tried it would lead to destruction. A month before Sean succeeded, he tried. I fought to save him. Not knowing Sean needed rest before growth. If the tree ever kept its leaves and pushed forward for more growth, the weight of the snow and ice on the leaves would snap off its branches. This would drastically limit growth potential as the nutrients would be needed to heal the wound. If branches heal too slowly, this opens the tree for decay, insects and even disease. The bark protects the tree from those hazards, but once removed its weakness is shown. Trees can recover and continue to grow, but the scar remains and time is lost. Unlike us the trees know. They respect the cycles of the seasons. They know when it’s time to rest.

If we treated mental health and addictions correctly, if we valued the lives seen as the broken. If we gave adequate time to heal well, correcting the structures that lead to the wound to begin with, there would be less rot. There would be less decay. Less loss. When Sean first declared he was not going to keep fighting his demons, what if the hospital kept him and actually did a psychological evaluation? Maybe the outcome would be a different story than I’m currently living. I fought for him, the only way I knew how at the time. I called the city police, who called the RCMP, who called Bell to ping his phone, and obtain his exact location to prevent his death. Upon finding him alive they called me where I requested the RCMP to arrest him under the mental health act and taken to the hospital. What if all of those events were taken as a serious indication that the young man was unwell? The hospital should take the opinions of direct family members as a warning that this specific human needs help beyond what they are capable of providing. They didn’t even spend a few hours speaking with Sean before my father was called to pick him up. What did they think was going to happen with zero medical intervention on a drug-using, unstable, suicidal citizen? Do they even give a damn? Fuck the oath, not a valuable life, not worth the time or money. Intended or not that is the statement their actions make.

There was no room in the public detox facility that night, so Sean came home with my untrained father until a bed opened. Bed opens. He spent less than a whole week there and was discharged. Now there is some uncertainty of whether he was discharged or if he just signed himself out. That’s gonna require some digging on my part. I’m not sure how to go about it, but I would like to know. I think I need to know. Then other parts of me know I might never get the answer I’m looking for and need to make peace with it. Sean came back to Dad’s, as there were also no beds at the rehab facility. All of us were unsure of how to manage Sean, ‘cause what the hell did we know? He only lasted the weekend.

What if that precious time was spent healing multiple deep massive wounds? Time spent with professionals who could help his healing process. Instead of being alone with family who couldn’t help him. Just waiting while rot set is adding decay on top of existing disease. That’s what it was like.

Love of a family can’t solely heal wounds that deep. It never will. A family left knowing that if they had the money for private expensive treatment facilities, Sean’s story may have ended differently. Sean’s decay spread quickly, until his trunk split right down the middle.

A tree trunk can only recover if less than 25% of its trunk is damaged. When along Sean’s story did the wounds exceed his 25%? Long before his trunk split, clearly. Was he at 15% when I had him arrested? Was he at 20% waiting over Canada day weekend for a bed in rehab? Would that have even brought 5 to 10% healing? Or would it have just delayed the inevitable? Or would dropping back to 15% or 10% give enough time for his trunk to scab over and start healing? Ten years later, knowing that rehab generally fails, would it have made an ounce of difference? I know it’s a process of addressing mental illness, trauma, medical or social situations that lead to the drug use.

The time with trees makes you think. Makes you ask more questions. The trees haven’t given me all the answers I think I need, but they have given me insight to the process. How being in tune with nature, the mother of all life on earth, gives clear direction on how to grow, to rest, survive and ultimately start over again. We as humans, have strayed away from being in tune with nature, the ease of listening, feeling the timing of the season and knowing what we should do.

Did you know that trees communicate to each other? They send warnings of pestilence. They send nutrients through root systems to the trees that need help. I had no idea until I read “The Hidden Life of Trees” by Peter Wohlleben. As a culture we seem focused solely on the individual, instead of a close knit village. In the village, like in the root system, a danger to one is a danger to all and each member plays a vital role contributing to the group. Sometimes I wish we were more like trees.

Grief, loss, trauma, death, will alter the way we see…well basically everything. As you guessed it, like trees for me. And a host of other shit, but for now we’re talking about trees.

Have you ever looked at trees this way?

I haven’t always. After Sean died I spent a lot of time looking at trees. Thinking about trees. Spending time sitting beneath them. That much time with something makes you wonder, research, read and ponder some more. Do you think that if we listened to our seasons and rested when the time came, we may have less wounds? I think so. I try. Although resting hasn’t been my strong suit. Our human world isn’t built for humans to rest. Or take the necessary time to heal wounds properly. Maybe if it was, we would have much less decay.

The items you grasp onto and focus on are surprising. Like this maple tree. Why that tree? Was this the closest tree? No, because he had to walk back to the garage to get the rope and walked past a forest of trees. Was it the access of the branch being easy? Was it the memories of childhood in that place? Was there meaning to that spot I didn’t know about? Or was it completely random? Had he thought this through in advance, or was it spur of the moment?

We use to climb trees as kids. Mostly the apple trees in the back yard because they were easy to get up into. Sean was always a little hesitant, but me being the typical big sister, I would call him chicken and the next thing he’d be up there too. Free range kids is what we would be called today, but in the ‘80’s we were just kids. Exploring the world around us. Sitting near a brook, making damns with rocks. Playing with frogs. Building forts and camp fires that our father, the fire chief of the town, decided was unacceptable for all the grown-up reasons children shouldn’t build fires with gasoline, construction paper and sticks, while in snowsuits with no adult supervision.

Trees were how we heated our homes. Power goes out regularly on the east coast in winter. If you don’t have a wood stove you’re gonna freeze, or at least the pipes will eventually. I was a small child when I started helping with the wood in the fall. I have clear memories of carrying, what seemed like the heaviest piece, on the longest walk to rank them. Learning, or rather being told over and over if you do it that way it’s going to fall down. We learned fast.

Grampy and Dad taught Sean how to fall trees correctly. How to rig up the tree and haul it out. Nope, I was not privy to those trips even though I always wanted to go. It was Dad, Grampy and Sean time. Grampy started getting the truck stuck more often as he headed towards 90. Imagine a stump just popping outta no where. He was 91 the last year I saw him split wood.

As you can see trees are wrapped up in many of my memories. Yet I never put much thought into them other than if they were good for climbing or shade on a summer’s day, until Sean died. As you can clearly see from all my questions, I don’t have all the answers, but by posing the question maybe a fellow “pondered” will arrive at an Edison moment. Maybe as a weird village we can arrive at a solution for healing and new growth.

What we didn’t know

A few months before Sean’s suicide, he and I were driving to town to pick up Brayden, his son. We were having a conversation about a man down the street who had died by suicide recently. The man had a wife and children. They had gone out and during that time the man ended his struggle. His wife found him upon returning home. I will never forget my brother’s words.

“Heather, we’ve had it really bad many times and we figured it out. How does it get that bad that you leave your wife and kids? What can be that bad? Your kids growing up without you. I could never do that to them.”

I made the usual statements, “I don’t know man, he was clearly not well; something bad must have happened; I couldn’t do it either; I don’t understand.” We never came to a conclusion of any sorts. I forgot all about that conversation until the day he died. The day suicide claimed him.

“I could never do that” he said. Yet he did.

He got that bad.

He left us all.

I often wondered if other people had the same conversation about Sean like we had about that man. Asking the same type of questions. Wondering how it got that bad. What could have been so terrible that the only answer was death? How could he leave his family behind? Through the words you’ve already read and the ones yet to come, maybe, just maybe I will be able to provide a perspective that helps. I don’t have the answers. Those clearly belong to Sean and Sean alone; however, I desperately want to tell his story. My mother’s story. The story of a family.

The events that lead up to Sean’s and then my mother’s suicide are not clear, nor pretty and won’t make sense to everyone. I didn’t know his or Mom’s mind. I don’t know every moment that led up to their decisions. I know parts of before and I know the aftermath. The moments etched in stone that are clear, vivid and the moments that are dream like with a fog of, this can’t be real. Or is it the desperate hope of wanting it to be a dream, a nightmare that I’m still waiting to wake from that carries the fog? Let’s be honest though, hope is not a commodity I carry often. Hope is: desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment; to cherish a desire with anticipation; to want something to happen or be true. My hope would be this is all a nightmare, I’ll wake up in sweat drenched sheets and they aren’t dead. Maybe my hope is that no one else will experience anguish at levels that change their lives so fundamentally that it feels like you’re an imposter because you can hardly recognize yourself. Now my hope is small. That I can watch my nephew’s hockey games, that I’ll get a few more good trips in with Dad, that I can make someone else’s journey lighter for even a minute. Those are my hopes. Some call it cynical or bitter to not have an unwavering amount of hope. To those people I smile, saying, “I’m so glad to see the world hasn’t been harsh with you yet, please cherish that because once it’s gone it is actual thoughtful effort to see hope as anything but cruel naiveté.”

I’ve been walking the streets of my new reality, or my new normal as they call it. Knowing with each step I’m moving in a direction away from them but also carrying them with every beat of my heart. It’s a difficult feeling to convey with words. Moving away and still carrying. Finding a balance and searching for understanding. Letting the past be the past and living well for the future. Being joyful even while pain is present. Never forgetting while building new. All of those items exist within me at any moment. Not always steady like a metronome but more like a broken cuckoo clock, and that’s okay.

One of my beautiful souls who fights their fight daily, once said to me that mental illness is a death sentence, it’s not a matter of if but when. Since my brother’s suicide in 2010, there have been an alarming amount of people in my life that either succeeded in ending their pain, attempting to, or wanting to so desperately they showed up at my door riddled with tormenting agony. A beautiful soul in summer 2012 fought fiercely, who is alive and thriving today. My mother’s mind claimed her in 2012. A dearly beloved coworker was dreadfully overcome in 2017, which rocked our little work family. Another dear friend in the midsts of the beautiful summer days in 2018 had the courage to say I can’t be alone right now, can we do something. I have had more than a few close friends call me after someone they cherished lost their battle. Asking me what to do, say, talk about their feelings and apologize for asking me, but they didn’t know who else to ask.

Somewhere along the way I became sage with death. Who knew that would be a title you could earn? Certainly not me. I suppose every group needs one, so here I am making the best college try at helping my friends, family and sometimes perfect bloody strangers navigate death. From the logistics of police, hospitals, funeral homes, the government to the grief that sometimes takes them by utter surprise because it’s been 6 months, a year, or 3 and now their emotions have decided it’s time.

Through all these conversations I realized too few people are being vulnerable with their pain, preventing others from learning or preparing. Yes, preparing because death is inevitable. The method is the only variable. Vulnerability is difficult for me in many ways. By difficult I mean I have read and reread almost every Brene Brown book long before she hit Netflix. Many of her passages are powerful and impactful but this one might explain more in a few lines than I have yet with all these words, “Daring greatly means the courage to be vulnerable. It means to show up and be seen. To ask for what you need. To talk about how you’re feeling. To have the hard conversations.” You might be reading this thinking no fucking way, this chick puts it out there, and I do, but that doesn’t mean in the midst of the crushing waves of my own grief I don’t wall up, bear down refusing to let those who care the most lift me back up. My cry is ugly and so sorrowful that it breaks the hearts of people who hear it. I know because I’ve watched their hearts break through their eyes, as they desperately try to comfort me. It’s just been the past year that when I hear those notes rising from my soul that I recognize them as the bewitchingly magnificent song of love. The leftover love I carry for those I’ve had to bury. The love for the woman who was Heather.

So if you’ve read the last three stories and you’re still here, I will be doing my best to be vulnerable and have the hard conversation by sharing my story, my family’s story.

Can you wash my whites

July 4, 2010…the day that forever changed my life… the day that continues to be difficult. The weeks leading up to this day flood good and bad memories all at once. The day my brother decided he couldn’t fight his battle any longer and died by suicide.

Sean came back to Dad’s after going to church with him. Which in that moment I thought was a good thing. He’d get connected with people and maybe find some solace. That sentiment wasn’t going to last. He walked into the house looking pulled together, wearing nice wrangler jeans, one of his George Strait bull riding button downs with his Ariats of course. He lived in those boots, even more than me.

I had gotten home from spending the night at Michelle’s. We had spent the day before hitting all the Canada Day events with her kiddos. Oddly that night we watched, The Lovely Bones, a story of a girl’s journey following her murder and watching her family’s pain. Looking back it seemed like the most shocking foreshadowing. Here is raw, highly emotional pain of loss and how it destroys those left behind. It seemed at the time like a really sad “movie”. Little did I know the pain the actors portrayed wouldn’t even touch the real life agony that was about to unfold inside my soul.

Now back to adulting, doing my laundry. And trying to figure out what to do to help my bother. So what do we all do when battles need to be waged…we watch fighters, or at least I do. I tap into the inner animal to protect my family. So here I sat watching Spartacus beat the ever living snot outta other badass dudes while my brain ran scenarios: what do we do, who do we talk to, we have no money, we have to wait until Lonewater farm gets a bed open, why can’t we be in Alberta where resources are available, fucking New Brunswick, solutions, I need solutions. Usually Sean would just plop down on the couch and watch it too, he didn’t though. Here I sat in Nike basketball shorts and a tank top, on a couch straight outta the 90’s— beige with large dusty rose flowers the firm old people type, not comfy, but mom loved it— being domestic surrounded by laundry watching people fight to the death while trying to figure out how to help my brother fight that demon of addiction that was eating him alive. Looking back it seemed like my own movie scene. I asked if he wanted me to do any of his laundry with mine as he started walking down the hall to his room. He took my head off, “why are you asking me questions as soon as I walk in the damn door?” He continued to his room and I sat there shaking my head and saying, “Okay, never mind”, to no one. About 10 minutes later Sean came out of his room and back up the hall. He’d changed into a tight fitted green T-shirt and baggy khaki cargo shorts. He may have wore tight shirts, but he never wore tight pants! He quickly apologized for being an ass. We talked about supper.

“Let’s have chicken,” he said.

“Don’t let Dad bbq, he’ll burn it. Can you do up the potatoes and onions in tin foil? When I’m done mowing I’ll come down and bbq.”

I said, “Ya sure no problem, that sounds good”.

As I sat there folding my work clothes, he was standing in the hallway between the living room and kitchen, he looked at me and said “Can you wash my whites?”I looked up at him, smiled and said “Sure thing man.” Then he walked out the door. When I switched the laundry over that’s just what I did. I washed his whites. Not knowing he’d never wear them again.

He’d been battling. There was no room at rehab after he detoxed, then went to Dad’s to wait for a rehab spot, because this province didn’t have the resources and support needed, mental health or addiction. That battle changed him. My life long friend. The person I was silliest with, the person I was 100% me with. The person I didn’t have to use words with, a look across the room was all it took. The person I would laugh so hard with while doing dishes with that I’d end up on my knees with hands still in the sink. The person who had my back in more bar altercations then I’d like to admit. The person who was my whole childhood wrapped up in a smile.

That person. He is missing from me.

Sure he shows up from time to time. As the years pass his presence is less frequent. I’m not sure why, maybe I’m better, maybe he’s better. As much as I enjoy the feeling of his presence, it also reminds me of his absence. It’s bitter sweet. I’ll always take the bitter for a second of the sweet.

I’m going to take this chance to make you aware of what occurs post death of a loved one. Beware of the clueless, well-meaning people. They don’t know what to say so instead of saying nothing they will say, “He’s always with you”. Internal monologue: no he fucking isn’t. He’s dead. He will never be with me again. For Christ sake don’t say that to people. You may end up throat punched. This is a piece of advice I beg you to pay attention to, if not for the grieving party’s sake, for your own ability to continue being able to breathe. Saying that only reminds the grieving that the person is gone, it does not bring comfort. Feeling Sean with me doesn’t come close to him being in the passenger’s seat on some random adventure. Almost 9 years…and yet, at times, it feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. I think I forget the sound of his voice, or the shades of blue his eyes would change to depending on his mood.

I would have done anything for him…but can you wash my whites is all he said to me.

I would have done anything for him…and all he asked me was to do his laundry.

Unsiblinged

For 27 of 29 years of life, I was a sibling. The older sister to a younger brother. Part of a duo. Almost every childhood memory wrapped up in another person. A person who knew our story as well as I did. A person I didn’t have to speak words to for him to understand, it’s time to get the fuck outta here. He’d read my raised-brow and facial expression like a flashing neon bar sign. His subtle head nod with chin stuck out was, I feel ya, let’s go. You can’t just have that kind of relationship with anyone. It’s a lifetime of construction.

In a breath it stands in ruins. I have lost the only person who has access to the same memory bank.

When we were little and he was afraid or Mom & Dad were fighting, he’d sneak into my room. We’d read books with a flash light or play made up games. The one he liked the best was Ketchup Mustard Relish. Yeah you read that right. It’s about to make even less sense to you. I would lay on my back with my feet up, and then he would put his belly on my feet. I would hoist him into the air holding his hands. I would sway my legs back and forth, side to side like he was flying. Then I would go really far left and say mustard, then really far right and say ketchup. Finally I would go once centre again and say RELISH and drop my legs and he would fall onto the bed and laugh and laugh. I always changed it so each spot was something different, but every time I said relish he knew he’d fall. See it’s a game that makes no sense to anyone but me…now.

One of my favourite memories is washing dishes with him at my grandparents house. I always washed, he always dried and we always laughed. Blissful soul lifting laughter. I don’t have any idea what we would laugh about but something would be said and I’d be on my knees, hands still in the sink dripping with soap, roaring my big belly laugh so hard my cheeks would hurt and tears would stream down my face. Sean would be standing there shoulders scrunched up, dish towel in hand shaking back and forth with no sound coming out and his eyes closed in a squinty face. Someone would ask, “what is so funny?” We’d try and tell them but words didn’t come out. Just random babble through the laughs that only each of us ended up understanding. Finally whoever had asked would shake their head, smile and walk away, never knowing the joke. It always took forever to wash those Sunday dinner dishes, but it was the best time. This carried on right up until life got serious and shit went sideways. To laugh like children in your mid to late twenties, that’s pure joy. Washing dishes at that same sink is way less fun these days, it actually feels like a chore and I don’t laugh like that anymore.

Now that person no longer exists.

Not in the realm I’m currently in anyways. There is no one else that knows my memories. Who remembers things I’ve long forgotten and can tell them back to me. There is no one I don’t have to explain everything about my family’s situation either. There was no buffer to help me with Mom & Dad. Specifically Mom, Sean handled her way better then me. There is no one who loves me unconditionally even though they vehemently hate me at times, like he did. That’s what siblings do. All of those things. If you are born a sibling you have a connection, good or bad, a deep connection that doesn’t happen again with other people. I have childhood friends who are like siblings to me but it’s different. It’s not as deep, it’s not as raw. They don’t know the small moments, the day to day workings. They never will but god love each for trying like they do.

Almost every time someone co-pilots for me now, I get annoyed. Everyone does parts of it wrong. It’s not their fault. I say nothing because it’s my own neurosis. It was a lifetime of him knowing what to do and me not having to give direction.

Years and years ago Sean, myself and Ex-boyfriend, ummmm…let’s call him Paul, were on a road trip. Now Paul was not a new boyfriend, he’d been around for a while, so he should have known. Paul was in the front passenger’s seat. We got drive-thru and were back on the road in record time. Paul started to eat his food, failure # 1. I reach my hand over and he put a fully wrapped burger in it, failure # 2. I said “Fries first please”. Paul handed me the fries. I reached for the ice tea and there was no straw in the cup, so I asked for one. Paul handed me the straw instead of removing the paper and putting it in the cup, failure # 3. Sean sighed deeply from the back seat. Some time passed and I ask for my burger. Paul handed me the fully wrapped burger. I put my signal light on and pulled to the side of the highway. Sean got out and walked around the car. He opened Paul’s door and motioned for him to get out. Paul looked at me and Sean said, “Until you learn to do it right you can’t sit in the front.” I nodded. Paul got out and moved to the back seat. Sean buckled up and I merged back into traffic. Once we were moving along, Sean unwrapped the burger halfway and handed it to me with a napkin. He took the straw I laid down, removed the paper and put it in the cup. Then he took the burger wrapper when I’d finished. Finally he turned in his seat and explained to Paul, “Dude she’s drivin’. She has one hand. YOU put the straws in the cups; you wait until your on the highway and then YOU hand over fries. When she hands you back the empty fry container YOU unwrap the burger coz she is drivin’, and when she finishes having a drink YOU hand it to her with a napkin. Then she will hand you back the wrapper and you’re done. Easy, got it?” Paul learned to co-pilot and never messed it up again. I learned apparently not everyone understands co-piloting 101 and my bro had spoiled me.

Now when people mess up I yell at him in my head, if you weren’t dead I wouldn’t have to deal with this horseshit, it’s all your fault. I hear him laugh and say, Sorry dude, I know but it’s kinda funny to watch. Though frustrating, those glimpses into his afterlife, the voice I hear makes me grin. Then they hand me the burger instead of fries first and don’t tell me the exit is coming up until it’s too bloody late. For the love of Pete people, pull it together.

* * *

The day I buried Sean, half of me went into the ground with him.

I didn’t realize that for a very long time. I thought that she’d come back one day. The woman that laughed so easily with every cell in her being vibrating in joy. The woman whose co-pilot never let her down. The woman who thought all her loves would be building a life with her. The woman who built a life around her loves, her people. The woman with the shared memory bank. The woman with a brother.

She never came back.

A new woman showed up.
A woman who had to learn to laugh. Maybe not as deep and maybe not as long but with every passing year the laugh gets bigger. A woman with patience for co-pilots who mess up. Ok fine we are still working on the patience part, but she doesn’t throw them out of the truck. That’s what we call progress people. A woman who knows her loves leave for their next journey long before she thinks they should and that’s okay. A woman who builds a life for herself and sees her loves as bonuses and blessings. A woman alone in a memory bank. Not an only child because she has the memory of being a sibling, being a part of something bigger.

A woman who is unsiblinged.

Shoes

The day after the funeral, I got a call from an administrator at Brenan’s Funeral Home telling me Sean’s personal effects needed to be picked up. Although confused, I told her I’d be in shortly. During the drive in I was trying to figure out what they had waiting for me.

I trudged to the desk. My feet feeling like they were coated in concrete. I was greeted, as always, with a warm smile and, “Good morning Heather.”

These people really rocked dealing with the worst moments of a stranger’s life. They spoke and acted with such pleasant kindness and joy that granted me reprieve for a few minutes from my soul-crushing pain. Sometimes those few minutes were the only thing that propelled me into the next breath. It was in sharp contrast to the pitying, head-tilted look I’d been given that week. I desperately wanted to slap that look off peoples faces.

The staff at Brenan’s saw me; they saw Heather. Not the sister of the man who they helped bury, not the daughter of distraught parents whom she managed, not the woman who pulled off her first funeral, not the customer who owed them a shit ton of money. They saw Heather the person. There are no words I know that can express my deep gratitude for that seemingly simple act. 

I explained I was there to pick up Sean’s personal effects. She went to the room beside the reception desk and returned with a large white hospital bag, the kind with the plastic handles that snap together. The kind I’d seen many times before. With the same warm smile she reached over the desk and handed me the bag. I immediately opened it and looked inside.

There were only shoes. Sean’s hiking sneakers to be specific. The smell of fresh cut grass and sweat wafted up into my nose.

Slightly confused I looked up and asked, “Where’s the rest of his clothes?”

Which I instantly regretted because the smile faded from her face as she formulated her response, “The hospital had to cut his clothes off his body so they would have disposed of them…”

Silence.

I closed the bag. I took a breath in and looked up at her.
“Oh right, I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright dear. How would you know?”
“Right, anything else you need from me?” 
“No, that’s it.”
“Alright then. You have a lovely day.”
“You too, Heather.” And her smiles back, this time, there was a hint of sadness. She knew what I was thinking: Strangers cutting the clothes off my brother’s body.

Sharply feeling the contrast between the pristine aesthetics and the grotesque agony oozing from my soul was my cue to leave. I turned, lumbering down the elegant hallway towards ornate antique doors. I opened the doors. They felt shockingly heavier than they did on the way in. I walked into blaring summer sunlight. That early summer midday high in the sky blinding light. With a bag of shoes. Two shoes, a left and a right.

I stopped in the middle of the parking lot, standing there with this bag, trying to breathe, trying to think, and holding onto that bag so tightly the plastic handle cut into my palm, but there was no pain. Pain had become relative. Physical pain was easy.

Time stopped.
I stopped.
The world stopped.
And then it started again. I noticed the cars driving up and down on the street. The pedestrians at the corner waiting for the light to change. Everything moving on and my world was in pieces. It had stopped, but everyone else’s was still going.

I don’t know how much time had passed as I stood in the middle of that parking lot, but I’m thinking it was longer than “acceptable”, as someone else in the lot asked if I was okay. I didn’t look, I said yes and walked to my Jeep. Thank the knockoff world for oversized wannabe Prada sunglasses that hid me from the stares of others. No windows into my soul. My soul was missing. In those 20 steps a thousand thoughts ran through my mind.

So glad it was me and not Mom & Dad
I need to get fuel
Shoes
Fuck
I should probably eat something
I’m not hungry
You should probably cry now to get it out
Fuck that
Why wouldn’t they just throw the shoes out
Who picks up just shoes
Does this happen to everyone, does everyone pick up a bag of shoes
How do I ask people if they had to pick up shoes at the funeral parlour
I can’t be the only one
How is this my life
What am I gonna tell Mom & Dad
Bloody hell

I got in the Jeep and sat there looking at the bag on the passenger’s seat, where Sean use to sit. I called his phone and listened to the voice mail again. I sobbed. My brother’s life was now reduced to shoes.
What in the fucking hell am I gonna do with these god damn shoes?
I called Jess, I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was about those god damn shoes.

Most people associate the smell of fresh cut grass with spring. For me, it’s a bag of shoes, every time the scent hits me, I remember his shoes.

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

Life is a beautiful journey and it can bring devastating events to us. The purpose of the words to come are to share my stories of loosing my brother and then my mother both to suicide two years apart. After years of having private conversations with many people, friends and perfect strangers, I have noticed a common theme that people feel alone in their grief, trauma, pain, mourning. They are unsure how they should feel, or where they should be at in their journey and don’t have people to discuss the deeply raw emotions that surface. Grief was once explained to me as an ocean. Some days it’s calm and you can swim along smoothly. Other days it’s a hurricane and you are drowning in the thunder waves crashing down on you over and over. That resonated with me. 

So here I will be vulnerable. Share my experience, pain, brutal honestly on all aspects of my journey along side the deaths of my loved ones. This is my life, my story, my memories in the worst moments. My hope is someone may read a story and know they are not the only one. That they can be angry, sad, hurt, heart broken, lost and living, growing, moving forward while never forgetting. 

I believe that death, suicide, loss is not nearly discussed as much as it should be. Few are prepared for the freight train that will slam into them. We hear about sex, babies, marriage, taxes, credit, politics, and more recently that mental health needs to be addressed and the stigmatizeism removed but I still find few people actually doing anything or telling their stories. It’s like people are using a script someone predetermined that no one can relate to. Not everyone will relate to my stories but someone will and even if it’s just one person in a dark moment that finds a light, then sharing my journey is completely worth it.