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.