Nonsequitur Life

My brother Joe died.

Typing those words does not make this seem any more real or any less impossible, but it’s true.

Friday, November 4th, 2022.

He was 54 years old.

Mom called at 8:00 in the morning. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw her number on the screen. I knew something was VERY WRONG as soon as I heard her voice. I was not prepared for what she had to say. Blindsided doesn’t even come close. He’d dealt with some significant health issues in recent years, but I don’t think a heart attack was what anyone expected.

It feels stupid and wrong and contrived and attention-seeking to be writing this in a fucking blog post on the internet. I can’t possibly do justice to his life or the impact of losing him in a smear of words on a screen, but it feels exponentially worse to not say anything about it at all. I can’t just gloss over it and pretend life is business as usual. I don’t know where to put this information so I’m putting it here. Maybe it will help curb the urge to scream MY BROTHER DIED at every person I cross paths with.

There was twelve years between us. He was finishing high school when I was starting kindergarten. We clashed a lot in our younger years, but after he moved out on his own, things leveled out. He had a middle child complex you could see from space, and he lamented at many family gatherings how there were no pictures of him as a kid, but tons of me. To which I always reminded him, that there were so many pictures of me as a young kid because he took them.

He was snarky and salty and sarcastic. He was funny, a story teller, incredibly social, and always had something going on. He haaaaaated country music. He didn’t touch sweets. He loved to cook. He enjoyed golf, hunting and fishing, and spending time Up North with Gayle and her extended family. He was a creature of habit, very particular about a great many things, and had the same well-kept mullet hairstyle for more than thirty years. He didn’t have much time for willful stupidity, but he was incredibly patient, and he always showed up when someone needed help.

He was with Gayle for almost three decades, and none of us can forget that they were together for a good two years before we even found out about their relationship. Amy found out from his friend by accident and confronted him about it. It took them about fifteen years to get married, and when they finally tied the knot, we asked, are you sure you’re not rushing into things?

His reviewal service was on November 11th, one week to the day that he died, at a funeral home close to where they live. There were so many people that showed up. It was a full house the entire evening. Immediate family had a window of time just for us before everyone else got there, and when others arrived, they came in droves. There wasn’t an official service, but a few people did get up to speak about him, including Gayle, which—I can’t even fathom having the strength to get up and speak at my husband’s funeral. She didn’t say much, but it was important.

I’ve been to my fair share of funerals in my life, most of which were Catholic, two-day productions of an evening wake one night and a morning funeral service the next day with a full Catholic mass, followed by a graveside service and a luncheon hosted by church ladies. For lack of a better phrase, it was a refreshing change from the ceremony, invasive smell of burning incense, and the mournful hymns of Amazing Grace and On Eagle’s Wings to just exist in a space for a few hours with people who are heartbroken too.

Every funeral sucks, that much is true. But I’ve never experienced one from this side of things and, while inevitable, I hope like fucking hell we don’t have to do this again anytime soon. As his wife, Gayle was central, but so were my parents because, as it goes, you’re not supposed to bury your children. But Mike, Amy, and I were also right there in the thick of it because he is our brother. As much as I hate being the center of attention, it was a relief to answer everyone’s how are you doing with an honest LOUSY and be met with understanding and not an inquisition. It’s perfectly acceptable to burst into tears every time you talk to someone new. Many will cry right along with you.

He’s being cremated and will eventually be buried in a private cemetery in Savage where many of my dad’s extended family are buried, including my grandparents. That is currently planned for next spring, so there will be one more step in the process.

I have cried more in the past few weeks than the last decade combined. I had no idea it was possible to hurt so fucking much and feel completely numb at the same time. The numbness has mostly worn off at this point, but It still doesn’t feel real. I cannot comprehend how this is real.

I am heartbroken. I am devastated. I am angry. I still feel completely blindsided. There are times I struggle to breathe. I don’t know how to process any of this.

The last time I saw him was at my cousin’s wedding reception in August. I hugged him goodbye when we left. It seems innocuous, but it’s notable because we usually don’t do that. Now it feels like everything. One small thing to hold on to.

Words are inadequate. They feel hollow and half-assed. I could write pages and still fail to do justice to his life and the gaping hole left in his absence. But I still don’t know where else to put this. So I’m putting it here.

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