An intersection of gratitude and grief

It is my brother's death that accelerated my own self-help journey, so it is there where I will begin this newsletter. Included in this edition: how to help someone experiencing loss.

Nov 26, 2022

When my brother died, I lost a piece of myself. I’d always thought of us three kids as a unit, a trio, a package deal — even if the reality of our lives didn’t match up with my imagination.

I’m the youngest and the only girl. Anthony, the brother who died in May 2020 at age 36, was the oldest.

Photo: Eddie, Anthony and Ria in what must be 1989.

There weren’t many people I could talk to about my brother — none of my friends in California knew him and my friends back home in New Jersey had only met him here and there. My dad and Eddie, the middle child, weren’t much into talking about emotions and our mom was in too much agony to be any sort of solace for me.

Anthony had an ex — the mother of his child — who had rightfully moved on in the years since their break-up or, at least, I felt I shouldn’t force her to talk about him. She gladly shared their son with me, bringing me to tears on video calls since he was so much like my brother when he was at his best.

In desperation, I considered calling exes from high school or even my ex-husband (yes, I’m old enough to be divorced), knowing they would remember Anthony. They would be able to understand just a little. But that felt selfish and I resisted that urge.

In the months and years proceeding his death, I felt like a crappy friend, crappy employee and utterly useless human. Despite the help of friends and colleagues, I felt stuck. I knew I had good reason for it, but I still felt shame alongside my newfound self-compassion.

My therapist at the time, normally a tough love type, showed a new side of herself. She told me to try to do just one thing each day and to be proud of myself for getting that much done — even if it was seemingly as simple as taking a shower.

Sometimes I would shower. Sometimes I made sure to eat toast before drinking coffee. Sometimes I swam in the pool of my apartment complex, releasing an anger I didn’t know was in me with every stroke and crying while I imagined Anthony talking to me from the side of the pool.

“Whaatt!? Ria, you have a pool! Look at you, little sister,” before making some funny voice or expression and jumping in like a rowdy teenager.

“This can’t be just about your brother.”

It was as if Anthony, Eddie and I were triplets and one of those triplets just died. That’s how I tried to describe the loss to those who couldn’t understand. I saw a surprising amount of resistance to the idea — the fact, really — that the loss of my brother would cause me so much pain and affect me so much.

The special bond between twins seems like a given, so I thought this analogy would help. It didn’t.

Would people see it differently if we had lived in the same state? If he came over every Sunday for family dinner or if we’d been roommates as well as siblings? Would it be different if he were a successful doctor or beloved pastor or notable politician?

My brother struggled with addiction and, because of this addiction, he wasn’t always the deep, loving, affectionate, empathic, funny and silly boy he sometimes could be: what I see as his essential self. Even amidst his addiction, he always had hope things would get better and was able to get into and stay in rehab programs for years at a time. He worked very hard to slay his demons and deserved another shot at life.

It seemed like his addiction was one of the reasons some couldn’t understand my reaction. As if, because of it, his death was inevitable — even though he didn’t die of an overdose — or that his life was meaningless.

I feel just the opposite. The pain and suffering he went through to try to beat his addiction and, really, the trauma underlying it, makes his death more sad, not less. He didn’t have a wonderfully happy 36 years and could leave this planet grateful for his life. Most of it was unhappy, he just tried to make the most of it.

He’s the one who was able to forgive our parents, to let go of his anger toward our extended family and to society. He was forever the optimist and, it turns out, even when his addiction seemed to be driving us apart, he was actually the one keeping our divided family together.

There’s still been no obituary, no funeral, no memorial bench. And, knowing my family, there may never be any of that. He lives on my last “Jersey Girl” column for the Napa Valley Register, in some stories I weaved him into at The Desert Sun, now in this newsletter and forever in my head and my heart. As I type this, I remember realizing we had the same hands, the same insecurities about how quickly dark circles show up on our pale faces and the same love for loud music and silly voices.

He introduced me to alternative rock and rap. He got excited to watch my reaction as he introduced me to Good Charlotte. He passionately explained the meaning behind Trent Reznor’s “The Hand That Feeds” lyrics randomly once while we walked through a parking lot. And, when my heart was broken for the first time at 14, he had me listen to From Autumn To Ashes’ “Autumn's Monologue” on repeat, forever teaching me the magic and the beauty of just letting yourself live in your sadness when you need to — when it is called for.

In 2020, it was called for (for so many reasons).

Above: Strange Planet by Nathan Pyle. See more of this on Instagram @nathanpylestrangeplanet

In 2022, and going into 2023, there will still be times when it is called for.

Most days I can work, I can feed myself and make sure the animals I live with are cared for. While I was grieving and feeling my worst, I still won awards for my newspaper and helped people find access to mental health care and vaccines. I didn’t shower everyday, but I helped keep a newly formed newsroom union strong while bargaining its first contract. I was overwhelmed and out of shape, but I was able to spend hours on end jumping on the trampoline with my nephew and making new memories being silly with him on the boardwalk like my brother would do if he were here.

It would have been reasonable to not being able to do the above while grieving. I did yet I still faced frustration from loved ones sick of hearing about it and/or just couldn’t bear witnessing my pain. I was at peace with the fact I was crying a little bit of every day. I could wail in agony on my living room floor and still, at the end of the day curled up with my cat, feel like I had a good day.

It was other people who couldn’t handle my tears. I was other people who needed my sadness gone, suppressed, invisible. I wondered, if I can handle this, why can’t they?

What helped me through the early days of grief and loss?

casseroles, or the equivalent thereof
It was easy to forget to feed myself and, without asking, I had friends who made meals and brought them to me, did some grocery shopping for me, and/or sent meals via a delivery service, brought pizza over, etc.
understanding, forgiveness, compassion
I missed text messages, phone calls and emails. I didn’t show up to important events and forgot to check-in on others. I could be snappy at cashiers and the women who answer the phone at the health insurance company. The latitude I was given by friends and strangers — and sometimes myself — was crucial and so appreciated. Maybe that person being rude at the grocery store truly is an asshole or maybe they just lost a parent, child, sibling or spouse.
patient ears
When it feels like everyone is tired of hearing about your grief, your sadness or the loved on you lost, one of the most valuable things you can be given is a patient, supportive listener — someone who will let you cry for an hour on the phone without judgement and without suggestions. Someone who will just let you cry with company. A blessing.
random, day to day help as needed
When my brother died, I was set to move eight hours south to Palm Springs, Calif. I hadn’t packed, found an apartment or made any real moving plans yet. I had people who stepped in to help me and, though I maybe shouldn’t have accepted some of the help (from exes, for example), at that point in my life, I really had to. So, if you’re in the position to offer help, do so. Do it for the right reasons and without expectations. If you can’t do it, it is OK!
Maintain your boundaries.
sunshine
Get the hell outside and in it if you can!
Lucky me, I moved to the desert. Con: isolation. Pro: endless sunshine. It is difficult to rot in bed when the sun is blazing through your curtains.

Lastly, If you think someone who is in pain can think clearly, I’d beg to differ. It isn’t an excuse but it’s a pretty valid reason. And, in my case, just a fact. We can’t be at our best all the time and the expectation that we should be is bonkers.

Allow for imperfection.

Losing my brother has changed me. I will always prefer to have him here, but he’s bought me many gifts since leaving. I may have lost a piece of myself when he died, in grieving, however, I found pieces of myself that had been long ignored, neglected and forgotten. The journey isn’t over and, if you’re still reading, you’re along for the ride.

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