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This is a very personal reflection on a highly emotional experience from the last two weeks of my life. I’m sharing it here because I think it’s less unique than I wish it were in this era of our history.
I lost my big brother two weeks ago. Suddenly. 57 years old. He spent a full day at work, drove home, and collapsed in his driveway. A cardiac event of some kind, we think. No known health issues. No family history. No goodbye. Gone. Just like that.
A loss like that is unbearable in the best of circumstances, and torture in the worst. This is just one family’s story—my family’s story. But in a miniscule way, it’s also America’s.
You see, he left behind a wife, three kids, and a grandchild. He also left behind us: my mom, me, my husband, my daughter, my sister, and my two nephews. And he left behind a big, complicated mess.
My brother was a shy, chubby kid who grew up to be a handsome man with a ton of friends. He was a party host and vacation planner extraordinaire. But he struggled a bit with family sometimes, specifically my mom, my sister, and me, and particularly after my dad passed away. To paraphrase Seinfeld, you know how you say mean things you don’t mean? Well, he said the mean things you don’t mean, but he meant them.
But my brother had many wonderful qualities too, and was a lot of fun to be around. We were a very close family, both when we were kids, and later when we had our own children, who were all around the same age and basically grew up together. And he was a huge sports fan, so this day—Super Bowl Sunday—was a high holy day for him.
It wasn’t until 2017 that our family began to unravel. It started over something stupid, as most family feuds do, and it ended with my brother telling me that he and his family didn’t care to see us anymore. And for two years, they did not.
The Armistice
In 2019, my brother texted me again. At first, we rehashed some of the previous animosity, but then we called a truce between us. While, sadly, our families never again enjoyed the same closeness we once shared, he and I stayed in regular contact from that point on. Our favorite topic to discuss was sports. Our second favorite was politics. We had long been aligned on both—diehard Philly sports nuts, moderate Republicans pre-Trump, and independents post-Trump.
My brother didn’t vote the top of the ticket in 2016. I don’t know what he did in 2020, but I do know that as late as 2022, he still hated the “narcissist” (his word for Donald Trump) and the Republicans. The only difference between us at that point was that he equally hated Joe Biden and the Democrats, and I did not. But we agreed that our politics were broken, mainstream media bore a lot of the blame, social media was a scourge, and the 2024 election would more than likely be another shitshow.
In late 2023, something began to shift. He appeared to be heading down a MAGA rabbit hole—and fast. He suspected that Barack Obama might be running the country for Biden. He asked me how I felt about abortion, vaccines, trans issues, the border. He called the Democrats “commies,” but expressed support for Tulsi Gabbard. He openly admitted he was starting to believe certain conspiracy theories. This was all new territory for my brother. We remained respectful, but there was an unfamiliar edge to our political discussions that had never been there before.
Maybe it had something to do with his in-laws. They were a whole different breed—hardcore MAGA before MAGA was a thing. I clearly recall a discussion with my sister-in-law’s adult nephew years ago, while sitting in my brother’s backyard at a summer cookout. The nephew said he “read a lot of history,” and went on to extol the virtues of Adolf Hitler. “Say what you want about him, but at least he had a solution,” he said. I was flabbergasted. “A solution to what?” I asked, my voice reaching a higher register than usual. “He killed 13 million people!” He shrugged. “It was a solution,” he said, taking a sip of beer. I just stared at him for a moment, with my eyes narrowed and mouth agape. Then I walked away. You don’t soon forget a conversation like that.
Meanwhile, my brother’s conversations with our mom, who lives with us, gradually became more difficult. I would overhear them arguing about politics from time to time. She frequently told me she was worried about him. He sounded so angry, she said. And she never heard from two of his three kids anymore. She asked him to remind them that she was still alive and would love to hear from them.
My brother’s perspective was different. Our mom had “TDS,” he said, and his family had lost respect for her. It troubled him that they felt that way, he told me, but he also understood it. He said there was nothing he could or would do to convince his grown children to resume a normal relationship with their Gam. I didn’t share this with my mom. It wasn’t my place. But it made me sad for her. A loving, involved grandmother set aside, at a time in her life when she most needed the extra support.
The Awfulness
I was so close to texting my brother about the Bo Bichette signing. It was just the kind of thing we would rant about: how the much-despised Mets came in and swiped Bichette right out from under the Phillies. The two of us hadn’t spoken since baseball season ended. We had gotten a new puppy at our house in September, and she quickly filled up my already busy days. Then we were all sick over the holidays, and they passed by rather miserably. I wish now that I had texted him about Bichette. The day just got away from me.
January 21 was the day of Trump’s Davos speech. My brother was on my mind that day, and again, I almost reached out. I even started writing a text. The last political discussion we’d had was about the Jimmy Kimmel suspension, but he left my last text on read with no response. I wanted to check in and see if anything had changed since then. But I deleted it. I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be the last thing he ever saw from me.
Just before 10 o’clock that night, my oldest niece called. I knew something was awry, because she rarely calls (we usually text), and certainly not at that hour. “Hey,” I said tentatively. “What’s up?” She replied slowly, her voice cracking, “Well…my dad passed away.” I felt like all the air left my body. My husband and I both shrieked simultaneously, “What?!” When I caught my breath, I asked, “How? When?” I stood up. My legs felt like jelly. “Two hours ago,” she replied. “We think a heart attack.” My own heart was pounding. “Oh I never talked to him again!” I cried. She asked us not to call my sister-in-law. I told her I loved her, and we were there for them if they needed anything. I then had the dreadful task of informing my mother that her firstborn was gone.
The next day was a Thursday. We woke up in a state of shock. My mom and I spoke with my oldest niece briefly again. We wanted to know what happened to my brother. Had he been sick? She tearfully filled us in on some details, how she discovered him in the driveway. My heart broke for her. I didn’t want to keep her on the phone, so I said we would talk soon.
We didn’t speak to any of the family on Friday, as we wanted to give them their space. On Saturday, my mom asked the same niece if it would be okay for her to call my sister-in-law now. She also asked whether they’d heard anything more about what happened to my brother. My niece snapped at her. Stop bothering them, she said.
A mammoth blizzard hit on Sunday, leaving us encased in ice. The endless days of bitterly cold temperatures that followed were an almost-too-perfect backdrop for what ensued.
Like perverse stages of grief, each day brought its own painful insult. On Monday, I texted the family in a group chat to see how they were doing and offer our help, but no one replied. The obituary was published, and our family wasn’t mentioned. We posted condolences and photos on the funeral home website, and they were repeatedly removed. An in-law called to inform us that my mother, sister, and I could spend some time—alone—with my brother’s urn in the early morning prior to his funeral, but we’d have to vacate the premises before anyone else arrived.
On Wednesday, a full week after my brother passed, my mom finally called to ask why they were doing this. She was emotional. I heard my nephew’s voice briefly, but then my youngest niece shouted at my mom to “f-ck off.” We were crushed. I group-texted the family again. We knew they were grieving deeply, I said, and we wanted to support them in any way we could. We were grieving too, and it was a difficult time for Gam, as she lost her only son. Could we please be civil? My youngest niece replied with one of those 10-inch-long text messages that you just know you’re going to regret reading.
The little girl who used to watch me put on my makeup with rapt attention, sang “High School Musical” songs with my daughter, and always wanted to ride in the car with us when we all went somewhere together told me we were no longer family. She said we could never understand their grief, forgetting, I suppose, that we lost our own beloved father—their PopPop—when my siblings and I were around their age. She said her dad didn’t want us at his funeral because we hadn’t spoken to him or had any sort of relationship in 10 years, and we would be escorted off the property if we attempted to attend. We would not hear from them anymore, she added, because they were blocking all of us.
I was gobsmacked. None of it made any sense to me. Then I realized: they must not know. My brother apparently did not tell them that he was communicating with me regularly for the past nearly seven years. They did not know about the conversations through Covid, college graduations, family weddings, family deaths, Super Bowls, World Series, my broken ankle, his becoming a grandfather. They did not know he told me that his family’s feelings toward our mom bothered him, but it was something he was unwilling or unable to fix. They did not know that he called her from the car on his long commute home from work.
Our family relationships were not what they had once been. That was certain. But they were not gone. And we wanted to honor the son, brother, and uncle we knew, alongside our loved ones. That was all. I tried to explain this to my niece. I even offered to send screenshots of our recent conversations. It was to no avail. We were personae non grata.
We were conflicted as to what to do next, but other family members and friends encouraged us still to attend. They wanted to see us there. So my mom contacted the funeral home. Was it true? she asked. Would they really escort us off the property? No, she was assured. It was a public funeral, and we were welcome to be there. My mom was relieved. Because of the emotional awkwardness of the situation and her health limitations, we decided to attend for only the last half-hour of the two-hour visitation and then the service. We would sit in the back and pay our respects quietly from there.
We noticed a police car parked near the front entrance to the funeral home as we turned in the driveway. We pulled up alongside it, and my husband retrieved my mother’s wheelchair from the trunk. We loaded my mom into it and began wheeling her toward the door. An usher and a police officer approached to block us, informing us we could not go in. “You can’t be serious,” I said. “Police? What law are we breaking?” My mom got upset. “It’s my son,” she begged. “Please let me go in. Please.”
A few of our friends and extended family members came out to see us. They interceded on our behalf, but the usher remained firm: the family did not want us there. “We are the family,” my husband said. “My God, what kind of people are these?” I blurted out, through tears. They’re my family, I reminded myself silently. This is my family.
The police officer was young and had kind eyes. You could see it pained him greatly to turn away a grieving mother. He offered to go speak to the family himself, but returned with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said. “I hate this. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” He got a crappy assignment that day, and I felt pity for him. I shook his hand. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Thanks for trying.”
We returned to our car and drove away.
The Aftermath
My poor brother. I think he would have been mortified by the whole affair. But knowing him, he might have gotten a guilty laugh out of it too. With his sense of humor, I’m sure he could appreciate the absurdity of it.
In some ways, his loss would have been harder to come to terms with if our family was still as close as it had once been, and all that water had flowed gently under the bridge. But the regrets wouldn’t be here. The “what if’s” wouldn’t be here. The loneliness wouldn’t be here. And those won’t go away anytime soon.
In my mind, I cannot separate what happened to our family from what is happening in our country. First, the abject craziness of it all. Who blocks a good and loving elderly mother from her only son’s funeral? With law enforcement, no less? It’s unheard of. It’s insanity.
But other points rhyme as well:
— You can tell the truth, and some people just won’t believe it, even with proof.
— You can witness an obvious moral wrong, committed out in the open, and some people just won’t have the courage to stand up to it, even in the smallest of ways.
— Some people—even those who’ve known and loved you your whole life, or whom you’ve known and loved for all of theirs—can be manipulated to believe that you are not worthy of dignity and respect. Especially if they’re hearing only one side of a complex story.
— Forgiveness is really, really hard when divisions run deep.
The sad truth, manifest of late, is that it’s becoming more difficult for us to fully acknowledge the humanity of others: their emotions, their experiences, their thoughts and opinions. For some of us—maybe most of us, but I hope that’s not the case—our own story is the only one that matters. Others are just 2D characters in it. And when their narrative conflicts with ours, they become an annoyance, like a buzzing housefly or a tenacious gnat. We want them to just…disappear. By force, if necessary.
But mercifully, in times like these, you find out who can see the humanity of others—and who has the courage to stand by them, no matter what the costs. I am endlessly grateful for them.
To My Brother
I can’t believe you’re not on this side anymore, Bri. We were still tied heart to heart, despite our differences. You gave me the Snoopy that’s been on my bed since my fifth birthday. You let me tag along with you and your friends to see “Star Wars” and “Grease.” You taught me about baseball when I was seven years old, even though my incessant questions drove you nuts. We doubled for my junior prom, because you brought one of my friends, and I brought one of yours. We took a spring break road trip back in 1991. You took me to see Paul McCartney for my college graduation.
You introduced my family to Gatlinburg, and it became one of our favorite places. You came to the hospital to support us when our daughter was ill with the flu. You took care of our Josie when we went away for a long weekend and told us what a good dog she was. You helped plant the tree that grows in our front yard and drops its brilliant red leaves every fall.
All of that happened. All of that matters.
There were some things that only you and I could relate to, and I will miss that. I will miss hearing you greet me with “Hey, Lis.” I will miss texting with each other to celebrate or, more often, bitch about the Philly teams. And, yes, I’ll even miss debating politics with you. Most of all, I will miss knowing you were still out there, even if we didn’t talk for weeks or a few months.
It sucks, bro. You should have lived another 25 years. I’m so sorry this happened to you. But I hope you’re sharing a beer with Dad up there and griping about how the Eagles’ season ended. I’m so glad the Birds won the last Super Bowl you ever watched.
Baseball season isn’t far off…maybe you can light a fire under the Fightins for us?
Farewell, big brother. Until we meet again.
Love always,
Your sis
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