The Night My Brother Died

I had just turned three. My brother was born that morning, and Lydia and I were at my grandparents, a house very familiar to us. Stephen, my brain-damaged brother who was a year and a half older than I, was also there. The series of memories is short, but I remember them as vividly as if they happened yesterday.

Lydia and I heard crying from the living room. My grandpa was bent over Stephen; I didn't know why. He was lying on a blanket, still and sweet in his curled form. My grandma looked at us, told us to get out. What was going on?

Lydia and I stood by the window in my grandparents bedroom - we never went in my grandparents bedroom. Why were we in here? I heard sirens and saw ambulances outside. Lydia looked at me and said, pray, Anna, pray. What was going on? Could I do anything? Why was grandma crying, and why was she being mean? I don't understand this, and I'm scared.

We were standing in a hospital room. It was white, and Stephen was on a bed. My pastor was there.

Lydia and I were sitting in the conversion van, waiting for Mom. We were taking Philip to the hospital for his two week check-up. Mom came into the car and whispered something to Lydia. I knew what it was. I don't why I knew, but I knew. I knew it in my gut, a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, and I had to find out. I rushed out of the car to our front porch, and there she lay, in her puke. No, not my Rottweiler, Liesle. Not her. Please, no. No, no, no. I threw myself on her, desperately clinging to her fur, and I wept uncontrollably. Why is she gone? I don't know where she's going, but I know I won't see her again. I want to see her again. I don't want to lose her. I can't lose her, too. Don't take her from me. I can't handle this. I can't do it. I just don't want to lose her. I just don't. I don't want her to go. Give her back. Please give her back. Please.

My Dad appeared. Mom had called him to come home from work because she was worried, but I don't remember that. I just remember him holding me, curled up on his lap. I kept crying, but he held me so tightly, and I was so safe.

I had a wonderful childhood, filled with amazing memories of frolicking in the woods, spending Sundays at Grandma and Grandpas, and playing with the neighbors. I remember moments with my siblings and cousins, but none are as vivid as this.

I never really grieved Stephen. Yes, objectively, I talk about the family's loss, I go visit his grave, I write to him every year on his birthday. If I'm honest, I didn't think I had the right to grieve. After all, he wasn't my child. I didn't wake up every day with this sweet little guy, the Big Mon, and pray that he would be healed, and that his body would be released from its prison. I didn't lay him on my stomach, making sure he faced the TV so he could watch Cleveland sports, even though he couldn't see. I don't remember anything from his life, save perhaps one vague memory of being by a pond that feels more like a dream, so why should I grieve his death?

Per my last post, I've been going to therapy. The no drinking didn't stick, but the therapy has. Incidentally, it would save me money if the no drinking had stuck and therapy had not, but o well. She practices EMDR, a treatment that uses the distraction of eye movement or hand vibration to help you process traumatic experiences. It's not hypnosis, so don't freak out. When I started going to therapy, I mentioned Stephen's death as I often do, objectively, and I said there probably wasn't much to process.

Y'all, I may have been wrong, and there may be some science to the psychology around childhood experiences. At the beginning of this year, I had a small experience, very insignificant in the overall story of my life, but it triggered something, and for the first time, I tied that feeling to the same feeling I had when I knew my dog had died. I then tied that feeling to many other moments in my life - those moments when I just knew something or someone was gone, and I didn't know if I could handle it. Or those moments when I said, take this from me now God, so you don't take it from me later.

I went to my therapist, and I told her I was ready to address this memory. I went back to my Grandma's house, to my front porch, to that hospital room. I wept. I wept for my brother, and I wept for me. I wept for what was taken from me before I had a chance to know it. For my three year old self who was never going to really have her big brother. I wept that my first memories were that of loss.

One of the purposes of EMDR is to identify thought patterns these experiences may have caused. There is a part of me, however deep and however small, that expects loss, and it's hard for me to trust that God will not take away something I love, because the earliest and strongest memories I have are of Him allowing that to happen.

Another purpose of EMDR is to break those thought patterns. We're working on that, and I'll keep you posted. Maybe I'm writing because writing's always been part of my process, but the writing is definitely scary. I'm scared that my family will think I'm going to a kook, my mom might worry - please don't worry, Mom - or that guys will read this and think yikes she's undateable - to be honest, probably not the best time right now - or that readers will think it's pathetic that I'm dealing with the emotions of a three year old at the age of 31. I want to be the woman who presented to an Amazon VP last week, not the woman who keeps breaking down as she proofreads this at her kitchen table. Sorry for any typos. But I'm not scared about God, even if I realized I have some trouble trusting Him.

I've been dwelling on John 21, when Jesus appeared to Peter and the other disciples after his death and resurrection. The disciples had expected Jesus to establish this earthly kingdom, but Rome was still ruling. After three years of abandoning their livelihood for Him, He was gone, and they once again had to provide for their families. Peter denied knowing Jesus before his death, and as he sat in the boat, failing to catch fish, surely he was questioning Jesus - whether or not He should trust Him. Yet Jesus came to him, in that moment, that moment of questioning. When Peter realized who it was, he dove into the water and swam with all his might to sit with Jesus and be in His presence.

I don't know what my dad was doing when my mom called him to come home that day. Maybe he was at his desk or with a client or in a meeting. But I have no doubt that he dropped everything instantly and rushed home to hold me. And if my father, a broken man, would do that, then how much more will God rush to hold me, to invite me to sit in his presence? I don't think Peter's questions were answered as he sat on the shore, staring at Jesus' face, but He did know one thing - He was in the presence of Jesus. The presence of his perfect love. Jesus was with him. And that was more important than anything else. That was enough.