Remembering

Today was Veterans Day here in the US. 

But in my family, Nov 11 has a different meaning altogether. On that day, six years ago, I received one of those dreaded late nite calls, announcing that my only sibling, Philippe, had taken his own life. 

I recall vividly a world, which all of a sudden had become strangely muted, all colors dissolving into a pale grey, all sounds filtering in from seemingly far away, a sense of emptiness that is unlike anything else I had ever experienced. This couldn't be. We had so many more experiences to share: our kids's adventures and misadventures, bosses to complain about, vacations to enjoy together, sly glances to exchange when our relatives did or said something silly, arguing about politics, hearing "salut, frangine!"

There were so many emotions, a bundle of conflicting and contradictory feelings. None of them particularly helpful.

The guilt, in cases of suicides, is overwhelming and all encompassing. The 'what ifs' and 'if only's.' Why didn't I fly home as soon as I knew something was amiss? How could any other obligation have been greater than that to my own brother? What about others around him: couldn't they see what was going on? We should have, could have... There's always 20/20 vision after the fact.

Then there was the anger. Unfocused. At circumstances, at people, at the world. Even at my brother : "I could kill you for doing this." How could the world "simply" go on? Hadn't reality shifted for others too? "hey you over there, laughing about something: can't you show some respect?" Why were some shuffling 90-year old people still alive while Philippe could still have made a difference? (yeah, I know, I didn't say any of it made any sense). I couldn't stand hearing people somehow rationalize that decision based on some religious principles: he's in a better place; God works in mysterious ways (that's for damned sure); it was his time; he's better off. By whose standards?

And of course, depression. A feeling of abandonment: he left me on my own. A realization of the very special bonds between siblings, that nothing and no-one can ever replace. The precarity of life and the relative insignificance we each have in the general scheme of things: life as the great steamroller just goes on, unmolested and uncaring. Where to get the energy to give a darn about anything. Listening to the well meaning words of others. Hating the sentence "I know how you feel": how could that be, as I had no clue what I was feeling.

An inability to mourn. As the surviving lone child, your role is to "be strong" and support your parents, in my case my mom. A suppression of your own feelings. An expectation that you will pull it together and help others do the same because now "there's just you. And if you were to crack, then, well..." All the while, falling apart inside and just wanting to scream.

There isn't a day that passes that I don't think of Philippe. But, at this point (and after a helpful course of therapy and lotsa love and support from my own family), I recall and think of him in 'happy' terms. I'll come across something funny or intriguing and can hear what he would say (we'd have had a ball discussing the US elections...). I face a difficult decision and imagine the advice he would give ("frangine, laisse tomber, ce sont des cons"). The melancholy is still here but it is now longer overpowering. The void Philippe left is still there too, but now as a gentle reminder that I really shouldn't sweat the small stuff.