What Helped Me Survive My Brother’s Death (Letter 1 To A Friend in Mourning)
This is the first of two long form messages I shared with a close friend who was grieving the sudden loss of her husband. The second one is here.
Prelude
Twenty years ago, I lost my younger brother and closest friend. He was just thirty. His shocking diagnosis, illness, and death shattered me, over and over. The void left behind was a menacing and unrelenting force that devoured my sense of purpose, my ability to find joy, and even my desire to keep moving forward. It took years for the dust to settle, though even decades on, I'm still not entirely sure it has.
When a close friend of mine unexpectedly lost her father, I found myself face-to-face with similar ghosts. One minute he was here, vibrant and alive, and the next — gone. Life is ever so precious — profound and beautiful, but at times, horrifying, shattering in an instant, leaving behind an aching quiet and a deep and enduring emptiness.
I was also close with this friend's mom, who was understandably devastated. When I reached out to offer my condolences, she opened up to me. She had a desperation to understand how I dealt with the loss of my brother, and in particular, how I navigated losing the comfort of his presence and the emptiness of never being able to talk to him again. I explained that while the pain never fully heals, it does become something you learn to carry — a weight you slowly find a way to hold and manage. I shared with her several ways I learned to keep my brother's memory close and his presence anchored in my everyday life.
Later, she told me that some of the ideas I shared with her had brought her immense comfort. It occurred to me that if these thoughts had helped her, they might also help others. So, I decided to share them here.
Message 1: Bringing My Brother Back
...F-U-C-K. I definitely didn’t know that you and Jeffrey had been together since you were 18. Wow. Says a lot about both of you. And what you said in your text says a lot about Jeffrey. I really wish I had known him better. He always seemed very solid to me. Like a quiet rock.
I know it’s not the same — Jeffrey was your husband of 35 years — but I felt similarly with the loss of my brother. Like, how am I gonna do life without him? He was so singular to me, why would I even want to. I was haunted by the same questions for years: how do you fill an unfillable void? How do you replace the irreplaceable?
I asked myself over and over and over. I realized I needed to figure out a way to make his presence in my life feel more real and true and three dimensional. Talking about him, telling stories, and revisiting our shared memories was nice but it wasn't resonant. There had to be more. I tried many things, most of which did not work, until finally, two different things I tried clicked. I’ve never shared this with anyone, mostly because, who would really care, you know? But I’m happy to share this with you hoping only that it’ll help. Of course, if it’s not helpful or seems stupid just delete this message.
The first thing that worked and still does to this day, are the many conversations I have with him. I figured out over time that the key to making these conversations actually feel real is to treat them like they are real. So for example, any time I say something to him, I pause and not only imagine what he’d say back to me, but also what kind of expression or intonation he’d say it with. It may sound crazy, but it really worked, and 20 years later I still talk to him like this for hours and hours.
The second thing that worked was to train myself to see my world through his eyes, on command. This also took a lot of repetition and practice before I got any results. Like my brother and I, I’m sure you and Jeffrey had your own language. Things only you and he knew or thought or laughed at in a way that only you and he could. Whenever one of these things comes up, I first see it through my eyes how I normally would, and then I pause and really take the time to imagine how he'd see this same thing through his own eyes.
My brother and I weren't just brothers and best friends. We really saw through each other; we really knew each other. We didn't just have a dialogue; we had a shared understanding about everything. The kind of relationship that quite literally ensures never feeling alone. I always knew that this was way, way more of a big deal for me — I needed to know I wasn't alone — whereas it never occurred to him that he was. This was his enduring gift to me, whereas my enduring gift to him is that I was his older brother, and that means a lot to younger brothers. It did to him, for sure.
From what you've told me about your relationship with Jeffrey, you really get this. All those individual quirks we all have, but that only that one special person really gets and understands. So what I started doing is focusing on those things, like trying to experience the world as he experienced it. For example, my brother hated when different foods on the same plate touched, he hated talking to anyone on the phone when they were eating or drinking — the sound drove him nuts — and he hated when people honked their car horns. These things were hysterical to me bc none of them bothered me. But once I began actually experiencing hating things he hated, loving things he loved, and laughing at things that he’d laugh at, even though I myself don't necessarily feel that way about those particular things, he was suddenly more present to me. He was right there, back experiencing life with me.
I guess what I’m trying to say is when someone is sooooo important to us and so integral to us that we literally cannot afford to not have them around, even if they’re no longer alive, it doesn’t mean they’re no longer present and it doesn't mean there aren't things we can do to make that presence feel more real.
I hope this helped even if only in some small and tiny way. I love you and I am here.