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Got a call at 6 AM this morning. It was my mom. She said she had bad news, and to brace myself: my brother Chris died in his sleep last night. He was forty-five, and we still don't know what happened. My mother, naturally, was quite upset. I was, um, vaguely sad. Because I barely knew him. The last significant conversation I had with Chris was maybe ten years ago.
Chris and I were very different people, and we never really got along growing up. My other brother once summed up Chris's favorite things as "beer, cars, and Marvin the Martian," which is pretty accurate. He didn't like fussy little nerds, and as a general rule he just ignored or went around things he didn't like. I was a fussy little nerd--honestly, I was a sullen brat a lot of the time, I can hardly blame him. It was just how he was. Around my late teens he made a heroic effort to bond with me, I think partly because of my mom nagging him. Not sure. He took me out to places every now and then, like go-karts. Eventually that petered off and I went to college. He and other brother took me out drinking on my twenty-first, trying to get me to hurl, just as a rite-of-passage thing. Didn't see him after that until my wedding, which again I think he only attended because of Mom. He said maybe three words to me, went off to play with my brother's kids.
He liked kids. Really, really liked them. He never had any himself--he said he was too selfish to be a parent--but he loved playing with his nephews and nieces. Except mine. I had vague hopes that we could patch things up when my first son was born, but every time he stopped by to visit (he spent the last decade and change of his life in Colorado, for the skiing) he made no attempt to communicate with me. Eventually we happened to meet. He was falling-down drunk, and on meeting my baby son he loudly muttered, "Jesus, I can't believe that guy had a kid." He then realized he'd been audible, and followed up with a loud, "I'm sorry, ****, I'm sorry, out of line, I just . . ." (damn-I'm-wasted shake of the head). He never met my second son; that might have been the last time I met him in person. I haven't told either that their Uncle Chris is dead. It wouldn't mean anything to them if I did.
I saw him on FB; he was friends with a lot of my family and friends, and posted on their stuff. I considered sending a friend request every now and then, but always told myself, "Dude, he doesn't like you. Take the hint." I wasn't really angry at him while he was alive. Chris was Chris. He didn't go out of his way to be mean, just didn't bother pretending to be friends. Now that he's gone, I can't really cry for him. I cry a little, but mostly for what was missed. It's a kind of self-pity mixed with anger. My kids never got to meet Uncle Chris. They would have loved Uncle Chris, and he would have loved them. But nope. Didn't like their dad, so **** "that guy's" kids. What the hell, man. I probably could have tried harder to mend fences, but it always felt like it would only have been so much wasted effort, so much straining and pretense, and now it can't be done.
Most of the time, that's how I feel. Sometimes, I cry, and I'm damned if I could tell you why. Maybe I remember that guy who did some cool stuff with me when I was seventeen. I think he was my brother. But it was a long time ago. I went to work today, briefly lost composure, but pulled it together and did an eight-hour shift without anybody appearing to notice anything was wrong. Which, in itself, seems deeply ****ed up. Sooner or later I'm going to have to meet up with my family, and I won't be able to hide the fact that my brother was a stranger and, for his own sake, I can't bring myself to care beyond feeling petty and angry. I don't think I hid it all that well during my talk with Mom. I'd already planned a vacation and used paid time off to reserve the last half of May. I still want to take it, but by the tail end of May I'll be long over this. I don't know what to do.
Chris and I were very different people, and we never really got along growing up. My other brother once summed up Chris's favorite things as "beer, cars, and Marvin the Martian," which is pretty accurate. He didn't like fussy little nerds, and as a general rule he just ignored or went around things he didn't like. I was a fussy little nerd--honestly, I was a sullen brat a lot of the time, I can hardly blame him. It was just how he was. Around my late teens he made a heroic effort to bond with me, I think partly because of my mom nagging him. Not sure. He took me out to places every now and then, like go-karts. Eventually that petered off and I went to college. He and other brother took me out drinking on my twenty-first, trying to get me to hurl, just as a rite-of-passage thing. Didn't see him after that until my wedding, which again I think he only attended because of Mom. He said maybe three words to me, went off to play with my brother's kids.
He liked kids. Really, really liked them. He never had any himself--he said he was too selfish to be a parent--but he loved playing with his nephews and nieces. Except mine. I had vague hopes that we could patch things up when my first son was born, but every time he stopped by to visit (he spent the last decade and change of his life in Colorado, for the skiing) he made no attempt to communicate with me. Eventually we happened to meet. He was falling-down drunk, and on meeting my baby son he loudly muttered, "Jesus, I can't believe that guy had a kid." He then realized he'd been audible, and followed up with a loud, "I'm sorry, ****, I'm sorry, out of line, I just . . ." (damn-I'm-wasted shake of the head). He never met my second son; that might have been the last time I met him in person. I haven't told either that their Uncle Chris is dead. It wouldn't mean anything to them if I did.
I saw him on FB; he was friends with a lot of my family and friends, and posted on their stuff. I considered sending a friend request every now and then, but always told myself, "Dude, he doesn't like you. Take the hint." I wasn't really angry at him while he was alive. Chris was Chris. He didn't go out of his way to be mean, just didn't bother pretending to be friends. Now that he's gone, I can't really cry for him. I cry a little, but mostly for what was missed. It's a kind of self-pity mixed with anger. My kids never got to meet Uncle Chris. They would have loved Uncle Chris, and he would have loved them. But nope. Didn't like their dad, so **** "that guy's" kids. What the hell, man. I probably could have tried harder to mend fences, but it always felt like it would only have been so much wasted effort, so much straining and pretense, and now it can't be done.
Most of the time, that's how I feel. Sometimes, I cry, and I'm damned if I could tell you why. Maybe I remember that guy who did some cool stuff with me when I was seventeen. I think he was my brother. But it was a long time ago. I went to work today, briefly lost composure, but pulled it together and did an eight-hour shift without anybody appearing to notice anything was wrong. Which, in itself, seems deeply ****ed up. Sooner or later I'm going to have to meet up with my family, and I won't be able to hide the fact that my brother was a stranger and, for his own sake, I can't bring myself to care beyond feeling petty and angry. I don't think I hid it all that well during my talk with Mom. I'd already planned a vacation and used paid time off to reserve the last half of May. I still want to take it, but by the tail end of May I'll be long over this. I don't know what to do.
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