Today is my brother Jeff's 50th birthday. I can hardly get my mind around it. He certainly doesn't look 50. For at least the past 20 years people have assumed he's my younger brother. Not exactly a boon to my confidence...but understandable nonetheless.
As a protector, Jeff has been the epitome of the perfect older brother. I've always felt safe with him. When we were little Craig and I were both terrified of thunderstorms, especially ones that came in the middle of the night. We'd run to my parents room and plead with them to allow us to climb into bed with them until the storm passed, but we were always told to quit being silly and to get back into our own beds. So we'd go to Jeff and he'd always let us curl up with him....the three of us all huddled in his small twin bed. Comforted by his lack of fear.
After my dad's funeral I accompanied my mom back down to Florida and spent eight days there. They were the most difficult eight days of my entire life. I'd never witnessed such intense grief. I thought she would never recover, that I'd essentially lost her, too. I didn't know how to comfort her. I feared for her sanity. At one point I looked up every "doctor" in their address book and begged them to prescribe something for her, anything. Even if I had scored on some drugs she would have refused to take them. She said she didn't want to mask anything.
Neither of us took a shower for days. It seemed somehow like getting cleaned up would have been disloyal, a signal that life was continuing on without my dad. She had put a few articles of my dad's clothing in a ziploc bag so she could open it up and smell him. When the day came that she couldn't smell him anymore she curled up in her bed and cried such deep heart-wrenching sobs that I could hardly stand it. I was so unsure of myself, so unsure of how to respond to her. Should I give her the privacy to mourn in her own way? I could hear her talking to my dad and to God, would I be interrupting by going into the closed bedroom? Should I go in there and just hold her and cry with her? Or would my very presence stifle a necessary grief process? In the end I stayed huddled in my own bed, crying and begging God to give her the comfort I knew only He could ultimately give her.
At the end of the eight days, Jeff flew down. I've never been happier to see him. I could have fallen to my knees and kissed his feet in gratitude. He took over. The endless paperwork, the financial wrangling, all my dad's belongings, all the myriad of distasteful tasks that had to be accomplished that we were incapable of doing. He was just what we needed. It never occurred to me then to think what Jeff may have needed. How he may have needed to grieve.
My mom tells of watching him from their balcony as he sorted through some things in the trunk of their car. Unaware of being watched, he pulled out the ever-present tow rope, and as he looked at it and held it he slowly dropped to his knees and sobbed. Who knows why such a seemingly innocuous object would awaken such deep emotions. I don't know if it was because we never drove new cars or we just happened to be the hapless recipients of lots of "lemons," but a tow rope was as integral a part of our cars' accessories as a spare tire was to others. You just never knew when a towing might be necessary. Nostalgic memories of being towed must have overwhelmed Jeff at that moment.
We've relied on Jeff for all sorts of unpleasant tasks since my dad's death in 1999. Horrifying things, really. I don't know how we could have managed without him. I've never given him the proper kudos for always being willing and able to tackle the tough stuff that needed to be done.
Reflecting on Jeff's life today, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for him and wanted to acknowledge him as the unsung hero he is.
Happy 50th Birthday, Jeff!
I love you.
