About Being Free

We had a balloon launch for my brother today. At 2:00 PM EST (around then anyway) all over the country, our family and friends let go of a balloon with a note attached. In Indiana, where we are, about 40+ kids showed up. We met in the lobby, and filled up balloons and wrote a note on them (or put a note in them). I don't know the names of most of the kids that came, but I know each one of them were touched by knowing my brother.

It was a freeing day. The weather was beautiful, and we shared happy stories of my brother.

My mom went to see him at the funeral home today, and she asked me to go see him. I had been adamant about not going to see him. Because it would be too hard. But my uncle, step-mother, father, mother, and grandmother had gone to see him, and they all thought it would help me too.

I doubt I'll ever forget walking in and seeing him. I held fast to my mother's hand as I walked in. This guy sweeping the floor opened the door for us, and he explained that he was currently just laying on a table with a blanket and hospital gown on him, and his coloring was off because they hadn't done his makeup yet.

I think that image will stay with me for the rest of my life. He was huge. He was just a huge guy. Yet there he was, just laying on a little table with naught but a blue blanket covering him. And he felt so small. He didn't have the energy that he always had about him, and I knew then that he was gone.

Ryan's presence was always bigger than he was. He was a huge guy with an even bigger personality. Even when he was under three feet tall, he was just pure energy. And this body that couldn't contain his personality was all that was left.

I touched his arm, and I'll always remember just how unreal he felt. He was freezing. There was never a day in his life that Ryan was cold. He wore shorts in the middle of winter because he was so hot. That was what really triggered in my mind that Ryan was gone. It still doesn't seem real, because I still feel like I sense his energy just waiting for me to look up and see him, but his body isn't here anymore.

I also will never forget his face. His face was blue, his lips were white, and he was cold. He looked at peace though. He truly looked like he were sleeping, and having a pretty funny dream. He had a little smile on his face. Not at all the smile he wore a lot, but just this little half-smile. I stood there for a moment, and rubbed his cold arm. And mom and I talked. I told her about talking to Ryan in my heart, and that was what was important to me. And I kissed my hand and put it on his cheek. And we left for the balloon launch.

We've been talking a lot about Ryan. About him meeting his older brother up there. About how mom's guardian angel years ago was a son she had miscarried. I like to think that I've heard him talking to me before, that his name is Sam. Sam was younger than I, by about two years or so. Mom miscarried between me and Ryan. I like to think that Ryan met his older brother, and they're hanging out on a beach, talking about the things that they never got to do, but they can do now. The things that they're going to watch me do as I grow older. And I'll meet them again someday. And we'll be three kids together again. And we'll be free of the cares of this earth. And both of them have a lot of explaining to do, for leaving me alone down here. But I know they'll tell me, when I meet them again, that they knew I could do it.

About Friendship and Siblingship

Today was another hard day. And damn if it isn't over yet. People keep coming to the door to offer condolences and sympathies. I appreciate them. I truly do. But it is exhausting. It is so exhausting to have to talk to everyone who didn't know the problems my brother had. It's hard when they pass judgement, about his life, or how we could have better helped him, or if he was not religious enough.

Two guys from the gym came over today. Dale, one who had really tried to help Ryan out, cried for us. Josh, who hadn't known Ryan as well, was there in sympathy. They talked about Ryan, and how they would have done things differently if they could.

And the pastor came over. The pastor that we chose lives just across the street from us. He didn't know Ryan as well as he knows my mom, but I felt more comfortable having Ryan's funeral being done by him. I'm sure my parents felt the same way. He asked my parents for memories of my brother. Things they had enjoyed doing with him. I sniffled my way through their stories, laughing at some of the things I hadn't thought about in some time.

Like the time my brother had tubes put into his ear. He was four years old, and he had to have surgery because of his ear problem. The doctors gave him medicine to help get him to sleep, and a stuffed Lion. The boy, wild as he was, began to sing "In the Jungle" at the top of his voice. And he fell backwards out of my mom's lap and hit his head on the floor. But he just got back up, and continued singing until he was finally out.

But I didn't really start crying until Pastor Tom asked me about my memories. And my memories are so different than those of my parents. I was four when my brother was born. Four is not an age where you can objectively think of the pros and cons of having a sibling. You just get one. And I was such a proud big sister. I wanted to immediately take him out and show him all of the things we could do together. Swing on the swing sets, swim in my grandparents pool, play in the dirt. Anything and everything, and he would be my best friend. And throughout childhood, as he grew, he was my constant friend. Sibling relationships are so different. You rely on each other in ways that you can't rely on your friends. You rely on each other in ways you can't rely on your parents. And yes we fought. All siblings fight. But we would still have sleep overs in his bunk bed, and we would play with the same toys (and we would fight over them).

Your best friend is always your sibling. But that relationship is not really considered friendship, because you are siblings. You have friends outside of your family that eventually mean more to you than your sibling does, at least in a different way than your sibling. But your sibling always has your back, and will help you no matter what.

There is no word for losing a sibling. Children who lose parents are orphans, spouses who lose a partner are widowed, but there is nothing for losing a child, or losing a sibling. There is nothing for losing one of your best friends, your brother.

I wish English didn't fail us so horribly, and there were words for such moments in life. But there aren't. There isn't even semantics really. And I feel like it would be much easier to cope if it could be defined.

"Do you have any siblings?" "I'm the only remaining child of my parents."

About Memories and Faith

I spent all of the third day in bed. I got up in the morning for breakfast, food that a neighbor had brought for us. I answered a phone call from my dad, and told him that I was staying in bed most of the day. I slept.

It was the best thing I could have done. I don't think I could have faced the memories without sleep.

People came. My mother's college best friend came to talk to her. She drove from two hours away, and she spent the morning with her while I slept. Then in the afternoon, her high school girl friends came to be with her.

I finally left the house. I went to visit my dad, who was staying in a hotel in town, and took him and his wife food. I had been going through pictures of my brother, ones that I had stored away for some reason or another. And I found one of my brother and my father.

I took the picture to him, and he cried for a little while. We talked for a long time about the memories we had of Ryan. Just the little things that he would do that would make us laugh, or would frustrate us. He was no angel, but he was a great kid. He was a fantastic little brother, though I wanted to ring his neck most of the time.

We talked of other things as well. What I intend to do with my future. Where I plan on moving. What I can do with my degree. What my step-siblings are doing, how they are doing in school. What they plan on doing with their lives and educations.

But it was good to laugh, and share the good memories of my little brother.

When I came back home, I talked with my mom a little about faith. The one thing I know for sure, today, is that there is a purpose for all of us. I believe that we choose our path before we are born. Before we are even thought up. Our soul chooses the outcome of our life so it can grow. My brother was a young soul. He was new. He had a lot to learn about life, and people, and trust, and love. I'm unfortunately an old soul. My choice was to help others through this time. This is what I chose to do. And I know that I will meet my brother's soul again, in another lifetime. I will be reincarnated with a different path, while making a choice to take what I have learned from this lifetime and putting it to another. And my brother will be doing the same. He will take what he learned from this life, and put it in another life. Where he can help others.

I told my mother what I know in my heart is to be true. I talked to our friends, and I told them "Religion is for the living." It is. It is there for us to have something to lean on when we are unsure, and we can't talk with those that know all the answers. When we can't talk with the prophets like Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha. Or directly with our god of choice (God, Allah, Yahweh, Krishnah). Religion is for the living. The dead don't need it. They know the answers. My brother knows the answers now. He knows that it all comes down to 42 (Little joke for those who have read "The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy").

I did speak to my mom about what little I know of numerology. I think there is a big part of numbers that are guiding me as I write this. I believe numbers pop up for a certain reason. Three has always been a large part of my life. I wake up, almost daily, around 3:30 am (especially when I go to sleep before 3:00 am). I find things, or lose things, in three. Mice come into the house in three. And Ryan died after the third overdose.

In numerology, three is one of the best numbers in the world. According to one website, "[Three is] the purest love, and the epitome of goodness". I've also heard that 3 is the number for Christ. Everyone knows that the devil is 6. 666 is the mark of the Beast. But 3, half of six, is the purest number in the world. It is the first prime number. Jesus was 33 when he died, according to Christian beliefs. He was resurrected on the third day. And I believe that my brother, on his third overdose, was just saying that he wasn't going to be taken by the demons that would certainly come after this.

Maybe it's a radical belief, where I am from. But it is what I truly believe, and like I said, "Religion is for the living."

About Fear and Grief

It was a completely surreal experience, walking into the funeral parlor. I had been with my mom since we found my brother, and now, my dad and his wife were in town. I came right inside and immediately hugged my dad. We cried some more, together.

The one thing I didn't expect was how caring the people at the funeral parlor would be. My mother and my friend, Mason, his wife Nikki worked at the funeral parlor, and she was one of the first people to hug us. We followed the funeral director into a room filled with comfy chairs, water, coffee, and portions of coffins.

I thought it a funny thing that the funeral director told us before we went into the room that there were coffins in the room. But looking back, I'm glad he did.

My father sat down at a chair, and he immediately flushed, started breathing heavy and looked like he was about to pass out. He took some of the waters and put them on his neck so he could breathe better.

We started out talking about the basics for the obituary. What was Ryan's full name, his date of birth, his social security number, where was he born. I had to answer that question for my mom. She couldn't remember where he was born, well, it was more like she drew a blank. I told them where he was born. And then we started talking about his likes. The things he loved to do, and what he would be remembered for. He played the drums and guitar. He loved music. He loved sports of all kinds. He was a big guy with an even bigger heart. Who he left behind. Who was meeting him.

And then we had to make the choices. What kind of funeral. Open or closed casket. Do we have a viewing and a funeral for more than one day? Where are we going to bury him? We at first thought that we would bury him near a friend of ours. We would buy two plots, because he was such a tall, wide guy that he wouldn't fit into a regular single space. He didn't fit into a Queen sized bed. He had to sleep cross-wise because he was truly that tall.

And then we took a break. We couldn't focus any longer on the specifics. We took a bathroom break, and we got up to look at caskets. But then we were drawn to the urns. I started crying when I looked at my parents.

"I don't want him to be alone."

And that was my biggest fear. The single reason why I was crying so much through the whole process. I didn't want my baby brother to be alone. Maybe it's selfish of me to want to keep him. Not give his friends a place to go to be with him. But in less than a year his friends will have adjusted. They will have moved on, found new friends, maybe even moved out of this town.

But I don't want him to be alone. If he's buried here, I wouldn't be able to come see him on his birthday, on Christmas, on days when I just need to feel close to him. I didn't want him to be alone and scared. And that was my biggest fear.

Once I let that out, my mom and dad both let out a huge sigh of relief. Immediately, they changed most of the plans they had for his burial and for a graveside funeral. They picked out a set of three urns, one big one, one small one identical to the big one, and a little heart, for me. All matching.

And there was so much relief that came at that decision. We were able to proceed without as much heartache, at least on my part.

When all was said and done, we had been there about four hours. Planning a funeral is no easy task. I guess I hadn't realized how long it would take. I left there, feeling less afraid for my little brother. But I know it's not a choice many families can make. Culture plays a lot into how a family member is put to rest. Our family is so spread out; my father lives in Tennessee, and my mother and I live in Indiana. I plan on moving in the near future. I knew laying my brother in the ground would not be something that made us feel better, and I'm glad I spoke up about having him cremated.

About Death

I'm sure, had he grown older, that my brother would have a lot more to teach me. As it were, the first, most important lesson he taught me was about death. Oh, I'm sure over the years he has taught me other things, but the first thing, the most imperative thing, he taught me was about death.

He died on December 30, 2011 around 5 a.m. Just yesterday. He was nineteen years old. He was one of the sweetest boys I knew. Okay, maybe that's a lie. He wasn't sweet. He was caring, he had a heart as big as his body, he was smart, but made dumb choices. He had a gas problem. That's one thing I hope I never forget. How annoying it was when he would pass gas and then let the smell permeate the air. He would just laugh every time. His smile was so big. And he truly loved everyone he cared about.

But he had a dark side. He was plagued by demons, some of his own design. He got into fights. He let his anger overtake him and he would use it against someone he didn't like. He was, I assume, bi-polar. They placed him on medication a few months ago, and it helped his attitude immensely (at least at home with his mother). He also abused drugs, which, ultimately, was his downfall.

The story goes that he took a combination of drugs that night. He went to a friends house, and they stayed up half the night talking. And eventually, they went to sleep. His friend woke, around 5 a.m. on December 30, 2011, to what she thought was him snoring. She went back to sleep, and when she woke around 12:30 p.m., he was dead.

I didn't find out until about an hour later. I had just finished working out, and was in an incredibly good mood. I came home, showered, and sat down for some lunch. My roommate, Patti, was headed to work and I told her bye, and that I would take the rent deposit to the bank.

I was filling out job applications online, as my fervent desire was to leave Indiana and find a job elsewhere. I had just finished an application when my cell phone rang.

I jumped up to get it, because I had been hoping for a few weeks to hear back about some previous applications I had put in to various places. And I saw that it was from my mom's office.

I didn't think much about it, because she would frequently call me when she had something she wanted to talk to me about. "Heellooo?!" I asked, smiling, wondering what it was she wanted.

"Jess. Are you sitting down?" It wasn't my mother's voice. "I've got some bad news to tell you."

I knew then that something had either happened to my mother, my uncle Del, who has severe cancer, or my brother. I admit that my first fear was that something had happened to my mother. The last time someone other than my mother had called me about bad news, my mother had been in a near fatal car accident.

My head got light, as it does every time I know bad news is coming. My knees weak. "What?"

"Ryan is dead."

I don't remember the rest of the conversation, only that I was needed at home as soon as I could get there. I could hear my mother screaming on the other end of the line. It was a wail, and a sound I doubt I'll ever forget. I hung up the phone with an "Okay. Okay." Not even bothering to say goodbye. I was panicked. How the hell do you deal with something like this on your own?

I recall screaming, "No! Oh my god, no!" And almost immediately, I called my Dad.

"Hi, Baby Doll."

"Daddy. Daddy, I have bad news."

"Good news? What?!" He was hoping for the job applications as well.

"No, Daddy. Bad news. Bad, bad news. Gary, at mom's office just called me. He said Ryan is dead. Oh my god, Daddy? What do I do?"

"What? No! Is this true? No."

"I don't know! I don't know what to do!"

There is no sound more heartbreaking than a grown man sobbing for the life of his son. "Let me call and make sure. Let me call."

He hung up and promised to call me right back. At that point I started sobbing. I couldn't control it. I cried and shook, and I was alone. Almost immediately, I called my roommate to come back.

"Patti? I can't take the rent check to the bank. I'm so sorry. My brother is dead. I have to go home."

"What?" She asked. "Don't leave. I'm coming back right now."

I didn't leave. I sobbed against my bed until I curled up in a ball on the floor. That's where she found me when she came in a few minutes later. She let me sob against her, a pitiful child clinging to the last shred of hope that whatever this was, it was a sick cruel prank.

It wasn't until moments later, when I received another call from my father, "He's gone." Was all he had to say.

The thing no one tells you about death is that it's messy. Sometimes for the body of the deceased. But always for the lives of the living. My roommate, my best friend, Patti, helped me get out of the house and down to my mother. Nearly an hour later, my mother was still sobbing.

The weather was fitting. It was pouring as we made our way inside my mother's workplace, where she was being held in the arms of a co-worker; a woman who lost her step-son to drugs.

I came in and held my mother. Unable to be as strong as I wish I could have been. I cried. Though I had been crying the entire way down to my mother I cried more now. We had so many people to call, and so many people were calling us to ask us if it were true, if we knew what happened. We weren't even the first to know.

We called the appropriate people, and we made our way home, slowly. Our faces red and blotchy.

The second thing no one ever tells you about death is how much food you receive after a loved one's passing. Within half an hour of people finding out about Ryan's death, food was being prepared. By the time we made it home, there were cakes, cookies, dips, trays of food, and even entire crock-pots full of things. My cousin made an entire party meal, after cancelling a New Years Eve party that night. People came by in twos and threes. Eventually every spare seat was taken up.

I was exhausted. All of the hugging and crying took a toll on me, but I had to stay strong. If just for my mother.

Soon, everyone left. Soon, I was laying with my head in my mother's lap, trying not to cry much while she rubbed my back and we watched TV. That was probably the hardest part of my life, the night my brother taught me about death.