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."
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