the day my brother died

On the day my brother died I was working at the gym. I had a few minutes between clients to make a quick call to my mom. I was in touch with her several times a day to get status updates. The one I received the previous night indicated that his vitals were good and there was no need to change my Friday flight to Texas. That was not the case on Wednesday morning. She told me that if I wanted to see him that I had better come right away. 

I hung up the phone and booked a flight for that evening. I made arrangements for Hazel to be picked up and boarded. I got changed, packed my bag and pedaled home to pack. 

The next several hours were a blur…and then I was on the ground in Austin, TX. My parents picked me up and we made a quick stop at the grocery store before heading to the house. We were half way home when my mom’s phone rang. It was Mart (Matt’s father in law). Everyone had been taking turns staying over night at the hospice. Wednesday was Mart’s night. I answered the phone...Matt’s dying you had better come right away...

I will never forget those words. 

He was already gone by the time we arrived. My mom said she had a feeling that Mart was going to be the one there with him. I had a feeling that he waited until he knew I was there with my parents. 

In many ways August 17, 2017 is more difficult than August 17, 2016. A full year of holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and memories have passed without him...365 sunsets. 

I still keep his final text on my phone...just wish we had more time...

lessons from my little brother

It’s been two months...

I’m trying not to be angry with the people who have not been here with me. I know that you would tell me that life is too short to hold on to things. The moon was amazing last night. I thought of you during my evening walk...and it’s totally cliche, but not a day passes without a thought of you.

Thank you for teaching me...to take the day off when the weather is nice...to drive a few more miles for a good milkshake(and to not feel guilty about having it)...to live life unfiltered.

Lately I have been feeling a little bit sorry for myself because there are so many things that I want to do, but don’t have anyone to share those experiences with...and I wish you were here to offer me some advice, even though I am pretty sure I know what you would say.

We are having an Indian Summer. Luckily, I haven’t put the top back on the Jeep. I went for a ride today to check out a local brewery and ended up at the beach. This summer was so hectic, I didn’t make it down there. It’s one of those places I’ve been meaning to go. Thanks for taking the drive with me.

What I said...

If someone were to ask my twelve year old self to name one thing that I have in common with my brother I’d be hard pressed to give a response. Even in my early twenties I’d struggle to answer that question.

Matt was intelligent, musically inclined and athletic...fashionable, good looking and popular...he was everything I was’t.

We became closer with age. From girls to guns, yoga to camping we learned that we had much more in common than our dislike of cheese (except of course, on pizza).

In August of 2012 we had the opportunity to share our mutual love for the outdoors, spending 10 days together at Glacier National Park. The memories we made on that trip are held close to my heart. 

Three months later, Matt had an emergency appendectomy and was diagnosed with cancer.

We kept in touch through emails, text, phone calls and visits. 

This year on his birthday I even sent him a good old fashioned letter...

If you’re reading this then that means I actually sent it.

Today is your birthday. Hopefully it was a better day for you than last year, which you spent in the hospital.

I’m glad that we had a chance to talk the last time I visited. It seems like you have made some sort of peace with your diagnosis. Perhaps that isn’t the best choice of words, but it’s all that comes to mind right now. You are doing the best you can with the hand you have been dealt. I admire you for that.

When we were growing up you were the fragile one. Mom always felt the need to protect you. Now, all I can see is your strength...and I am sure that I don’t even know half of what you have been through the last three and a half years.

The other day someone asked me how I was doing with all of this. Honestly, I haven’t processed it yet. I know that I worry about Mom and that my heart aches for Cliff...but I also know that the time we have right now is a gift...an opportunity to you show just how much I love you.

Keep fighting.

I made no attempt to conceal the emotional roller coaster our family has been on for the past four years. The journey has been well documented with titles such as “no peace” “pain cave” and “life, unfiltered.”

Life, unfiltered...this was the way Matt lived. He did not allow his diagnosis to define him. It was important for him to stay active and to keep working. 

His outlook was embodied in the words of one of my favorite quotes by Vivian Green, "Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass...it’s about learning to dance in the rain."

And now, for the unscripted part...

Matthew passed away peacefully late on the night of August 17th. The next day I asked my friends to watch the sunset with me and to share a photo of that sunset. I received close to 150 pictures from about 20 different states and created a slideshow (below). 

I have grown tired of hearing the words "I am sorry for your loss" because I did not lose anything. Matthew is still here with me. I see him in the setting sun each night.

the fighter

Mom called to let me know that you were going into hospice. 

I’m sitting on a plane in Minneapolis, waiting to take off for Kalispell...surrounded by all of these people, but have never felt so alone. And I feel so guilty that I am headed to my “happy place” while you are in so much pain.

Every one of those 134 miles I hiked were for you. Every flower, every waterfall, every mountain pass, every sunrise and every sunset came with thoughts of you.

I was extremely nervous about what might happen to you while I was in the park and unable to communicate with Mom...but you held on...and I wanted to thank you for that...because I needed to be there...to see that Glacier again and to share it with you.

Mom said that your heart rate is starting to elevate, that you don’t have much time left and that if I want to see you that I should get on a flight immediately. So that’s what I did...even though I swore up and down that I did not want my last memory of you to be in a hospital bed. Somehow, I think you knew that...and I think that all you wanted was to know that I was coming to be there with Mom and Dad.

That afternoon, Mom told you that I was on my way. You opened your eyes and looked at her. She knew what it meant.

pain cave

there was too much sadness tonight so i left to go for a walk, but when i returned they were still talking about it. “i just lost my appetite” were the words i heard as i walked in the door.

i guess that is the way they deal with it. personally, i don’t see how it could make things any better. 

attempts to get a concrete response to any question that i ask have proved useless, so i stopped asking. there is still so much up in the air, so many unknowns. 

i guess that this is the way that i deal with it. this is such an isolating experience for me that sometimes i feel like my thoughts are all i have...and i never imagined that this is where they would materialize, but here they are...merely a whisper, when all i really want to do is yell.

sunset ii

I’m a morning person. It hasn’t always been that way. Maybe it started in college with early morning crew practice. 

I probably do more before 9am than most people do all day. I rarely sleep in. I never hit snooze.  

One of the things I take the greatest pleasure in is my morning bike commute to work. There is peace in the stillness. Sometimes, the only thing I can hear is my own breath. 

For as much as I enjoy the morning, I’ve never taken much interest in the sunrise. It just sort of happens while I am busy doing other things. 

On the other hand, sunset has a significant meaning to me. It began 2009 with a note from a friend (who has since passed away) that was written on a card with a picture of the sunset. 

It wasn’t just any sunset, it was a special sunset. It belonged to her friend’s father. 

Since then, I have never seen sunsets in the same way. I view them with purpose. There is sadness and beauty at the end of the day. The dichotomy suits me well.

three simple phrases

I haven’t always done the best job at communicating with the people in my life that I care about...but, I have learned some valuable lessons along the way that have helped me fine tune my skills. 

One experience involved watching my aunt interact with my mom-mom in the final months of her life. It was too little, too late...nothing can make up for years of indifference. The other is the journey with my brother that my family has been on for the past four years. 

It started with learning how to say “I love you.” Since then, I’ve learned the importance of three simple phrases. 

It is for this reason I will always say...
“I am sorry” when I am wrong
“Thank you” when I appreciate you
“I love you” and mean it 

I don’t always live life to the fullest, but I do my best to make sure that I live it without regret.

even keel

One of my clients asked me if I was excited about my upcoming vacation to Montana. 

“Not really,” I replied. 
To which she questioned, “Does anything excite you?” 
Again...”Not really” I replied, “I guess I just don’t see the point in getting excited.” 
“Life is all about the hills and the valleys, the highs and the lows,” she said. 

I prefer to stay on an even keel. If you never experience the highs then the lows won’t feel as low. 

Maybe it’s a method of self-preservation; reflective of where I am right now in my life...or maybe I’ve just been on enough roller coasters.

nine times out of ten

Nine times out of ten the only thing I hear is “I’m sorry.” I hear it so often that it makes shut down, because I don’t want sympathy...

That was a “to be continued“ thought, started six months ago and now I feel like it’s the right time to finish it.

I was visiting my brother in Austin last weekend. On Saturday night I went to the Congress Avenue Bridge to watch the bats. On Sunday morning when I woke up and turned on my phone there were a couple text messages from my cousin and a voicemail from the (512) area code. It was then that I learned that I had lost my wallet on Saturday evening. The woman who found it was trying to get in touch with me via Facebook. When I did not respond, she reached out to my cousin, who gave her my contact information.

I made arrangements to pick it up and was on my way to a suburb, about twenty miles North of Austin. When I arrived, we stood at the door and made small talk. She knew that I was from out of town and I explained that I was visiting my brother. She asked about him and I told her about his diagnosis. She responded with a very personal story about her mother and told me that she would pray for him.

I thanked her and offered her some cash (reward) as a token of my appreciation for finding the wallet. She declined and told me to do something nice for someone else.

One time out of ten I am met with empathy and that makes the other nine worth enduring.

no peace

Maybe it’s the fact that you live nearly 1700 miles away and I don’t have the financial resources to fly out for a visit as often as I’d like.

Or it could be the times when I can tell that mom is sad and the only thing I can do is give her a hug. I wish I could tell her that everything is going to be ok. 

There is the anxious moment when your name comes up on the caller ID and the room becomes quiet...and the silence that remains as I try to listen in on the conversation.

There is no peace in pain. There is no peace in worry or sadness.

The place where you are right now is much different than the one you were in four months ago, but the place where I am has not changed. No peace. No peace.

I want to watch the waning rays of light in silence. To leave the words behind with the setting of the sun. To wonder at the stars and the stillness of the night. That is where it feels effortless.

life unfiltered

Last weekend, I was on the road early, headed to HPCX. The sun rose as I made my way North on the Turnpike. I thought about the pictures that people take of sunrises and sunsets, frequently adding the hashtag “no filter.” 

And then I thought about filters...isn’t nature beautiful the way it is? Why would it need a filter?

And then I thought about life...it’s not alway pretty...and I think a lot of people have a tendency to live life filtered. They see what they choose to see. They select what to show us.

For better or for worse, that has never been the case with me. I say a lot of things I probably shouldn’t and I give zero fucks about it.

In some respects it’s good because you will always get exactly what you see when you interact with me. In some respects it’s not good because expressing myself in this way puts everything on the table, leaving me without shelter.

It follows me in conversations at work...at the gym...at races...in emails...in text messages...and I know that it is all with good intention, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.