Loss is Loss

Today marks 9 years ago that my older brother was unexpectedly killed in a car accident. I've written about the grief that accompanied that loss before, here and here. Grieving Jeremy was difficult, long, and exhausting. In the years since his loss, I have wondered often what he would have thought of my life, if he would have been proud of me. Losing Jeremy was my first-and I fervently hoped my only-experience with raw, real, close grief. I remember a few weeks before Ammon died, I was sitting in Brooklyn's room nursing her to sleep. As often happened during those quiet times, my mind wandered over the experiences of my past, and more specifically-losing Jeremy. In a weird way, losing my beloved older brother had provided me with a sense of security for many years. I thought, surely, that I would be insulated from more tragedy. Our family had already experienced one startling and painful loss, and that would provide insurance against experiencing another. On that quiet winter afternoon, I gently reminded myself that the loss of Jeremy was not an insurance policy. I reminded myself of other people that I have known who lost children, parents, siblings, friends. Sometimes losses are separated by several years, and to the rest of the world, aren't lumped together. I calculated that it had been 7 1/2 years since the loss of my brother, and that whatever 'insurance policy' that loss had afforded our family, it was almost certainly expired.

I think that internal conversation was just another example of the small steps I subconsciously took to prepare myself for the loss of my beloved husband. I shuddered a bit with the realization that our safety net had expired, braced myself for further tragedy, and went on with my day.

Within weeks, Ammon was gone, and a second man was stolen immaturely from my life.

When I researched the old posts to link them on this blog, I read through them. This quote, from a post I wrote about 18 months before losing Ammon, reverberates with me today:

I can't believe sometimes that it's been almost 7 years since he died. Some days it seems like he just left, and then other days, it seems like he was just a figment of my imagination. It seems like I imagined that I had this great brother, and that he loved me and looked out for me. It's strange how a death affects the dynamics of your family, it makes everybody realign their position, even unconsciously, to fill the void that this person has created. You all feel obliged to fill the spot that has been vacated, the roles that are now available. I think the loss still reverberates throughout our family as we struggle to know how we fit together without him.

It reminds me of what I wrote in this post:

Sometimes, this is what being a widow feels like. Sometimes, it's not that fact that he isn't here that makes me ache inside. Sometimes, it's the fact that it feels like he was NEVER here that makes me wish I could curl up and die. The feeling that I made it all up--our marriage, our love, the future we had together. Because if it was real, if he really existed, how does it stand to reason that he's NOT here now? How could somebody so real, so vibrant, simply cease to exist? It's easier some days for my mind to rationalize that he wasn't real than to try to figure out how he could be so inexplicably gone.

I suppose grief is grief. I was a bit startled to see such kindred emotion poured into two different blogs. For two different men. At two different times. I know that grief takes a different shape for each person, and that loss affects each of us differently--apparently the twisting of memory, reality, and time is part of how my mind copes. And I think I'm okay with that, because really? what else can I do?

Today I'm trying to roll with it. I move in three days. I have packing, cleaning, and errands to do. I went to the gym this morning and need a shower while Brooklyn is napping, but instead I'm going to play my Quiet Mix (AKA: Songs to Cry Too) on iTunes, sit on the sofa, and miss the two great men in life.

Grief sucks.

And sometimes, I feel like a pro.

That sucks even worse.