Closed-Head Injury
I was a freshman at Point Loma Nazarene College when my brother, Carl, died. The news reached me hours after he had been found at the base of the radio tower. Jim, a faculty member and family friend, stuck his head inside the door of my chemistry class as I waited for class to begin and motioned me outside. I was pleasantly surprised to see him, but my smile faded as I noticed the somber expression on his face. He took my hands in his as he told me of my brother's death. I searched his face desperately waiting for his expression to break into a grin as people will often do before they let you in on the joke, but there would be no punchline. I drew back instinctively and as I pulled away, Jim tightened his grip. I began shouting, NO! over and over until I became aware of myself once again and sunk into his hug. When I started to breathe more regularly, Jim walked back into the classroom to get my backpack. I began to grow physically and emotionally numb as he led me down the stairs to his van. He asked me if I had a friend who could wait with me until I could get to the airport. I nodded indicating I did. He drove over to her classroom and I carefully looked in to see if I could find her. Fortunately she saw me and dismissed herself. When I got to the dorm, the RA for my unit was already waiting for me. She and my friend, Heather, followed me to my room after an exchange of somber glances between them. Without much thought as to what I needed, I packed a suitcase hoping I had everything I needed since I would be going home for the week. I was nearly finished packing when one of my roommates came into the room. She heard the announcement in chapel and came to see how I was handling the news. I was suddenly aware of how closely I was being watched. It was as though I had taken up residence in a fishbowl. The girls sat silently watching me, not quite knowing what else to do. I could feel their unease at not knowing what to say, afraid of saying something that would cause me to have some sort of nervous breakdown right in front of them. I desperately wanted to be alone. It was as though I were a hostess at a boring party needing to entertain my guests, but I was afraid to act anything but somber. Would they think Carl meant nothing to me if I tried to strike up meaningless conversation? I felt an emptiness growing in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to crawl in bed and curl up against the wall. Yet, all I could do was sit uncomfortably while they watched. I was the elephant in the room. My brother had just died, yet no one could state the obvious, something horrible had just happened. I didn't know it at the time, but I had experienced for the first time, a reaction that was to become all too familiar to me. After a draining week at home, I was unprepared to face my friends, roommates, and acquaintances at school. I could feel the tension as I walked into my unit. The girls watched cautiously as if waiting to see if it would be OK to approach me. I wanted to tell them about the week and about all of the painful memories my hometown triggered of my brother. Actually, I needed to talk about it, yet I knew it was better to keep it to myself. I don't know how to explain it, but people react very strangely when they hear about someone's death. I couldn't count the frequency with which I was purposefully avoided or had someone quickly change the subject if I happened to mention my brother. I soon discovered a positive reply when asked how I was doing avoided many uncomfortable situations. Most of the time, people merely asked out of a sense of obligation, not concern. Few wanted to hear how my stomach turned when I walked up to his casket and saw the bruises which ran down alongside his head and neck beneath the make up the mortician applied in an attempt to conceal them. Nor, did they want to hear how my heart skipped a beat when I thought I caught a glimpse of Carl riding his skateboard down the street, only to have it break one more time when I realized it couldn't have been him. They didn't even want to hear how I found comfort in memories of him such as the time we were just little kids and had been sent to our room because somehow we had managed to irritate Dad. Unwilling to accept our punishment and allow our fun to come to an end, we recorded ourselves giggling and set it behind our dad's chair, knowing we were sure to get a reaction. We laughed hysterically when our dad heard the recording and sprang from his chair to catch us out of our rooms. I found I was truly alone in my grief aside from what I could share with my parents. I try to not get angry when I think of how others reacted to me in my grief. I, myself, reacted toward others the same way, before I lost my brother. Yet, it was difficult to be forced to create a mask for the comfort of others when comfort was what I sought. Each day, I put on a happy face and tried my best to appear together. A few weeks after I returned to school, my grief was no longer tolerated by the other girls in the unit. I could sense their irritation when I failed to get out of bed as they prepared for class. No longer was it necessary to try to comfort me. They had accepted my brother's death and were done feeling bad. It would not have been a great shock to learn they had forgotten I had a brother. I was forced to stuff my grief for the remainder of the semester. I cried only when I was sure I was alone and knew no one would be back for a while. I carefully watched what I said as not to let anything about my brother slip into conversation. I found even sharing a good memory of Carl could set off a series of uncomfortable events. The mere mention of his name would cause my listeners to freeze. Would I break down immediately and fall to pieces at his memory? I didn't know at the time it would have been OK. No one had to understand my emotions, nor did anyone have to deal with them. I was the only one able and willing to carry myself through my grief. I had to realize I could only do what I could as I struggled with my grief and had to remind myself I would be able to do more as time passed and the impact of his death gradually became less painful. It was necessary for me to understand if I never got over his death, I would also be all right as the death of a sibling is not something anyone EVER truly gets over. Everyone deals with grief differently. If I were to only allow myself to grieve as much as other's around me felt comfortable, I would be quite miserable today. It has been four years since his death and I continue to miss him. I still watch what I say to others, but I don't worry so much about their reaction. I know what to expect from someone when they hear about Carl for the first time and have found ways to keep the level of discomfort for all parties at a minimum. When Carl died, I struggled with what my answer would be when someone asked if I had a sibling. I didn't know how to answer. Would I say I did have a brother or would I say, I had a brother? Neither answer seemed quite correct. Today, I can answer the question. Carl was and always will be my brother. My memories of him are mine to share if I wish. My grief is also mine to deal with as I need to. It is not open to the criticism of others.
Written by Carrie H. Pueschel
Please visit the site dedicated to Carl:
|
