The Day My Brother Died
This isn't my usual post. It's not a tool, not a reframe — just something true I needed to say out loud before the anniversary. If it's not for you today, I'll see you next week with the regular stuff.
We're nearing the third anniversary of my brother's passing.
We were having a good morning. My two kids were 4 and 2, and they'd woken up early, so we were snuggling in bed before the school rush, watching Storybots. It's 7am on a Wednesday, September 27th. My phone rings.
At first I don't think anything of it. My younger brother had just had a baby and needed some extra support, and he lives on the east coast — my mom was out there visiting. So when my mom called at 7am, I answered and laughed. "Did you forget the time difference?"
No hello. No warm-up.
"Sean's dead."
I sit straight up in bed. "What?!" In my head: no, this is a joke. This is the phone call I'd been dreading since I was 13 years old, when I first learned my brother was an addict.
Then, without hesitation, without a second for grief, I step into oldest daughter role. "What do you need me to do?"
I don't remember if she asked me to do anything. I just looked over at my kids and decided not to tell them yet. I wanted to sit with this myself first. So I got them ready and off to school they went.
My brother was my older brother. He will forever be 34 years old. This is sitting heavy with me because I just turned 34. I am officially as old as my older brother — something I never should have been.
My brother started using when he was 12. Which means I was 9. I don't think anyone realized his outbursts were anything more than teenage angst, but it was so much deeper than that. That's why I stepped in at 9 to help care for my little brother — because my older brother was already incapable.
Our entire relationship was me trying to save him. I used to hate him. Hated the way he'd play his music too loud, hated the way he'd talk too much, hated the way he'd try to insert himself into family events when other times he wanted nothing to do with us.
But it never changed that I also wanted to save him.
He first went to rehab four hours from home when I was a freshman in high school. I remember sitting in family counseling thinking this was bullshit and it didn't concern me. I remember spending my first Christmas break after college on the phone, trying to find him a bed in inpatient treatment.
I also remember getting drunk with my brother at his girlfriend's house in high school. I remember him teaching me how to make Top Ramen in the microwave. He set up my first email address — the one I still use today — and my first MySpace. He once drove hours down the coast to pick me up when I didn't have a ride home.
I remember my parents leaving Sean in charge while they went away, and he invited a ton of strange people over who dried mushrooms in our kitchen oven. I called my grandma to come get my little brother, and called my friend to come get me. He was supposed to drive me to work the next morning and never showed. Another time I couldn't wake him up for school, so his friend Brady drove us instead — he showed up because he was worried about us getting to school.
One thing about all these conflicting memories: they brought wonderful people into our lives.
Then I got pregnant, and my brother kept using. I thought the only way to protect my child from the turmoil I grew up with was to set a boundary — he couldn't be around her. I distanced myself, but I tried to always answer the phone. I couldn't offer more than that, but I tried to be there when he called.
Then I had another baby. We started a business. I started missing his calls, or answering and not being able to talk long. Eventually he stopped calling. I don't remember the last time I actually spoke to him.
After he died, I went through my messages, my call log, trying to find proof that I'd called him back. I couldn't find it.
Exactly one month before he died, we went on a family vacation. I don't think anyone even considered inviting Sean. I believe my exact words were, "He'd just ruin it."
Now all I can think about is how lonely he must have been at the end. He had burned every relationship. He was isolated, and alone. And fentanyl stole my brother.
At first I didn't think I was allowed to grieve. I'd had my chance and I pushed him away — that was my choice already. But I still felt like I'd lost a limb. A part of my soul. Even through everything, he was still a part of me.
Now that I can't go back and change anything, I can see how miserable my brother was in his own skin. The drugs weren't the problem — they were his solution. A way to cope with extreme anxiety, hypochondria, a fear of rejection so deep it ran his whole life. He was the most scared person I ever knew. I just couldn't see it until he was gone.
Now I sit here with my beautiful babies and wonder how I protect them from the same evils. I feel so deeply for my mom, who had to watch her child be taken from her over and over again, until he didn't come back. Who has to hold her children who are thriving in one hand, and the memory of the child who was stagnant in the other.
Fentanyl stole my brother. And it's not done taking families — just like mine.
Imperfectly, Bethany
