Grief Transformed
A 10 year old's perspective
The night I heard my brother had died, I pretended I hadn’t heard the news.
I’m ten years old and am woken abruptly by the loud ring of the landline phone for the second time tonight. I’m in my childhood room, on a small twin bed in my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sheets. A friend of the family is in the bed next to me. He’s pretending to sleep, just like I am, in total darkness. The basement room is cool, welcome on a warm summer night in 1996.
Even though I can’t see, I know I am surrounded by wallpaper patterned in checkered lines of yellow, red, and blue over a white background.
The ring stops abruptly as I hear my grandfather answer the phone. It’s the second time the phone has rung in the middle of the night. During the first call, I learn that my oldest brother Matt was in a car accident. My grandfather’s voice is shaky and he speaks in a hushed tone. I can tell he doesn’t want to wake me up with the news.
I hear my grandmother walk over to him to listen in on the call. I hear the handset gently land on the phone’s hook.
“He’s gone,” my grandfather says.
I stare into total darkness and hear my grandmother weeping quietly. They speak briefly and quietly, debating if they should share the news or wait until morning. I understand that they decide to wait so I can get a good night’s sleep.
After the exchange, I decide I won’t leave my bedroom to ask my grandparents what happened. I’m in total shock and tears slightly stream down my cheeks. I don’t say anything to our family friend next to me. We both lie in total silence until morning.
The first call was even worse. I hear something about “the jaws of life,” which I later learn are giant claws used by first responders to extract drivers and passengers trapped in cars that have been transformed into crumpled hunks of metal.
In between the calls, about an hour or so, I understand he is fighting for his life. I know my brother is in pain, likely confused, trapped, and hurt. He will never be the same after the accident, paralyzed in all likelihood.
During the second call, I learn that there are similar jaws of life for humans- “rib spreaders” they’re called, used as a last-ditch effort to get to the internal organs and save someone whose heart is failing.
Disturbingly, the second call is actually a form of relief. His suffering has ended. He won’t have to travel the long, difficult, and painful path of rehabilitation from a dramatic car accident, with years of physical therapy.
I lie in bed quietly for the same reason my grandparents decide not to wake me.
We don’t want to hurt each other.
They want to spare me, temporarily, from the painful understanding that I would never see Matt again.
By remaining silent, I spare them from the pain of breaking the news to me, at least for a little while. I imagine them breaking down in tears as they tell me I would never see my brother again. So I lie in bed, wide awake. I know some form of awful surprise party is waiting for me when I get out of bed.
As I slowly walk up the carpeted stairs, I know everyone is there, waiting to greet me. I pretend that I am experiencing the awful news for the first time, thinking it would come off as strange to admit that I had this knowledge all night without going to talk to anyone.
For the next three days, I don’t sleep. I don’t eat much. I feel the painful absurdity of life. All my prior concerns seem ridiculous.
I somehow know that the only thing that truly matters is living authentically - connecting with people and trying to make sense of the world together. It means being strong for others when they are suffering. I know I would forever try to process the darkness of the world, not giving in to despair, but not ignoring it either.
For the next eight years, I drove by the scene of the accident regularly. It was impossible to avoid the intersection of this small rural town. I would often pass the telephone pole, still slightly damaged, on the way to friends’ houses. Somehow it remained intact with only some splintered wood on the side. My heart sank each time.
I still think of my brother every day. My memories are blurred, but I can feel his warmth, his rebellious spirit. He was always laughing and trying to make people laugh. He was a wrestler, a football player, a cliff diver. I still have his bandana from high school, embroidered with the paw print of a Tiger, the school mascot.
His wild nature contrasts with my own. I was always timid and careful while navigating the world, a “three step thinker” as my Grandma would say.
For the last 30 years, I have called upon his spirit regularly. I often try to embody his fearless nature to ease my own anxiety. I imagine him here, sitting next to me as I write, giving me strength to relive that night.
I am thankful for the gift of understanding that I should appreciate each day, while mourning his loss.
I hope he is free of any guilt and pain. I hope I can see him again someday.
♡︎