A Lesser Loss

I feel like my brother's death suddenly went from tragic to expected, like my right to cry and question God and wish and remember fondly is somehow revoked now that the doctor of death has handed down his verdict. Like people think my brother less worthy of the beautiful flowers we got for his funeral, less worthy of the volunteers who handled the services and the friends who held my hand. Or like they think if it had been their brother, they would have known that he had relapsed, would have stopped it somehow.

Or maybe I'm just condemning myself. After all, I'm educated in both worlds -- the academic world of the science of drug addiction, and the real world of drug-addled neighbors, friends, and family members. I have no excuse, really, not to know he was using, except that I seem to make it a point not to know much at all about my family. I am far too important to worry over little things like my brother killing himself day by day in his grungy apartment.

I have been floating along for so many weeks on a cushion of comfort, on this idea that these demons were behind him (though I knew the devil was not) and some other villain took him out of this world. A pharmaceutical company, perhaps, or negligent physicians. Cause unknown, I coached myself, reminded myself that this was a possibility, that once an addict, always an addict, either practicing or recovering, that recovery is a process and there are many dangerous slips along the road. But still, even as I cautioned myself to remember those days of gut-wrenching fear and all the wisdom they brought with them, still, I didn't really believe myself. I knew there must be some villain to be named in a dramatic revelation by Doctor Death that would absolve my brother of guilt, thus absolving me.

To be quite honest, I did not long for the revelation like the rest of my family did. I was content with the mystery, though I played at frustration over it, because part of me knew that there would be no revelation, no villain that I did not already know by heart. When my mother called to tell me that Doctor Death had handed down his verdict, I dragged my feet at calling her back. There was no urgency, unless it was to move in the opposite direction; I was not fooling myself.

I knew, and now there is no room left for denial. And yet, the hole in my heart is the same shape as ever. I do not wish any less that he were still here, I do not feel that he deserved it any more. He is not a statistic, one of those people, a sad story, he is not a lesser loss. He is my brother and he is dead.