Fifteen and Twenty-eight

Today is fifteen years. I met my youngest brother fifteen years ago this morning. Probably right around this time, actually, I can’t remember that. He was born late the night before, and we went to visit him in the NICU as soon as we could. I remember thinking that he didn't look sick, though I knew he was. I knew he probably was not going to live very long, but my twelve year old brain didn't really comprehend what that meant. After all, I had a big brother that I had never met and I knew he was dead, but I’m sorry to say, that never really meant that much. I didn't know him, I had never seen him, and aside from a few pictures at our house I saw on occasion, I never really thought about him that much. Except that I wanted to meet him someday. When we found out that Andrew had the same disease, I thought about Timmy more. But it had been thirteen years since he had died, and medicine was constantly evolving, so I knew it would be different this time.

I would never have expected that meeting one small baby boy would change my life so profoundly.

He didn't look sick, and if you ignored the wires and tubes hooked up to him, all you would notice was that he already had a belly, which I thought was really cute. He had big eyes, like my sister, and he had dark hair like me. To a twelve year old, a baby is a baby, and they’re all pretty cute, but I immediately felt that he was different. This was my brother. I knew it and I felt it, and he was just as much my brother as Chris was. I remember wondering to myself if Timmy was there with us, looking out for his little brother, wanting to be with him just as much as the rest of us did. That is the first time I can remember feeling that there was someone else in the room with us, someone that we couldn't see.

I talked to Andrew a little, not much, because there were nurses around and Mom and Chris were with me and I didn't want to look like an idiot talking to a baby. I wish I hadn't felt that way. I wish… Well, I wish a lot of things. But I remember telling the little guy that I loved him and that I would come back to see him soon.

I would not see him again. Not in this life.

That hurt. I promised my brother I would see him soon, and I couldn't keep that promise. I take being an older sister very seriously, and I felt like I had failed my littlest sibling.

The second time I remember feeling that someone else was with us was at the funeral. I had spent days trying my best to be brave, all the while feeling sick inside. I had seen my parents handle this second tragedy with remarkable grace, poise, and faith. I remembered wondering how they could do that. They had to be hurting like I was, even more, because he was their son, their little baby. This wasn't something you got use to and going through it again didn't seem fair. I didn't feel like I could complain or tell anyone what I was feeling because they didn't. If they weren't going to scream and yell and ask why, then neither would I. But I wanted to.

I stood a little ways from whoever I was standing beside when my father said the prayer at the cemetery. I felt numb, cold inside. And then I felt as if a warm hand was resting on my shoulder. I cried and I smiled and I kept my eyes closed, because even at twelve years old I knew that my brother was there for me. Which brother, I don’t know, and that doesn't matter. He was there, and I felt at peace. I still hurt, because, obviously, I would much rather have all of my brothers in one place. But I no longer felt pain. Sadness, but no pain.

I never realized until that moment that death is not an ending. It is a transfer. Instead of having three brothers here, before my eyes, I have one brother here and two elsewhere. My little brother had a different course to follow than I did, and my big brother was already on that course. They were still my brothers, and would always be my brothers. They would be there for me just as surely as Chris always has been. I remembered hoping I would feel them again somehow, somewhere.

Meeting Andrew in the flesh was a life changing. Seeing him, touching him, talking to him, and then that sweet experience at the funeral. It changed my perspective of life and families, even at twelve. And it made me develop a relationship with Timmy as well. I think about him more as I get older, and I like it. I wish I could tell you their personalities, but I can’t. But I have a feeling they know all of our private jokes, and they find them just as hilarious as we do. Come on, we’re Connollys. We all have the same crazy sense of humor.

I know they've been around for important events in our lives. They are my brothers, why would they miss out on things here just because they don’t live with us? I know they were at Jenny’s wedding. I know that because I felt that my whole family was there for that moment in time. I know that they will be here at other times, and I know that sometimes they are here and checking in on us.

Sometimes we talk about them. Not always, but sometimes. One time in particular was hilarious. My sister was making a sweet gift for our aunt that involved all of the names of the family, and we had counted up the names, and there was still one missing that we couldn't figure out. Then she suddenly shouted “Andrew!” There was a moment of silence, and then she muttered, “Little brat probably did that on purpose.” I don’t think we've laughed that hard in a long time. Because a little brother would do something like that to his big sister. A Connolly certainly would. And Andrew is our little brother, and he is most certainly a Connolly.

It’s okay to talk about them. It’s okay that sometimes I won’t want to. It’s okay to tell someone that I only have one brother, because saying I have three requires a longer conversation that is too personal. It’s okay that I still cry during the four days on the calendar that they were here, and random other days. It’s okay to miss them.

Fifteen years is a long time. Twenty eight years is a long time. But it’s not forever. It’s just for now. Timmy and Andrew are not lost and gone. I haven't broken my promise to Andrew. I will see him soon, in the grand scheme of things. I haven’t lost two brothers. I still have them. I have three brothers and I always will have three brothers. I miss all of my brothers, and I miss both of my sisters. Some are farther away than others, and for a longer time, but it will just make the reunion that much better. Connolly reunions are always loud and crazy and full of laughs and hugs. Imagine the stories we’ll have to share then.

And on that best of all days, I will look at the two of us that have been gone the longest and say “We knew you were there.”