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.”
