The Befores and Afters of Sibling Loss

The legacies of sibling loss and the stories we're too afraid to tell alone.

The Legacy of Sibling Loss

Today is my brother Brett’s birthday. I’m sitting next to his guitar as I write this, a beautiful reminder of who he was and never got to be. He died 31 years ago. He would be 53 but instead he’s forever 22. And I’m forever missing him. His life and death shaped everything about me, about us. Sometimes I wonder what shape we would be in if he was still here. 

Left to Right: Brett in high school; Brett (left) with his best friend Justin; Brett in college

He died unexpectedly. We were driving to the grocery store when we got the call: “Turn around... Something’s wrong... Go to the hospital…” 

No one ever said he was gone that day. But I saw the look on his father’s face when we walked through the sliding doors. Agony etched into me eternally. There’s some things psyche will never let you forget. 

A week before Brett died, he was supposed to come down for Halloween. He called to tell us he wasn’t coming; he wanted to party with his college friends. I remember holding the phone in my 10-year-old hand and yelling at him: “I wish you were dead!” He showed up later that night and went trick-or-treating with my sister, Ivy, and me. That’s the last time we saw him. That’s the last time I held his hand. Ivy’s favorite holiday became Halloween; I, on the other hand, avoid late fall. 

A year or so before Brett died he took me to the movies. Do you know how special I felt when my older, rockstar brother chose to spend the day with me? He taught me about trust falls that day; standing behind me and catching me as I fell ALL THE WAY BACK. We did this over and over again. The last time, as we waited in the concession line, he wasn’t looking, he didn’t catch me. I crashed to the ground—it hurt. But I’ll tell you: he caught me 99% of the time and I miss knowing someone’s there. I miss knowing he’ll pick up, he’ll pick me up. 

After Brett died I developed OCD. I would wash my hands over and over and over again until they bled. Makes sense: most grief rituals are water rituals. Most grief rituals are water rituals. This particular and peculiar grief ritual lasted two years. My mom made me wear gloves to sleep, with a layer of vaseline underneath to soothe my cracked and blood-wept backhands. The doctor came to our house to tell me I should stop: this amount of washing was unnecessary. No one thought to say to me, “I’m so sorry you miss your brother. What do you miss most about him?” 

When none of your peers have been through something similar, when the adults around you don’t want to talk about the thing, the thing that changed everything, the person you miss, the hole that’s swallowing you—you learn to be Outcast. You learn how to exist in the underworld. And you learn the dark isn’t the scariest thing, it’s losing the people who are a part of you, the people who hold your stories, who are your story.  

Ivy and I used to tell stories together, a skill we learned listening to our Bohemian father’s tales. There was our story about the first time I drank wine and got caught. Our story about our trip to Montana, the one where we accidentally hit the sideview mirror off the car. Our stories about the parties we never got caught throwing. We would riff off each other, one of us taking over when the other was laughing too hard or had forgotten something crucial. Ivy’s memory was better than mine. She remembered all the details; and she, and we, were funny. 

Now, I’m tasked with remembering so much for us all, and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something crucial… Ivy died almost five years ago. Almost five years ago. Almost five years since I’ve heard her laugh. She’s forever 39. And I’m forever missing her. Older than two of my older siblings and I’m only 41. I wonder where our stories have gone. 

Ivy (right) and me walking together as kids.

My sister wrote this poem for our brother a few years before she died, a couple decades after he died:

Brett Jason (written by Ivy Max)
I will let you be here today
it’s been years
and I spend every day in an attempt to live your legacy
but tonight
it’s just me missing you
I love you
all of you…
I couldn’t ask for sweeter demons on my shoulder
and Nate
we will take an extra shot for you
I will stay here, behind and carry the torch for all of us
I hope you have all found each other on the other half
your absence keeps me present
you were my presents
thank you

A couple weeks after my brother died, my dad, Ivy, and I cleared out the room he lived and died in. 26 years later I would clear out the room Ivy lived and died in. A cruel déjà vu. As if psyche simply forgot I’d been through this type of rough initiation before. 

Brett shared a house with college friends. They could barely look at us when we came for his belongings—an experience that would become too familiar as people struggled to be with our grief. I remember my dad taking his guitar case out from under his bed and lifting it open. Brett’s golden-brown fender strat with the hand painted dragon strap glimmered at us, reflecting all the beauty lost, all the potential lost. My dad hung his head and whispered, “What a shame…” and we packed it in the trunk of the car with the rest of his things. 

Brett’s Guitar

Sometimes I think I can be the one to stay behind and carry the torch for them both—like Hekate guiding souls into the underworld and back. Sometimes it’s too much and I don’t want to spend every day living out this legacy. I wonder what it would be like—what we would be—if they were both here, sitting on my back porch, telling our stories.