Silent mournings

As you might imagine the last 11 days have been difficult. Casey and I's trip to Atlanta for Memorial Weekend started off really great. I even have pictures, but posting them feels inappropriate. I kissed my young son goodbye on Friday evening, as we drove away from my in-laws toward our final destination. We were anticipating a weekend of relaxation and fun times. Saturday the boys played golf and the girls went to Pilates and then did some light window shopping and brunch at a little cafe called the Flying Biscuit. I picked up a couple of Father's Day cards and a few items for Gavin. Saturday night we went to our favorite taco joint east of the Mississippi, El Taco, then on to the Chocolate Bar for decadent lemon-ginger martinis and handmade truffles. We're all old now, so while we had the best intentions of living it up into the wee hours once 10:00 p.m. rolled around we were all exhausted and ready to head home for bed. Earlier in the day we had a phone call from my father-in-law, he was not feeling so hot and afraid that maybe he was coming down with a stomach bug. We asked if we need to come home early and relieve them of Gavin-duty, "no, we're fine," my father-in-law tells us, "let's wait and see what happens tomorrow."

In the early Sunday morning hours I was lying wide awake in bed, before anyone else was awake. I thought to myself, "Why am I awake so early? So much for sleeping in." It was 6:00 AM EST. Forty-five minutes later I received the phone call no one ever wants. It was my mother who called me, she was obviously sad and was about to tell me someone was dead. I braced myself, compiling a mental list of possibilities. My 32-year old brother, the third of five siblings was dead. The night before, five siblings went to sleep, but the next day only four woke up. Crying or emotional outbursts are not immediate reactions for me when faced with the death of a loved one. It's not that I am not sad, but my sadness does not manifest itself in the form of tears. Tears come in quiet moments over a very long period of time.

I could hear my father crying in the background. I very calmly asked for the details. Someone came to my parents’ house around 3:00 AM. They had to bang on the door to wake my parents up. My father rushed over to where Clay was, less than five miles away. He said my brother looked as if he was asleep and peaceful, but cold, very cold. Clay was unresponsive and it was too late. Clay had been gone for a while. My father arrived on the scene before the ambulance. Clay was pronounced dead only three hours before I got the call. I had been the fourth person notified, in line behind my mother, my sister, and the mother of Clay's son.

Then I inquired about my father's well-being and my other siblings. My father would be notifying my other brother, the eldest of us four. The phone call ends and I am alone 1,300 miles away. "My brother died. Clay is dead, he died this morning" I tell Casey and then roll over to stare out the window. It's bright outside. The house is quiet and still. The only sound is my sigh when I finally sit up and head to the shower.

It's difficult to explain my state of mind in those minutes after receiving the awful news of my brother's death. It wasn't completely unexpected, but as anyone who has ever mentally prepared for the death of a loved one knows, preemptive mental preparation doesn't dull the heartache. I felt guilty for not being completely surprised, guilty for being so far away, guilty for how much I had allowed the relationship between my brother and I to deteriorate, and guilty for not being able to shed a tear. Far away the people I have known the longest were weeping, and the closest I could come to weeping was to stand underneath a stream of warm running water. I turned the water off, carefully stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around my body.

The silence of that morning is broken only with another sigh as I walk back into the guest bedroom, careful not to make eye contact with my concerned husband. Everything about this is awkward. I avoid awkward. Getting dressed he tells me how sorry he is, the first of many, many condolences I would receive. He asks if I need to go home. I reply that I imagine so, but don't know any details yet. I'll call my parents back in a few minutes. I just need some time, more of this quiet time. He asks if I feel sick. I say no and immediately feel more guilt. I think to myself, "He's right. I should feel sick right now. Normal people feel sick when they receive this kind of news. I feel nothing." Which wasn't exactly true, there was a slow turmoil building in my mind and the ache in my chest and my throat was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, but if there's one thing I am good at, it's tuning things out.

"I feel sick," Casey said. "I am just wondering if its food poisoning or a stomach bug." "Well, I don't feel sick. I don't think its food poisoning," I replied, as if the morning couldn't get off to a worse start. Dead brother and stomach bugs, there's nothing welcoming about Sunday morning.

I leave Casey to continue resting; he's on the verge of vomiting. I quietly make my way down the carpeted stairs with intentions of making some coffee. I realize I don't know where the coffee make or the coffee grounds are. I'm not particularly motivated to go rifling through the cupboards of my sleeping cousins. I'm just trying to find something to do, anything to keep my hands and mind busy. I went to the living room and called my sister. When she answered I knew she had been crying, I'm reminded of my guilt. She can't be in San Antonio until Wednesday. Our other brother is unavailable, that leaves me. We're worried about our parents, particularly my father and his weak heart, the doctors tell him to avoid stress. We tell each other we love each other and end the call. Then, I call my mother. She's waiting in the truck while my father breaks the news to my last living brother. She's already been waiting for half an hour. She'll end up waiting another hour or so before my father returns to the truck. She tells me I need to come home as soon as possible. I tell her I'll call her back with my flight information. I call my father-in-law to check on Gavin. He's fine, but my mother-in-law has been sick all night and morning. He's has her quarantined upstairs and is taking care of Gavin alone. I ask him if we need to come relieve him. He tells me no, again. I explain that Casey is sick as well and that we may be coming home early. I tell him I may be flying home in the next day or so, something has happened. My brother, Clay, is dead. There's a brief period of silence and then he finally tells me they can watch Gavin or help out in any way, that I should do what I need to do and go console my family. Right. We get off the phone. It's just me in the quiet house, again. I cup my face in both hands and let out another deep sigh. More silence.

I could hear movement beginning upstairs. First the opening and closing of the guest bathroom, Casey's obviously ill. My cousins are stirring in their bedroom, Kelly makes his way downstairs.

"Good morning," he said. I wonder if I am supposed to tell him. When's an appropriate time to tell your hosts that you have a dead brother? Is the information even necessary?

"Hey, good morning,” I said. “I was going to start the coffee, but I didn't know where to find anything."

"That's what I am coming down here to do," he tells me. Small talk ensues. He starts to make breakfast, egg and sausage breakfast tacos. He tells me he's been on a breakfast taco kick. I think of San Antonio and my dead brother. My brother likes breakfast tacos. I realize I can't bring myself to think of Clay in the past tense. It feels like a grammatical error.

"Casey may have a stomach bug. We might not be going to the Braves' game with you guys later today. [My mother-in-law] is also sick, it's going around."
"Great," he says, flatly. Then we make some comments about all of us have been hanging out, we've all been exposed to it. We wonder who will get it next. By now Casey is downstairs, he feels better after vomiting. He's lying on the couch, curled in a ball. We discuss the possibility of not going to the baseball game and waiting until he feels up to sitting in a moving vehicle for four hours while we make our way back home.

Shannon makes her way downstairs and sets the table. The breakfast tacos are almost done. She's concerned about Casey, understands if we have to leave early. She and Kelly discuss possibly people they can call and invite in our absence. The whole time I'm thinking, "My brother died today."

Finally I mention we may need to leave so I can fly home. I begin speaking in understatements. "My brother is having some issues," I say.

I can't bring myself to look someone in the eye and say my brother is dead. There is so much reality and finality in that statement and they wouldn't know what to say anyway. I aim to avoid the awkwardness.

"Oh no," Shannon compassionately responds. "Your dad must be pretty worried."


"Yes, my father is very worried." I look away, the inaccuracy of my statements beginning to annoy me. I should just get it out there and be done with it. "Actually he died," I say. "My brother died this morning. I need to go home and be with my family."

Breakfast tacos pause in the mid air, eyes widen, there's a brief awkward silence. Finally Shannon speaks, "What?” Shannon said, incredulously. “Wow. I am so sorry." And then there are the questions, the same questions I will be asked over and over for the next few days. I give them a few details and then think to myself that maybe I should have been sadder when I said it? I quickly defended my lack of emotion and explained that I just don't cry when someone dies, but that I am actually quite sorrowful. I reassure them I will deal with it emotionally in my own time, on my own terms. Shannon says she is the same way, it makes me feel better.

To make a long sad story short, but still sad. Casey begins to feel better and my flight out of Atlanta, which is significantly cheaper than flying out of Knoxville and more convenient as it is a direct flight, does not leave until the following morning at 7:00AM. We end up going to the game, I figure I could use the distraction. I buy some dipping dots. The ice cream is slightly comforting. About midway into the game I start to feel nauseated. I can't tell if it’s the stomach bug or anxiety. I am sure it was a bit of both. The sun is beating down. We move to an upper deck to get under the shade. At various times I get up from my seat and walk around the ball park. I think of my family and how sad they all are and how far away I am. I feel guilty for being at a baseball game, but at the same time I would rather be there than sitting at my cousins' house. The Braves win, after being tied for the last couple of innings. By the time we make it home I am definitely ill. I spend the rest of the night holed up in bed, sleeping off and on and partly hoping I don't throw up, but partly wishing I would, because I know it would make me feel better. The nausea eventually subsides, but the sadness does not and the sinking realization of what has transpired remains tightly knotted in the space beneath my chest.

The silent early morning hours of another day returns. I say my goodbyes and prepare for a very lonely flight back home. Casey drops me off and heads back to TN to take care of our son and man the fort. I'll end up seeing him later in the week, but I realize it will be over a week by the time I see Gavin again, that's the longest I have ever been away from him. For a second I find myself angry at Clay for dying and taking me away from my son. This will be the first of many feelings of anger and resentment.

I found out my brother died around 6:45 Sunday morning, I was in San Antonio and in the back of my parents' truck by 9:20 Monday morning. It was Memorial Day. There were no smiles or hugs. Only somber waiting as my father put my suitcase in the bed of the truck and I climbed into the cab. We drove home in silence, to a quiet house full of memories and pictures of my brother. We'd rest for a few hours before heading to a 1:00 p.m. appointment at the funeral home. My brother's truck was on the curb. For a second everything appeared just as it should be, like perhaps my brother was just stopping by.

Good memories:

Port Aransas. I remember making this drive. We left VERY early in the morning and my parents treated us to a box of donuts for the road trip.


Natural Bridge Caverns! You're just not a native San Antonioian if you haven't taken a picture on that great big orange dinosaur.


I had forgotten we would eat lunch together sometime. We were in the same grade and less than a year a part in age. What's up with the lunch box fort?


My daddy with his superfly perm and all us rug rats. Clay with his fish pillow. He LOVED fish pillow.


The "kids's table" in the garage of my grandparents' house in good ole Hobbs, NM. I especially love the milk crates. That was one of our standard kid meals too: our ONE soda of the day, grilled cheese, fritos and of course PICKLES.


The Killer Ducks!


Gotta love the pant roll and middle school dances.


I love how my sister is bending her arm to look like it's in a cast too, and of course I've always loved my brother's goofy smile. I can still hear him laughing and saying, "Hey, Tiff!"



2005 was the last time all four of us were together.