A Heart Wide Open

by Gwen Rockwood ©

Used with permission

I guess most of us walk around knowing, in the back of our mind somewhere, that one day someone we love will die. But that day is not supposed to come for a very long time, not until we're older and more equipped to handle those kinds of things. That day is supposed to give us a little fair warning.

But for me and my family, there was no warning. And with one terrible phone call, my only brother, Greg, was gone. He died unexpectedly in his sleep April 20, 2001. He was 34.

And I will likely relay that phone call over and over in my head for years to come. In those short, critical moments, a big part of us died, too.

I have written about my brother before, mostly stories from our childhood together. In fact, during the week before his death, Greg helped me remember the details of the time our dad turned his new dump truck into a swimming pool. He and I work on that column together and he read it and pronounced it accurate and ready to publish. That night, which seemed so ordinary then, is now such a precious moment in time.

Writing about my brother now seems much harder because I want to get everything just exactly right. But it would be impossible to do him justice on paper. Even if I had a million pages, I'd never be able to capture the fullness, the importance of his life. So let me just tell you this.

He was tall with an athletic building, with wide shoulders and brown hair. He was still a bachelor but intent on finding "a good one" and having a family one day. He had an amazing memory and regularly beat us all as we yelled answers at Regis Philbin while watching "Millionaire."

He was a great storyteller, mostly because he was so funny. He was the comedian of the family. He could make you laugh so hard you'd spew Coke out your nose and end up begging him to stop talking so you could catch your breath from laughing so hard. He was happiest when people were laughing.

He was not overweight, yet he was a passionate eater. He consumed baby back ribs and shrimp Alfredo as if he hadn't eaten in days. And then afterward, he would moan about how he had never been so full in his entire life.

He loved dogs, cats, and little kids and he "beeped" the noses of all three with his thumb. His favorite color was bright yellow. He looked good in yellow, and he knew it.

He understood how to be a big brother. When I was in college and would suffer through another failed romance, I would call Greg to tell him all the terrible details and cry. And he would say the guy was a jerk and then drive four hours to campus the next weekend to visit me. He'd take me to dinner and the movies and the mall, and I'd be on my way to recovery.

The time I got evicted from my one-bedroom apartment for harboring an illegal "Sam the Cat," Greg came and helped me move into a cat-friendly condo, even though he had a broken finger at the time. He just had a way of knowing when to show up and help.

At his funeral, we learned just how magnetic his personality really was. The funeral home was packed with family, friends and yellow flowers. Some people flew in from thousands of miles away to be at his service. It turns out that he was a friend and a brother to so many. He touched people, and they loved him.

It was undoubtedly one of the most upbeat funerals that ever was. John Cash, a minister and close friend who is like a brother, told stories about Greg during the service, and there was a lot of laughter in the room. Mom and Dad and I laughed more than we cried during that hour.

There are worse things than death and grief. It would have been worse to have never had him in the world. It would be worse to live with grief without the comfort of knowing Greg was a Christian who prayed every night before going to sleep. In the darkest moments, it is his faith and ours that carries us.

One of the blessing is that I can still so clearly hear his voice in my head. I can still see the way he stood with his hands on his hips, or the way he sat in the middle of my living room floor rewiring my stereo. And it seems now that everywhere I look I see the color yellow. His color.

So I don't think in terms of having "lost" my brother. He's not lost because I know where he is, and I know he's incredibly happy there. I can sense it, the same way I could sense how he felt when he was here. I like to think of him as having "relocated" to a world without heartache, sickness, pain or grief. A world with no good-byes.

And I'm sure he is beeping the nose of every kitten in heaven, eating pineapple upside-down cake and making people laugh. I'm looking forward to the new stories he'll tell when I get there, too.

Until then, my family has learned not to waste a moment. Death can and does come like a "thief in the he night," and no family is immune. Don't waste time in pettiness, or grudge or misunderstanding. Love with a heart wide open. My brother did, and we are all the richer for it.

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Gwen Rockwood © is a freelance columnist. Send comments to her at rockwood@bofonline.com

Special thanks to Gwen Rockwood© for giving me permission to use her story.

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