Every month, it’s another month that passes. Another month of new memories, new experiences, and new events happening around the world that I can’t talk to my brother about. Each month that passes, I have to remember that he is gone, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him back, always on the seventh. March 7, 2022, a day that I will forever dread and remember with pain that burns through my core.
Each seventh day of the month my parents continue to go to church. Continue to search for some reason or to have a sparkle of faith that he is no longer in pain, that he is in a better place. They want to think that he is watching over them and that he is with my sister, that he is floating through heaven having finally escaped the trap that was his illness. They believe it in their hearts and have such strong conviction about. I’m jealous. I can’t seem to find that faith. I have anger and I have pain where there should be peace. Anger that we didn’t have more time together, anger that he was taken away so young, anger that when I am old, it will be just me, and anger that the people around him made his last weeks full of pain, stress, and fear. I have pain that no matter what I do, he is still the first person I want to reach out to talk to about anything and everything happening in my life.
It’s truly insane to me how people say that I should be over it and I should let go of the anger and pain, but how do you do that when the person I lost was my only sounding board for everything in life? He was truly the one person who knew everything about me and was proud of me. Looking back at every major event in my life, every accomplishment, it was my big brother who I called. He was my number one fan. He was my stand in parent because our parents both worked and they couldn’t be at all my games, competitions, performances, or events, but he was. I think of that and then I realize I failed him and that’s all I see. I failed him and I couldn’t save him. Reality is that will forever be my biggest regret in life is that I could not save him from the pain, from the disease or from himself.
Growing up I used to wish that it was me. That I was the one who was diabetic. That I was the one handed the life sentence of no sugar, of healthy eating, of constant glucose checks, of never ending insulin injections, of constantly having to be careful. I wished with all my heart it was me. I was stronger, I am stronger, I have the will, the determination, I would have been able to not only accept the lifetime sentence but also conquer it. So many times I would pray to a God who never answered hoping he would send a miracle and my brother would be cured If it was a him or me situation, I’d make the choice for it to have been me to suffer every time. If it was me instead of him, maybe he would still be here today.
These are the thoughts that forever plague me, especially on the seventh. Always on the seventh. My eternal reminder of the day that took my best friend, my blood. Always on the seventh.
Be the first to comment