BBWC — Bitterness Is Sweet

The last few months have been such a whirlwind for me. I’ve had some interesting life experiences – some I’ve shared in my blog, some I’ve kept to myself or my journal. Regardless what life throws at me, I still appreciate the life I’ve been giving. And you don’t know how much life means to you until you are faced with mortality.

My brother, Jeffery O. Jones, when faced with his impending death, reached and embraced his fate. He had been sick for the past nine years or so and he was tired of fighting for a life that wasn’t the life he had always lived. During his time of illness, we had developed a routine, he would go to the hospital and stay a couple days and then he would come home.

But on September 6, 2007, the routine changed. My mom called and told me that my brother wasn’t getting better, I took it as her being the drama queen that she is – I guess as a mother you always fear the worse. And when the doctor told us that my brother could go at any minute but then he could survive another week, I held for him being stubborn and surviving for another week.

But when he left on September 8, 2007, I wasn’t ready for it. I’m still not. I miss him and I think of him often. I know that while he was here, I did the best I could to make sure he was taken care of. I had no problem taking him to his doctor appointments or fussing at him to make sure he took his medicines. And I hated that he wasn’t who he had always been. Illness has a way of changing you and I understood my brother wasn’t happy with his quality of life.

And though I knew Jeffery didn’t want us to see him suffer or for us to hurt in the end, it is inevitable. When you love someone all your life, you hurt when they hurt and you feel pain when they are no longer with you.

And yes, I am strong and I keep my feelings to myself. I don’t burden others with my emotions. I suffer in silence. I guess that’s just the way I am.

When my brother knew his days were getting shorter, he gave my mother a litany of instructions on how he wanted his home going ceremony. And my mother and I made sure his wishes were carried out – even to the cologne that he wore and I made everyone smell. My brother understood what was happening and he embraced it with dignity and grace. He was truly a grown ass man.

As kids, my brother and I spent a lot of time together. For a period in our lives we attended the same elementary school. I was three to four years younger than my brother and he was in the fourth grade when I was in the kindergarten. I was a stubborn and spoiled kid and I made our morning travels hellish to say the least.

And our summers were always spent with our grandparents in North Carolina where I would have an even more devilish time torturing Jeffery. There was never anything to do in Oxford , especially when our grandmother was at work. So I would just harass my brother to no end. And when we did put our collective heads together, we came up with fun adventures like dipping my grandmother’s snuff.

Our relationship wasn’t always contentious. While my brother would have always said I was a pain in the ass, he loved me. I remember when I was a child with the chicken pox. He figured out ways to make sure I took my medicine, I hated swallowing pills. I was just too delicate. But he understood the importance of me taking my medicine and he bribed me into doing the right thing.

I was always protective of my brother and when he was sick, I was even more protective of him. I never allowed anyone to hurt or bother my brother, except me, and I would try my damnedest to fight for him.

And in his own way, Jeffery was protective of me too. We were siblings and we did what siblings do – we fought, we loved, and we protected. My brother was there for me even when I didn’t ask him to. I remember he flew home several times when he was stationed in the Philippines to surprise us. My senior year in high school, he came for my Senior Inaugural and I had to fight the girls off him. And he fondly recalled being there to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. He smiled like he had won the lottery. And as we stood in the doorway of the church, he held my hand tightly and he told me knew I couldn’t see and that he would guide me – those were the sweetest words he had ever spoken to me.

And when he needed me, he knew all he had to do was call. Prior to him going in to the hospital, he wanted me to take him to the store because he wanted to talk to me. And all though he was prone to tell me things he had told me before, it didn’t matter, and I would listen and let him clear his mind. He got tired while we were out, which was typical and I thought nothing more of it. And when my mom told me she was taking him to the hospital, I thought nothing more of that either.

Now he is gone and I relive every day we spent together. The first days – when we were kids. The in between days – when we were adolescents and adults. And the final days – when he left. I remember the good times – me painting his face, him telling I broke my glasses throwing them at him, me hiding his shoe, and him giving me the necklace I thought long lost on my wedding day. The bad times – me fussing at him because I could and him ignoring me because he could.

I find myself remembering the oddest things and laughing at the most inopportune moments. Like recently, I was at a funeral and at the internment, they handed the flag to the family and I was remembering my brother’s internment at Quantico . My mother and I sat and watched the young men fold the flag and do the gun salute, and when they were done, they handed the flag to me and offered me their condolences for the lost of my husband. I just smiled and handed the flag to my mother.

I also find myself sad. Sad because I just want one more day because I don’t remember kissing him or telling him I love him. Sad because I just want one more day to tell him bye and to let him know that I will make sure everyone is alright. Sad because he’s gone and I just don’t know how to mourn him.