In 2019, I was cleaning out my mother’s house after the overdose death of my brother, Matthew, who had been occupying the house after my mother’s death from cancer the year before. As I carried a load of old pots and pans out to the dumpster in the driveway, a nosy neighbor walked up and told me, “You’re the last man standing.” I suppose it was meant as supportive, but it left me feeling isolated, alone, and defined by loss. Following the loss of my other brother and Matthew’s twin, Joseph, from a heroin overdose in 2009 and the estrangement from my father around 2015, I felt utterly alone in the wake of what I viewed as an unmitigated disaster of a family. Sure, I was the last one left, but that also meant I was now the one to clean up the mess, figure everything out, and find some way to continue on with my own life.
False Coping Through Busyness
I admit, though, in the immediate aftermath of the collective loss, I coped relatively well. There was a lot to do, and I was busy. From straightening out my brother’s finances to settling my mother’s estate to rummaging through a house full of family history, I barely had time to breathe, let alone grieve. I felt purposeful and determined. Speaking with others who have endured catastrophic, traumatic loss, I find increasingly that this phenomenon is common, as so many of us can adaptively turn to solution-focus in the face of tragedy as if we are flipping a switch. The problem is that this state of busyness does not last, and, eventually, the dust settles.
After the Dust Settles
There comes a point where you have crossed every “t” and dotted every “i”—you’ve secured the death certificates, you’ve closed the accounts, you’ve cleaned out the house—and this is when the weight of loss hits you. The freedom that your mind now has often turns to thoughts of anger, depression, denial—you know the rest. What we do after the dust settles says a lot about how we are really coping. I did not cope well once I was less busy; though I never fell into the addictive patterns to which my brothers succumbed, I unquestionably behaved recklessly, engaged in substance use to an unhealthy degree, and acted out of character in many ways. It was as though I was no longer myself. I can recall having a vivid feeling of standing alone on a planet somewhere in space, completely isolated on an alien surface. That image encapsulates the emotional experience of that time in my life.
Dreams and Intrusions
People often think that if you are going to work, living your life, getting through the day, you must be “over it.” Let me assure you, your subconscious has a lot to say about that notion. Many nights, I dreamt of a recurring theme: Family members would be at a physical distance from me, but I could see them and speak to them. They, however, were unaware of my presence or my attempts to communicate. It was as though I had no voice, or they had no ability to hear, or some combination of the two. Certainly, lines can be drawn psychologically, and Carl Jung would likely have a field day with interpretation of these dreams. In my mind, it’s simple: I still had things to say to them; I still wanted to communicate and connect, but their dreamlike ignorance of me cemented the reality that it could never happen. I would also (and still do) experience waking moments of intrusion—for instance, I see someone in my peripheral vision that resembles my mother, and I think for just a millisecond, “It’s her.” These intrusions are not visible to the bystander who observes you as coping well and being “over it.”
Accepting Duality
So, it has been 17 years since the death of Joseph and nearly 10 since the deaths of Mom and Matthew. Does that mean I am over it? That I am healed? Yes and no. I no longer persistently feel like the “last man standing,” but things can easily trigger that feeling, and it can come back and hit me hard. My son will never have a maternal grandmother nor uncles on his dad’s side; it is recognitions like this that can pop up unexpectedly and bring the loss rushing back, even years or decades later. So, I continue to work at accepting a strange and painful duality: My family of origin no longer exists, but my current family (myself, my wife, and my son) is beautifully intact. One side of that hurts like hell; the other feels almost too good to be true. It is a strange thing to balance, but I suspect I am far from alone in experiencing this profound juxtaposition.
Trusting Life Again
In the face of traumatic loss, you stop trusting that life can be OK. You prepare for the worst, you brace yourself, you live stiffened and tightened up, like a boxer bracing for the next gut punch. It takes a lot to start trusting life again. I wish I could tell you how I regained my trust, but I doubt I could simplistically explain it here. Gradually, though, life began to feel less treacherous. Two things I know have helped: not hiding this history of loss deep within myself and accepting that not everyone can understand, despite my wish that they could. My parting message is not “Time heals all wounds” or “Everything happens for a reason” or “God only gives you what you can handle.” Quite the contrary: It makes no sense. You might have trouble coping at first. You might still feel emotional intrusions years later. At the same time, you, as a human, are inherently capable of holding two seemingly conflicting truths at the same time. I lost my family, yet I survived. It makes no sense, yet at the same time, it makes perfect sense.
