Grief and Grievance

Happy freakin' new year.

On the twenty-fourth of January, one of my 7-year old son's classmates, a precious, kind, darling little girl we've known for the entire 4 years he's been in school, was killed in a car accident on her ride to school. She had loosened her seatbelt for a moment, in order to retrieve a dropped book for her little sister, when a 21 year old fuckwad with no insurance, no license, no license plate, no registration, and no fucking seatbelt decided that, gnarly rainy weather be damned, no passing zone aside, he was in far too much of a hurry to wait, and so passed four cars before slamming head-on into my friend's van. Mom was severely injured and spent three weeks in trauma ICU. Little sister survived, but sustained a crushed leg, and spent a week in ICU, then another in a regular room before being sent home. Mom is still in the hospital, where she will likely remain for at least another month. My son's friend is dead. The fuckwad is in a coma. If there is justice in the universe, the fuckwad's coma is one that has his conscious mind trapped in some nightmare hell from which he can't escape.

My son has proven yet again how well adjusted and generally sane he is. He conducts periodic "belt checks," every time we ride in the car now, and each of us complies with enthusiasm. Every day, every moment, is precious, and he has learned that at an incredibly tender age. Life goes on anyway, another essential fact of our existence with which he's now intimately acquainted.

Got a call tonight from my sister, with whom I've begun, after thirty years, an entirely new and entirely sisterly relationship. Seems our male half-sibling is in a nasty pinch, and thought I might have some bit of information to help him out of it. I relayed what I have through my sister. For the second time in all my life, I really truly hope I'm wrong about him. But, then, I suppose the fact that I WANT to be wrong is all the evidence I need to know that I'm not. Ugly, that.

Heard also today from an extremely close friend out of state. He's one of my seven. Oh, and I had My Seven waaaaaay before the damned cell phone company ripped off my idea, but who's counting (me). His brother died a few years ago this weekend, and he mourns the loss again. His story is far too personal to get into here, but suffice to say I can only imagine that what he witnessed with his brother's death is far beyond anything I can imagine. Also, I am happy for him, in a sad kind of way. He had a very good brother, with whom he bonded and whom he loved, and who loved him. I envy him the happy memories, and I am consoled by the knowledge that he has them.

I think I've finally reached the acceptance phase of grieving the loss of my own brother. He's not technically dead, but he will be one day, most likely by his own hand. This pains me in ways I don't like to ponder much, but it is something removed from me too. I am not now, nor have I ever been, responsible for his poor choices. I hope for him that he'll manage to change, to metamorpose into some semblance of actual health some day, but I know with stomach-churning certainty that this is nearly impossible. I have managed to let go of the need to ascribe malicious intent to him, even though it's probably unnecessary to do so. Ultimately, whether intentional or not, the damage he has wreaked in my life and the lives of so many of the people who have tried to love him is the same. A stomped toe hurts as much if it's stomped accidentally as if it's stomped intentionally. Simple as that.

Still, I dream from time to time that he's been miraculously transformed, cured of all that ails his body and soul, into a compassionate, kind, human being. That we talk to each other, and actually exchange ideas, rather than engaging in the emotional gangrene that was our only way to relate to each other, back before the day nearly five years ago when all communication between us came to an abrupt halt. I dream that he telephones me, talks to me about regret and remorse, and having finally seen the error of his malignant ways.

He exudes life in those dreams, and health and sanity and happiness, and I am content, just for the brevity of dreamtime, better than not at all, with the knowledge that he might actually have a chance of living. Happily. And then I awake, and no phone calls have been received, and I know they never will be. Or that if they are, they'll be yet another ruse, the next step in the manipulative and self-serving isolation that is, has always been, and will continue to be his existence until the moment he draws his last breath. The moment that, based on his present physical and mental states, is likely just around the corner. And then my question becomes, how in the world can I attend a funeral for my only brother, five-years cold in the mental tomb I excavated for him myself?