A brother's tribute

My husband's eulogy for his older brother was the most beautiful tribute I've ever heard or read. He has given me permission to print it here. First, a little background.

I've often said that Simon and Oli looked like a photo negative. Both strikingly similar in height and good looks, but one light and one dark. Simon took to every motorized sport going--snowmobiling, four wheeling, boating, motorbiking; whereas his brother embraced the motorless ones--running, biking, skiing, swimming, rock climbing, windsurfing, canoeing...

Simon was bold and loud, a true Ottawa Valley lad; Oli introspective and soft spoken. The picture below, sums up their relationship, the light above, the dark below. Simon would jump into things and Oli would go along too, but he always had his brother's back.

Note: The names of our daughters have been removed for privacy reasons.

Simon: A life so fully lived

How can it summarize a life lived so fully, the life of my brother, your friend, your son, in just a few minutes? I can't. But I can tell you about some of the important people in Simon's life.

Simon was extremely loyal to all of these people. He lit up a room with his smile and his booming voice: "Hey, what's goin' on?"

Jeff and Tom, you guys are like brothers to Simon. Jeff, you guys talked several times a day. Your family--Julie, Cindy, Charles and Ellen--you all meant so much to Si over the years. Julie, so many good times.

Tom, how many times did you rebuild that damned sled?

Lex, how he loved coming down to the Bay to relax, fish a bit and chat a lot. I haven't forgotten about the minnows for life (Simon installed a furnace for Lex shortly before he died and said he'd take payment in the form of bait. Lex operates a bait, tackle and ice hut business on the side).

Peter whose couch Simon slept on through much of high school--the weekends anyway. Sharing tea around your family's table the next morning.

Wheels, you are The Country Man. Imagine you, working for the city.

David, (I offer) thanks to you and your family for taking Si under your wing with the hunt camp. He loved going up there so much!

The Baskin Family--Tom, you recognized Simon's incredible capacity for work. And of course, his love of cash. Alma, Mark and Bruce, you all believed in and brought out the best in Si.

Dad and Liz, so many gourmet dinners over the years. Dad, your love and pride in the man Simon had become. And the Pathfinder "Chili" you gave Si. He put more miles on that in the last few months than I put on in a year.

My darling daughters, who helped Uncle Si's tender loving heart to shine through. Younger daughter, I'm sure that you will remember the chemistry set and the cuddles. You swarmed him with, "Uncle Si! Uncle Si!" when he came to visit.

Elder daughter, how you absolutely adore your uncle. When Si came back from out west, I remember you dancing for him to the song, "Cowboy take me away". You are so brave. (She choreographed and performed a dance to Dixie Chicks' Easy Silence as part of the funeral service moments before).

Patti my darling wife, you always included Si and made him feel so welcome in our home.

Mum, who loves every fibre of Simon's being. Who stuck with him, bailed him out. Who managed to convince our young entrepreneur to go to college. You introduced him to Mexico and the hammock. Oh, I know how much you will miss him.

Oh Si, you are so worthy of our love. I will miss you so much. We all will miss you so much! You will continue to be in our heads and in our hearts. Brother, my love for you is unconditional.

Now that the hard part has been said, Lex, you know those minnows? I was thinking we should start a memorial fishing tournament. Can I share my free minnows with everyone?

What's a funeral without gastroenteritis 5 days later?

Currently, in this house our physical health matches our internal turmoil. There's a word for that, but I can't remember what it is. I want to say onomatapoeia and not type it because then I'll have to doublecheck its spelling and it's wrong.

Younger daughter was stricken last night and elder daughter is contorting over the commode every 20 minutes or so. Poor thing.

So, in addition to sadness and compassion, a little dose of gastro-bug was given during the visitation and funeral for my husband's brother. Normally, this kind of sickness makes me angry, but I've already been dealing with monumental anger issues since Simon died.

I've surrendered to the vomiting.

Nothing keeps one as grounded as vomit. So, my grief-stricken-zombie state has been replaced with frantic mopping, head holding and frequent "poor, poor baby". My poor older sickling is now producing only water and bile and I would do anything to spare her. I can't, so I think of mothers all over the world who watch over their seriously (cholera or typhoid) sick children and I send them my compassion. I'll try and keep the gastroenteritis to myself though.

Taking care of my stricken sicklings has me hopping and motivated. Motivated to clean all the toilets in the house, especially the one off the master bedroom.

I figure that in the next 24 to 48 hours, when I'm kneeling at the porcelain altar myself, I don't want to be contemplating the shit stains. Know what I'm saying? And that thought made me smile. Shit is also quite grounding.

Time to get out of Dodge -- and I don't mean my Caravan

I'm still knee-deep in anger and self-pity. But I often think of my beloved Aunt Kathy, who always said, "No one gets a free pass through life."

She would know. She was a palliative care nurse in Sudbury--one of the best. She and her colleague were killed by a transport truck while en route to their patients in 2001. She was a beautiful person and is still so sorely missed.

I thought about Aunt Kathy a lot this past hellish week when we had to go and identify my brother in law at the hospital after his fatal snowmobile crash. Every step of this awful journey I've thought of Aunt Kathy's husband, children, mother, brother and sister (my mother), and what they went through eight and a half years ago.

I think my uncle knew that and that's why he and his youngest son came to Ottawa for the funeral to be with us. And why his daughter sent me gourmet homemade lasagna and his friend made my favourite cookies and fudge and why my parents and sister and her family came and supported us so completely.

The kindness of others is humbling. I feel so grateful for that kindness, but it makes me cry.

And then I get angry again. I know it's irrational and many people have it much worse, but right now, all I can think is that Ottawa has done us no favours. It's just been a litany of bullshit, sickness and now, death.

If I were Jewish, I would think all this hardship was a divine message to move to the Holy Land. But I'm not. I'm not religious at all. I wish I were, but I can't suspend my disbelief.

I’m thinking the message here is that “it’s time to get out of Dodge.” This is what's known as "seeking the geographical cure".

But my mother says that you can’t outrun tragedy. It always finds you. I wish tragedy was blind, deaf and crippled, so I could stand half a chance on the run from it.

Where would we go? Sudbury. That’s where my people are. But we won’t. Lack of employment opportunities “up North”, better medical care in Ottawa, and my husband's parents and some pretty terrific friends are what hold us here.

Loss

Are you looking for advice on how to cope with loss? If so, have you found any? Because you're not going to find it here.

Right now, I'm in the "FURY" stage of loss and this is what's sustaining me. I know I'll pay for this rage later, but now it's a fire in my gut that propels me through the planning stages.

Monday night, my husband and I learned that his brother was in a fatal snowmobile crash. Simon was the "fatal" part of that collision. I'm furious at the waste of it all.

The investigation into the crash is ongoing and I hate to think of my loved one undergoing an autopsy, but in accidents you don't have much choice.

When Simon heard his snow machine engine roar and felt the wind buffeting his helmet, he couldn't know what was in store for him and the other party when he chose that time and place to ride. He couldn't know the profound pain to which he was exposing the hearts of those who loved him. He was probably thinking that it was a lovely evening for a ride on the river.

I don't know what he was thinking. But you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that I'm never going to forget the sight and sound of my husband weeping over his brother's body in that Shawville, Quebec hospital. Or the sound of his mother's scream through the phone when she heard the news.

I'm thinking of how tanned Simon's skin was from his recent trip to Mexico and how he looked like he was sleeping. I'm thinking of how the only injury I could see was the scab on his giant callused hand he got from doing some sort of engine repair. In fact, I remember him gingerly washing that hand when he was over for dinner the week before.

I'm thinking that when my daughters learn about the pain of loss, it should be the loss of a very elderly relative whose time had come and not their beloved Uncle Si.

I'm thinking of how much my husband loves his brother.

I'm thinking of his mother and father and how outliving a child is the worse thing that can happen to a person. Ever.

I'm thinking of the 10-year-old boy who witnessed the crash, his father's and Simon's injuries and went for help.

But you know what I really want to think? I want to think that in his final moments, Simon knew how much he was loved and how much we would miss him.