Dear Timmy | A Letter to My Forever-Young Brother
"Grief does not change you. It reveals you." - John Green
Dear Timmy,
Nine years ago today, you took your last breath.
Nine years ago, I walked into a hospital emergency room - the hallway walls lined with familiar tear-stained faces - knowing it would be the last time I would ever see you alive. Alive being a relative term, as it was only the beeping and hissing machines that kept your heart beating. You were gone long before those machines stopped running.
When I awoke nine years ago, I remember how perfect the day was. The sun was shining and there was not a cloud in the sky. We had just come out of two straight weeks of rain and it felt like the world woke up rejoicing that the sun was finally shining again. I had no idea of the devastation the day would hold.
When you woke up nine years ago, you saw the sun and did what you would have done any Saturday morning. You hopped on your motorcycle with your friends and went for a ride. Later that morning, you would lay your bike down on the side of the interstate and your life would come to an end, but I truly believe you wouldn't have chosen to go any other way.
You lived your life in the moment. You embraced every opportunity to try something new, go somewhere you'd never been, and talk to someone you'd never met. To you, life was one big roller coaster. Sure, there were rough spots, but you tossed your hands in the air and smiled through it all.
Image of Tim’s last vacation, courtesy of his best friend, Chad W.
Nine years... It feels like an eternity since we last spoke but the gut-wrenching ache that still lingers in my wounded heart feels like it all happened yesterday.
I often ask myself what I'd tell you if I could have you back for just one day and honestly, I don't know that I'd do anything different than what I did the last day we spent together. You weren't the kind of guy to sit around and dwell on negative things. You wouldn't have wanted the tears or to hear the sappy stories of our best moments growing up. Instead, you would have ordered your usual steak and cheese sub, popped open a beer, kicked your feet up on my couch, and laughed at the latest episode of "Jackass," the next morning, heading out the front door for work with a simple, "I love you".
I've tried to move on the way I know you would have wanted us to. I've tried to smile through it. I've tried to push forward when the tears feel like they won't stop. I've tried to breathe deeply when I wake up in a panic because I've had to re-live your final hours in a dream, for the thousandth time since that fateful day. I've tried, but it's hard. Twenty-one years and nine months is not enough time to live. You should have been able to grow up. To marry. To have kids. Grandkids. But that's not the way it ended up.
One thing I've learned in the last nine years is this: life goes on. It goes on when you don't think it will. It goes on when you hope that it won't. And just like that roller coaster you lived your life on, now, I will try to throw my hands in the air and smile through it all, like you would have wanted. Like you would be doing if you were here today.
Love and miss you always,
Your big sis
