Why start writing now? I've ignored this space for months and it's unlikely to have any visitors. It doesn't matter, visitors or not I need to write. There is so much inside trying to get out it's almost overwhelming. A word I have found too much occasion to use lately.

March 11 my grandmother went into the hospital never to come out again. Heart, lung & kidney failure put her on immediate life support. During the week she spent at St. Elizabeth's she was never conscious and her condition went from bad to worse. Her wishes in respect to her condition were well known and on Saturday, March 17th I stood over her bed with my family as the last rites were given. I could not watch her die despite assurances that she "was comfortable." What I did see didn't look comfortable, it was death after all, and it looked more like suffocation. It was horrible and at the time, I thought I would have handled it better. A quick lesson to learn, there is no right way to handle it. She was 76.

The following week was busy with funeral arrangements, wake and burial with my birthday capping it off on the 24th. The week after that was busy with emptying my grandmother's apartment, filing paperwork and cancelling utilities. My sister and I turned in the keys the morning of March 31st and I headed home hoping things might get back to normal.

That's about when my world completely fell apart. I wasn't home an hour before I got a call from my sister. My brother Jimmy was dead. Thank god she had the foresight to tell me to sit before she broke the news. The laundry in my arm fell to the floor and I was right behind it. Jeff was beside me in a moment, getting info from my sister who was still on the phone while holding me as I wailed in hysterics. We were in Dorchester within the hour where we met my brother Billy. My other brother Robby was on vacation down the Cape and we had yet to get a hold of him. My sister had not yet returned from the apartment Jimmy lived. My mother was still at work. How were we going to tell her? What do we do? My sister picked her up at work but in the five minute drive home was unable to tell her what happened. My mother knew something was wrong when they pulled into the driveway. Why else would we all be there? In the end it was Billy who spoke the words to her and what happened then will forever be burned in my brain and heart. It was like a scene from a movie, every moment in slow motion. Every second an age of agony, disbelief, heartbreak and one thread of hope that it was all a bad dream we'd wake up from. So much grief it was too much to bear.

Four days later we waked him in the same funeral home as my grandmother. I don't really do much praying but in the car on the ride over, as my heart ached and my stomach turned, I kept one phrase on continuous loop. "God give me the strength to get through this." I'm not sure if he did, but I did get through it, although not without injury. It was the single worst day of my life. Bar none. Far worse than when my father died and by a degree I didn't think was possible. I came to many realizations during the course of the night not the least of which was my brother, as a friend of mine put it, "left quite a footprint." The place was packed with friends, family and acquaintances. So many faces, hugs and expressions of sympathy and love it was again, overwhelming. Another realization I had was to never underestimate an individual's capacity for cruelty and self-righteousness. I also found a strength in myself I didn't know existed when I refrained from letting said person know exactly what I thought of her, her opinions and her unforgivable behavior towards my mother. I experienced lost time, love, hate, betrayal, support, generosity, fear and regret. I realized what it feels like to have a nervous breakdown and the vast expanse of emptiness you come to when your body decides you have had enough.
That night I fell in love with my husband all over again. He truly is the best man I have ever known. I also told every one of my friends I loved and adored them, which I do, with every ounce of my heart. I read a eulogy for my brother during which there was so much love and sadness in the room, the air felt thick. Jeff made everyone laugh at the end by giving out nips of Yager and lead a toast to my brother. After the wake we went out with friends who had come and ended the night on as high a note as we could.

My brother has been gone 12 days. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever recover. He was a part of me and now he's gone. Other days I feel nothing. A numbness that is both frightening and a blessing. I've had nightmares and trouble sleeping but am getting better bit by bit. I was suffering from irrational fear and found myself clinging to Jeff like a tick but now I am back at work and not panicked by an upcoming trip he has to take to London. I am, as I found when my father died, learning to live with it. Grief is funny that way. I remember back then equating it to a hot, heavy blanket thrown over you when you least expect it. A quick punch in the gut. This time it was a Mack truck hitting me at full speed. A machine that wrung every last drop out of me like fists twisting water out of a dish towel, until I had nothing left.