My mouth gets dry and my eyes get full when I consider the weight of one year. Time is all relative, I try to remind myself, and one year is hardly a mark of more significance than five months or two weeks. In some ways two weeks was the hardest. In two weeks' time (the amount of time to earn one paycheck or to go on six runs or to have to wait to see Nathaniel when we were doing long-distance between Lancaster and Richmond), I learned my brother was missing; worried and prayed endlessly; reached out of my comfort zone to utilize social media and call hospitals for a John Doe; learned my brother, my family member, Tyler, who is an integral part of Tyler Marisa Chelsea, Tyler, who taught me the rules of baseball and the bad words and to question my assumptions, Tyler was gone. I spent days sustained by the smallest bits of meals I could find because food made me nauseous. I spent nights crying and praying until morning came. I spent hours reading his lyrics and trying to pick a bible verse to print on the programs for his memorial, all the while thinking how much he would hate this attention and how embarrassed he would be by the childhood pictures we were all making our profile pictures. I helped clean out his apartment and watch everything he owned get dissected and split between family members and friends. I sat with family members as they cried and tried to figure out if I needed to be strong or if I needed to cry as they did the same for me. I struggled with feelings of happiness and got too emotional to watch any movie the whole way through (as if it were okay to have all the time in the world to watch movies). I went shopping and wondered how people could spend money and time on new clothes, I saw distant family members, I saw everyone I ever knew (or so it felt) at his memorial and could hardly keep myself from shaking when I saw people who I only knew because of Tyler because here they were but he was nowhere anymore. I shared a eulogy with my sister, the one who hated sharing anything with me especially matching outfits or common interests, and I felt like we were the only two people lost at sea; all around were mourners who knew completely different sides of him, often kinder and deeper sides of his adult personality; and here we were with our childhood memories and our Christmas stories of how grumpy but hilarious he could be. But I didn't feel like we were lost at sea together--an ocean of different memories and feelings separated us. And I was flooded with doubts of how he ended up in this place and what I would tell my future children about him because I had always looked forward to them having the grumpiest and weirdest of uncles. And in two weeks' time, I went back to work and sat through seminars and coded and tried to wake up in the morning without crying, and cried almost every time I went to the bathroom because that was the only place that felt safe to cry.
So in a lot of ways, two weeks felt the most surreal, the most impossible, because how could so much and so little happen in a fortnight?
But it didn't end there. At one year, I've experienced guilt in my grieving process, intense feelings of fear of losing every one of my family members, counseling, distance from friends as they tiptoed around my feelings and experiences, the terrible anxiety in my stomach when people around me start talking about siblings and I know the inevitable question of my siblings will come up and I have to decide if I want to have an honest conversation or an easy one, the changes in my family's dynamics, the closeness with my Mom as well as the chasm that now exists between her and the rest of the world, the random sad dreams and the random happy ones, the bittersweet nostalgia of listening to Tyler's music (both what he played and what he shared with me all the way back in middle school). Kindness and understanding in unexpected people, and confusion and hurt from equally unexpected sources. Both feeling closeness and distance in my relationships, depending on the day. The fear of forgetting his voice or his smell or how mad he got when he couldn't find Cholula or how consistent we were in getting each other Christmas gifts that we liked rather than ones the other would appreciate. The hesitation before bringing up his name in conversations with people who never knew him and only knew my loss. The question of how to remember him at my wedding. The jealousy of friends who get to plan weddings in the absence of a family tragedy. My first Thanksgiving without seeing him, smelling him, hugging him, playing games, my first Christmas without any of our family traditions or fights. The awful reality every time I let myself forget and then have to remember again how gone he is. The regret of not seeing him one last time. Watching his box be put in a wall and sealed up forever, and then having to eat afterwards and talk to people and having my wedding plans be a distraction from our pain.
All of this will continue. This is why one year is both noteworthy and not. It never goes away. It may lessen in frequency, but not in intensity. This is part of who I am. It's been one year since I lost my brother, and it feels both a lifetime ago and so fresh and new that it couldn't possibly be true.
I know that this post is mostly focused on me rather than on Tyler. When I write things about Tyler, I feel as though I'm writing a letter just to him, and it would feel like a massive invasion of our private relationship to post it online. Some things are just for my memory, and as I've begun to learn about loss, that's okay--because there's not one right, one-size-fits-all method to grief. I should also note that I've glossed over the two most important aspects of my grieving process, again for the reason that they are very personal: the constant support, love, and most of all presence from Nathaniel through my ups and downs; and the very tangible hope that I have in Jesus Christ, the promise that he will make all things new, that he sees our brokenness and offers to heal it, and that death is not worth fearing because it has been overcome by his death and resurrection. I can't begin to comprehend the impact Tyler had on this world, on his friends, coworkers, classmates, bandmates, family. But I know his life, like all lives, was significant and his presence and eternal perspective won't be forgotten. And I thank God that I have been privileged to have a brother and to see some of God's work through Tyler.
