Our Story – Two

Without wishing to sound ridiculously melodramatic (as if a blog isn’t self-indulgent in itself, eh?), much of my healing from my brother’s death was down to my then boyfriend, G. I say then, of course, because he’s now my husband. We’d been together for just over a year when I lost my brother and I know as relationship goals go, holding your sobbing grieving partner isn’t right up there with introducing them to your friends or moving in together. He did later point out that he’d have to have been ‘a bit of a bastard’ to have even contemplated walking away at that point, but still, as if I didn’t already know; it just served to showed me another facet of what a brilliant person he really was – and still is.

G and my brother had only met a handful of times, but they’d shared a beer, had a similar sense of humour and got on. I’d had a series of boyfriends who hadn’t quite clicked up to that point, but I can safely say that from what little they knew, they approved of each other. It even transpired that they’d both briefly worked in the same office although never met save for the odd inter-departmental phone call. They both meant the world to me, so it was vital that they had connected and I’m so glad they did albeit for that brief moment in time.

Grief isn’t pretty. It doesn’t wear black, send flowers and sit in a corner. Grief is an unrelenting pressure in your chest, it’s crying yourself to sleep at 1am realising everything has changed. It’s sympathetic nods on the school run or awkward silences in the local shop. 

When you’re in your thirties, bereavement is meant to be about losing your elderly relatives, not writing a eulogy for your little brother or explaining to your four year old why their uncle won’t be coming over anymore.

Grief is a raw, physical heartache. It’s a tsunami of tears and snot, a ball in the pit of your stomach which resets all your points of reference from what has gone before. And to face that – pouring out from someone you love – is a daunting prospect.  But he met the challenge, stared it down and clung to me for dear life. And, because of that, when he got down on one knee at Glastonbury in 2013, I didn’t hesitate for second. (In truth, I knew full well he was about to propose due to some drunken ramblings the night before, but my mind was already made up long before that).

Our wedding – accidentally over two days (don’t ask – it wasn’t as ‘look at me’ as that – it just sort of happened that way with logistics and budget) – felt like such an achievement for us. It was testament to how far we’d come – the obstacles we’d overcome together and as a family – to be standing there that day. 

I think in any other situation, it might have been odd to admit that you were thinking about your brother as you said your vows, but I did. I thought how chuffed he would have been and how it was a day he would have enjoyed. His photo sat behind us in the ceremony – and at the bar during the party afterwards – which is exactly where he’d have been in life – surrounded by our cousins and joining in with the chorus of ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ on the karaoke.

I miss him. Every day. But I am relieved that I met my husband when I did, because it would have been hopelessly unbearable without him here to pick up the pieces. And,for that, I am very lucky.