I’ve been thinking a lot about my brother. Not the one who entered rehab Friday (of course, I’m thinking about him, too), but my brother who died in April. Cirrhosis. Hepatitis. When we did the intervention on Friday, I kept looking at his son. I wondered if he felt angry that we hadn’t intervened with his father. I looked at his sadness, his tears, and felt so terribly guilty that I had not done this for his father. Was he thinking we didn’t care as much about his father? We didn’t love his father as much?
I remember being told that he was getting worse, that my parents had fired him from the family business hoping to spur him into action. It had been effective in the past. But this time, he’d given up. His fiancé fell and hit her head (intoxicated at my niece’s wedding), and three weeks later she went into a coma. She never regained consciousness and died two months later. Because she was still drinking, none of us thought she was good for him. And then she died, and he dealt with his grief the only way he knew how.
Why didn’t we get him help? Why didn’t we at least try to intervene? Why was this time, this brother, different?
His sons likely are asking these questions. I need to figure out the answers so I can talk with them about it. They need to know their father didn’t matter less. They need to know I didn’t love their father less.
- They say it happens in threes. (unconfirmedbachelorette.com)