Here today, gone tomorrow. The sands of time keep on ticking.
SLART Note: Please read this as an uplifting message, to live life fully, and to stop worrying about the small things.
I went to see my brother’s body just now. I didn’t know what to expect, I declined to see my mum and dad’s corpses when they passed. Today, the funeral director took me into a small room with two seats beside a coffin. She pulled back the lace veil that lightly covered him, and said “Take your time”. I took one look at his face and burst into floods of tears, clenching my beanie hat for comfort. I couldn’t believe that was his body, lying there, only fifty-two years of age.
One minute he was here.
The next he was gone.
On Friday 8th December 2023 around 9pm, my older brother Gary died of liver failure in hospital. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was ill. Gratefully, I am in touch with his ex-wife, his first wife, of whom she was like a big sister to me when I was growing up. Otherwise, I may not have known. One minute he was here and the next he was gone.
He was a Gulf War veteran, out in Iraq at age 19. I looked up to him, being 11 years older, he was my hero. He used to take me and my friends on army adventures in the forest, we all dressed up in full army gear, climbed trees, crossed rivers, went under tunnels and best of all, we all got to share a 250ml bottle of beer, between four eight-year-olds, we thought we were the bee’s knees.
When my brother was first out in North Yorkshire preparing for Iraq, I vividly remember saying to him over the phone “But Gary, what if you die?” he went quiet for a while, total radio silence. Later as an adult, I found out that he burst into tears but didn’t want to upset me. My hero.
Needless to say, he survived his time in the Gulf War and lives to tell the tale. It was the aftermath that got him in the end. Traumatised from seeing his friends die right before his eyes, self-medicating with alcohol for many years took its toll on his body.
I hadn’t seen him since our mum’s funeral on 11/11/2018. We didn’t fall out, we just lived different lives, our mum connected us and when she passed, we drifted apart. This doesn’t make it any easier for me to accept. I do wish I reached out and met up with him. I’m very proud to hear that in the last two years of his life, he was sober.
My cousin got in touch on Facebook after I announced Gary’s death. I told him to inform my Aunties and Uncle. He replied, “Didn’t you hear about Sue?” I knew what was coming next… My Aunt Sue died a year ago. She was taking out the bins and died of a massive heart attack there and then. Dropped dead on the floor. I can only imagine my poor uncle being there and witnessing it.
Rest in peace bro ❤️
Rest in peace Aunt Sue ❤️
I don’t quite know how to end this, as I write and paint about Memento Mori a lot. It’s easy to tell people to ‘remember your mortality’ but people just say “I know, we all die” or “That’s morbid, I don’t need to focus on the negative”. They’re both right.
Trying to think of a poignant question or statement but the words aren’t there. Just know that my intention is that you gain something from my words today.
Love to you.
SLART