A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
In the springtime of 1979, my brother Johnny was stationed at Fort Devens near Ayer, MA. He was special forces/Green Beret having completed basic at Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, NC earlier that Fall.
I was a first year student at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. I was 19, he was 21.
That February, Johnny had been admitted to the VA hospital in Jamaica Plain, MA for a sleep disorder. They originally thought he had narcolepsy, but it turned out he had a cyst between the halves of his brain which required some scary(to us) surgery to drain.
He had the surgery and was well on his way to recovery by April. He was back on the base resuming his normal duties within two months. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
On Saturday, May 5, 1979 we were both home at our parents house, a "Levittown" cape in Stratford, CT. He had ridden his Honda 750 motorcycle down on Friday. I drove home in my old '63 Pontiac Grand Prix that morning. Often we would make the trip together when circumstance allowed, Fort Devens being 30mi west of Boston, using the car or the bike to travel the three plus hours back to our Connecticut home.
We shared a lot back then. Clothes, cars, the bike... and less tangible things. We shared a sense of being survivors growing up in a dysfunctional family, though we didn't call it that back then. Most of our friends dad's were drunks...nothing unusual there, but as anyone who has seen "Good Will Hunting", having a big brother who's a Green Beret is a major asset when the old man's an alcoholic.
Sometimes as we rocketed down the Mass Pike holding onto each other on that Honda we felt special and unique. Certainly 10 foot tall and bulletproof.
By the late 70's Johnny and I both felt we had transcended our parochial upbringing, escaping a violent, working class doldrums.
Johnny was excited about his prospects. He was saving for college, MIT in particular. His IQ was tested at 145. He was looking forward to the future.
That afternoon of May 5th, Johnny asked me if I wanted to take the bike back to Boston. I said no, I had a date with a French Horn player that required the car. I walked out the front door with a wave and an assurance that we'd see each other back in Boston.
That was not to be.
Johnny was riding with a friend to a local bar. Johnny on his Honda, his buddy on his Suzuki. They were cut off by a car at a notoriously dangerous intersection. His buddy ditched his bike and slid into the car. Johnny tried to go around the car but hit the rear quarter and was thrown. No helmet. Skull compromised from the surgery. He died in the hospital around midnight.
I received that unimaginable phone call about 1am.
Mom: Johnny had an accident
Me: uh huh...
Mom: He didn't make it...
I don't remember anything else said. There probably wasn't except for I'll be back first thing in the morning.
It was truly surreal. Barely 24 hours later I was back in Stratford, surrounded by dumbfounded friends and family...all in shock. Mumbling about the details of the accident. Unbelievable.
Next a jumble of events, the wake...the funeral. All the details are fading now save for a couple of memories...the odd inappropriateness of the church ceremony...death is for old people after all...and the fact that Johnny had a closed casket due to the severity of his injuries. Near the end of the viewing time, the funeral home director asked us if we wanted to see Johnny before he was interred. I was afraid to look, but thought I owed that last look to myself. The casket was opened. There he lay.
What caught my eye was a small spaghetti sauce stain that was on his shirt. Laundered and faded but there none the less. That stain spoke volumes to me. At 21, he didn't have clothes to be buried in. No one should.
I could talk at length about how Johnny's death changed our family. My parents divorced. There was a guilt laden insurance settlement. There was my shattered "faith" and personal decent into drugs and alcohol. There are the holidays and wives and children not shared, but mostly I miss being ten feet tall and bulletproof with Johnny by my side.