I Do NOT Have Sh**ty Taste in Music

As the holidays approach with the unsettling shadow of my brother's death casting a pall over it, I find myself filled with angst and ennui with an occasional flicker of peppermint-bark induced giddiness. I remember all too well the surreal holiday season of 2001, as I sat for days on end on my sofa with my hands limp at my side, watching the tree crisp into a brown, potentially incendiary homage to my grief. The feeling of wanting to scream and often doing so, so unbelievable was his death and ruthless separation from us. Constantly and senselessly wondering if he was okay, sometimes questioning the mere fact of his death. I spent months like that, alternating high-functioning, over-compensating workaholic drive with complete catatonia at home. The dogs were not walked for six months, phone calls were never returned, mail left unopened, plants left to die, and whatever I wore to work that day became my pajamas for the night. To undress was more effort than I could imagine, and Tylenol PM became my best friend.

The immediate duties of dealing with Shawn's body, his home, car and the crew hired to clean up the scene of his death all fell to me. It was a morbid, awful and seemingly inhuman and incomprehensible task -- but as the only semi-functioning adult in our family, it was mine to accomplish. I talked to mortuaries, the coroner, police, his landlord, his long-distance girlfriend, and had the terrible task of calling all of my parents' friends and extended family to let them know what had happened. Each call was a terrible reminder of the first call, when I had to wake my parents in the middle of the night to tell them their only son was gone.

Finally I had to brace myself and go to Shawn's home to pick up his Jeep. I was at a near breaking point, and the only thing I would be spared was actually entering his home -- due to the circumstances surrounding his death, his home was locked down and only professionals were able to enter. My sister drove me to his apartment and all but peeled out as she dropped me on the edge of the driveway. My hands shook so badly as I tried to put the key in the Jeep door that I dropped the keys repeatedly on the asphalt. Finally I stepped in and sat with my eyes closed, hands at 10 and 2... just breathing in the essence of my brother. Coffee. Cigarettes. Straw. A slightly minty aftershave. I finally opened my eyes and took in the scene.

An AA meeting guide. Multiple crushed Starbucks' cups. Shredded rolls of Tums, matchbooks and crumpled, empty packs of cigarettes. A Hunter S. Thompson book on the seat. And a coffee-stained envelope taped to the front of his stereo with these words scrawled on it in his nearly unintelligible hand: I do NOT have sh**ty taste in music.



At that, all my tears and tension turned into choking laughter - that sign and this scene summed up so much of my brother, so tough and yet constantly needing to remind himself that he was not the kid who used to be beaten up on a regular basis, teased constantly and made to feel less than the creative and special boy that he was. I turned the key in the ignition, immediately assaulted with Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. As I drove his car to the car wash (where I would later discover a loaded handgun in a Kleenex box under the seat - an apparently common finding in Louisiana), I listened to a compilation CD filled with songs that I too listened to regularly. Tom Waits, unknown or lesser known artists, tunes from our high school days and some played only on current college radio. And in those tunes was reminded of the sameness between us rather than the distance that lead to his demise. I knew that while my brother's body was gone and would never again be touched or hugged or pushed away...he was part of me and as inseparable from my life as the air that filled my lungs.

As the anniversary of my brother's death arrives today, I realize that the last few years have not allowed me to slip into the catatonia that was mine each December for the first three after his death. Too many people rely on my competence and remind me that while my brother is no longer here, his legacy is: his death pushed me to stop waiting and become a mother, and it is therefore because of him that I have my amazing son - his namesake. So instead of reflecting of all that is lost I must focus on what is here before me. As well as the good memories I have of Shawn before his cruel departure.

I look back at days spent at the Pannikin in La Jolla in the early 80s, studiously ignoring each other but arriving and leaving together. Playing air hockey on Christmas Eve in Baton Rouge, Shawn sweating like an old man in the December heat of the fun center. Miniature golf games with Shawn doing color commentary with each play, pushing his hair back from his forehead to ensure greater visibility of the hole underneath the windmill. Shawn pulling a wagon with a one-year old Sam in it, his dog Barney chasing them around the vast lawn of my parents' backyard. Driving over to his house to see him in the upstairs window - sitting on the sofa with his arm around his dog, back to the window, as they watched TV together in his dark apartment. Memories of him scaring the crap out of me after we had secretly stayed up to watch forbidden horror movies; sneaking out on to our patio roof to read, never answering our parents' call; running through eucalyptus canyons with him all day, exploring drainage pipes and caves and other dangerous but exciting landscapes. Running home from the park to tell my mom that Chris Hodges was once again beating my brother up for no reason other than the dozens of kids who would gather to watch him do so. Shawn being forced to go on my first date with me, and his gracious offer to crawl up the driveway, outside of my dad's sight, so my date could kiss me goodbye. Little did I know that he was actually just setting up a diversion so my parents might not notice that he himself was stoned and possibly drunk.

So today, instead of mourning what is not here and lighting my usual candle to mark the five days between his death and discovering it, I will celebrate his life. I will focus on all our memories, the son that is here due to the impetus of his death, and the fact that I was so fortunate to have had someone who made me feel so happy, so angry, so frustrated, so challenged, so safe, so worried and ultimately like I had a twin - sometimes evil, sometimes not - who shared my life for 36 years and contributed to the mom, wife, friend and daughter I am today.