Life goes on.
Despite all feelings to the contrary, and my efforts to stay mired in rage, in this awful, hollow place, life does move forward and unwillingly, I must too.
Have discovered that grief is a lonely place - an entirely solitary journey. I assumed, before this terrible knowing, that it was shared experience. That those who also loved and lost my brother would feel the same way as I do: pent up with emotions for which no word is enough. Rage doesn't quite capture the intensity of my deepest heart. But it comes closer than any other mild, asinine attempt: anger, frustration, sadness.
And they do, my parents, feel this, they assure me. In moments other than mine, when they're not feeling all the rest. But they seem to be handling this with a dignity that I simply cannot muster, a grace that eludes me, even as I will myself to calm down, get a grip, deal.
I still, two months on, want to poke strangers in the street and hiss, "My brother is dead. He died. My brother died." And yet, when I tell people, new friends and those who hadn't heard and they express their shock and sympathy, I wave it off, embarrassed, saying, "It's ok, it's ok," and sort of laugh. Laugh, that my brother is dead and I don't know what to DO about it.
It's NOT ok. It will never be ok, that he is gone, his life unfinished, not even half-lived. It's NOT ok that the truth about the life he did lead comes now, after it's too late, futile, done. The "if onlys" wage battle in my head with the "it was destineds," and I exhaust myself, flitting back and forth between them.
If only we had known the breadth and depth of the soul-destroying troubles he knew, we might have been able to pull him from it. If only he had made different choices, if I had not been stubborn and closed my heart and my door to him when he was searching for safe habour, he might still be here. If only...
And yet, in the next breath, it seems, I believe that the demons that chased him were of his choosing, long before he took his first breath of this life - and to die so young was all part of some Master Plan the he'd mapped out for himself, for us. Somewhere in my mind, I'd been waiting for that phone call saying he was dead, for years. When it finally came, I was utterly unprepared. Knocked sideways, both in shock and an underlying guilt that because I'd thought it, I'd willed it - he'd willed it. It was destined...
Or something.
I seek vengeance and peace, in equal measure. Well, not so much equal - was hoping that the vengeance for a death I consider wrong and unnecessary and entirely preventable would bring me peace. Am hopeful that Andrew is at last, at peace. Whole. Free. I am most certainly not at peace, since his passing. Feel like I will never be entirely whole again.
Am slowly realizing that my quest for answers, for retribution, and for the chance to rage against the one who was supposed to love him the best will never be enough. This rage and waiting to spew venom at her has propelled me through this godawful period, yes. And perhaps this is my mind's way of grieving - that I thrash about searching in vain for someone to blame. Someone else to blame, in truth, as he is no longer here and cannot feel my wrath.
The thought of her, blithely tra-la-la ing through her days, having NOT been made accountable, having NOT been made to atone for lies and deceit too late uncovered....it eats at me. Claws at my heart and forces me to know that at my core, I too, am capable of great and frightening loathing.
The unfairness of it all, that he is entirely gone, that I am left to agonize about the why, to watch helplessly as my beloved parents struggle with an unfathomable loss while her life goes on...it is so painful. Without anger, all encompassing and frankly, a little bit crazy, I am left feeling...deflated. Bereft. Cast adrift in a sea of sadness and I almost cannot bear it.
"What good will it do?" A well-meaning, entirely valid question. What good will it do to unleash my anger and accusations and theories and blame onto her. Well, shit. It won't do any good. But it sure as Hell has got to feel better than this churning helplessness. And the whole point is to make her feel even an iota of this angst - and to have it haunt her forever, instead of me.
"It won't bring him back, you know." Really? Huh. And here, I thought...well, maybe... OF COURSE it won't bring him back. But maybe I will be able to take a breath without wondering what it felt like for him, knowing that he was drawing his last. Without wishing it were her, instead.
Today, realizing that it will likely do more harm than good to rail against her as publicly as I know how, I am feeling...alone and afraid. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting to place all of these feelings firmly onto someone else's shoulders and now that I know I probably won't, I'm afraid that the anger was just the ride to THIS place, where the real grief begins - and I don't want to be here.
I wish he still was.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Farewell, beloved brother...
Earlier this week, while I was collecting photos for today, my son Matthew spied a photo of himself and Andrew. He wanted to know why Uncle Andrew has to live with God now.
I managed to stutter out that God needed a really strong angel to help move the heavy stuff. That seemed to satisfy Matthew and off he went, leaving me to ponder my answer.
In life, Andrew could always be counted on to help with the heavy stuff. Physically, he was the strongest person I know – he made his living with his hands and took pride in the things he built. He was good at what he did and I’m glad that he was able to channel his natural talents into a livelihood.
Andrew could also be counted on to help others wade through the heavy stuff in their own lives. The tribute page on Facebook and dozens of emails have been an enormous comfort to me this week, as I’ve discovered that a common thread of appreciation exists, for his gentle, quiet nature coupled with a willingness to listen without judgement. He was friendly to all and genuinely cared about people. Those who were lucky enough to know his love never doubted his fierce loyalty, counted on his sense of humour to keep things fun and light and sought support in his arms, as he also gave the best hugs of anyone I’ve ever known.
When my parents adopted Andrew, 30 years ago, I believed that they got him for me. He was a little tank even then – a blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub, strong and stubborn, determined to do things his way, in his own time. Andrew once tried to dismantle the engine in my dad’s car, just to see if he could put it back together again. Model cars and dinky cars litter my memories of our childhood – he was always tinkering, improving, breaking stuff apart, leaving a glorious mess in his wake.
His love for cars and making messes followed Andrew into adulthood. He lived with Mark and I in Newcastle for a few years, and his room there still housed model cars and bits and pieces of remote control car and Lord only knows what else. He commandeered the shed in our yard, rigging up heat and light by running an extension cord under the grass, into the house. He spent many hours out there, tinkering, smoking and building random things: jersey boxes, speakers, oddly-shaped tables.
I miss the simplicity of those days that seem so long ago, now. For long after the tumultuous teen years that had found my brother and I at odds and fallen from each other’s favour, we had finally found our way back to one another. Both, in our way, had once again, found home.
At day’s end, Andrew would trudge through the door and scoop up my son, effortlessly and grin. It’s said that children and animals recognize goodness and are drawn to those who possess it. Even as a baby, Matthew adored Andrew and I cherish the memory of their easy, loving bond. Andrew took almost as much delight in Matthew’s antics as I did and laughed merrily along with us the night Matthew took his first wobbly steps. I have it on video, and all you can hear in the background is us, laughing.
Despite his troubles and a few miserable funks over the years, there was much to laugh about when Andrew was around. While not a boisterous, life-of-the-party sort of guy, Andrew was still the person I wanted to sit next to at family get-togethers. He possessed a dry, quick wit and many nights found us all in hysterics of laughter over something he’d muttered, some pithy, random observation he’d made.
In our whole lives, the best Christmas Andrew and I ever spent was the first one in Lakefield. My parents and the two of us, special, chosen Schillings’ siblings, stayed up until dawn, drinking too much and laughing like fools at everything and nothing. It was our last Christmas as a foursome, before boyfriends and girlfriends became a permanent part of our family celebrations and I will hear the sound of our happy laughter, forever.
Andrew had the ability to laugh at himself, which is another reason people loved him so much. It’s one of the things I will miss most about him – his “this-is-who-I-am-now-let’s-have-a-drink” approach to life. He rarely passed up an opportunity for fun and if there was a bonfire to muck about with, well, all the better. Andrew shared that with my dad and long after the rest of us had called it a night, the two of them would sit, watching the embers glow, quietly drinking beer. It comforts me now, to remember them together, relaxed and content.
It touches me today, to see so many people who shared his journey and helped shape the man he was becoming, here to bid him farewell. I am pleased with the thought of his friends gathering somewhere, after today, and raising their smokes and their glasses high in the air, so that he might see and offer that shy, sort of goofy grin and raise his own toast back.
Perhaps I was not entirely wrong, all those years ago, believing that my baby brother was born just for me. My mum assured me some months ago that they had intended for me to think that, so that his arrival would be a true celebration. I like to think that he became ours so that I would have the honour of being his sister and for that, I will always, always be grateful.
Mostly, I seek solace in the mental image of Andrew, my gentle warrior brother, in the cool, winter sunshine on his last day. In the end, always, a little boy, playing with cars.
Sweet dreams, Andrew Bamboo. I have loved you since before I ever knew you and I will miss you for all rest of my days.
I managed to stutter out that God needed a really strong angel to help move the heavy stuff. That seemed to satisfy Matthew and off he went, leaving me to ponder my answer.
In life, Andrew could always be counted on to help with the heavy stuff. Physically, he was the strongest person I know – he made his living with his hands and took pride in the things he built. He was good at what he did and I’m glad that he was able to channel his natural talents into a livelihood.
Andrew could also be counted on to help others wade through the heavy stuff in their own lives. The tribute page on Facebook and dozens of emails have been an enormous comfort to me this week, as I’ve discovered that a common thread of appreciation exists, for his gentle, quiet nature coupled with a willingness to listen without judgement. He was friendly to all and genuinely cared about people. Those who were lucky enough to know his love never doubted his fierce loyalty, counted on his sense of humour to keep things fun and light and sought support in his arms, as he also gave the best hugs of anyone I’ve ever known.
When my parents adopted Andrew, 30 years ago, I believed that they got him for me. He was a little tank even then – a blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub, strong and stubborn, determined to do things his way, in his own time. Andrew once tried to dismantle the engine in my dad’s car, just to see if he could put it back together again. Model cars and dinky cars litter my memories of our childhood – he was always tinkering, improving, breaking stuff apart, leaving a glorious mess in his wake.
His love for cars and making messes followed Andrew into adulthood. He lived with Mark and I in Newcastle for a few years, and his room there still housed model cars and bits and pieces of remote control car and Lord only knows what else. He commandeered the shed in our yard, rigging up heat and light by running an extension cord under the grass, into the house. He spent many hours out there, tinkering, smoking and building random things: jersey boxes, speakers, oddly-shaped tables.
I miss the simplicity of those days that seem so long ago, now. For long after the tumultuous teen years that had found my brother and I at odds and fallen from each other’s favour, we had finally found our way back to one another. Both, in our way, had once again, found home.
At day’s end, Andrew would trudge through the door and scoop up my son, effortlessly and grin. It’s said that children and animals recognize goodness and are drawn to those who possess it. Even as a baby, Matthew adored Andrew and I cherish the memory of their easy, loving bond. Andrew took almost as much delight in Matthew’s antics as I did and laughed merrily along with us the night Matthew took his first wobbly steps. I have it on video, and all you can hear in the background is us, laughing.
Despite his troubles and a few miserable funks over the years, there was much to laugh about when Andrew was around. While not a boisterous, life-of-the-party sort of guy, Andrew was still the person I wanted to sit next to at family get-togethers. He possessed a dry, quick wit and many nights found us all in hysterics of laughter over something he’d muttered, some pithy, random observation he’d made.
In our whole lives, the best Christmas Andrew and I ever spent was the first one in Lakefield. My parents and the two of us, special, chosen Schillings’ siblings, stayed up until dawn, drinking too much and laughing like fools at everything and nothing. It was our last Christmas as a foursome, before boyfriends and girlfriends became a permanent part of our family celebrations and I will hear the sound of our happy laughter, forever.
Andrew had the ability to laugh at himself, which is another reason people loved him so much. It’s one of the things I will miss most about him – his “this-is-who-I-am-now-let’s-have-a-drink” approach to life. He rarely passed up an opportunity for fun and if there was a bonfire to muck about with, well, all the better. Andrew shared that with my dad and long after the rest of us had called it a night, the two of them would sit, watching the embers glow, quietly drinking beer. It comforts me now, to remember them together, relaxed and content.
It touches me today, to see so many people who shared his journey and helped shape the man he was becoming, here to bid him farewell. I am pleased with the thought of his friends gathering somewhere, after today, and raising their smokes and their glasses high in the air, so that he might see and offer that shy, sort of goofy grin and raise his own toast back.
Perhaps I was not entirely wrong, all those years ago, believing that my baby brother was born just for me. My mum assured me some months ago that they had intended for me to think that, so that his arrival would be a true celebration. I like to think that he became ours so that I would have the honour of being his sister and for that, I will always, always be grateful.
Mostly, I seek solace in the mental image of Andrew, my gentle warrior brother, in the cool, winter sunshine on his last day. In the end, always, a little boy, playing with cars.
Sweet dreams, Andrew Bamboo. I have loved you since before I ever knew you and I will miss you for all rest of my days.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
It is with great sadness...
Andrew Michael John Schillings
May 19, 1978 - February 10, 2009
It is with great sadness that the family announces the sudden passing of Andrew Michael John Schillings on Tuesday, February 10th, 2009 at Lakeridge Health Oshawa. He was 30 years old.
Andrew, affectionately known as “Andy” to most, is survived and loved always by his parents, Patricia and Joseph Schillings of Lakefield. Beloved brother of Elizabeth McLennan, dear brother-in-law of Mark McLennan and cherished uncle of Matthew and Luke McLennan, all of Belleville.
He will be remembered with great love by his girlfriend, Lindsay Collins and many friends in the Durham area. He will also be lovingly remembered by aunts, uncles and cousins in British Columbia, England and Holland.
Relatives and friends may call at McINTOSH-ANDERSON FUNERAL HOME LTD., 152 King Street East, Oshawa (905-433-5558) on Monday from 7-9 p.m. A celebration of Andrew’s life will be held in the chapel on Tuesday February 17, 2009 at 11:00 a.m. Cremation. Donations made in Andrew’s name to the Heart and Stroke Foundation or a local food bank would be appreciated by his family. On-line condolences may be made at www.mcintosh-anderson.com.
It has been a long, terrible day. My parents and I chose Andrew's casket and urns, as he will be cremated following the funeral on Tuesday. Lindsay, Andrew's girlfriend will keep one, as will I and of course, my parents. They plan to create a special spot in their garden, overlooking the waterfall.
That done, we tiptoed in to "visit" Andrew, still on the gurney from the hospital, but lovingly covered by a quilt, courtesy of the funeral staff. He hadn't been embalmed, but I think they did some touching up before we ventured in.
I can't explain the flood of emotions at seeing his sweet, sleeping face. All I could see, superimposed over his beard and 30-year old laugh lines, were images, memories of the little boy he was, the baby brought home from the Children's Aid, the devil-may-care teenager. It was surreal and I think, for a moment, I stopped breathing.
And then my mum came in and uttered not a word. Just gave a keening, absolutely shattering cry and I swear to God, I will hear it all the days of my life. It was the sound of her own heart, breaking and it was awful.
She stood there, my tiny, fierce Mama, over the body of her only son and wept and wept and wept - surely the angels wept with her. For her. Even though I'm pretty sure that some of them are smoking a huge joint with Andrew even as I type, surely Heaven wept for her.
Am home now and exhausted. Keep thinking I'll wake up and this will all be gone, and then I realize that THIS is, and he is gone. My brother is dead.
And life will never, ever be the same.
Please pray for my Mum. Please pray for strength and peace for her weary heart. I am scared for her - that this will be her final undoing and that this loss will be too much for her to bear. And my dad, oh, my beloved Dad. All he wants are Andrew's remote control cars - the ones he was driving in the sunshine, when he collapsed and died.
At the end, still a little boy, playing with cars.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Home really IS where the heart is...
And my heart and soul sleep soundly, tucked in under our new roof!
Moved to Belleville on Thursday - under sunny though frigid skies. The move went well, all things considered. The boys were wonderful and only a few things broke - the buffet table and two plates. Not bad, considering my packing was a bit haphazard and a lot rushed!
Still, here we are, settled and resting easier now that the debt that haunted our sleep looms FAR less steeply. It's a bit strange, not knowing which way is up - inside our box-laden house and out and about, in search of a decent pizza place. But, I am happy and blessed.
Blessed with incredible family, who pulled together and got us through this topsy-turvy journey, from beginning to end. Blessed with a husband who has hung in and hung on, despite his urge to flee, despite my pleas that he do. Blessed with two amazing little boys, who've taken to this new home with glee and charm.
But by the grace of God, I am here.
And now, finally, I will sleep.
Moved to Belleville on Thursday - under sunny though frigid skies. The move went well, all things considered. The boys were wonderful and only a few things broke - the buffet table and two plates. Not bad, considering my packing was a bit haphazard and a lot rushed!
Still, here we are, settled and resting easier now that the debt that haunted our sleep looms FAR less steeply. It's a bit strange, not knowing which way is up - inside our box-laden house and out and about, in search of a decent pizza place. But, I am happy and blessed.
Blessed with incredible family, who pulled together and got us through this topsy-turvy journey, from beginning to end. Blessed with a husband who has hung in and hung on, despite his urge to flee, despite my pleas that he do. Blessed with two amazing little boys, who've taken to this new home with glee and charm.
But by the grace of God, I am here.
And now, finally, I will sleep.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
SOLD!
The House That Love Built = SOLD!
Am delighted, a bit sad and sorta freaking out. We have to pack up and be gone by mid-January.
AGH!
But, thank GOD for prayers answered, my in-laws for all their efforts, my parents for love and support and everyone who has listened to me whinge for the last year.
And to Mark, for building it all, with love, only to leave it all behind for this new, exciting journey.
Merry Christmas, indeed!
Am delighted, a bit sad and sorta freaking out. We have to pack up and be gone by mid-January.
AGH!
But, thank GOD for prayers answered, my in-laws for all their efforts, my parents for love and support and everyone who has listened to me whinge for the last year.
And to Mark, for building it all, with love, only to leave it all behind for this new, exciting journey.
Merry Christmas, indeed!
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