Mourning My Loss

September is a hard month for me. It would have been his 42nd birthday coming up, my brother, my hero. Today, on this day of mourning for so many, I am almost forced to answer my subconscious prior to that day that I normally would reserve for being allowed to grieve openly and with reason. That day is September 25th, his birthday; exactly 3 years and 6 months to the day from my birthday. I don't know why that matters, but somehow it always seemed to. We were both due on the 15th and both born on the 25th, 3 years and 6 months apart.

Today I feel compelled to pour this out. Maybe it'll help...

He was a happy child, a pleaser, full of life. He had bright blue eyes and blond hair and he was bestest big brother in the world to a little brown-eyed blond haired admirer. No, that little girl was more than an admirer; that girl ate catchup and mustard sammiches 'cause Ronnie told her it was yummy. She ate dirt pies 'cause Ronnie told her to. He called her his 'little baby mountain climber' because she would not give up. If he was climbing that hill down the street, the one we used to sled down in the winter, she was climbing it too....'wait up Ronnie!' Nothing was good enough without his ok. He taught her to tie her shoes, endlessly going over the process till she finally thank god, GOT it! He taught her to swim ~ well, forced is more like it; she wasn't getting it, so in his infinite 10-year old wisdom, he pushed her in the deep end and alas, she could swim! He taught her to say, properly and without a lisp at the age of 2 1/2, the words 'truth or consequences'; this was mom's favourite game show and she wasn't saying it right! He protected her fiercely, but toyed with her endlessly, exercising his right of all older siblings everywhere since time immemorial.

And even after she awoke one 4 a.m., climbed out of bed and her ankles were grabbed by 'the boogie man'...even after they both got the strap for all the commotion she caused after being grabbed by said 'boogie man', she trusted him. With her life. Even after he 'accidentally' shot her in the ribcage with a bee bee gun, she trusted him... oh how she loved...adored him!

A poem by Ronnie, written at the age of 7;
My Sister:
My sister loves me.
When I put on my shoes, she gets her shoes and asks where are we going? She won't eat unless I eat. She won't lay down at sleep time unless I lay down with her. She only eats what I eat and she won't go anywhere unless I hold her hand. My sister follows me everywhere.
I love my sister.
The end

Not long after, our lives changed. Mom could no longer live with a husband who was fucking everything that moved and had became so abusive. While he was at work, she left. She took brother and sister on a plane and flew 3,000 miles away to visit her brother, with whom she was not nearly as close. We set up home in a dingy apartment where Ronnie had to climb in and out of the window, because mom was only allowed to have one child. Ronnie became my primary caregiver at the tender age of only 8 years, because mom had to work to pay the bills, since dad had no intention of helping. Ronnie made sure I got to preschool and then home. He sat with me when I cried. He held me and told me we'd 'all be ok baby mountain climber, don't worry'.

We were not ok.

It turns out Ronnie was severely dyslexic. In the mid '70's the school system was incompetent when it came to this particular disorder. Gramma and auntie thought mom was just too overwhelmed with TWO kids to take care of on her own. Perhaps she would be better off if it was just her and the girl. And besides, a boy needs a father figure, so maybe Ronni should come back here, 3,000 miles away and live with Auntie Joan and Uncle Bob; newly married Christians who had a nice home near a nice school and could give Ronnie everything he needed.

Nobody asked me! Mom was too stupid, nay naive, to understand the wrongness of it all. Mom took Ronnie out for lunch ~ nobody asked me!!! ~ and asked him what he thought of the idea of living with Auntie Joan and Uncle Bob. It would only be temporary after all. Mom wanted to give Ronnie the choice, the grown-up little man he was. Ronnie thought mom just wanted to have him gone. Ronnie was a pleaser. He thought he was pleasing mom when he said 'sure, that sounds ok'. That was that. I essentially became an only child at 5 years old. My mom has said so many times over the years, 'if Ronnie had been like you, he would just have said no'. She always thought that by giving him a choice, he understood that she wanted him, but this was something that might be good for him. Silly mom...

We saw each other twice a year. He still protected me fiercely and loved me deeply. There was never any doubt of that. But it wasn't the same. Living apart hurt me. It hurt him!

Ronnie was 15 the first time he got in trouble with the law. He stole a car with his friend. He told me later that he and his friend had thought they'd drive it to see me and mom! He ended up in a group home. He ended up on drugs. He went to jail when he was 17 ~ before they had the Young Offender's Act.

It hurt me so deeply. It cut right to my sole. He was supposed to come back and live with us one day, not go to fucking jail! That was not the plan goddamn it! I cried and cried. He told me not to worry we'll 'all be ok'. We were not ok. I wrote him as much as possible. I lived so far away! We visited the family for a month every summer and that was when I could go see him. It was obscene getting on that bus with all the other visitors, riding 3 hours each way, and being searched by nasty security guards, all so I could see my hero. It tortured me to see him there. I cried all the way there and all the way back home. It changed me.

He was punished to the full extent of the law for using a toy gun to rob convenience stores. More importantly he was punished for not naming his partners in crime; he spent a lot of time in solitary confinement. They shaved his head and broke his jaw (and in my mind, his spirit). They beat him repeatedly. He wouldn't talk so he got beaten. 4 long, lonely years in medium security prisons in Ontario. He kept telling me don't worry we'll 'all be ok'. We were not o-fucking-K!

Thank god, things seemed to be going the right way when he was released. He had grown into a beautiful, 6' 4" man with a plan. A hilarious, gregarious magnetic man. He was my big brother, my hero, all grown up and ready to face the world. He found a beautiful girl to marry. We were able to see each other more. It was all going to be ok after all. We got through the hell, but now we were grown and we could make our own choices.

One summer he came to visit me and my growing family without his beautiful wife. Sadly, 4 years after marrying, they were now separated. I was sad for him, but he seemed ready to make positive changes. More importantly, one of those changes was to finally move here! He was going to finally come home and be close to me. We had so much fun that trip. Through all our hell, Ron was always 2 things; incredibly funny and incredibly talented. He was the funny, quirky artist. My oldest boy was 9 months and I was due to give birth to my second in 8 weeks. We got great pictures of Uncle Ronnie and baby Jake and had the best visit ever!

A couple of my favorite stories about that particular visit:

~ My ex husband decided to take Ron target shooting, because he was a redneck that way. They went to buy ammo and Ron bought way more than necessary. After it was packaged, he put it under his arm, turned on his heels, looked at my ex and said very loudly 'well.....off to the Embassy then!' My ex laughed till he peed; I still can't help but smile through the tears at that story.

~ Ron asked me to stop at the drug store. I pulled up out front because there was no parking. He came sprinting out the doors toward the car yelling 'GO, hurry....drive'. I spewed coffee out of my nose I laughed so hard!

There are so very many memories, but for some reason ~ maybe because it was our last visit ~ those two are my faves. He was so relaxed, and he had plans! Soon he was going to be near me, right where he belonged. We were 'all going to be ok' after all.

Turns out we were so far from ok, I can't even see ok from where I am!

I will never get over that day in February 1993. My 6-month old baby had wriggled off his change table and landed on his back. I was feeling like a huge failure as a mother. I finally got my son calmed and put him down for a nap, and then my phone rang. My husband was sleeping, having worked the graveyard shift. I ran to grab the phone before it had a chance to wake him. What came from the other end of the line was the voice of my dad. All he could say was 'Ronnie's dead'. He was sobbing. The feeling accompanying those words is with me today, right now, clear as day.

After the 2.5 seconds it took me to register those words....'Ronnie's dead';
dad is that you? do you mean our Ronnie? MY Ronnie? What? WHAT??? NO, HE IS NOT, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?????

'He's dead honey. They found him with a bullet in his temple on the train trestle. He was alive when they found him, but....
wahwahwahwwwwoooaaaahhhhh.

Who knew that we really ultimately have no control over our limbs. At least I didn't at that moment. My legs no longer worked and there were no bones in my body...I collapsed. All I could see was black. All I could hear was the blood surging through my ears. I vaguely remember a sound; this sound my ex has told me, was a rather inhuman wail that scared him from sleep.

I will never be the same. I will never get over that loss. I try. I have tried for 14 years. I do not have the answer. I don't know what that means...get over it. How do you get over such a profound sense of missing. Something is missing and I can't find it! It huuurrrts. It aches so bad.

I hurt. I will always hurt.

The little girl in me screams. 'I miss you Ronnie...why did you have to leave me? Why did you always have to leave me???'

hmmm, nope I don't feel better.

I'm sorry for all those who have lost someone. It's not easy. It's never easy.