What my brother’s death taught me about the currency of life
Today is a melancholy day: it’s my baby brother Joseph’s 26th birthday.
However, he isn’t here to share this day with us. He won’t have brownies (he didn’t care for cake) or steak or watch Deadpool. He won’t see his boys learning and growing. He won’t get to hear that his wife found out she was expecting their third child only two weeks after he was killed.
I float between understanding the reality that my brother is truly, completely gone, and a fantasy world where this was a mistake, and his doppelganger just happened to die the same night my brother was shot, so the hospital was confused. It’s been 83 days since Joseph died. He’s dead, he isn’t coming back, and reminding myself of this every day doesn’t actually convince me at all.
The night Joseph died, I remember sitting between pools of his blood and looking around at what remained of my brother. I felt intense panic and waves of compulsory calm beating me from every angle. My brother had two little boys and a wife inside that house. My grandmother and great aunt saw the direct aftermath. This was not the time for me to panic — there was blood…everywhere. I needed to just do. I knew there would be a funeral to plan, lives to continue somehow, and so many things to just take care of. The knowledge of long-lasting aftershock for everyone involved guided me toward doing what I do best: taking care of everything. This is who I am and what gives my life purpose.
And so, that’s what I did. And, that’s what my brother would have expected because I always took care of him. Whatever happened, I was there. Despite having never planned a funeral and never having the desire to, the visitation, funeral, and burial were perfect (if that’s even possible). Focusing on these tasks delayed my existential breakdown requiring medication and therapy.
As I have spent this time truly reaching deep and thinking, I’ve realized my brother actually had all the answers. He knew everything about what it meant to have a meaningful existence — and he didn’t even know it.
In the days immediately following Joseph’s death, I began to understand the impact he’d had on the world. He had friends who flew in from other states to pay their respects. People I’d only ever known on social media as my brother’s meme-ing friends became real-life friends of mine. We told stories and I listened intently as they chronicled their lives with him. I learned eagerly about Joseph through the eyes and experiences of others. I remember reading a quote that said, “Who we see ourselves as is not who anyone else sees. Everyone creates a version of us based on their own experiences.” and when I met these friends, they showed me a different version. Still very warm, caring, loving, nurturing, and overall wholesome, my brother was also the guy who would stay up all night playing video games, play basketball anytime he could, watch cartoons I’d surely find inappropriate, revere Wade Wilson, and, at the end of the day — everyone said Joseph was still the best friend they’d ever had.
Throughout my life, I’ve struggled with finding my place. I always felt as though I never really fit in, except with my brother. He got me. He, his wife, and his oldest son lived with me, and my brother worked for me. I ran a large commercial cleaning company and Joseph was the supervisor of my largest building. He and I would frequently do building walk-throughs and cleaning together, driving all over our branch’s district, him introducing (subjecting) me to music that was very loud and unintelligible. I always listened, and he always knew it wasn’t my style, but it was bonding time. We spent so much time together, and I never grew tired of him.
So many times I’ve caught myself as I dial his number and remember he won’t answer. It’s a fruitless endeavor. I want to ask him if he remembers a funny story or tell him a joke. I have kept an album of memes he would have enjoyed. My brother’s sense of humor was so incredible and deep. He could laugh at the simplest jokes told by my children and also understand jokes I didn’t. He was so complex; that was part of his charm.
The currency of life is truly time.
I have spent each of the last 83 days thinking about what it is to have a truly meaningful existence. Because I spend so much of my time caring for others, I don’t always feel my life means anything more than what I do for people. Iddo Landau, Ph.D., is a Professor of Philosophy at the University of Haifa. Dr. Landau has written extensively on the meaning of life. “A meaningful life is one in which there is a sufficient number of aspects of sufficient value, and a meaningless life is one in which there is not a sufficient number of aspects of sufficient value.” How do we determine what it means for one aspect to have sufficient value, and how do we decide how many of those aspects we need for an entire life to be meaningful? As I have spent this time truly reaching deep and thinking, I’ve realized my brother actually had all the answers. He knew everything about what it meant to have a meaningful existence — and he didn’t even know it. Here are two things Joseph practiced.
Speak Love Loudly & Often So You Can Feel Your Feelings
We did not grow up in a home where this was executed routinely, so it surprised me that, as Joseph grew older, this came so naturally to him. As I quoted Poe in a social media post about my brother: “He loved with a love that was more than love.” And, he did. Joseph was so loving, caring, thoughtful, and pure. He would say out loud that he loved his friends and family. He was there to lend an ear to anyone who needed him. I witnessed his kind firmness when he worked for me; I saw him help his employees set and achieve goals, and manage any deficiencies with curiosity working toward a solution rather than judgment. Joseph had a warmth that enveloped everyone around him.
Whether it was laughing voraciously at a meme about Tiger King or grieving the loss of my elderly dog, Joseph felt. He truly did — and he didn’t hide it. Everything he felt internally, he shared with us. Whether it was joy, pain, frustration, contentment, or anything else, he didn’t hide his emotions. He was never afraid to cry, and that’s something I’ve always admired about him. Through social media posts or in handwritten messages, he would let us know how he felt about whatever was going on. As someone who has worked to stifle any feelings that could be not well-received, this was incredible to witness.
The Currency of Life is Time
Joseph had 9,414 days to experience life. At just over 25 years, this was such a short period and he packed so much into it. He loved to sleep so he unquestionably spent most of those years well-rested. But, the rest of the time, he valued relationships and hobbies and savored his life.
He spent those nine thousand days loving people, listening to them, caring for and about them, grieving with them, and growing alongside them. He may have had a few wasted days — but what, honestly, is a wasted day? Is it a day spent resting when your body needs it? Or, one where you’re immersed in video games, playing with friends, relishing the time spent bonding? Is it a day where nothing is accomplished except staring adoringly at your wife and children while you cuddle on the sofa and watch your son’s favorite movies and shows? I’m sure he had some of those days, those wasted days, but I don’t consider any day truly wasted. Each day, we do what is needed. Sometimes that means laundry; other times, it means holding your kids close. Joseph spent his days loving people around him and filling his cup, and this is something I’m learning to do. I want to waste my time in the most meaningful ways.
The currency of life is truly time. We decide how we will spend our days. We determine when to spend our currency, and with whom. My brother taught me that, while slowing down, relaxing, and embracing life (even when it might feel like it’s taking control) feels foreign and wasteful to me, it’s absolutely a valuable aspect I can’t ignore. Loving and feeling add meaning to life and are two of the aspects I also must include.
While I’d prefer my brother alive, I hope to have many years of life without Joseph ahead of me. I’ve accepted that my life has meaning and is meaningful. I determine what adds value and meaning to my life, and which aspects are worthy of my currency. I no longer feel bad about taking a nap instead of doing the dishes, or reading a book with my kids while ignoring the piles of laundry I could be folding. At the root of everything is me. I have to take care of myself, meet my needs, love myself, feel my feelings. I’m learning to embrace the discomfort in all of this, out of love.
