Less than a month after Brock died, his widow returned to New York with their three children. She had been active on Facebook because so many of Brock’s friends were friends like me, people who knew him more online than off. She asked if any of us were around and wanted to see them. I reached out and we agreed to meet at a children’s museum in Manhattan.
I think that she had returned chiefly to be with Brock’s mother again, who the family had been staying with the week of Brock’s death, the week I saw him last. But she insisted on taking the kids into the city. When I met up with them she was very harried; understandable given she was shepherding three kids, two quite young, all by herself. I don’t know what I expected when I made plans to see them, I just felt that I should go. I did not get much in the way of conversation; mostly I was an extra pair of eyes and legs to follow when one kid strayed from the herd.
The oldest boy was then nine years old. I watched him watch his mother as she chased after his brother and sister, often asking for his help. I could tell that he dearly wanted her attention for himself but was just old enough to have a glimmer of how much she was struggling. He was having a hard time, and how could he not? I bonded with him over the tribulations of the oldest brother, not that I could really relate to his tragic situation. I’ve been too lucky in my life. But I told him that I was an oldest brother too, and he seized the commonality and my attention. It hurts my heart to think on, even now.
She wanted them to be able to make fun memories even though their father wasn’t there. But she was reeling from the loss of a man she had loved since she was a teenager, and she was anxious about their future, and their oldest, at least, had an inkling. Through her regular updates, I have seen four years of that future play out in episodes. Her children continue to grow, and thank goodness for that.
Brock would have been 44 last week. He died just before his 40th birthday; I was then 33. I am not now so much younger than he was then. Once, in my 20s, I had suffered a fever while staying with a friend in Long Island. I had fully intended to drive all the way back to DC the next day, but thankfully Catherine did not brook that foolishness. Had I been on my own, I likely would have tried it. With Brock, I learned my lesson. Before infectious disease upended all of our lives, it took Brock from his family, and his friends. It was, as far as I know, “just” the flu.
I am still friends with him on Facebook. Each year on his birthday, some people pay strange, online tribute to him on his page. This year, his mother reminisced about his birth. “ I didn’t realize how intensely one could fall in love with someone in just a single hour…I still love you and miss you every day.”
Death comes for all of us eventually, and we should not waste the life we have living in fear. But our lives are not just our own, either. Brock’s mother watched him grow up but must live knowing he will never grow old, never watch his own children grow up. When you’re considering powering through, when you think that it’s irresponsible to take it easy when you have so much to do, consider that something far more commonplace than a novel coronavirus can pose a real risk to you. And for your sake and the sake of the people in your life, take care of yourself.
This was a lovely, reflective piece. Thank you.