Брат автора умер в 65 лет, оставив после себя историю сложной любви и поддержки

Sorry. I know this is self-indulgent and it won’t help us elect more and better Democrats, but my older brother died the other day, and I just needed to mark his existence. Somewhere. For him. And for me. Catharsis. Grief—like love—can be so complicated. Tuesday morning I received a call I’ve been kind of always expecting for at least fifteen years…. My older brother, Robert, had died. Some unspecified natural causes I think. Sixty-five years old…. Only sixty-five years old…. But an incredibly rough 65 years on his body from smoking, alcoholism, and so many serious physical injuries from accidents. I think he died in his sleep after his latest injuries. Or at least I’m telling myself he did, because it makes me cry worse any time I think of him suffering. So I’m just thankful he made it this far. And I’m thankful he never had to suffer some worse end. And it makes me sad to think of him dying alone But it makes me so much sadder how much of his life he lived feeling alone. Because everyone who ever knew Robert/Rob/Bobby Barrows knew what a truly sweet, charming, funny, and kind guy he was. The world lost a little magic. Ever since our mom died and I got blessed with kids 35 years ago, our relationship has been complicated because I made boundaries—and boundaries suck. Without them, you’re always fighting to stay out of someone else’s chaos swamp. But having them means accepting that some people can’t have an “all-access” pass in your life until they can get their own shit together—and realizing that probably never will happen. Rob and I grew up as inmates in the same asylum. We were brothers of different fathers. My physically abusive raging alcoholic father abandoned us and essentially disappeared when I was three. I don’t have any childhood memories of the guy. But, for reasons I’ve never been able to determine or fathom, Rob loved him like…what’s the word.. I guess, a father? So, when George took off, he wasn’t just deserting his two natural children, but also the two little guys (Mike and Rob) who knew him the most. After that, we were raised by our single mother who sincerely loved us and did her best. But, as a very damaged adult child and active alcoholic for most of our childhoods, her best was a well-intentioned but inconsistent and chaotic love. And that was the shit we carried together. But Rob (and Mike) had a double dose of it because before my dad ever made his limited run of four years, Rob had been abandoned by his raging alcoholic father, Eddie. As it likely happens often in families, where you go is a reaction to where you started, but different kids will find different ways to deal with the same shit. For me, it was living in terror of ever becoming an alcoholic—or even having alcoholism around me or in my life. And it meant making safe choices to make sure that I NEVER might end up on the street, even if “safe” meant going to combat zones to secure a pension. What Rob always saw as my “success” or accomplishments wasn’t some personal virtue, it was just me trying to put something solid underneath me. To claw my way out of the flood waters to higher ground. Because I always felt something would pull me back in if I stopped being vigilant for a moment. For Robert, it was pouring himself into his trumpet. Getting lost in the thousands of things he could do with just three keys and a soul full of music. Hearing a lick and then playing around with all the different things he could do with it. Expressing his JOY through Mixolydian scales, bebop lines, and bent blue notes. And it was joy. His joy, that he shared with everyone. We were born a day apart. It meant a childhood of shared birthday parties. But, for decades after that, every year, he’d call on my birthday—or his birthday—and play “Happy Birthday” for me on his horn. Even with everything he ever went through—and even when playing the blues—there was always a little mischief in his music. Because that’s who he was. He wanted everyone around him to be happy. He wanted everyone to be invited to the party because he didn’t want anyone to be left out. But, the music wasn’t just a form of expression—it was an escape. When he was playing that horn, he wasn’t thinking about anything else. He wasn’t feeling anything else. He was just connected to something beautiful. Something that he could make. Something he could control. Something that no one could ever take away from him. A beautiful escape. But the other escape was booze. So effing much of it. For years and years, from the time he was a teenager he drank so hard. And it just f**king sucked the light out of him. It didn’t matter how much it took from him, he always went back to it. I think it was just the way he anesthetized himself. Numbed himself. Tried to quiet the talk radio in his head that was always broadcasting the evil misinformation that he wasn’t good enough. That he wasn’t loved. That he didn’t deserve to be loved. That he didn’t matter. And he did, because he was such a beautiful guy, and because he had such a positive impact on the people around him. I always knew that. I never doubted it and I never lost sight of it—because I was maybe the first person he ever impacted. But, because he was usually an active alcoholic, I also knew I owed it to my kids when they were little—and frankly, my own peace even after that—to have boundaries. And what boundaries meant was that we talked. On the phone. A few times a year. But, we didn’t travel to see each other. Rob initiated a lot more of those calls than I did. I usually didn’t call because I could never know when/if he’d be sober. And even though I occasionally told him he should come out and visit, and meet my kids, I never really pushed it. And every phone call, I was guarded. On alert. Making sure I knew where the exits were. Part of this, frankly, was because I found most of our conversations pretty tedious. It was the same conversation EVERY TIME. He would call. I would answer. Most of the time, the second thing I would hear would be “Gavin”—or “Gusto” (his childhood nickname for me)—”this is your brother. Robert”—as if I didn’t know that from the Indiana phone number—and the fact that the first thing I heard when I answered was him playing something for me on his horn. Then it was, “I miss you brother.” (I miss you, too.) “I love you, brother.” (I love you, too.) “You were the funniest bastard I ever knew.” (No, you always cracked me up.) “I was always so proud of you. You used to swim with mortars in the Marine Corps.” (No Marine swims with an 81 mm mortar. They weigh 90 pounds.) “Mutz f**ked up–you didn’t deserve the Outstanding Bandsman award.” (Yeah, I think you’ve said that before.) “I remember when you were on Jeopardy. You goofed on Alex.” (I lost.) “I’ve been a lousy brother.” (That’s bullshit. Stop saying that about yourself.) “I’ve never come out and seen you.” (Planes go both ways, dude. We both need to make it happen.) “How old are your kids now? I’ve been such a bad uncle.” (You’re not done being their uncle. You’re not dead yet.) Then I’d hear about where he had played recently and who with. Always the best part of the call. Then the latest things that were going on in his life—which were almost always bad. Injuries. Loss of transportation. Loss of a job because of injuries or loss of transportation. Threats to his having a place to live. Everything that I spent every ounce of effort every day to outrun. And hearing it made me feel like the monster was right around the corner. Coming for me. And for a time, I also got to hear about the woman who loved him—Diane. How she was there for him. How she “got” him. How she accepted him. That was nice. It was the nicest. He deserved it. But, then, how she had died suddenly. How lost he was without her. Alone. And that was the defining thing for every other call we ever had. That sense of being alone. Adrift. Again. But conversations with most people we’ve known forever are repetitive. I say our calls were “tedious” for a few intertwined reasons. First, we never saw each other after my son was born (in 1992) and he virtually never asked anything about what was going on with me. So, our relationship was like a bug preserved in amber. All we had to talk about were the years of my life I least wanted to talk about—or even think about. So, the conversation never changed. Second, in each phone call, we went through the same conversation at least three times. He’d get to the end and then just circle back around. It was like his sheet music only had repeats, no codas. But the worst thing was that I knew we would always have the exact same conversation TWICE in two days. Because almost every time he called me, the first time would be late at night and he would be very drunk. It was like I didn’t even need to be there, because he wasn’t really listening to me anyways. And I knew that he wouldn’t remember the conversation anyways. And the reason I KNEW he didn’t remember the conversations was because he would almost always call me the NEXT DAY somewhat sober (or less drunk) and we would have the exact same conversation all over again. So why bother? Why commit my emotional energy there? But it wasn’t just lack of interest in a boring conversation or not wanting to waste my time. For me—frankly—it seemed like a matter of survival, because the first thing I learned in Marine Corps Water Safety Survival Instructor training was that rule number 1 is “No double drownings.” No double drownings. You can love somebody who is being dragged under by the rocks he can’t let go of. You can let them know you’re there. You can throw them a buoy. You can even swim out and try to help them kick if you can do it safely. But you can’t let them grab hold of you and pull you under, too—because you can’t save someone you love by drowning with them. For me—probably for lots of people—being around a drunk loved one isn’t annoying—it’s hell. It’s chaos. Every part of my body getting dysregulated and screaming “Run! Hide! Mollify! Disappear!” Red lights flashing and all the air raid sirens warning me “Seek cover. You are in real and immediate danger.” That’s why the very first thing that happened in every single call was that I listened closely to his voice to figure out whether he had been drinking. That’s survival lesson number one for a kid who grew up in an alcoholic household. Because this person may love you, but if you let them, they will hurt you. A mouth that is laughing one second will spit hateful things at you the next. Arms that are reaching to hug you one moment will be hands slugging you across the face in the blink of an eye. So, every call where I sensed he was drinking, I looked for the safest way to get out of the situation as quickly as possible. And that was almost every phone call. This isn’t to say that I ever had anything to fear from Robert—I didn’t. And it’s not moralizing about drinking—or even moralizing about alcoholism. It wasn’t anything Rob said or did. It was just how my trauma rattled around inside me. The way his trauma made him drink so he wouldn’t hear that self-critical talk radio in his head. So, yeah, our relationship was “complicated.” But the one thing that was never complicated was how I felt about him—I loved him. I wish I could have made him understand how much I loved him. How much he mattered to me. How much he mattered. I wish my love was something he could have wrapped himself in on the cold days, just as I’ve been so lucky to be able to wrap myself in the love of my children and the friends and women who have (unwisely and unwarrantedly and unreservedly) given me so much love. But I think/hope/want to believe that maybe he did know it, at least a little. I mean, he always had friends. It was impossible to meet Bobby Barrows and not immediately like him. He was (like his father and brother) an absolutely handsome guy. He loved to talk with people and he never had any trouble putting himself out there. He was hard-working. And he was just a generous guy—if you had nothing and he had next to nothing, he’d give you half of it. But, more than that, I was really fortunate—actually, we were both fortunate—that we were able to connect on a real level in 2024 and 2025. Really, maybe for the first time in our lives. I only wish we had more time to build on it. Rob had had more injuries and misfortunes. But he had made it to social security retirement age, so he had something coming in every month. He called me and told me he wasn’t drinking. But I wasn’t about to just take his word for that, because I know what a substance abuser’s word is good for. But he started calling more often. And over a couple months, I could really hear his voice slowly clear out. He wasn’t just not drinking, he was sober. He was in there again. I was getting to hear my brother. And I felt like I wasn’t in danger. I didn’t need to get away. I could be there. I could be there with him. I could be there for him. And I could be there for us. And it helped that I had done a lot of work on myself. Because I had experienced how liberating it can be to grapple with some stuff—that the first 15 years don’t have to be everything that defines every moment of the next 50. That happiness is there if you can just let things go. If you can look in the closet for the monster you’ve been seeing in the dark of your room and see that it was really just a shadow of some clothes hanging on a door. Clothes that just needed to be put in their place for the monster to go away. And I really wanted Robert to feel some of that peace. To help him give himself some of that self-liberation. So, when, after a couple months of him being sober, he again launched into another retelling of what a lousy brother he had been (etc.), I just stopped him and told him he needed to stop saying that crap about himself—because it wasn’t true. And he needed to stop saying it to me—because I didn’t want ANYONE talking about him that way because that’s not the brother I knew. Because this is what I told him I remembered…. I remember how many jobs I got in high school because you had worked someplace first. You’ve always absolutely been the hardest working guy I’ve ever met. Bosses loved you because you worked so hard. You took pride in being valuable—and valued. Customers loved you because you were always positive and helpful. And everyone loved to work with you because you were so playful and funny. All I ever did was follow in your footsteps and go through doors you opened. I remember it’s the spring of 1977. You’re a junior in Barnstable High Jazz Band. You’re at some band competition and you guys are awesome. Everybody else remembers Chuck T… holding a high note so long he passed out, but what I remember is you. You’re a junior and you’re playing second horn on Gospel John—which is the best part of the counterpoint melody. You are sounding so good and making it look so easy. And you’re just so cool doing it. I see you flipping that awesome dark hair back, bringing your horn up, tightening your cheeks, setting your embouchure and then just making it happen. That’s how I always see you. That’s how I’ll always see you. The guy I wish I could be like. I remember it was maybe the spring or summer of 1969.  I’m five.  We live in a triple-decker tenement off of Maple Street in Attleboro, Mass.  I’m walking down the street by myself. Don’t remember where I’m coming from.  As I turn off of Maple and start heading to our place, I see three bigger kids—bullies—maybe 9 or 10 years old—coming from the other direction.  They’ve bullied me before.  I know that if I can’t get to the apartment before they get to me, I’m going to get beaten up by three older, bigger, kids.  But I don’t want to try to run to the apartment because I’ll look like a coward (and I probably won’t make it anyways).  So, I just keep walking right at them—and trying to look tough.  Because of that, I walk a little past the door.  And then they stop!  They’re looking at each other.  Two of them clearly don’t want to go forward.  And they all turn around and bug out.  For a moment, I feel like maybe I’m Clint Eastwood or something.  And then I turn around to head for the door—and I see why they actually bugged out.  Because there you were.  Hauling ass down the street coming to save your little brother like you were the cavalry.  You were smaller than them, too, and there was only one of you, but, damn, you weren’t going to let anything bad happen to me.  You weren’t going to let me be on my own. Not on your watch.  We never said anything about it.  Not that day.  Not for 55 more years.  It wasn’t something to talk about.  It wasn’t anything to you.  It was just what you did.  Who you were. I remember it’s a Saturday in Attleboro. We haven’t lived there long. I’m four. You’re seven. I haven’t seen my father in I don’t know how long. He’s living on a lake somewhere now in Rhode Island—all of about 30 minutes away. He’s going to pick all of us up around 8:00 a.m. and take us there for the weekend. But he’s not there at 8:00. We all keep waiting, watching cartoons. Every time I hear a car, I think it’s him and I go to look. Saturday cartoons are over. He still isn’t there. Boring stuff like Dialing for Dollars is going to come on. You and Michael are going to go out to play. I tell you to not go far because he’s coming. You tell me not to worry. ABC’s Wide World of Sports comes on and he’s not there. (I’ll viscerally hate the show until it goes off the air thirty years later.) I’m worried, I’m nervous. Michael tells me in a worldly way to chill out because he’s not coming. You don’t tell me he is, but you tell me I should go put on my army man uniform to wait for him, which I do. Then I sit on the couch. It gets dark. Mom’s at work as a waitress. No babysitter. We don’t say shit as we watch TV, but you put your arm around me. He never comes, but you were there for me. I remember you in high school when your dad died. I remember how you tried to act tough about it. I could tell you had been crying, and that you did not want me to see that. I remember you struggling with whether you’d go to the funeral. “F*ck him. If the bastard didn’t want to see me when he was alive, I don’t know why I should have to see the f*cker* now that he’s dead.” And I remember just feeling gutted seeing you that way, because I saw the loss that the words were trying to hide. And I remember saying the smartest thing tweener me could think of—that it wasn’t for him, it was for you, because he had wasted those moments, but you didn’t want to ever regret not going. And being so glad that you went. I remember an August day in 1980 in Cummaquid, Mass. You were 19 and living in Boston. I was 16. We had just packed mom’s U-Haul because she was heading to New Orleans. Mom had given you and Mike $20 each for working. It was all the cash you had at that moment. She didn’t give me anything. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got on my bike and pedaled out of there. You said “She didn’t give you anything. Shit, Gusto.” And gave me five of the only dollars you had. No big show. We never said anything else about it. It’s just who you were. But the thing that ALWAYS crushes me… The thing I would give anything to take away…. It’s winter in Attleboro. I think we’re about four, seven, and nine. Your father—Eddie—who you and Mike haven’t seen for maybe years has called. He’s in Attleboro and wants to see you guys. He wants you guys to meet him at an address downtown. Mom says it’s okay. You are so happy. So excited. And you tell mom that you want your dad to meet “my brother.” Like I was some valuable shiny thing you wanted to show him. Your BROTHER! And then (because it was the 1960s and our mom was at work) the three of us walked downtown. The address was outside a bar—a bar I think you had some reason to know Eddie went to. We were out there on the street on time. Eddie wasn’t there. Time kept going with no Eddie. Finally, you decided that you needed to go inside to see if he was there. Seven years old. Going into a bar. Looking for your father. You came out a couple minutes later with tears—so much tears—pouring down your face. Eddie had been there, and he had told people he was there to meet you guys. But, before you went in, he had lost his nerve and ducked out the back. I don’t know if you ever saw him again (I don’t think you did). But I always remembered two things. I remembered how sad—how devastated—you were when you came out. But, more than that… The brother that went in there wasn’t the brother who came back out. You were this seven-year-old you taking that weight on his shoulders and being the man going in there not just for yourself, but for all of us. It wasn’t your weight to carry. And it was too much. And I think it f*cking broke you. That’s the brother I remember. A total friggin’ stand up guy. The guy you could count on. The guy who was there whenever it really mattered. The guy I wanted to make laugh more than any other person. The guy I looked up to when I was a kid. So stop with the bullshit about being a failure and a bad brother, because you aren’t just shitting on yourself, you’re shitting on what you’ve meant to me. … I know what I said mattered to him because he brought it up other times just to get some confirmation that I really said it, and that I really meant it. And I did say it and I did mean it. (Although some of what I wrote above came out in later talks). I just wish I had said it many years earlier, when maybe it could have helped him find a different path. I haven’t talked to him in maybe a year. I called him Christmas Eve but the number didn’t work. And then, when I got his new number from Mike, I never got around to making the call. I just kind of always expected that my phone would ring, I’d see an Indianapolis number, and then I’d be hit with some Dixieland. But, here we are. He’s serenaded me for the last time, but I’ll always hear him blowing me a Happy Birthday every year anyways. And I’ll carry those images of Bobby Barrows flipping his hair and blowing his horn as long as my brain is working. And every blue note I hear will be him calling from beyond putting his arm around me one more time. You know, I’m sad he’s gone. I’m sad we didn’t have the relationship I see some families have. But I’m not sad for what is, I’m sad for what should have been. The saddest thing is that Rob never appreciated how important he was. How special he was. He never felt that all-consuming joy that comes from knowing you’re really, truly loved. And that you deserve to be. He never understood how much he mattered. He truly, truly mattered. As I was writing this, I was just struggling with how two kids from the same house could go such different ways. I was thinking about how lucky I was that I found my path. And I was struggling with why Rob got stuck on his. What did I have that he didn’t? And then it hit me. Like a claymore mine epiphany. I had him. From the time we were little, he could pick on me like an older brother. But when I needed to be protected, he was there. When I needed an arm to hold me, he was there. When I needed someone to notice me… laugh at me… validate me… be proud of me, he was there for me. Rob, I didn’t do better because I was better than you, I did better because I HAD you. You made a difference. You mattered so much to everyone who ever knew you. And even though now you’re dead, you will always live inside me. Well, I know there’s a second line forming for him up in heaven. Diane will be waiting for him. And I’m sure he’ll be playing his horn all the way through those pearly gates. But, I miss you, bro. “Turn him loose.”