crying about death outside the bakery

It’s the day my brother died today.

7 fucking years. I am writing this quickly on a Saturday morning, face wet with tears, as my kids watch TV or do homework and before I have a bath and try to get on with the day.

It is rough writing, but grief is messy, so I don’t care.

Sibling loss is such a peculiar thing.

It’s not talked about that much. It’s a lonely grief, even within a group of siblings (I am one of 5), because we each had our own relationship with him. Our age orders make a massive difference too. Did you lose a little brother or a big brother?

I lost a little brother. I felt very maternal towards him from the moment he was born, and you can see how proud I was of him in every photo of us together.

Since he died I’ve learnt so much about life. “How do I want to live?” is something I would never have asked myself before he died.

It feels indulgent sometimes to talk about grief for one person, especially with the world as it is right now. I am hesitant to speak about him sometimes in case the person I am speaking to has lost someone too and their loss could be deemed “bigger” than mine.

but pain is pain.

I have my version of the Ben that I knew and loved, my own memories. I am determined to keep him alive in my children. I write about him often. We have some of his clothes and instruments and I even tried to get my youngest induced on this day, 4 years ago on the 21^st March, because I thought there would be some magical symbolism to that, life and death as close together as possible. In the end my baby came in the early hours of the 22^nd March, and I cried for hours through the night thinking I had not only failed the induction but failed my brother.

Today I want to keep busy.

I insisted I would take my kids to the bakery in the morning after dropping my son at a football match. Google maps took me the long way, meaning we were late. I got irrationally angry at google maps, at my phone, at the clock and at time in general. Why does time march on so fast now that he’s gone? How would he have liked my youngest two? How sad that he never lived to 28, to 30, that he never had kids or a house or watched Succession or came to visit me in my mad house in Liverpool. He doesn’t know I am a dog person now!

We went to the bakery and had to wait for 15 minutes for it to open and it felt like we were standing there forever. My kids were jumping on and off the bench outside, singing and tapping and playing and living LOUDLY…. And I was standing there crying as quietly as possible as I looked through the window at the pastries being made thinking about how lucky we are that we get to eat in a minute. We get to chew and swallow and feel full.

This morning the sun was out and there was blossom on the trees, which – in the early days of my grief I resented because it seemed wrong to me that there should be beauty in the world when his death was so ugly. I am never far away from crying about him, but throughout the year I do my best to swallow the tears. I don’t let them out. I don’t do therapy or anything to “help” my mental health apart from exercise. It’s fear. If I let myself think too much about how he’s gone and how his death changed everything for me, I would not be able to get my kids to school.

But on his death day, I do open the box. I let myself cry. I look at photos.

It’s just a day. Sure.

But for people who have lost someone suddenly, like a random accident…crossing the road, a car crash – or in my poor brothers case – electrocuted on the fucking train tracks – there is a clear marker of Before and After. So the day means everything. It was the end of one life and the start of another.

I was on tour with my show Sunrise 7 years ago, doing a two week run at the soho theatre (a theatre I will never perform at again because of how it treated me in the wake of my boyfriends “cancellation”….I spoke about this on our podcast in depth if you are interested in watching me cry for half an hour about my career and our collective loss). I was very happy 7 years ago, i remember thinking “this is the happiest i’ve ever been” three days before he died.

I had a 4 year old and a two year old and was doing well, hopeful, ambitious and had no idea that everything was about to collapse. I did not miss a show. I kept going onstage, pretending. I don’t regret this, but I do think it means I developed a toxic attitude towards people who take “time off for themselves” – I’m just jealous of their ability to take care of themselves and the confidence they have that the work will be there when they return.

The death day is just awful.

There’s no way around it, no matter how hard you try.

Even if it’s my sons birthday tomorrow and my god, my brother would have adored him – there will be joy, of course, but there’s no use disguising or pretending that the day is not going to be grotesque and heavy.

Yes, I will go round a toy shop. There, I will see my brother in the wresting figurines or the videogame covers. I will see him in some shape or form in multiple strangers today, as I do most days anyway, but today it simply hurts more.

The sun is shining and blossom is here. sure.

I’ll eat cake and open presents and watch something. sure.

I’ll have a bath and wash my face and smile when I’m smiled at. sure.

But fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

* I wrote my book Sunset in the months after he died.

I don’t know how I did this, but I’m so glad I did. I hope it helped anyone who lost a sibling. The messages I receive about the book give me such a sense of pride and relief that it was worth the excruciating process.

*