Sundays are for Bread Radio, coffee, and skateboarding shirts

My Sunday morning church is a fresh-brewed cup of coffee and hymns of “Bread Radio” on Pandora. Call me melancholy, if you must, but “It Don’t Matter to Me.” My gray-blond hair twisted into a thin, messy bun on top of my head, I keep the lights low and the mood reverent. I commune in solitude wearing my yoga pants and worn cardigan. Oh, and my dead brother’s DC® brand skateboarding t-shirt.

I’ve only set my foot on a skateboard once, when my 11-year-old son got his birthday wish: a Blind® skateboard deck and fancy wheels. At his urging, I tried it. As soon as I stepped on the deck, the board shot out from under my foot and hit the side of the house. I barely escaped landing on my ass. Never again. There won’t be any Tony Hawk ollies or kickflips for this woman.

My son is 35 now. My brother would be 53, if he were still alive.

Chris was born just over a year after me. Our mom would turn 19 only two months later. She was so young—and so broken. Her inability to overcome mental health issues, the death of my young father, her own maternal abandonment, and childhood sexual trauma led her to several abusive relationships. To save us from violence, she left Chris and me on the doorstep of the welfare office when we were three and four. She wasn’t strong enough to save herself, but she would damn well try to save us.

Throughout our childhood, it was always “Chris and Michele” or “Michele and Chris,” like one fluid name. Whether we were in foster care, hanging out at our great-grandparents’ house, visiting our grandma in California, or living with our grandfather, we were almost always together.

We shared our toys. We rode our bikes together, wind at our backs and howling like coyotes as we flew down the sidewalks. We climbed trees, constructed forts, and pretended to be characters from our favorite stories. Sibling rivalry wasn’t part of our relationship.

My earliest memories of him include the strong desire to keep him safe. Nobody told me this was my job as his big sister. I just grabbed that mantle and owned the role. I still consider him my first mom-gig.

Nobody told me the gig would last our whole lives—not when he ended up in psychiatric care at sixteen because of PCP-laced marijuana, or when he got the paranoid schizophrenia diagnosis he’d never really accepted.

Nobody told me to offer him my home and a room to live in each time he left all his belongings behind. When he stopped taking his medications and ran from the imaginary enemies out to get him, I always welcomed him back.

Nobody told me how we’d cry together when his newborn son was taken from the hospital shortly after birth, because the state knew that he and his meth-addicted girlfriend were in no position to care for a child. I could never heal his broken heart, and for years—with every phone call—I’d reassure him that it was the best thing for his son. Still, he pinched together small amounts of cash from his Social Security disability check each month to send along with letters to his son—his tithing a penance for forgiveness.

Nobody told me that he and I would be the last—especially in our forties. Time after time, we stood together, scattering ashes each time we lost another: our grandmother, our uncle, our grandfather, our mother, and our stepdad—their remains spread in the same Montana river that flows into the Pacific.

Nobody told me I’d get a call and be forced to decide whether or not to ventilate when he ended up in the hospital with COVID-19. His group home caregiver couldn’t find my number, and it was two weeks before I knew. His lungs were failing from a lifetime of smoking and from the COPD he’d never told me he had. His kidneys were failing because of late-diagnosed genetic PKD, which I later discovered we’d both inherited from our deceased father’s family—a side we’d never known.

Nobody told me I’d be the only witness to his last moments. Clad in a face shield, mask, protective gown and slippers, and blue surgical gloves, I held his hand as his breaths waned. In the hours that past until his heart stopped, I held vigil and together we had our own church service for two. I sang Amazing Grace, told him he was loved, asked him to forgive me for any of my wrongdoings, and reassured him that he was a good man. I gave him permission to leave.

Nobody told me I’d have to sort through his things—the address books, bedding, toiletries, saved birthday and Christmas cards, unsent letters, and the clothing. I found myself sifting through his shirts, remembering his love of graphic tees: Nirvana, Adidas, Superman, Helly Hansen, Lucky Brand, and especially the skate brands he favored. I kept a handful of shirts, unable to let go of what reminded me of my baby brother.

It’s been four years since he died, and I’ve settled on one favorite. Most Sundays I pull the faded gray DC® skateboarding t-shirt from my top drawer and slip it on. In a sort of communion of spirits and a shared sibling grace, I remember us.

I haven’t spread his ashes in that Montana river, yet—nobody told me how hard it would be to let go.

Christopher “Chris” L. Woodruff, age 49, passed away due to complications from COVID-19 in the early hours of October 5, 2021, in Great Falls, Montana, while holding the hand of his big sister.

Chris was born on August 22, 1971, in White City, Oregon, to Gregory and Dani Jo Woodruff and was instantly loved by his sister, Michele. Life took many turns, but the two of them always kept their bond strong.

He grew up in Washington state and spent time in Warden, Othello, Ephrata, Moses Lake, and graduated from Lewis & Clark High School, in Spokane. He moved to Montana in the late 1990’s and lived in Helena, Boulder, Butte, and Great Falls.

He had a great sense of humor and a kind, kind heart.

Chris loved fishing – something he learned from his grandfather, Donald “Giggs” Woodruff. He enjoyed sports and loyally followed the Washington teams over the years: the Mariners, the Seahawks, the Gonzaga Bulldogs, and (his favorite and most missed) the Seattle Super Sonics.

He is survived by his beloved son, Greg Fettig, his big sister, Michele (Woodruff) Peters, his half-brother, Stephen “Benjamin” Ikerd, his nephew, Jesse Johnson, his nieces Naomi and Becca Johnson, and a great-nephew, Miles Johnson, with whom he shares a birth date.

He was preceded in death by his father, Gregory Barnett Woodruff, his mother, Dani Jo (Woodruff) Ladd, and his stepfather Donald Ladd.

There will be no service at this time, but his ashes will be spread at a future date in the same beloved location in Montana as his grandparents, parents, and uncle.