“People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely. It’s too easy not to make the effort, then weep and wring your hands after the person dies.” 

Haruki Murakami

August 16th —

We had lunch in La Jolla and headed north to meet him. When we arrived at his place in Irvine, he looked well, handsome (as always) and generally healthy, as he tried his best to find a sense of contentment. While Husband took Child to find milk at a nearby store, he and I walked around this beautiful area near his place. He showed me about as we talked of our mutual love for California and how we had to make it a point to stop by and see him whenever we headed back his way. Husband and I left for Santa Monica that night and told him how great it was to see him doing well. As we drove away, I told him that something felt different on this trip —a warm, comfortable feeling. He seemed more present than I had seen him in decades. We agreed that it would’ve been nice to have more time, but reassured ourselves that we will plan better next time.

We can see him and the kids every year. It’ll be so nice for Child.

He was living by himself and, based on my last visit with him, doing well. He wanted to travel solo and explore more about himself and the world. He was single after roughly 25 years and seemed optimistic about the future. He was 51 —but an L.A. 51, which is an entirely different animal. His physical health was an obvious priority, but it was his willingness to explore his own mental health that I admired most (of the many things I appreciated about him).

Late September / Early October —

I didn’t want to call and bother him. I didn’t want to overstep boundaries and start prodding or doling out advice. He congratulated me when I hit three years alcohol-free, which I appreciated tremendously. I wanted to tell him that I’m halfway to four, as some sort of encouragement, but I felt like that would make it about me and how would that help him? So I didn’t. I told myself that maybe right now, it’s best to read the room. The writing was clearly on the wall —he was struggling. Had I known then, what I know now, I would’ve focused on the relatable aspects and not given a shit about how it would’ve come across.

He was MIA in the group chat and we all noticed, albeit passively. No more posts about his dessert of the week or a completely random thought that sprung up a conversation which inevitably ended in jokes and laughs. We noticed. I asked Sister if she had picked up that he’d been silent lately. In a similarly nonchalant manner, she replied, “He’s taken a step back for a bit, he’s figuring it out.” That was code for off the wagon. I expected this to happen, but I knew in my soul that he would be back in the race after this sabbatical. October fourteenth was the last that Husband or I heard from him, a simple celebratory shoutout. It was days later that I woke up to Sister’s muffled cries.

October 18 —

We were setting up for Child’s second birthday party, an apple themed get-together at Sister’s home. We turned in early, but I was filled with so much excitement for the busy day ahead, that I was unable to fall asleep. It was close 2:00 in the morning when I managed to close my eyes and started drifting off into a soft, hazy state. I heard Husband’s voice escalate as he asked, “What? Who? Whaaat?”, followed by asking if he should wake me. “Yes, she needs to wake up now.” I woke up and immediately assumed that my father had died. Ok, well he’s old and it’s inevitable, but wow, today, huh? Then my mind went to my mother. Oh no! No, not Mom. I started to wake a bit more (this unfolded within about 15 seconds) and then it hit me —my brother. Okay, so it happened. Did Mom find him? Oh God, is she okay? How is Dad? It wasn’t my parents or sibling —not this time at least. Instead, my sister blurted out that it was him —the one whom I had just seen —the one that looked healthy, the one we were so excited for. He was gone. There was no encouragement, no check in, no prodding. And now no time do even try.

What happened afterward was one of the more heartbreaking experiences of my life, with his sister and Mamiji. It’s been a few months, but it feels like a blur. I’ve been walking around these past weeks randomly thinking to myself, I can’t believe he died. As I begin to process this reality, I ask myself why didn’t I reach out and ask more questions —about himself, his thoughts, life. Mamiji is gutted, a complete shell of the hero she’s always been to me. We watched her soul begin to shut down as she processed the words that we were saying —that her baby would never come back home. We all knew she, or any of us, wouldn’t see many aspects of life the same after this night.

We sat in their living room as the sun was beginning to rise, each trying to process this new reality. He was the only one missing. We never imagined, almost forty years ago, when we all lived together in that small house, that the end would start this way, with him. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

None of it is.