It seems to have been an awfully long time since I wrote about Trev – Trev my younger brother who died suddenly and unexpectedly over two and a half years ago now.
I sometimes feel guilty he isn’t talked about more here. Silly stories about chickens and children take up a lot of space, but Trev – who I feel it’s so important to keep in our lives – seldom gets a look in.
But two and a half years later his memory, and the legacy of his death, they’re still with us, still affecting our lives.
When someone you love dies the effects are like a nuclear explosion. Huge, terrifying and life-changing.
First, there’s an initial blinding flash of panic: the obvious raw sense of something terrible happening, but so big and bright that you can’t take it in. ”What the hell just happened?” you think to yourself.
Next, imagine the blast hitting you: that’s the grief, the debilitating wave of emotion that simply bowls you over. It blows on and on, only gradually slowing so that you can dust yourself down and struggle up off the floor.
But looking around you discover that the world around you has changed, has been smashed and damaged; it’s a darker, colder world,
Still, you’re alive, so you pick yourself up and try to set things back in order, help those around you and carry on like before. It’s not easy – you’re bruised, burned, hurt – but the worst is seemingly over.
There’s something in the air now, the fallout from this blast, drifting down for years to come, settling in your bones, aching and fatiguing. Life is harder; at times you grow sick of fighting, but know you have to.
You never quite recover, never quite leave it behind, this radioactive grief that’s settled in your bones.
But Trev…you’d have loved being compared to a nuclear explosion.