It wouldn’t be unkind to me to say that over the past few years I have become obsessed with the realisation that soon, not this year, or even next, but, you know, soon, I would have lived as much of my life without my brother as with. I guess I must have been about 46 or 47 when I first started thinking about that. Each birthday and anniversary cruelly getting harder and harder again, instead of easier. I dreaded turning 50, and not for the reasons one might think, nothing to do with getting older, for I see that as an absolute privilege now, but because that’s when it would happen.

Just over three months after my 25th birthday, my brother died.

Finally, at the end of a years long battle with brain cancer, lying in a hospice bed, my mother and father and I around him, my sister and his best friend downstairs, my brother took a big (ginormous in fact) breath, and whilst we had to admit defeat, that we couldn’t hold our breath forever, he did not. I still hold my breath when I think of it and it feels so strange now to remember that we didn’t know for sure, even after a minute had passed, and then another, and another, everything in slow motion, and then time standing still… that he was dead. Morphined up to the hilt, and asleep for most of the day, he opened his eyes wide as he took his last breath and then slowly they closed. Maybe he was going to breathe again? Maybe, it was a mistake? Maybe it didn’t mean what we thought it did. Perhaps. “C’mon Chris, breath. Don’t go!” “DON’T GO!.”

We needed to be told by the staff, “yes, I’m sorry, he is dead.” I watched my father grip his son’s hand and cry out “my boy, no, no, no!”. I ran out of the room and down the stairs, trying to keep the noise inside my throat from bursting out (my brother had been in the hospice for a while and we knew only too well what it felt like to be in a room, waiting for death, whilst another person, somewhere along the corridor, was meeting it finally).

I remember finding them, flapping my hands up and down (something I still do at times of extreme stress), unable to speak, the sound still lodged in my throat, tears rolling down my cheeks. I didn’t have to say anything. Though I think I did manage “he’s dead.” We raced back upstairs. I thought, wrapped up in shock as I was, that if they got up there quickly they might just catch him… before he died.

And that is one of the funny things about death in this way – when it happens, this thing you have been waiting for, you are shocked. Or I was at least. I remember meeting a woman in the year that followed whose brother had died in a climbing accident and wishing that that was what had happened to my brother. She thought I was lucky, that we were lucky, because we had had a warning, we had had time to prepare, that it wasn’t so shocking for us, so difficult. And I thought “stuff us!”, I would have given anything for my brother to not have had to live for years with the knowledge that he was dying (aren’t we all afterall, but a cancer diagnosis really puts it front and centre). I’d have given anything for him not to have had to endure treatments that made him ill, to have had hours long surgery on his brain (the most excruciating pain he has ever been in, he would later say), not to be aware, as his body began to fail (though we had false alarms) that he was approaching the end. Knowing that he was dying did not make the death any less painful, or shocking (not, I realise, that I know what it would have felt like not to know). But I think people romanticise that period when you get to do all the things you’ve always wanted to do and get to tell all the people you love that you love them, just do that anyway – don’t wait for a death sentence. Because in my experience, that isn’t how it happens – it’s messy and scary and painful and so so, sad. My brother wanted to go back to his beloved Antigua, one last time. He never made it. He was either ill or trying to not be ill – there wasn’t a lot of space left for other stuff. He wanted to get out of the hospice, to be at home, and, whilst we tried to arrange it, he never left. And, we never had big meaningful “I love you” conversations because it made him cry and when he cried he choked, so, we didn’t do it. But, he did tell me that he thought I was special, that he knew I could do whatever I wanted, that I should seize life and enjoy it – so I suppose, I did have that.

I took my mum back to mine that night and we lay in bed together for the first time in over a decade, both completely shell-shocked. It’s funny, much as some of that night, and those days, is etched on my brain, so much of it isn’t. I can’t for the life of me remember if we slept and I’ve no idea what my sister or father or my brother’s best friend did that night – isn’t that crazy. I think they stayed with him. The next day we went back to the hospice, they had moved my brother from the ward and put him in a room from where the undertaker would collect him. I wanted to see him. I sat with him for a while, scared to touch him but wanting to, my beautiful brother (and he was beautiful, such an utter gem of a person and incredibly good-looking too! This is where I should add that I was known as “Little Chris” when I was a girl. Though, I hated it at the time because he was annoying, and I was not a boy!). I thought if I touched him he might suddenly wake up and whilst you’d think that would have been a good thing, of course I knew it couldn’t be possible that an alive him would wake up. Could it? I was desperate to see his eyes again, he had the most gorgeous hazel-y eyes, but I thought they might have disappeared, or turned black or… or… I don’t know. In the end I opened his eyelids and had a look and there he was. Still my brother. My beautiful, charming, brilliant, big brother.

The days that followed are a blur. Arranging the funeral, looking after small children, trying to believe that he’d actually gone and died. So many cards of condolence to the family – thank you so much. Outpourings of love, kindness. Sleepless nights, cheeks constantly wet with a seemingly endless flow of tears. Not realising then, as I do now, that I would never be the same. That I would always, always, on some level, be sad.

Days turned into weeks into months and eventually years. My brother left a small amount of money to us and with part of mine I finally learnt to drive, I thought he would have liked that – part of his plan for my being this wonderful, brilliant, go-getting adult he thought I could be. I wanted to tell him “Chris, I passed… I passed!” I would still, years later, catch myself when the phone rang (back in the days of old school landlines) thinking it might be him. I yearned to hear his voice, longed to tell him things, wanted him to see my children, and my niece, as they grew into young adults. The first time I realised I hadn’t consciously thought about him in a day, years after his death*, I was distraught, I thought I had betrayed him. But now, I can go for weeks without actively thinking about him (not this year, this is a Chris heavy year, and that’s okay) and I know it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten him or love him any less. I remember the blessed relief when slowly, thinking about him made me smile more than it made me cry and that’s the case these days, I delve into my memory bank and what comes up sparks joy – most of the time.

But time doesn’t heal, make no mistake. And I think it’s important to understand this, I think it’s helpful. You simply learn with time, how to cope. I am as capable now of being absolutely floored by grief as I was 25 years ago. It could be a song or a comment or a joke, someone with a passing resemblance or, just nothing. It can happen slowly or can completely blindside me. And at the same time, those things can elicit a smile and make me feel good. What is different now is I know how to pick myself up and I don’t feel guilty. And it affects us all differently. I, for example, cannot bear to go into the hospital where his cancer was first diagnosed. When a friend of mine had a stroke and was taken there, the first time I went to visit him I walked in and walked straight back out again because I couldn’t cope with the grief I felt. My sister, on the other hand, loves it there – she says she feels connected to him when she’s there.

When I safely reached 33 (the age he was when he died), and life kept on going, I felt weird, I realised I’d been slightly holding my breath, wondering if I too would be felled (apparently it’s quite common in people who have lost an older sibling) or if I would outlive my big brother. My sister had something similar.

I forced myself to focus on celebrating my 50th, and I have to say, I did a good job. The tearful days in the run up to my birthday were pushed aside in place of joy and fun. And I thought I’d gotten away with it. As the 25th anniversary of his death approached I thought perhaps I might unravel but I seemed okay…

And then yesterday, on the eve of the anniversary, it caught up with me. I reasoned that it was my hangover that was making me teary and fragile (it had been my last shift at the pub, more on that soon, the night before and, let’s just say I got rather merry). But then I spoke to my sister, discussing a plan of action for the day itself, how we were going to ensure that neither parent was alone, and I confessed that what I really wanted was to be completely alone, to see nobody and to do nothing (though I am on standby, if necessary), and the sobs started. I want, I need, to take a moment to accept what it feels like to have been alive for as long without my brother as I was with him. I’m scared that I will forget him (I did send a message to my sister to say, “he did have hazel eyes, didn’t he?” Pah ha!), that I will lose not only details but the whole sense of him. But, I know I won’t really. He was a brilliant brother, a super star uncle, an incredible friend, and just, a wonderful human, and whilst he got on my nerves sometimes, I was so lucky to have him. He was there when I found out, aged 18 and on holiday with my dad, that I was pregnant with my first child – it was a VERY stressful time. He was ferociously in my corner though and that was what I needed.

I wish I still knew him, I’d love to know his children (he didn’t have any) and wonder, would they be as special as ours (yes), would the cousins all get on (yes), would we still get on (yes). Would he and his best friend still be so close (yes). What would it be like to talk to him? What would he think about the world we live in today, it’s so different to his. What would he think about my ex and I splitting up? What would he be like? Who would he be? Would he still be playing golf? Would he still be a nightmare sometimes (he once almost got his head chopped off in front of us, totally true story, because he was drunk and being loud and friendly in a food-truck queue!)? Would someone have loved him (absofreakinlutely)?

My brother lived in his 33 years, the kind of rich and full life that many won’t ever achieve, even if they live to 100. And I always feel grateful for that, that he made the most of it. And when I think about that, it inspires me to do the same. I’m lucky enough to still be here, much older than he was, and thinking about him reminds me that I have to make the most of this life – experiencing and enjoying as much as possible. I guess, in a way, my brother has had a hand in this blog here – which, as you know, is about living your life to the full, whatever your age.

In just over a week, I start a job that I am over the moon about, it’s another step towards that being a brilliant go-getting adult he thought I could be, and I wish I could tell him about it. He would be tickled pink.

I wish I could just see him again, hang out one last time. But in lieu of that, today, on the 25th anniversary of his death, I’m going to be quiet and give myself the space to feel all of the emotions. I’m going to pull out the photo albums and think of him. And I’m going to set some intentions for who I want to be for this next chapter of my life as I pass this odd, unwelcome, unthinkable milestone.

I can tell you one thing though, for sure, I’m going to live as joyfully as possible and I’m going to appreciate the life I have and all the richness I’m lucky enough to know. It feels like a bit of an insult to him not to.

*After someone dies, after the first intense few weeks, people often get scared to talk about it with the bereaved, worried that they will make them upset, make them remember – in my experience, they haven’t forgotten and they are already upset and very often, they want to talk but think that most people will have had enough of it. Don’t be scared to reach out to someone, long after the dust has seemingly settled, who is going through it.

Thank you to my sister, Caroline, for most of the photos. Thank you too for being there all of these years! A life without you too would have been too much to bear.