The time surrounding Robert’s death was a blur. One big blur. A swirling of memories and moments that were difficult, strange. The funeral was planned by Robert’s sister and his brother. His sister, just weeks before, had told him she wished he would die, due to the an issue over his mother’s estate, and his brother, a drug addict and alcoholic, had longed stopped associating with the family. It was so sad. This beast of a woman, who wished death upon her brother, was going to profit from his death in the end.
It was decided that Robert would be cremated. The close family, myself included, would be given the opportunity to come to funeral home and view the body. Strange, but I wanted to. I needed closure. I was the last person to speak with Robert, as far as we could tell. We had talked on Friday at about 4 PM. I was driving in my car, going to pick up the boys from an activity. We told each other we loved each other and I said I would call him later. I didn’t. I got busy with the boys and forgot. That fact bothered me for a long, long time.
I hadn’t, in my life, seen many dead people. A year before and three months before with my Big Baby Brother. That’s it. I didn’t go to funerals. People in my family didn’t die. Right.
So, The Devil called me to let me know that Robert’s sister had agreed we could go to the funeral home. I met him and his parents at the funeral home. We got to say goodbye one last time.
I was asked to sing at Robert’s funeral. It was bittersweet; a lump in the throat that wouldn’t go away. I sang the first song and never looked at anyone. It was the only way to get through it.
The funeral luncheon was a blur. So were the next few days. When The Devil called, begging to come home, I had every intention of not allowing it. But, I was vulnerable. I lost my Big Baby Brother and a dear, dear friend within months of each other. I said yes, on the conditions that he would go to therapeutic counseling, see his psychiatrist regularly, and take his bipolar medications. I even asked him to consider a new psychiatrist, affiliated with a teaching hospital, which I had learned was the best treatment environment for people with bipolar disorder. The Devil agreed to all of these things. Most of all, he promised to not gamble, drink, or harm me again.
These promises lasted just a precious few months.