A week ago today I received the call from my nephew that his dad, my brother, had died.

Ryan was three years younger than me, born in 1973. Like me tattoos covered his body, though his were mostly black and gray and mine are colorful… I asked him why he didn’t do color once and he just said it wasn’t for him. Unlike me, he had a head full of hair and could grow a full beard.

He was 50% deaf in each ear since birth. When I was very young I recall my mother explaining to me that my little brother would be deaf and needed extra care. I cried so hard that day and remember running to my room just bawling like a baby. As he grew up and through childhood he would often, at least I think it was often, pretend he couldn’t hear you just so he didn’t have to do something. He would even go so far as to turn down his hearing aids – little shit. When he was much older he finally went through the procedure for ocular implants and he says it changed his world. There was also an app that he used with his phone and it was like someone was talking direct in his head he said. His lack of hearing never stopped him from loving music and he would head bang with the best of them.

I couldn’t ever catch him when we were playing tag. I would chase and chase but he was a fast fucker that zigged and zagged and was always just out of reach. Once when I couldn’t catch him I grabbed the nearest item, I think it was an old empty gasoline can, and I pitched it at him, hit him in the head… and of course he needed stitches.

Not to be outdone in everything, if he was winning a wrestling match against me I would fake an injury and he would get legitimately concerned that he hurt me some how and it pained him just the thought of that.

When I was twenty my mother called and said she was moving to Florida and if I didn’t come to care for my younger siblings they would be placed in foster care. I didn’t want that to happen so I uprooted my life and went to live in Taylor, WI with Amy and Ryan. Truthfully it was a disaster – I couldn’t take care of myself let alone two teenagers. All we did was drink and smoke and party. It wasn’t long before social services came and took them both. While we were living together I grew concerned about Ryan’s drinking and alcohol (I couldn’t see my own addiction) and sent him off to treatment. He was so mad and didn’t think he was an alcoholic but we sent him anyway. He didn’t sign up for AA or let that become his new life and he was resentful about my sending him – we made amends many years later about it.

Ryan did spend some time in the local prison. I don’t really remember the charges and it doesn’t matter now. While he was there he bettered himself, he came out with knowledge – he spent time learning and reading and doing things he didn’t do when he was younger. He was a lot smarter when he got out.

Years go by quickly and we both grew up. I let alcohol and drugs consume my life early and found a way out when I was still in my twenties. Ryan found heroin later in life and it took its toll. I don’t know how long he had been without it when he passed, but I know it was a real struggle for him. He was always a stoner in our younger years and loved pot, but the heavy stuff wasn’t part of what we did back then. Duluth is where that part of his life happened and while he was there he was incommunicado wouldn’t answer calls of posts from us siblings. The heroin ate away at the relationships.

We didn’t have the best life growing up and I know he didn’t have the best life as an adult either. He struggled and lived near poverty.

A Celebration of Life was held on Saturday for him. There were memories shared, tears shed and laughter at hi jinx in our youth. His favorite two uncles came to pay their respects, among others. Ryan would have loved that, loved to see all those people together. We had coolers full of Mountain Dew, his favorite and just sat there on a rainy Saturday in sadness.

I don’t consider myself a good brother. Many failures run through my head, things I could have done better for him or times I should have tried to reach out. I picked him up for a recent get together with Dawn and Amy when my Ma was in hospice. On the way home he bawled and spoke about how tired he was of fighting, how much work it was just to live. He had COPD and it’s a hard disease to live with. I let him talk and cry, but I offered no comfort, no soothing words or help – I had none. Do you lie to someone who’s dying and let them think there is some fragile hope out there that will make it better… I couldn’t. I just sat there in silence. I’m not a good brother.

I will miss Ryan. We didn’t spend much time together and lived states apart, but I’ll miss him anyway. When I think of going “home” to Wisconsin he’s one of the things I think about…. but no more. I don’t believe in a hereafter or souls. I think he’s just done fighting and gone.