My brother, Nick.

Matt and I were cleaning our fish tank on May 23rd when my Dad called. He had called on Matt's phone but it was right next to me so I answered. The tone in his voice when he said "Courtney, let me talk to Matt" made me immediately hand the phone over. After a short conversation outside, Matt came back in and told me "Courtney, your brother is dead." Four little words changed everything.

We immediately drove to my moms where we all spent the night dealing with shock, disbelief, sadness, anger, and confusion. The next day Mom and Doug flew to Arizona while Matt and I, along with the kids, began our drive. That week was a whirlwind and I can't even begin to remember all that was said, or all that we did. I have only been to two funerals that I can remember, and both of them I attended in support of someone who knew the deceased. And now, there I was, helping to plan my only brother's funeral with both of my parents. His service was something I think he would have been happy about. Of course there were tears, but there was also quite a bit of laughter. My Dad delivered a speech that only he could, and everything about it was so perfectly Nick.

When you're hearing stories of him, it's almost like he's back with you. You can hear the inflections in his voice or see his lanky gait as he walks through the door. But when the stories stop, you lose him all over again. I only had one sibling. Now I have none. Someday, when my parents are gone, it will just be me. I asked Matt the other day if he thought people in Heaven could see what was going on here in this life. We both agree they probably can't. While I don't want my brother to worry about us hurting (because I know he would) it pains me that he can't hear me when I talk to him and that he won't get to see Weston and Hannah grow. I will do my best to ensure my kids know who their Uncle Nick is but I can't do anything about it the other way around. 

While I grieve the loss of my brother, I really can't imagine the hurt my parents are going through. That weighs on my heart almost as bad as the loss. My parent's have fallen to their knees, and I just want to put them on my back and carry them through this grief. They have always lifted me up and dusted me off. They fix things for me. I want so badly to fix this for them. I've always been such a planner. And by the grace of God, my life had gone according to plan up until that moment on May 23rd. This is so totally opposite of any plan I ever had! My parents should never have to experience this grief. There is nothing I can do to make it hurt any less. I am beyond worried about both of them. If they'd let me, I'd move them both right in to our house with us. I need them close to me- both for comfort and to ease my worry. I look at other people who have gone through tragedy some time ago and they seem so "normal". In my head I know that will come for us, but in my heart it seems hard to believe. It seems unlikely that my mom will ever have a Sunday where she doesn't long for her weekly phone calls, or that my Dad will ever drive his Cardinals bus without the bitterness of the seat unfilled. And these were the things they used to look forward to! If only I could turn back time and be a more loving sister, maybe, just maybe, things would be different. I realized yesterday that I always say "The hardest part is..." and then finish the sentence with something different. The truth is, I don't know what is the hardest. Is it the wondering why? Those moments when you really grasp that you'll never see him again? The worry about my parents? The sadness at those things I wish I would have said? It's impossible to pick just one "hardest" thing.

My brother would hate all of this. He would hate all the huffing and puffing about him. He would hate to see anyone shed a tear or lose any sleep over something he did. Well I hate it too... and I wish he was here so I could tell him that.