I Hate This Story: Honoring the Love and Loss of My Brother — Jenny Smith

I'm a writer. I love putting words together to paint a picture of a new perspective or story. It's magic and love when these words meet truth in you. I adore the power of words.

But I hate this sentence: My brother died five weeks ago.

Maybe if I write it a million times, my brain will believe it's true. The shock is real.

On Friday, February 18, 2022, my husband and I said goodbye to our kids and my mom and flew to Los Angeles for a long-awaited 40th birthday trip with our college friends. We landed at LAX and I loved seeing all the LA Rams gear following their Super Bowl win earlier that week. I said to Aaron, "Let's look this weekend for a great Rams shirt for Jeremy. He'd love it!"

Our friends picked us up and we enjoyed lunch by the beach as we drove to a hotel for the night. We got dressed up and walked to the theater nearby to see Wicked. Anxiety descended as the show started and I ended up watching the first half from the lobby. Sitting high up in theaters has long been an anxiety trigger for me so I didn't think much of it. The second half began and I headed into the theater to try to enjoy the brilliant show.

I had no idea that, as I watched the second half, my youngest brother, Jeremy, experienced a brain bleed while driving. Two people were following him on the road and saw him driving normally up O'Malley Road in Anchorage, Alaska. Then they saw him start to drive erratically. He crossed into oncoming traffic and over snow berms. They called 911 and followed his car until Jeremy ended in a snowbank, narrowly missing a fire hydrant. A doctor and nurse, they jumped out of their car to get to Jeremy. Jeremy was able to talk and answer a couple questions. Then it was clear he was not okay. Others who stopped to help wrapped him in a blanket and helped him lie down on the cold Alaskan sidewalk. They prayed with him and talked with him until medics arrived. My brother wasn't alone in his last moments.

We later learned Jeremy experienced an AVM (arteriovenous malformation) that he likely had since birth. It’s not genetic. Some survive a rupture depending on where it’s located. Jeremy’s AVM was nestled deep in the back of his brain and medical professionals did everything they could, especially since he was so young, but his body didn’t respond. His heart and organs continued to function but his brain died.

My brother was less than a mile from his home. If he’d gotten home, he would have died alone. Instead, the medical professionals got Jeremy to the hospital and machines kept him technically alive until our family could get there.

The hospital started calling our family in the middle of the night. My other brother, Ryan, and his girlfriend, Emily, were in Italy when he got the call. My mom was at my house in Washington with our kids. My dad was in Oregon at home. My sister was in Oregon at home. I missed the call from the hospital while I was sleeping at the hotel in California. My husband heard a call come in at 4:45 am. I saw the missed calls and called the hospital. They said it was about my brother and the prognosis was not good. I immediately called my mom and she shared what she knew.

How can I describe that moment?

My stomach dropped. My entire body went into fight or flight mode. I dragged my shaky self to the bathroom for a minute. I sat down on the hotel bed with my husband. I cried. I mindlessly started picking up my things and putting them in my luggage. We booked a flight back to Seattle. I called my brother. I texted my sister.

At the airport, I walked by the same shirt I’d seen the day before. I bought it and tucked it in my bag. I stared out the window for two hours as we flew home. I talked to Jeremy. I cried with him. I told him it was okay to let go if he needed to. I told him how much we loved him.

It became obvious over the next day or so that Jeremy wouldn’t survive this. Our goal was to get the family there to say goodbye. I’ll never forget standing near the escalator in the N concourse at SeaTac and seeing Ryan running toward me. This guy had just flown around the world for a day and a half so he could say goodbye to his best friend. His person. We clung to each other and sobbed.

We got off our plane in Anchorage and drove to the hospital. I walked into the same place where I gave birth to my daughter. The same place where I rushed her in as she experienced a life-threatening allergy reaction. Now, I fumbled my way through some Covid questions and rode the elevator up to ICU with my sister. Ryan, his girlfriend, Emily, and I walked into the waiting room and hugged my parents.

As someone with terrible hospital anxiety, this was my worst nightmare. I took a deep breath and walked back to Jeremy’s room with my sister and mom. I rounded the corner and my breath hitched. There he was. Sitting up in bed with his eyes closed. Breathing normally and hooked up to machines. Almost as if he’d open his eyes at any point and smile.

I sat on a chair next to the bed and anxiously talked to him. I told him how much I loved him. How much he meant to so many people. I cried. At one point, I looked up and a tear rolled down his cheek. It took my breath away. I looked over at my mom and sister. Mom reminded us they put gel on his eyelids to keep them closed. Intellectually I knew it wasn’t a sign of emotion from my little brother. But my heart exploded. It felt like he was with me for a second. That our entire life of love was wrapped up in that one tear.

The next few days were a blur. People brought us food, mattresses, airline miles, gift cards. The doctors ran every test they could think of to ensure there wasn’t anything else that could be done. We knew he was gone. We flew up the rest of our families and started planning a service for the following Saturday. On Monday at 4:00 pm Alaska time, they gave the official death pronouncement. Then his care was transferred to the organ donation team. Jeremy had chosen to have his organs donated if that was ever needed and because people got him to the hospital, he was able to share many of his organs with families desperately waiting for their miracle.

Kodos howling along to a favorite song of Jeremy's

That Friday, we gathered at the flagpole at Providence Medical Center to help raise a flag in honor of Jeremy’s gift of life. You can watch the brief gathering here. Jeremy’s dear friends, Easter, Sam and their family sang. Jeremy’s beloved dog, Kodos, howled a song Jeremy taught him. I read Jeremy’s obituary, we raised the donor flag and prayed together.

On Saturday, we gathered at St. John United Methodist Church, our family’s home church, to grieve and honor Jeremy’s life. You can watch the service here. It was full of tears, story, laughter, and truth. Jeremy’s beloved friends toasted him with 5 hour energy shots, four pastors eulogized him, my parents, my siblings, and Emily shared. A dear friend read scripture in Jeremy’s sloth costume, and the four nieces and nephews put some of Jeremy’s favorite things on the altar. We invited people to wear Hawaiian shirts in honor of Jeremy's love of the state and his overall chill vibe.

Our first family photo with Jeremy in a frame.

Jeremy had told friends he wanted a bounce house at his funeral so a friend made it happen. I’ll never forget walking out of the packed sanctuary and into the bounce house. Feeling some joy at that moment was a gift straight from Jeremy’s heart. A tiny crack of this horrific heart break healed as we jumped and laughed. On the hardest day of our lives, he gave us laughter.

Looking back, we each had a good phone call with Jeremy in the last few days of his life. And just about all those calls ended with, "Love you, Jeremy. Love you too."

He knew how much we loved him. I'm so damn grateful he knew.

Friends, may I be another voice in your corner gently reminding you it could all be over in an instant. Love your people. Apologize. Make things right. Make the memory. One day you may be taking screenshots of everything that person ever said to you.

So, there you go.

A bit of what happened in the past five weeks.

I’m a writer, through and through. My phone is full of notes and poems. I’m a full-time noticer of life and wildly curious about how we show up to whatever falls into our hands.

Not a single part of me wants to show up to this story. I am devastated.
And yet, I will. I have to.

Honestly, I've spent most of my life wracked with anxiety, trying to make sure moments like this never happened. But again I learn, we can't control this life as much as we'd like. I've seen how resilient our bodies are. I got the worst news of my life and my body kept breathing. We fall apart. We cry. We ache. We call. We plan. But we keep breathing.

Within hours of the terrible news, I started writing. Putting my feelings into words helped me feel them. I was surprised how quickly the words came, almost with an unstoppable force. I will continue writing as the words arrive. I started hitting publish on some of those reflections here.

Losing my brother only three weeks after a life-changing career shift is a lot to process. I will continue to do the thing I know to do: show up, pay attention, cooperate with God, release the outcome.

Because the work and invitations glimmering on the horizon stir my soul to life. I’m taking Jeremy’s love with me as I ever so gently move that direction.

Here’s to the love we carry from our beloveds.

Here’s to the pain we must feel and name.

Here’s to the lives we still get to live.

Thank you, dear reader, for bearing witness to this part of my story. It's healing to share it. Thank you for receiving it.

May we hold all our lives with open hands, trusting the One who guides us still.

Palms up.