He was the most social human being I have ever known and likely ever will. He could approach celebrities in New York and make them believe he was a long-lost friend from before they made it big. He had the pictures to prove it. He was also gregarious. And Impetuous. One time, a tourist in Manhattan – an old lady – had her purse snatched right off her shoulder by a thug who took off running down the street. Our guy? He dropped his coffee, excused himself from the conversation he was having, and took off after said thug. Although he was already a middle-aged man with a few extra pounds, he caught up to the crook, tackled him, and held him there until the cops showed up. He made sure that lady got her purse back. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Consider the time he and his wife were vacationing in Paris, dining at a cafe. She looked up and saw Notre Dame engulfed in flames. He had turned a photography hobby into a paying gig as a freelance sports photojournalist covering the teams in New York. Camera came out of the bag, he ran to the site, charmed his way through police lines, and snapped a picture that was on the front of most of the world’s papers the next morning.
And he was something else.
He was my big brother. The pain that pierced my heart in just writing that line is still immense. Let me explain…
When I was a little boy, my brother, 13 years my senior (it happens in big families), was proud of his family. And he was always doing things for us, his youngest siblings. One of my first memories was him taking me to see the circus. But not just any circus. No, he took me on the train into the City to see the Ringling Brothers Circus at Madison Square Garden. He bought me popcorn and a pennant. On another occasion, he took me to the top of the Twin Towers. He brought me to see the parade down the Canyon of Heroes after the First Gulf War. He introduced me to New Jersey Devils hockey (still my favorite sport and team). He taught me how to read the standings and what all the points meant. Back then, the NHL was still segmented in conferences and divisions with noble names like “Prince of Wales” and “Campbell”.
Later in life, his choices were not the same as what our parents had raised us to choose. I learned to pray for him and still love him for the good heart he had always shown to me; just from afar. By the summer of 2019 we had more or less gotten back together. I went to visit him and his wife and kids at their house with my own kids who were still not teenagers yet. After dinner we walked a few blocks to a local park. He reached into a backpack and pulled out something that reminded me of the old days. Silly string. He tossed a can at each of us and we chased each other around the pond, jettisoning fibrous multicolor twine, and laughing.
I mentioned that he was social for a reason. In early 2020, the world shut down. And the most social man was left alone. Did anyone think of what those lockdowns actually did? I know what they did.
On July 9th – six years ago, my brother took his life.
Do you know what it’s like when you and your sisters have to tell your mom that another of her children was dead and then to have to tell her how? I do not wish that on anyone.
I don’t want to think about him every day but I have to. And in thinking about him I have to think of the good times and the happy memories; but I also have to think about the pain. Yes, he was in pain. But I’m talking about the pain he inflicted – on his wife, his children, and the many, many people he knew. He left us without a reason. No note. No goodbye. It was a final act of defiance, I suppose. And that part doesn’t even bother me that much. I don’t care why he did it. It hurts. It sucks. He was quite the asshole for doing this.
I have to think about him for another reason. I have to think about him because I have to pray for him. I am well aware that he may be in hell for all eternity. But I pray for him. I do not know the state of his mind or of his soul at that moment. My faith has always informed me that all of what I just wrote is true simultaneously. Because there is the slightest glimmer of hope, I pray for him. I have Masses offered for him. And because of this experience I sympathize so much more with other “family victims of suicide” as I refer to myself half-jokingly. Hey, I learned long ago that sometimes, we just need to laugh or we’re going to cry.
One thing I don’t do? I don’t memorialize his actions. I don’t celebrate what he did. I think that would be wildly inappropriate and scandalous, and therefore sinful. Everything you just read above is the extent of a memorial and it’s all I need. I tell you about him, the man, what he was like and what he meant to me, and I tell you about a terrible choice he made in finality that may have damned him to hell. I tell you it’s OK to pray for him and I tell you God will sort it out. But I don’t lionize the manner of his death because it was his choice and it was an affront to Almighty God.
So when I read the following:
Cardinal Cupich’s Archdiocese of Chicago suggests all people who kill themselves are saved – Sign of the Cross Media
I get more than a little angry.
Cardinal Cupich, really? Don’t condescend to me. Is that what you’re doing? “People kill themselves so we should make their loved ones feel included?” I would appreciate a prelate’s prayers, sacrifice, and good works directed toward their souls over a shitty silver sculpture. But I didn’t expect much more out of you, anyway.
Friends, pray for my brother’s soul if you would be so kind. I’m going to raise a glass to the good times. The pain, however? That never goes away.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 