Working to Live

In the aftermath of my brother’s death, there were so many things that needed to be done. When I was able to finally shake off the shock of what had happened, one of the first things that came naturally to me was to go straight into “work” mode.

 My priority was getting into his condo to protect his belongings. I was filled with fear of what could happen because of the circumstances surrounding his (and her) death. I envisioned people breaking into his place to steal things, trash things, or to morbidly see the horror of what had transpired. 

We were not immediately allowed to get into the residence. In fact, the police had the keys and would only release them to us once the scene was cleared. Meaning, the “crime scene” was physically cleaned by a specialty company.

The process took several days, which felt like an eternity. Every day, I was sick to my stomach, fearing what could happen until we got in there and what would actually happen when we did.

The afternoon we were finally allowed in was both a relief and terrifying at the same time. My husband and friends went in before me to be sure it was ok.

I remember placing my hand on the knob to go in, thinking of how many times my brother had touched that exact same spot. I was so desperately wanting to feel a connection to him. 

I think the first thing I noticed upon walking in was the smell. It was so strange. 

As much as I dreaded the thought, I knew I had to go upstairs into the bedroom where it all happened. 

As I slowly made my way up the stairs, my stomach churned, and my heart broke with each and every step. Then, the reality of it all hit. There wasn’t anything gruesome, as that had been taken care of, but there were signs. I touched everything. I begged him to let me know he was with me and that I could get through this. I prayed that this was a nightmare and I would wake up. I pleaded, I cried.

I was in the middle of something I could have never imagined, but I knew I had to snap back into that “work” mode to survive.