“The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.”
My brother Jon passed away a year ago.
I’m not typically one to share my emotions freely but it’s been cathartic for me to talk about this so here goes.
I write a lot about human nature in the market because I’m fascinated by how emotions impact your money decisions. You have no control over the emotions you feel or when and how you feel them. You only control how you react to them.
At times in the past year I’ve felt like I’m having an out-of-body experience watching my own rollercoaster of emotions.
I’m typically a pretty even-keeled guy. After Jon died my mood swings have been in a wider range than usual.
In stock market parlance, my personal VIX spiked — higher highs and lower lows. I’m not used to the volatility.
It’s all the feelings one would expect but there have been some unexpected outcomes too.
Losing someone makes you feel vulnerable but also partially invincible in some ways. Once you see a loved one go through a traumatic experience, it hardens you.
Martin Short lost his brother at age 12, his mother at age 17 and his father at age 20. In his memoir, Short reflected on how tragedy shaped his life going forward:
The difficult times were difficult, but they yielded important lessons — they gave me information about life that few guys my age had, as well as a certain fearlessness. John Candy once said to me after a particularly insane improv set at Second City that I had “balls of steel.” Ah, but the balls of steel are earned, I thought, not grown.
Seeing how strong Jon’s kids have been throughout this experience is a reminder of the power of the human spirit. They didn’t deserve this but it’s going give them all a certain fearlessness too, just like their dad.
Having difficult conversations is much easier now. The big stuff doesn’t worry me anymore. My philosophy on life is now whatever happens — good or bad — I’ll deal with it.
This experience has also reinforced the power of community.
Jon’s funeral was the worst day of my life. Seeing so much heartbreak on the faces of friends and family was overwhelming.
But so was the level of support.
We had a three-hour visitation window, assuming people would come to pay their respects and leave. People showed up at the outset. It was packed. No one left. Everyone stayed the entire time.
After Jon died and I shared his story I heard from thousands of people.
Most sent along their condolences. But so many others shared their stories with me about their experience losing a loved one. A parent. A sibling. A spouse. A child. A close friend.
Grief can be a lonely emotion but the way you work through it is with others.
Six months or so after Jon died I was starting to feel better. Or at least getting used to it. Then out of nowhere the black cloud returned. I had a really rough week where all of the bad feelings came rushing back. I was stuck in my head replaying it over again.
Then out of the blue I recieved two messages on the same day from people who read my blog and follow the podcast. I’ve never met them. Both were checking in randomly to see how I was doing.
Both were along the lines of: How are you? I know it’s been a few months but it must be tough. I’m thinking of you and hope you’re doing OK.
I’m sure these people had lost someone too because they understood grief is a process, not an event. Those kinds of check-ins really do help.
I’ve never known what to say to someone during a situation like this. Now I know it doesn’t matter what you say. You don’t have to say the perfect thing. There is nothing you can say. You give a hug. I’m thinking of you. I love you. I’m here for you.
That’s all.
George Eliot once wrote, “Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them.”
I’m constantly reminded of Jon — songs, movies, random memories.
Jon didn’t want a traditional funeral. He wanted a celebration.
So when I gave a speech at the service I told some stories about how much Jon loved celebrating.
Here’s one of my favorites:
Before my wedding we had a meeting with the DJ to talk about the music we wanted for the reception.
The guy asked us if there were any wedding songs we wanted to exclude. We didn’t put much thought into it but my wife said I guess The Chicken Dance. I never loved that one.
We didn’t really care but wanted to give him something.
Fast forward to the reception. The dance floor is heating up. I’m talking to someone at the bar and I hear the Chicken Dance blasting away.
I shared a look with my wife. Neither of us really cared but thought it was funny since he asked.
So I walk over to the DJ and jokingly ask Hey I thought we said no Chicken Dance?
Yes I know but the best man said the groom requested it personally.
Jon was the best man, of course.
I turn around and see him front and center on the dancefloor, leading the way with the hardest chicken dance of his life. Huge smile on his face. Surrounded by friends and family. Going to town.
My brother loved having a good time with loved ones.
That’s the stuff I’m going to remember about him.
I got some advice from a friend who had also lost a loved one. He told me you’re obviously going to get sad when Jon’s not around for holidays, birthday parties, family gatherings, etc.
Don’t think about it in terms of I wish Jon were here right now.
You reframe it as If Jon were here right now he would…
Jon was the kind of guy who always knew what to say and when to say it. He would always grab me a beer before I asked for one. He would always round up the troops for a family walk after a big meal. He would crank up the music at the perfect time during a card game. He would create an adventure before the kids all got bored.
I’m always going to be sad because he’s not around to do these things anymore but grieving has also taught me the importance of celebrating the times we had.
That’s what he would want.
