18 and life: a tribute to my brother
A few nights ago, I was lying in bed thinking about the anniversary that I always dread: my brother’s death, which happened 18 years ago today when he was 18 years old.
No matter how many years pass, I never know what to expect from February 16. Some years I’m fine, finding small ways to celebrate his life, which might mean something as simple as ordering Domino’s and watching a slasher film. Other years, the subterranean emotions bubble up, leading to a sob fest in the days before the date rolls around.
In Hebrew*, “chai” means both “18” and “life.” It’s an important word in Judaism, representing the significance Jews place on life and the living.
It’s also one of my tattoos and a Skid Row song, for those who enjoy 80’s hair metal, but that’s neither here nor there.
At some point, I stopped counting the years it’s been since Troy passed away. It’s sort of like how once you turn 35, it becomes harder and harder to remember how old you are, and you don’t have that many fingers. (I’m also not a math person, so unless it’s easy arithmetic, my brain gives up trying to figure it out.)
About a week after Troy’s funeral, I went back to school at the University of Missouri, determined to finish my senior year (+ half victory lap…I didn’t go to class much during my freshman and sophomore years, so I was a bit behind) with a new, unfamiliar motivator: grief.
Troy and I had a lot in common, but we also differed greatly. While I’ve always had strong opinions (on many topics that don’t require strong opinions), I’ve often lacked direction and the ability to set goals. Troy, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted to pursue in life and charted a path to do it.
I remember having read a book or pamphlet about grief, which advised against making any big life decisions in the wake of loss. Being the wise idiot romantic thoughtful pragmatic person I am, I decided not to heed this actually very sound advice, and, once I graduated, decided to ‘follow my heart’ and move to Oregon with my then-boyfriend.
“This is what Troy would want for me!” I reasoned, somehow posthumously assuming that my late brother would’ve rather I give up on any career aspirations—that I may or may not have had—and, instead, head west to a land where it constantly rains with no Italian beef in sight.
To be fair, I had no defined career goals at this time, which is probably another reason why I said ‘fuck it’ and moved. At the time I knew my language skills (Arabic and French) were a strength, and figured that some organization somewhere would value my weird obsession with Soviet history and ability to write B+ research papers on Stalin.
But, when I think about Troy and what he would’ve actually encouraged me to do had he lived to see me graduate, I’m sure he would’ve told me to pursue what I love doing.
In the last year or two of his life, we had become much closer; I would come home from college over winter or summer break and feel surprised that, while I was away, he had grown into a real person. He wasn’t just my younger brother, a human being for whom I felt partially responsible to keep safe. Troy had interests, hobbies, quirks, pet peeves, and, we found out after he passed, a lot of admirers.
I remember driving to our grandparents’ house down the road and discussing Soviet Russia; actually, it was an argument: we were both interested in Soviet everything, but my fascination was from a historical perspective whereas he seemed to actually admire the Soviet state.
He introduced me to heavy metal; bands like Pantera, Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax. We shared a love of funk and disco. How heavy metal and disco pair, I don’t know, but in our family it made sense.
In the week before he died, he had called me. I didn’t answer, because I was busy partying at Eastern Illinois University with friends. He left a voicemail, which effectively said:
“AJ. You’re my sister, my blood. I won’t be around much longer, but I love you.”
This voicemail seems ominous, but he was supposed to head to Florida State University to study film right after graduation, so I actually wouldn’t have seen him for a while if his plan had gone through.
I never called him back and I no longer have the voicemail.
In hindsight, the voicemail haunts me—it’s as if deep down he knew what was coming. I know logically this isn’t the case, but it’s hard to brush off the heart’s attempt to make sense of a tragic loss.
When his casket was lowered into the snow-covered ground at his funeral—in the hours after a sunrise that boasted every shade of pink and orange—I wailed. And when I wail, I apparently sound like I’m laughing, which confused some of the bystanders. The subsequent days were a blur; I was terrified to go to sleep, worried that I’d have nightmares about how he had died; a story which was still being pieced together.
We’ll never know the person he could’ve become—after 18 years, we’re left with memories that fade and a collection of photos that seems smaller every year. Grief never lets go of you, but maybe that’s a good thing. At first, it’s a tsunami you never think you’ll survive, then, as the years pass, it becomes gentle waves that flow in and out.
Even though I neglected a lot of myself in the years after he passed away, I feel like I’m finally reclaiming parts of me that I gave up on years ago. I think he would’ve always been my biggest supporter, telling me to follow my dreams in his uber-chill way.
Most people talk about the dead as if they were saints “they lit up a room” or “they always put a smile on everyone’s face!” Since Troy’s death, I’ve developed a sort of disdain for this sort of reverence.
Troy didn’t “light up a room”—he chilled the room the fuck out, a trait that, amongst a sea of semi-neurotic people, was appreciated. He was kind, thoughtful, and had an understated, dry sense of humor; the kind that can go unnoticed if you’re not paying attention. He also often had a short temper and hated losing, which caused a lot of frustration during family board games, especially the games that require everyone to be all in for hours, like Risk.
He wasn’t a perfect person and I’m pretty sure he thought he was invincible, like most teenagers do. Sometimes I’m angry at him, sometimes I even hate him for being so reckless with his presence on this planet that meant so much to so many people. I lost my only brother, an uncle my kids will only ever know through photos and “remember whens.” But I’m thankful for those 18 years I got to spend with him and, now that I’m finally crying as I write this, I look forward to getting one of his trademark hugs whenever we meet again.
And, despite him giving up Judaism, I think he may have appreciated a Jewish saying that I heard a few months ago during a speech at the DNC:
כל אדם עולם בפניו
'kol adam olam um lo'o'
In Hebrew, this essentially means “in each person, a universe.”
Troy was a universe and his death is a forever black hole in my family’s hearts. But not even light can escape a black hole, so maybe it’s how we stay connected to him, even in death.
Troy Cameron Wilton
11/13/88 - 2/16/07
May his memory be a blessing
“he chilled the room the fuck out” 🩷