My youngest, blood related brother Jeff has died at the young age of 44 years old. It wasn’t long ago that he wasn’t speaking to me because of the funeral ordeal with my sister. He was being so stubborn and I know I said mean things, but he did hurt me. I am thankful we were able to speak again just 5 months shy of his death. I will be forever saddened that we didn’t speak for 8 months. I know I cannot dwell on that, but only the memories I have of my brother. He was such a joy to be around, though sometimes a bit annoying because he could never sit still and always had to be doing something—multitasking in his own way. Whether it be working on his computer answering hundreds of emails and watching a horror movie like “The Good Son,” with McCauley Culkin and laughing hysterically at how ridiculous the plot was or being the fun uncle by taking my kids on late night errand runs to buy snacks while exploring our perfect little suburb. Jeff was always doing multiple things at once and many times it was hard for him to slow down. Part of me wishes he could have been more present, but I don’t think of those moments because I would like to think of more good than bad memories.
We shared amazing conversations about our crazy, dysfunctional childhoods and loved swapping travel dreams and experiences. Jeff loved living and he really worked at getting the best of what this life has to offer in the short 44 years he was alive. I’m so glad he found love at the end because I know he struggled for so long with his homosexuality and feeling safe in his real identity. At the end of his life it sounds like he was really embracing who he was. And for that I am truly saddened, yet happy at the same time. Unlike my sister, he never gave up on life. Life just gave up on him.
Grief is truly overwhelming, and it's hard to find the words for it. I feel a deep pain, as if a huge part of me has died with Jeanie and now Jeff. Anger often creeps in, and I find myself asking, “Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this? Am I cursed?” Yet, eventually, logic takes over, reminding me that this is just a part of life. People grow old, and sometimes they leave us unexpectedly. Death is an inevitable part of the human experience.
I’m learning to accept it, but I’m still scared—scared of the pain and scared of what comes after. Sometimes I wonder if this life is all there is, if it’s our own heaven, hell, or purgatory. That thought brings me back to how Jeff lived: fully, joyfully, without fear. Even though he was my little brother, he taught me so much, and now I carry those lessons with me alongside our brother Eddie.
I really miss our talks and the sound of his laughter; it was infectious and always brightened my day, even when he was using his little brother antics. I vividly recall the day Mom brought him home from the hospital in Miami, Florida. I was just seven years old and thrilled to finally have a little brother. I imagined endless playtime with my Barbies, no longer feeling lonely. Jeff was so tiny and adorable with his head full of curly black hair. I took on a big role in helping Mom raise him after our biological father left us at his birth. It was heartbreaking because Jeff was such a sweet baby. Jeff’s love for exploring began right away when he learned how to crawl. I did get my wish for him to play with me and my Barbies, but not as I expected. His excitement to be near me meant he would often crawl right into the Barbie playhouse I had meticulously created all day and giggled every time he did it. This was probably the beginning of his mischievous giggling. I would chase after him by crawling too and he giggled the whole time since he saw it as a game. As he grew into a toddler, Jeff’s love for food was born. His favorite meals were spaghetti and peanut butter, and he would make such a mess with his spaghetti that we had to place an extra large plastic garbage bag under his high chair to manage the chaos. He would put it in his hair and smear it all over his high chair. Jeff loved peanut butter so much that he even composed a toddler song about it, singing “peanut butter in your hair” as he smeared it into his curls. His enthusiasm resulted in little knots of peanut butter that were quite a challenge to wash out at bath time, which is why our family affectionately nicknamed him “knot head.”
Like me, Jeff had a deep love for food, which I believe brought him comfort and a sense of safety. Jeff truly embraced life, enjoying beautiful, hearty meals, but he didn’t pay much attention to how his eating habits aligned with his exercise. He would indulge in large meals and then try to compensate by biking for 10 miles or going for a run. Over the last five years, he struggled with his weight, and I often worried about the fluctuations in his appearance. He also dealt with severe sleep apnea. The last time I saw him, he was at his heaviest, and I could hear him sleeping—loudly snoring and struggling to catch his breath. I remember talking to him about this concern, but he assured me that he was working on his health. Of course now when I think of that conversation I feel like I should’ve elaborated more on his health. But then I think he was an adult and would’ve done as he pleased regardless of my advice. Just like my mother and sister, I realize I can’t control their behavior. It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn repeatedly: despite my best efforts to help, I ultimately have no control over other people’s actions.Jeff’s love of adventure continued when he was in elementary school, we lived in a desert community in Kingman, Arizona. He, my brother Eddie, and a trio of neighborhood girls would spend hours exploring the desert, returning with devil’s claws, desert gourds, and thankfully no snakes or lizards only sightings of them. Even at a young age, Jeff’s passion for exploration was clear; he naturally took on the role of leader, guiding their adventures and making the decisions for where they would go, all without adult supervision.
After Jeff graduated from high school, he went on a solo trip to Europe, driven purely once again by his desire for adventure. Although I worried about him getting mugged or robbed, he reassured me with his fearless spirit. He was determined to explore new lands and fulfill a dream he had long cherished. Jeff’s love of travel continued and we had many trips together: Peru, England, and he even came out to see our family when we lived in Australia. He and I decided to take a sibling trip to Melbourne. It was there that I had my first experience at a drag queen bar, where a sassy unfiltered Australian comedian stole the show. Jeff’s infectious laughter filled the room, and I couldn’t help but join in. I loved his laugh. And I loved and admired his sense of adventure and exploration of life.
There are so many memories of adventure and laughter with my brother. I enjoyed the big memories and the simple, small memories like visiting me and my family for the holidays. We always welcomed any new man in his life with open arms and hospitality. I was looking forward to making more memories with his new partner Matthew and our brother Eddie, his wife Catherine, Cayden, Baby Kai and the newly born twins that were born on September 7th: Noah Shou and Keira Jean.
I’m deeply saddened that Jeff won’t be here to create more memories with us. It feels profoundly unfair that someone as special as him was taken too soon. While I struggle to understand why he left so early, I know I can’t get lost in that question. Just as with my sister’s passing, I’m learning to live with this additional grief. It’s a pain that will never fully go away, and I’m gradually finding a way to live with it. This grief has become a part of who I am, linking me forever to both Jeanie and now Jeff.
After my sister’s death, I was overwhelmed with grief and unsure how to cope. However, I found solace in the meditation segment at the end of my yoga class. In my mind, I imagine entering a portal to a serene cabin in the woods, reminiscent of a scene from Montana. This peaceful retreat changes with the seasons, and it’s where I visit Jean. There, she is young, healthy, and joyful, dressed in a white or red dress sitting on the porch waving to me. She is living a life she never had, surrounded by a loving family. My parents and grandparents are there too, all vibrant and youthful.
Every time I visit, I hug them and express how much I love and miss them. I shared this experience with Jeff, and he found it comforting. The next time I visit, I’ll imagine Jeff there with Jean, perhaps holding her hand or dancing on the porch to some music, looking young, healthy, and full of laughter. I’ll tell him, “We miss you, but I know you are always with us.” I’ll embrace them both and cherish the beautiful place they inhabit. When I return to reality, I always feel a profound sense of comfort and love, as if they are never truly gone.
I know Jeff will always be with me. Whether it be through watching a silly B-rated movie, going out to the store to get midnight snacks, or traveling to a beautiful place. He will be there along for the ride.
Jeff had a short life, but he lived more than most people. He laughed a lot, loved a lot, and enjoyed being alive. I’m going to miss not talking to him on the phone…talking about life, movies, shows, and places that I want to travel to. He was my travel person. But I know when I do travel again, I will be taking him with me and thinking of him. His memory will live on through our family and all the lives he has touched.
Jeff, you will be deeply missed. The world has lost a beautiful soul, but your spirit and the joy you brought to our lives will never be forgotten and your memory will live on with all of the people you’ve loved and who loved you. I will miss and love you until the end of my days my sweet little brother.
Grief will never leave me. It’s the new best friend, a presence that is permanently a part of my life until I leave this world. It’s like the person who wants to be my friend, but shows up unexpectedly at the most inconvenient times, catching me off guard. It’s the person I am polite to out of kindness, only to realize I gave them attention, they linger longer than expected, as if my attentiveness to their presence has made them feel entitled to stay. Grief can also feel like the friend I don’t always connect with because I’m familiar with them due to our shared history. It is forever with me.
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