Every February sixth my family has a small get-together with close friends and family. We usually have pizza for dinner and end the evening with fireworks, both things we do to honour and remember my older brother, Hunter.
He always had firecrackers at the ready, a box of them sitting in his trunk to be shot off at the park, and loved pizza so much that he had a "drippy slice" tattooed over his heart.
This gathering has been a family tradition for three years now, starting on the first anniversary of my brothers death.
In 2019, Hunter overdosed for the third and final time. The first was at a music festival, the second at home, and the third was in the basement where my then 14-year-old brother, Hawkins, found him.
I had been living in Barrie at the time, attending Georgian College, living with a few friends, and spending my weekends at my aunt's house nearby.
My mom called me, barely able to make out the words, "It happened again." I brushed it off, thinking he would bounce back like the first two times. Then she called my aunt, telling her to bring me to the Woodstock Hospital. This time it was different. This time he wouldn't bounce back.
It felt like he was in the hospital for weeks, but was only three days. People from my hometown were texting me, telling me how sorry they were for my loss, but he was still breathing, even if it was with the help of machines. I was so mad, so confused. Why were people sending me condolences when he wasn't even gone yet?
The Priest would come by, asking if we'd like him to be present when the time comes — I tried to say no, that Hunter wouldn't want that. He was never big on religion, and I had stopped going to church a couple years earlier, but it's hard to change my grandmother's mind. Not that I had the energy to fight her. I wished it had just been my parents, Hawkins, and I in that ICU room with Hunter.
After three days on life support, he was cleared for organ donation, his liver finally flushed of all the toxins, and taken through the 'Authorized Personnel Only' doors. That was the night we started the tradition of eating pizza on February sixth, though it wasn't anywhere near drippy.
The following year we asked a few close friends and family to honour his memory with us, this time featuring hundreds of dollars worth of fireworks. The world seemed more peaceful that night, so still. The soft snow gently cascading from the dark sky. A fire crackling under the lit-up pergola. People that care standing by our sides.
The stillness didn't last long. It was interrupted by sizzlers, boomers and squealers lighting up the sky. He was always the life of the party, the tallest guy in the room with the brightest smile and loudest laugh.
Even with a temperature below freezing, my heart had never felt so warm. Yes, I was sad, I still am, but I realized that I wasn't alone in this process. I had people to wipe my tears when I cried, redirect the conversation when I was uncomfortable, give me space when I needed it, listen when I needed to talk, and laugh when I couldn't smile.
If I could go back and change things, I would. But I can't, and I'm okay with that. We had 20 years to make memories together, and I wish we could have had more. The world puts different pressures on us, we choose different ways to deal with them, I just wish we could have helped him find better ways to cope.
