Forgive me if this post is a little raw. Life has been raw for me these last couple weeks.
My youngest brother Peter (above, with my kids) died just over two weeks ago and I’ve been living life at its rawest ever since.
Pete, who was 31, suffered from schizophrenia for the last ten years. All mental illnesses cause enormous suffering for those who have them and incredible heartache and angst for those who love them. Peter, number 6 of the 7 kids in my family, was very loved by our family and we all did the very best we could, each in our own way, to help him. Over the last decade, as Pete returned to hospital again and again, his dreams crashed to earth, his enjoyment of life disappeared and his hopes of ever living a fulfilling life gave way to severe paranoia, to ceaseless torment, to despair and, on Good Friday, to death.
As I type these words I am sitting on a plane high above the Pacific returning back to America from Australia where I’ve shed more tears with my family than I thought were possible. But in the midst of our sorrow, we have laughed at the fun times we shared with Peter — his boyish pranks, his humor, his brilliant athleticism and charm. We have been lifted up by the extraordinary outpouring of love from friends, family and community, near and far. We have savored the rich bonds of love that come to the fore during times of heartache. It has been a deeply moving, and extremely touching, two weeks.