Susan Bennett: The brother I miss: A death that still echoes on the road

Seeing the hordes clamber off massive cruise ships to block St Mark’s, the damage from floods and the lagoon turned black with boat-fuel pollution, it seems likely that the future needs to change. I was lucky, even though I was part of the problem, that I got to see it, and it might just be in my lifetime that the city closes up shop (or sinks beneath the dark water).

And so, it was with a deep sense of gratitude and wonder that we watched the sun set over the Grand Canal, the gondolas silhouetted and Santa Maria della Salute glowing.

Not since Berlin had we spent so long in one place, and we had to tear ourselves away. Even Hans had become used to staying still, just spending his days watching the falling leaves. But south­wards we must go; the trip would continue.

It had been wonderful to share a part of it with friends. I was truly honoured that they would fly out and meet us to give us a little glimpse of home.

San Marino, about a hundred miles south of Venice, is a separate state in its own right, allowing us to add one more flag to our tally of countries visited.

Turreted castles on hills with the view sweeping over the sea; an elevator that climbs up into town; mulled wine with a view. And then in the basilica, the town’s initials - SM - in gorgeous script, lit up from behind on the altar. My brother’s initials.

I took a breath. It was the fourth anniversary of his death. I sat down and closed my eyes and prayed, an honest prayer, this one, full of disappointment that there had been no healing, despair that he had died a difficult death, regret that I had let him down.

Stephen had been ill for some time before finally getting a diagnosis of terminal metastatic cancer. I will never forget that dark November day when I arrived at the hospital, having been warned by Mum to prepare myself, to see a man I hardly recognised.

Sunken cheeks, thin limbs, grey skin. His head was tilted awkwardly back and I wanted to make him comfortable. He was moaning and I couldn’t bear the thought that he was in pain. Other family members were standing around the room, dull with shock.

I approached the bed and reached out to touch his arm, the patch of freckles that he had once counted, over and over again, to prove that he had fewer than me. I once held on to that arm when I was trying to jump from a neighbour’s tree.

I stroked his skin and tried to speak, but a strangled sound escaped from my throat. Stephen died that night, aged 43, leaving behind his wife and his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. My parents tried their best to hold themselves up, but it was difficult. Dad struggled with vertigo and Mum, never very well, tried to stay strong for everyone, as we all aimed to keep living somehow.

It just so happened that my birthday coincided with viewing Stephen’s body in the funeral parlour. Seeing his prepared and perfumed body at least helped to erase those hideous last hospital moments.

I experienced the strangest sensation as I looked down at him in the wooden box, convinced that he would jump up at any moment and shout, “Just kidding!” He both did, and didn’t, look like himself.

Anyone will tell you that it’s hard to look at death when it has taken someone your own age. It’s too close. I tried to speak to him but I couldn’t do it. I just left the room. It’s an ongoing ache that I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Friends came along to the funeral and became the literal example of someone to lean on. I swayed a little and came to rest on Katy’s shoulder (she’s six feet tall to my five feet two inches).

Sally physically blocked a number of crazy relatives (the ones who always come out of the woodwork at these times) and kept me safe. I was fed sandwiches and given water and all the while I felt so detached and strange that I can barely remember it now. I longed to be strong for my parents. Still do.

There is a heavy guilt that comes with loss. I felt bad that I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t fought for him or dropped everything when the diagnosis came and simply sat by his side every minute of every day.

He had messaged one afternoon with brutal honesty about how he was feeling and I sent a short (trite) message back. I should have thrown my phone down and run to see him.

And where was God in it all? Sitting on the seat in an unfamiliar country, I now felt a gentle reminder of the one time I had felt God’s presence, close enough to touch.

As I sat on the front pew at Stephen’s funeral and stared at the coffin until I thought I couldn’t bear it, it had felt as though my body was lifting out of itself as my heart broke just that little bit more.

But then the smallest sensation surrounded me and I could breathe again. It was as if God was saying ‘I’m here’, a strong yet gentle presence that settled on the pew next to me so that we were both able to look and then carry on with the sad day that unfolded. I was not alone.

So many times, I had wanted to send Stephen a funny picture or include him in our email list for this trip. I could almost hear him giggle at silly photos. He had an infectious laugh.

Our bodies know more about dates and events than we think they do. So often, I would feel an encroaching sadness, or heaviness, just as the leaves turned and the nights darkened, and wonder why, but those memories are coloured in a particular way, and the body tells the mind to get ready to remember.

His grey face on the hospital bed, his groans of pain, his shaven head in the coffin: it all took place as the trees lost their leaves and as nights drew in.

I miss him.

l One Year by Susan Bennett is published by Gill Books and is out now