I last spoke to my brother nine years ago today.
Barry called to wish my daughter, Kathryn, a happy birthday, but as she wasn't around, he talked to me. Stories of his life in Darwin. How he was going to take Kathryn to India when she was older. How much he was enjoying learning capoiera, and that he was going to be part of an experimental Noh theatre performance. He had a new motorbike and was thinking of riding to Melbourne at Christmas. He'd been riding to Litchfield National Park, camping and swimming. What an incredibly beautiful place it was. More things ... I don't remember. I just enjoyed listening to him. He'd told me almost the same set of stories the week before, when he'd called for my birthday, but it didn't matter - listening to him talk, I felt a closeness and connection to him that I'd rarely felt before.
About a week later, he was listed as a missing person with the Northern Territory Police. He was last seen on Nightcliff beach, the night after I spoke to him. Nine years ago tomorrow.
-
Talking to police, talking to family and friends. Trying to figure out a rational explanation. Maybe he'd gone to Litchfield. Maybe staying with a friend. Nope. Motorbike outside, keys and wallet in his room. No bank transactions. No clothes missing, other than what he was wearing. The police believed that "there were no suspicious circumstances", but had to investigate all possibilities. We talked about his mental health. Mum had mentioned once that he was taking antidepressants, but I didn't know any more than that. Not the sort of thing that was talked about in our family.
Through my work in youth services and primary health, I'd been in involved in mental health programs for years. I'd even been a member of the Youth Suicide Task Group for our region. When it came, the realisation hit me hard - Barry's phone call was the classic 'last phone call' - he had made up his mind, planned a course of action and was at peace. That was his farewell phone call. I felt sick.
Numbness, disconnection. Going through the motions of daily life, but distanced. I flew to Darwin as 'family representative' - the police gave me a letter of introduction I could use to sort out his affairs. A case number printed under the Northern Territory Police letterhead - my brother was officially a missing person. Presumed deceased.
Surreal. Fuzzy memories of the next few days - police interviews, DNA samples, television and radio interviews, appointments with solicitors and banks. Lunches and dinners with Barry's friends. Going to his room in the apartment he shared. Having to sort through all his belongings, and decide what to do with every single one of his possessions. Not that there was much there - books, textiles from Asia, clothes, camping gear. Letters from the monk in Northern India he had sponsored. A drawer with packets of antidepressants. Psychiatrists' and psychologists' reports. Anxiety, depression, post traumatic stress disorder, anorexia, they said. How had I not known any of this?
His closest friend, J, arrived. His former girlfriend, G., had seen me on tv, and turned up as well. We sat on Barry's balcony, drinking beer and looked across at the beach, out to sea. Their stories - things he had said and done over a number of years - confirmed the police suspicions. The most likely scenario was that Barry had simply swum out to sea on the evening of the 29th September 2001. He had chosen to leave this life.
Barry's will said that he wanted a ceremony on Nightcliff Beach, Van Morrison's 'Into the Mystic' to be played. In 'additional instructions' it said, "Don't be sad for me, my suffering is over."
-
J. takes me to a Saturday morning market. "You can't come all the way to Darwin and not have a green mango salad." She shows me life in Darwin. What Barry's life was like. As we sit eating our green mango salads, a woman walks up and speaks to J., who introduces me as Barry's sister. The woman chats casually to J.
she doesn't know
I'm glad. I don't have to go through the story. Life is normal again, for a few minutes.
As they talk, I watch three hippy kids playing hacky sack.
So happy.
So vibrant.
So alive.
they don't know
They are so beautiful, it hurts.
I think of pain and loss, of bruised, tender hearts ... wonder if this is the tenderness of kindness and compassion ... a tender, loving heart? Does pain and loss make you more loving?
-
My flight back to Melbourne was rescheduled. One of those wonderful serendipitous occurrences - I was now able to take part in a ceremony for Barry held at the Darwin International Buddhist Centre. Over a hundred people attended - a gathering of love and positive intent to assist Barry's soul to achieve the best reincarnation possible. In the twilight, hundreds of candles were placed on and around the stupa in the tropical garden. Hugs and kisses and sharing stories with complete strangers ... the intimacy of loss. So much beauty, peace and love ... powerful, small gestures of kindness.
-
This story is with me every day. It has been waiting to be told for nine years, and the nagging is getting louder and louder. I don't try to make sense of any of it. I don't think that's helpful. But I am sure of some things.
Ram Dass said, "We are all just walking each other home." I am sure we can make the path easier for each other.
I know that:
That many people are hurting and have dark, sad or scary places in their minds.
That many people find this hard to talk about - not just those experiencing it directly.
That we need to keep trying - respectfully, kindly and compassionately - to find ways to talk about it, even though it is hard.
And this:
Small gestures of kindness are incredibly powerful. Acknowledge when people are hurting. If you don't have the words, say "I don't know what to say" and smile.
It's not the words that are important, but where they come from - the place of kindness and compassion, of tenderness. I like to say "take care". Because those are the last words my brother said to me.
Oh, and hug each other more often. ;)
namaste _/\_
