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| Home / College Guide / My brother’s death led to me playing drums in a rock band |
| Posted on Thursday, February 20 @ 00:00:25 PST |
Sometimes tragedy forces you out of your comfort zone and off in a new direction
Jean Anne Feldeisen Follow Feb 20 · 6 min read
Photo property of the author
I was playing the drum part to this fast and hard piece in a Battle of the Bands at Brownies Bar in New Jersey. The guitars were wailing and I was locked into the bass line with the bass player. It was one of those rare, for me, times-when the groove was perfect and I was floating above it. I looked up when someone gave one of those loud “Pay Attention†whistles, to see a guy across the arena shouting “Hey! Woman!†and giving me a thumbs-up sign. Because I was really busy right then I smiled and tucked that little gesture away to savor later on. I don’t know who the man was but that affirmative hand gesture became one of the peak experiences of my life.
I was a 40-year-old wife and mother. I sang in a church choir, baked bread, and had been classically trained as a pianist and teacher. Until then, I had lived a relatively safe and careful life. And, I was the only older woman drummer I knew of at the time.
I had inherited my dead brother’s drum kit and looked up his former teacher and started lessons about three years before.
His teacher was a bit of a stickler for getting out there and playing with a group at the very beginning so I did. I played with four different configurations of bands in my ten years of drummer life and learned a tremendous amount from it.
My brother killed himself when he was 20 years old. This was the worst thing that had ever happened in our family. It took years to get past it. A year and more of daily crying and hiding out in sunglasses and feeling lost and upended. I experienced anger and depression and despair in varying amounts. What was even worse was the pain I couldn’t spare my parents and siblings. When I eventually came out on the other side of those years I found that several things had changed for me.
What changed? I found I was stronger than before. After going through the horror of that time, nothing else seemed to be anywhere near as bad. “Can’t touch meâ€. I found I could do things I hadn’t been able to do before because I didn’t care if I did them perfectly or even if I failed. Failure was another of those things that weren’t that important. I didn’t care so much about what other people thought of me or what I was doing.
I ignored most of my old rules and restrictions. I had a tough shield around me for a long time. While I wore sunglasses to hide my red and swollen eyes, this shield was like body sunglasses- no one could see the hurt or hurt me further. I was a little reckless. This was bad right after my brother’s death- some suicidal thoughts, driving too fast, drinking too much and looking at the railroad tracks or the depths of the river longingly … just wondering what it would be like if… And I put myself into less-than-safe social situations. Going alone to bars to see bands, showing up alone at places I’d never set foot in before. What was good about this? I took some risks My recklessness was eventually distilled into a more grounded sense that I could take -even enjoy taking- risks. Like playing drums in a band with a bunch of younger men. Or driving alone into center city Camden, New Jersey at night for graduate school. Or running groups full of mandated-to-treatment drug users who thought I was just part of the big scam to get their money and ruin their lives. I did all of these things afterward that I couldn’t have imagined doing before.
I had been in a long stall.
I got moving again. Since graduating from college with a BA in philosophy I had done some graduate work in philosophy (which I quit), had a catering business for ten years, taught piano, and almost completed a degree in music (quit because I was afraid to perform the required senior recital). Frustrated with all the money I had spent on education and unsure of what to do next I languished, doing a half-assed job of everything.
After I recovered from grieving 24x7, I decided I wanted to help people in crisis. I found that I enjoyed listening and talking to people, and as a therapist, I could do this for a job. I began doing some volunteer work on a crisis hotline and in a hospital as an advocate. I interviewed people in this career area, decided to study Social Work and began applying to graduate school. I can’t say for sure, but it seemed my brother’s death gave me the motivation to make a choice I had been dithering about for two decades.
Once I had made a decision, I created a plan, implemented it and have never looked back. It went smoothly, one step after another. Eventually I had a thriving private practice as a therapist and a career I enjoyed.
The tragedy increased my empathy for other people and taught me what it felt like to receive help from someone.
Going through the loss our family sustained gave me an understanding of others’ pain on a deeper level. I also realized the very real comfort we can be to each other. I remember sitting alone in the wake becoming aware of the lessening of my pain when I was hugging or talking to someone.
It was overwhelming, really, a room full of people coming together for this purpose. We were sharing the unbearable to make it more bearable. It became clear to me that many people were hurting and that a word or a touch was helpful. “I could do thatâ€, I thought.
Don’t be afraid to talk to people who are grieving. After my brother’s suicide my mother noticed that neighborhood women she thought were friends began to avoid her. She said, “It’s like they think it’s catching and their kids will get itâ€. Many people were afraid to talk openly about suicide as if they thought we were trying to keep it secret. Some people were afraid to make us feel bad (as if they could make you feel worse than you did already) so don’t want to bring up a sad subject. Some didn’t know what to say so avoided us altogether.
From my viewpoint, it just seems wrong to abandon a heart-sick person for fear of saying the wrong thing.
I say, go for it. Say something kind, hug them, take a casserole or a plant. Or, even better, ask them what you can do to help.
Maybe everyone wouldn’t want this response but I did. I appreciated the efforts of people who tried. I was able to breathe better in the presence of someone who cared. The efforts of a caring person allowed me to take the next breath and the next.
In no way am I glad that I went through this nightmare. I’d never wish anyone a loss like this. I never appreciated comments like “He’s in a better placeâ€. Or “Some good will come of itâ€. (Some people have a disastrous sense of timing about this)
It’s just that bad things do happen all the time. It feels good to realize that the changes a tragedy forces on us may be helpful, eventually. We become better at weathering crises that inevitably arise. We can discern when something is worth worrying about and when not to bother. We can learn how important we are to each other and how meaningful a small gesture of caring can be.
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