Disclaimer - This post is about a very personal, very trying time in my life. I have strived to recreate events pivotal to the point I'm trying to get across, but if I have inadvertently managed to misquote someone or portray them in a way they don't feel is accurate, I apologize. Know that it is my intention to capture the feelings I perceived in those moments, and that's what's important.
It’s been nearly seventeen weeks and it still feels like it was yesterday. Some moments in life will always stay with you no matter what. My life was forever changed in the early morning minutes of November 27, 2011. Shortly after midnight, my home phone rang. I used to have a running gag about people calling me late at night—anything after ten o’clock should be family, and it better be news about a death—preferably their own. Although we’d had some wrong numbers in the past, I just had a bad feeling and started to get nervous. I picked up the phone. It was my father, and he could barely get the words out. What came next rocked my world.
“Derek, he’s not going to make it. The doctors say Brandon’s not going to make it. You better come. They took him in and he’s not going to make it. First they said he might lose his foot. Now they’re saying he’s not going to make it.”
I hung up with him and called my brother’s cell. It immediately went to voicemail. “Kris. It’s me. Dad just called. Brandon’s in the hospital and they say he’s not going to make it. I’m heading to Syracuse in a little bit but I wanted to see if you could come too. Give me a call.” I waited for a few minutes, and when he hadn’t returned the call, I decided to try his wife’s phone. I got her voicemail too. “Holly, it’s Derek. I’m sorry to call in the middle of night, but it’s really important that I talk to Kris. I already tried his cell but he didn’t answer. My dad called and Brandon is in the hospital. If you get this before he gets his message, please have him call me.”
Within a minute or two my phone rang, and it was Kris.
“Sorry bro. I had my cell downstairs in the kitchen, but Holly’s was on the nightstand next to her. She said something about Brandon being in the hospital?”
“Yeah. Dad just called me like ten minutes ago. Brandon’s in the hospital and they were originally thinking that they were going to have to take his foot, but now the doctors are saying he isn’t going to make it. I’m heading there now, you want to go?”
“Sure, of course I’ll go. Derek, give me 20 minutes to get dressed and I’ll pick you up.”
"See you then.”
I started reminiscing about the times Brandon and I had spent together growing up. Admittedly, there were quite a few less than I’d hoped. Given that I was fourteen years Brandon’s senior, there wasn’t a whole lot we connected on. I’m into hardcore American Muscle—love my rumbling V8 Mustang—and he was all about the import scene. While I had a wife, kids, and mortgage, he was free to hang out with his friends and not have those types of responsibilities to answer to.
Within a few hours, my other brother and I were at the hospital, roughly 80 miles away from where we live. Walking off the elevator and onto the floor, we were met by my paternal aunt, Glory. “Brandon died about ten minutes ago,” she said, wiping away tears from her already-red eyes.
We followed her down the hallway and into the room where my father and step-mother, Jane, were waiting. Dad just sat there crying, saying over and over “it’s not fair.” I found a chair in the corner of the room and sat down, bowing my head in disbelief and clenching my fists to keep from screaming.
After a bit, the nurse who’d been the liaison between the doctors and my father came in. “Mr. Smith,” she said in a hushed voice. “They’re bringing Brandon up to the floor and will put him in the room next door so you can spend time with him.
My father and stepmother Jane went in first, followed by my aunt. Then Kris and I went in. I grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and sat down right next to the bed, taking his hand in mine. True to form, the underneath of Brandon’s fingernails were dirty—a testament to his many years working in auto-body repair. All the rage and anger of the last three hours had welled up inside and had to be released. As I felt his cold hand in mine, I began to sob.
“Wake up, Brandon!” I yelled. “Get up, bro. We’re supposed to play Modern Warfare 3 together, you can’t leave me hanging like this.”
You see, this story doesn’t actually start when the phone rang—in reality, it started roughly ten minutes prior. I’d been working on my graduate thesis and decided to take a small gaming break and fire up my Xbox 360 to play Battlefield 3 campaign mode. I usually don’t like military first person shooters, but I wanted to give Battlefield 3 a chance since I heard the vehicular combat was more prevalent than in the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series.
I’d finished the campaign on Battlefield 3, and thought to myself, I should go out and pick up Modern Warfare 3 on the PlayStation 3 tomorrow so I can play with Brandon online. We hadn’t seen much of each other since the summer, so I planned on getting the game and texting him within the next day or so. Realizing I had more work to do, I shut down the 360 and started writing more of my thesis. About ten minutes later was when my father called.
Kris came over and put his hands on my shoulders. “I know, it’s not fair, man. He was way too young.”
“I just can’t believe he’s gone. I was going to go buy CoD tomorrow, I was going to play and talk to him. See how things were going and making sure he was on the right path.”
“You can’t blame yourself.
“I know. But I will.” We walked back into the other room and sat down again. My father was looking every bit and then some of his almost sixty years.
“Dad, what happened?” I asked.
“He worked a ten-hour shift on Friday, and went over to Cassie’s place complaining of a headache. He woke up Saturday not feeling well, and spent most of the day in bed. He ended up having trouble breathing, and had me come get him to bring him here.”
The doctor came in. “Mr. Smith, I want you to know how deeply saddened we are for your loss. We did everything we could to revive him, even performing CPR for over an hour, but he just didn’t respond."
“I know, doctor. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“We have the preliminary reports back and he basically had a nasty case of pneumonia. His lungs filled with fluid to the point where he couldn’t breathe. Considering that he’s only twenty-six, we’re going to run some more in-depth tests and get back to you with the results.
Everyone in the room started to gather their belongings. We made our way to the elevator and then outside the hospital. Just as we reached the parking garage, I turned to my father and gave him a hug. “We’re going to head home and get some sleep. I’ll call you later today, Dad.”
“Okay, Derek. Drive safe you two.”
“We will.”
The ride back home was pretty somber, broken by occasional staccato sentences. After getting home and sleeping for a few hours, I called my father. “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re going to be okay. I know this is a rough time for you—it is for all of us. But you don’t need to do it alone. We’re family and that’s what family is for. Maybe we all need to take this as a wakeup call and realize what’s really important in life.”
“Yeah, I agree. We’re going to go to the funeral home tomorrow to set things up. I’ll give you a call and give you the details.”
“Okay. Dad. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The day of the wake came and I found myself dreading it. “Figures. I can’t believe Brandon’s getting the last laugh. You know if he were here he’d be giving me all kinds of shit for having to put on a tie. I should wear my Five Fingers or sandals just to throw a wrench into things.”
“You can’t do that, Derek,” my wife Kristen said, coming out of the hotel bathroom. “Help me zip up my dress?"
“It’s just all of this. I know deep down he wouldn’t have wanted any of it. I can’t believe there is going to be a mass before the funeral. Brandon was almost as nonreligious as I am.”
“People deal with death in their own way. If this is what she feels she has to do, then so be it.”
“I know. I just always hate how people make other people out into someone they’re not simply because they died. I don’t want people at my funeral saying how great of a person I was. I want honest stuff—if they thought I was a rat-bastard, they should say that.”
“I thought you didn’t want a funeral and just wanted to be cremated?”
“Yes, of course. You know what I meant. We’d better get a move on, I want to make sure I’m one of the first people there to have some time alone with Brandon.”
Although I knew how difficult the wake would be, I had no idea how hard it would hit me and how tough it would be to make it through. People began to line up, and before long it weaved outside the building. Traffic was so congested that some of my father’s old Sheriff’s Department coworkers were out directing traffic. Each law enforcement professional that passed by me couldn’t have enough great things to say about my father. While I was internally brimming with pride that my dad could garner this much support and admiration from so many people; it bothered me that I was hearing how awesome of a man he was from strangers, rather than seeing it for myself directly from him.
It only got worse as more people showed up. I know that they only meant to try and comfort me, but as an ardent atheist, hearing all the “he’s with God now,” and “your family is in my prayers” definitely didn’t help things. I’ve questioned God’s teachings since I was about eight and became a closeted atheist at age eleven. I was getting frustrated because I didn't think that this was what my brother would have wanted at all—he definitely wouldn’t want people making a fuss over him, and surely not praying for him. But I bit my tongue in order to keep peace among my father and other family.
Much of the next day is really still a blur of hurt and emotion. I have pictures in my head of what I perceived happened, but it's in a state of flux at any given moment.
While my grieving process is far from over and I have days that are better than others, the interesting thing about all of this is that without my long-time hobby of video games, I don’t know that I’d have been able to make it. Brandon and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things, but it was that shared love of video games that brought us together in the past, and has since helped me cope with his death in ways I’d never imagined.
Since his passing, I’ve yet to have a good night’s sleep. But in my grief-fueled insomnia, I found solace in playing. Not because each time I picked up the controller I felt particularly connected to him, but because for those fleeting moments, I wasn’t here. They transported me somewhere else, allowed me to do something else. Most importantly, they let me be somebody else. It’s not as though I was looking to hide from grief—but sometimes it gets so difficult that the only thing you can do is try and run away for a bit, even if it’s only momentary. Even as good as it was to be able to do that, once I returned, the emptiness seeped back in and I’d become despondent.
Then Valentine’s Day hit. Aside from being a holiday that I think is the biggest waste of money and time—I think people should show their love the other 364 days—it marked the long-awaited return of the Twisted Metal automobile combat franchise. I’d had the game pre-ordered since the previous summer, but it wasn’t until I got it home that the true meaning of this game would be revealed to me.
I received the limited edition downloadable content code for the previous game in the series,Twisted Metal: Black. After downloading it and playing for a bit, it dawned on me that this was the last game Brandon and I had played together. We both had Xbox Live, but timing never worked out. Then he decided that he didn’t want his Xbox 360 anymore, and sold it to purchase a PlayStation 3. As I drove around the game blasting enemies, I began to reminisce about all the good times my brother and I had together. The times we’d play games, he being an usher at my wedding—which incidentally was 366 days before Twisted Metal: Black released on the PlayStation 2—and how we’d talk outside while smoking cigarettes at my father’s house when we’d visit there.
I also began to play the new Twisted Metal as well. As each level was defeated, I felt the connection with Brandon grow stronger. Then, one day, I had an epiphany. I would create a living, permanent memorial to my brother. Part of it would have a traditional tone; a portrait of him tattooed on my chest, over my heart, and the other would be on my upper arm. Considering what I’d been through recently and seeing how it was Twisted Metal: Black and Twisted Metal that allowed me to come some sort of solace regarding my brother’s death, I could think of no better tattoo than of Sweet Tooth, the series’ deranged clown mascot.
The tattoo is healing nicely, although it still itches quite a bit and I need to constantly put lotion on it. Some people don’t understand, and I’ve even heard grumblings through the family that some think it’s not an appropriate way to honor my brother. But I disagree, and it’s my body. Each time I look down at it, I’m reminded of Brandon and how much I miss him. I only wish I could have a few more minutes to let him know how much I love him and how much he meant to me. And that's where this blog post comes in. Here's a real-life example to show the world that the things video game developers create DO MEAN SOMETHING. As far as I'm concerned, I owe a large part of my being able to carry on with the day-to-day minutia of life and soldier on with my graduate classes and thesis rest squarely on the shoulders of the great men and women who pour their hearts and souls into these games we love to play so much. I can't say that I wouldn't have made it without the help of games, but to deny their influence on my in the darkest time of my life thus far would be idiotic at best.
A special thank you goes out David Scott Jaffe and everyone at Eat Sleep Play that was involved with the creation of Twisted Metal. You helped me connect two phases of my life and make sense of the chaos that had been engulfing me. For this I will always be grateful, and you will always hold a special place in my heart.
RIP Brandon, I miss you bro.
