“What If” …

Age brings with it an unmistakable nostalgia. A depth of feeling that was absent in my earlier years. I’ve written about my mom. Her beauty, her struggles. Her love and support of me during difficult times. As I was in my “quiet time” this morning, a special “firefly” flickered in front of me

Here’s what it was …

“What if” … What ifs are alluring. But because they have no resolve, there’s an emptiness about them too. Nevertheless, wonder is one quality of the human spirit that fosters growth. So, here goes …

I never got to know my oldest brother, Ricky. He died at age two when I was three months old. A tragedy that affected me and my family in ways we never knew…would never know. So why did Ricky, my oldest brother, “flicker” before me this morning? Don’t know. Just wanted to write down what I captured as this “firefly” fluttered by.

Ricky looked like me. The resemblance is clear. Quite touching really. As I sat sipping coffee this morning, this is what I thought about … When Ricky died, I was three months old. Him being gone? I immediately became the oldest child in our family. The oldest son. My brother Tuck and sister Christine followed. But being the oldest son in a family filled with love… but a lot of dysfunction too… brought with it burdens I still to this day try to understand. Burdens and challenges that I as the oldest son experienced. Mostly to my detriment.

Ricky died one afternoon in 1945. I think my mom may have momentarily turned her attention from him, and the accident occurred. He tragically crawled into a pond in back of my grandparent’s home. It was devastating.   Dad was overseas in the Philippines when he got the news.

Not ever fully knowing what happened, I don’t think dad ever forgave mom for what he always thought might have been her momentary negligence.

My father was always a very combustible guy. Didn’t take a lot to trigger his anger. I think Ricky’s death only intensified this. Were there residual effects of this heartbreaking experience? Oh, were there …

My dad became hypercritical of my mother. Maybe not full-blown abuse, but close. She did little right. Unfortunately, this chipped away at her self-esteem. Left her in fear of her husband for all their sixty years together. I’ve written previously about mom’s drinking. Add Ricky’s dying to her drinking problem? Most couples today wouldn’t make it through something like this. But as was the norm of their generation, mom and dad stayed together. But the conflict and battles were frequent. Very.

Not surprisingly, the issues that arose from all this affected me. Even though I was only three months old at the time, I somehow sensed the moment my brother died, that my role in the family changed. From second son to oldest son. But how did this change things? I’ve since learned I was to become my mother’s “protector.” Her having to deal with alcohol and the death of her son? Understandably, this was… almost insurmountable. Mom’s message to her now oldest son (I’ve written about this in a previous piece)

“Help me, Bobby” I was to be her protector.

When dad lost his cool, I would be the one to confront him. Many times defending mom, who’s problems with alcohol drove dad crazy. I’ve since learned my role was clear to me. I was here to help her live with it all, as best she could. His attacks on me followed. Verbal, physical. He found many ways to knock me down. Whenever I tried to push back? “You think you’re a big deal, don’t you!” He’d knock me right down again.

What if Ricky had lived. What if I had instead of being the oldest… had been a middle child? How would that have changed things?

My relationship with my father would have been very different. My older brother would have “run interference” for me. He would have been the target for dad’s outbursts. Not me. I would have been a softer kid … later adult.

I would not have experienced the anguish of having to step into fights between mom and dad. This was a big one. I came away emotionally wounded each time this occurred. Depression ensued. Hit me periodically until I reached my mid thirties.

My relationships with my brother and sister wouldn’t have been so harsh. The attacks from dad flowed through me to them. “Bobby was mean to me.”

Overall I was not a very nice person.

Eventually anger turned into rage. Probably most displayed on the athletic field. I have a picture of me tackling a guy my senior year in high school playing in a football game at Atlantic City. My face has a maniacal look. Not a good thing.

But you know, as I look back, I remember most the lessons of honesty, openness and integrity my father instilled in me, Tuck and Christine. No one ever said the Brickley kids didn’t come right to you with unvarnished truth. Whatever the circumstance. Thanks Dad.

Another residual of all this? The Brickley kids have had an open healthy, almost conflict free relationship. We’re in our mid seventies. Maybe a response to all of the above. Maybe we found some safety in one another as we grew up. “We’ve had enough fighting in the family when we grew up. No more!”

You can look back,I’m sure and cite experiences, relationships that have shaped you, made you who you are today. There is no question that we are all necessarily “wounded”  early in life … on some basis unique to you, me.

Paradoxically, this can be a spring board for better things to follow.

So, “What If” … you’ll never know where this thought might take you. But there is defining learning here. There certainly has been for me. Early one morning when one more “firefly” came my way.