My brother Gary was a healer.
As a maternal-fetal medicine doctor, he became a hero each time he saved the life of a mother or baby during a high-risk pregnancy. The only person he couldn’t heal, try as he might, was himself.
Gary struggled with opioid addiction throughout his life. Before joining the military and entering medical school, he experienced abandonment, homelessness, and several near-death situations related to his substance use. Then he seemed to transform into an entirely different person. He became a successful physician and built what appeared to be a beautiful life, complete with a trophy wife, two children, and all the bells and whistles one might imagine a high-profile surgeon having. His patients adored him, and his community appreciated his generosity and philanthropy.
His contributions to medicine were many. He was a pioneer in telehealth, bringing it to rural communities at a time when many of his colleagues scoffed at the idea. In doing so, he saved countless lives that might otherwise have been forgotten.
He also performed the first successful in-utero surgery on a fetus. That baby went on to live a healthy life, and the procedure Gary developed eventually became standard practice in the field.
But Gary was more than his accomplishments. He was loyal, funny, and adventurous. He was a father, husband, brother, son, friend…and he never turned down an opportunity for shenanigans with people he loved.
Throughout all his struggles and successes, though, he never reached out for the help he needed to address his substance use disorder. Eventually, he began using again.
On February 10, 2011, Gary died by suicide related to his opioid use.
At that time, there wasn’t much support available for grieving siblings. There were groups for people who had lost children or parents or spouses, but the unique grief of losing a brother or sister was not adequately addressed, at least not in my experience.
For a long time, I sat in anger. Why didn’t he call me? He made the decision to check himself out of this life without even picking up the phone to talk to his baby sister. “WTF?” was all I could feel whenever I thought about him. Eventually, I couldn’t carry the weight of the anger anymore. So I simply stopped thinking about him and went on with my life.
At the time Gary died, I had also just gone through a divorce after twelve years of marriage. I was alone for the first time, with few friends and no real support system.
Enter Gizmo.
Gizmo was a healer. He inserted himself into my life with purpose. He was only 11 weeks old and weighed about a pound, but almost immediately he showed me his innate ability to comfort people experiencing pain and trauma. He became a therapy dog and, later, a K9 First Responder trauma-response dog. Gizmo was always searching for the person carrying an emotional or physical wound. In a room full of rescuers following a drowning, he would walk directly to the diver who had recovered the body. In a gymnasium filled with children, he would find the little girl with the broken arm, settle beside her, and remain there for the duration.
He just knew.
As Gizmo led me through this surreal journey of comforting others, he also connected me with people who would eventually play an enormous role in my own healing.
Enter Ana.
Ana is a healer. About a decade ago, she contacted me and asked whether Gizmo would attend one of her quilting events. I didn’t fully understand what the event was about, but I always believed that when a stranger reached out to request a visit from Gizmo, there was a reason. We rarely turned anyone down.
When we arrived, Ana explained that the quilt squares were being created by people who had lost loved ones to opioid addiction as a memorial. I sat with that for a while. I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal something so personal to someone I had just met. But I also realized that I was one of the people carrying this particular kind of grief.
At that event, after years of refusing to think about Gary’s death, I found myself talking about it for the first time as Ana sat beside me and listened. When I finished, she simply said, “The blank squares are over there. We can help you design one if you’d like.” Then she got to work. “Oh, he liked Harleys? Hold on, I think we have a Harley emblem you could include.” And so it continued.
As we created Gary’s square, I found myself surrounded by people who had walked this path before me. They wanted to hear my story. They comforted me even as they carried grief of their own.
Together, WE are Stronger!
Together, we created an entire quilt filled with healing and love, honoring those who were stolen from us by opioids. In that moment, I knew Gary had done this.
Gary led me to Gizmo. Gizmo led me to Ana and TriCircle. And my own healing journey began. Miraculous, really.
Over the years, Ana and Gizmo worked together on many initiatives. She became one of his favorite people. He would literally smile whenever he saw her, and happy twerking always followed. For years, they were a duo on a mission.
Gizmo recently passed away in my arms after sixteen and a half wonderful years of healing. I grieved deeply as he aged, knowing that our time together was growing shorter. But I am not angry about his passing in the way I was angry when Gary died. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it? I’m not angry with Gary anymore, either. Gary taught me that even those who heal others may still be suffering in silence. Gizmo taught me that healing can arrive on four paws, with no explanation beyond love. Ana taught me that sometimes healing begins when someone simply sits beside us, listens, and offers us a blank square on which to tell the truth. Together, they gave me back the parts of myself I had abandoned when Gary took his life.
I cannot change how Gary died. I cannot bring Gizmo back. But I can carry forward what they gave me: Gary’s compassion, Gizmo’s instinct to find the wounded, and Ana’s faith that no one should have to grieve alone.
The ripples of their healing continue through me and countless others.
I honor Gary, Gizmo, and Ana’s mission with TriCircle, not by pretending loss no longer hurts, but by allowing love to be larger than loss.
Gizmo will always be missed. But he left behind something that can never die: an enormous foundation of love and support. Although Gizmo and Gary are no longer physically beside us, their love lives on – in every act of kindness we offer not only to others, but to ourselves.
Forever.
Please join Gizmo’s human Jen and his baby brother Gadget on their social media as they navigate Gizmo’s loss and legacy together: facebook.com/gizmosfrens