Bigger Than Life

What does that really mean, anyway?  I thought it meant that someone was too good, too interesting, too amazing to do anything but live a rich and full life of uper-super-coolness.

But I'm come to realize that nothing is bigger than life.  And no one is bigger than life, either.

(Okay, so this post is a little heavy for me, and it's not all fun and punny like my other posts.  So be warned, because I cried through most of the writing, and had to stop writing all together several times because of the copious amounts of tears and snot.  You have been duly warned.)

I used to think that my big brother, Dwain, was bigger than life.
He was so successful in so many arenas.
He was incredibly smart.
He had a nice paying job.
A beautiful home.
A wife who is wonderful.
A beautiful baby boy.
Family who adored him.
Incredible dreams and aspirations.

But he was so incredibly stupid and wasteful with his life, and I'm really mad at him for it.
His stupidity cost him his life, and now here I am, and here my family is, all of us with these gigantic holes in our hearts that aren't healing.

I loved my brother very much, and I still do.  But he was dumb.  Because he was wasteful.  He spent most of his adult life sitting in front of a computer or a TV screen, rather than saving his life. 

It wasn't entirely his fault though, because he didn't know his life was in imminent danger.  Of course, he knew that being morbidly obese had certain dangers, but I don't think he really thought about the "morbidly" part of that.  He never saw his overweight friends die, or had an overweight family member die at a young age, so I know it didn't hit home like it should have.

It's been 7 months since Dwain died, and I still have a hard time really believing he's gone.  I dream about him sometimes.  I have his voice on my answering machine when I need to hear him, and I visit his Facebook page fairly often.  But mostly I miss him and cry for him, and I wonder when it will get easier, because it still feels just as hard as the first month of being without him.

And I can't help but wonder if I had been a better example, could I have helped him?

I was so proud of him for going through the gastric bypass last year.  But none of us knew that it was too late.  The damage to his heart had been going on for years.  If I had been a better example, could I have helped him?  I realize that I could not save him.  I did not make his eating and exercise choices for him.  But, I also know that I shared in the gluttony.  I shared in the sloth.  And I believe that my sin affects others in ways I can not comprehend, even when I think it only affects me.

Every time I exercise, I set my I-Pod (a present from Dwain, who was the most generous person I know) to a song that he had uploaded and that reminds me of him.  It has a fast beat, and it helps me get my body moving and ready to sweat.  I look at the picture of him on my screen saver and my heart breaks because he's become my inspiration through his death. 

My brother was an incredible guy.  One of the smartest, funniest, kindest, more generous men I've ever known.  And I miss him so very much.

I love you Dwain, and I would give back every gluttonous moment if it could bring you back.

It sucks that the past can't be changed.  And it sucks to not know what the future holds.  So, since I can't change my past actions, and I can't know for certain the outcome of my own situation, I have to make the most with the NOW that I have to live in.  I don't want to die of heart failure at 37.  Or 47.  Or 57.  Or 67.  Or even 77 if I can help it.  In fact, heart failure is definitely not on my to-do list at all.  The whole heart disease thing is something I want to steer right clear of.  But I know that if I continue down the path that I've been strolling along up to now, I'm headed right for it.  Dwain's death was a big "Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!" message for me.  I really need to take this message to heart and make some lasting, serious changes in my life.

Dwain's life was very, very rich.  He was the coolest guy I know, and he was one of my very best friends in the world.  He taught me a lot about how to live, but he also taught me how not to die.  I hope I can honestly say, "Lesson learned."