The Secret of His Heart - A Gift of Family Found and Lost

The Secret of His Heart - A Gift of Family Found and Lost

Nearly 55 years ago, a woman gave me life, but that was all she could give me. A few weeks later, I was adopted into a family that gave me MY life, the one I am still lucky to be living today. My parents, and my brother Jim, are my forever family, always.

Two decades ago, I searched for and found that life-giving family I never knew, and it began a series of relationships and losses and recovered identities and so many questions answered and a few left forever unanswered.

Both of my birth parents died of cancer several years ago, but thankfully after I connected with them. Tragically, my sister Susan (who was 3 when I was born), took her own life the day after our father died. She had battled the demons of bi-polar disorder and addiction for so many years, and she believed, so sadly, that she could no longer face those demons.

But my brother John – steady, serious, gentle, and generous – lived on and became a connection to the past part of me I always wanted to know. In many ways, he was a perfect older brother, but of course I’ve idealized that relationship because it’s easy to do so. We didn’t share growing up and everything good and bad that went with it, and by the time we established a relationship in our 30s, it was a fun surprise and the beginning of 20 years of discovery.

Christmas emails and pictures, lots of updates on life and kids (mine) and dogs (his), shared grief and humor and a love of the Minnesota Vikings. He was fascinated by me, his little sister, that had a lot in common with him and our other sister. John sent me boxes of family heirlooms, photos, and items he thought I would like. “I don’t have any kids,” he told me, “and it seems important to give these things to the family I do have left.” It was through these gifts that I got a large packet of information about our family in Ireland, and when I journeyed there in 2017, I was able to meet some cousins and establish an even deeper connection to genealogy and origin stories.

Last September, we drove Elsa out to Denver to begin her freshman year of college. I contacted John and asked if we could see each other. He and Lynette lived in Divide, an easy 90 minute drive up to Denver. He jumped at the chance, and for the first time, I would be able to introduce two of my children to a blood relative on my side.

We spent a warm, sunny day together, the six of us. Karl, Elsa, Sally, and I had breakfast with John and Lynette, and sat under a shady tree for hours. Talking, laughing, asking a million questions. John’s warm eyes, deep voice, and absolute open heart for all of us, gave me that belonging feeling I love to feel. Of course, he brought more treasures. My paternal grandfather, Ace Solberg, was a giant beast of a man, and I now have a ring of his that doesn’t even fit my thumb. I also have his discharge papers from World War One. More photos of people, too.

We talked at length about Susan, her life, her illness, her suicide. John was matter of fact about it, but there was a lot of sadness and pain there. We talked about our mother Ila, and who she had been and also who she could never be. But John kept telling me, “Your mother would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.” Did he know how important those words are, and how much I hold them dear today?

It was a perfect day. We took lots of pictures, hugged, said see you soon, and John gave us all the big promise of being available to his niece Elsa, if she should ever need him. He would drop everything and drive up to Denver in a second, if there was a need. It was a perfect day.

It’s now April of 2022, and I’ve just returned from another weekend in Denver. Sally and I went to visit Elsa for her birthday weekend. Before we went, I thought of John, maybe getting together, but really wanted to focus on the girls and our few days together. But I did get to thinking, John never did reply to my Christmas email, which was unusual. Of course, after I sent it, I was caught up in the death of my own mother, and the aftermath, mixed in with the busy-ness of the holidays, and then it really left my brain. Then, in Denver, I thought it had been a while since Lynette had posted on Facebook. John was on zero social media, but I was connected to Lynette, and it was lovely to see the dogs and mountains they loved.

It was when I got to Lynette’s page that I learned she had died of covid in October. Just one month after we had been there, and had such a great day. I struggle with anger to learn that she had done “her own research” and believed the vaccine wasn’t safe. Her health was otherwise excellent, but covid came for her and she ended up on a ventilator and in a coma. When it was clear her organs were shutting down, they called for John, and Lynette’s uncle Chuck, to come and say goodbye. John had a mild case of covid (fully vaccinated), but they suited him up and let him come and say goodbye to his love of so many, many years.

A broken hearted John went home from that goodbye, put the dog on the porch, put his papers in a lock box on the table with a note, put a note on the door for the first responders, texted Chuck “call 911, I’m sorry” – and put a shotgun in his mouth.

My brother, the gift of family I found, and grew to love and treasure, believed there was nothing left to live for after losing his love, killed himself three days before Lynette died herself.

I’m numb, sad, angry, empty, horrified. And I am full of questions. Did he think of me before he pulled the trigger? He had nothing left, he thought, but what about me? Could I, and my family, have been part of a future of hope he could have hung onto? Could we have filled the deep, empty cavern of loss when Lynette passed? I guess not. And I will never know what he was thinking.

I am struggling with the knowledge that both of my siblings took their own lives. Both of them, for very different reasons, decided that this life couldn’t be worth living any longer, and that maybe ending the pain would end the pain. Never mind the pain it leaves behind.

I am so angry that the dangerous lies of covid and covid vaccines killed John and Lynette, as it has so many thousands of people that didn’t need to die.

As it is with grief, I wish I had one more chanced to thank him, my big brother John, for the gifts he gave me. The gifts of love, acceptance, knowledge and information, history, kindness, understanding. My life opened up wide when I met him and he was part of a big journey of meeting and knowing myself fully.

While in Denver this weekend, I had a two hour phone call with Lynette’s uncle Chuck. He was like a father to both John and Lynette, and is grieving heavily about the loss he has suffered. However, in those two hours, we both got some healing and closure, and shared more than a few laughs. I was a great surprise to Chuck, as John (and Lynette) had kept me and our relationship private. John was a very private person, and he likely kept our relationship to himself to protect me as much as himself.

Through our long conversation, I was able to give Chuck a new picture of John, as a big brother who generously gave himself to me and my family. He was delighted to hear our whole story.

And in those hours, Chuck gave me a gift of knowing John more deeply from a different perspective, understanding his life in Colorado, love of the mountains and simplicity of beauty he found there. I will find comfort in picturing John and his beloved Lynette hiking, fishing, and enjoying their dogs in the clean mountain air.

The final gift I was given was an idea from Chuck, and it is the thing I will cling to the most, as I move through grief. John mentioned to Chuck along the way that he didn’t have any family, parents and sister being gone. At first that hurt to hear, as in “what about me?” But in his private ways, John kept that his secret. “I see now,” Chuck said, “that you were the secret of John’s heart.”

He took that secret in his heart with him, but I will always share that secret with my heart, and the world.