Elle, 15: Can of Brave

The moment I met you, before you were born, I knew you were special. I knew you had gifts. You could see things and sense things that others could not. And this made you special, and powerful, and wise.

But also a little afraid.

So whenever you’d need help, I’d reach into my pocket, and pull out a can of brave (which I always kept handy, in case of emergencies), and popped the top and held it out to you. 

You’d gulp it down and be ready for anything!

You were barely 2 years old when we noticed something wrong with your eyes. I took you to the eye doctor, and before we went in, I explained all the machines you’d see, and how the doctor would swing them right in front of your face, millimeters away, so she could say, “Hello, eyeballs!” And just for good measure, I served up a can of brave. We laughed our way through the entire visit, and the eye patch that followed, and found you the most fashionable glasses in the whole wide world.

Your first day of pre-school, you didn’t know a soul. You took your blanket, but it wasn’t enough. So on the second day, blanket in hand, I found a can of brave for you. You drank it down and never looked back!

Gymnastics class was a hoot! I’d always wear my orange hat, so you could see me through the viewing window, but the day you knew you’d be climbing the rope and dropping into the ball pit from way up high, I was there with a can of brave just in case. Wheeeee!!!

Sometimes you saw things about people that was truly remarkable. You knew who the good people were, and the bad people, too. I couldn’t shield you from knowing what was in someone’s heart. More than once, in a restaurant or public place, you’d have a can of brave because you knew things you weren’t ready to handle.

You tried out for The Second City’s teen ensemble, and you made it—1 of 10 from 600+ applicants! There may have been a can of brave involved in our routine as I drove you downtown to rehearse and perform.

Father and daughter share a can of brave.

When you went to overnight camp, one of the last things you did was help yourself to a can of brave. Sometimes the monsters are real—brave doesn’t guarantee you’ll win the fight, but it gave you the strength to call for help. I picked you up a few days later.

There were many cans of brave when the CRPS set in—as many cans as set backs, at least at first. 

But the pain wore on you, and other things, too. Months went by when you couldn’t bear to put your legs down on your mattress. You stopped drinking cans of brave. 

You got sicker. The pain intensified. There were treatments and doctors, surgeries and pills, but nothing that worked, at least not for long. Your mom and I disagreed profoundly about the best course of action, and the stress made everything even worse.

Eventually, you gave in to the pain, and died of suicide, driven there by unimaginable pain. There were so many pills, and a bottle of old Scotch, how did you get your hands on that? I wonder what could have been had I been there with a can of brave. Because courage is a powerful thing.

There was a memorial service. I couldn’t speak. A year of work went by when I couldn’t really concentrate. I’ve tried crying, going for walks with my Scottish friend Johnny, diving into work, going out with friends. I’ve worked out, I’ve eaten, I’ve written. I’ve watched countless mindless movies and played countless hours of mindless games.

I’ve embraced the pain and pushed it away, I’ve winked at it and I’ve let it be.

This struggle is my new normal and I can’t break free. I don’t want this. I don’t want anyone to recognize me as someone who grieves. I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t solve for myself, and here I am, years in, still unsure where even to start. I don’t know what else to do.

I put my hands in my pockets, defeated.

My fingers find an old can of brave.

I wonder why I hadn’t tried this for myself before.

I open it up, and drink it down.

And I walk straight back into whatever lies ahead.