SPEAK
1
SIBLING SUPPORT
How my relationship with my brothers reminds me that everything will be OK // SARAH BLUVAS
Brotherly love: Sarah Bluvas and her brothers Andy (left) and Matt (right) are able to stay close even though they don't see each other often. The 2006 death of their grandfather showed Sarah how much her brothers are there to support her when she needs them.
Contributed photo
As the bugler played "Taps," I stood in front of my grandfather's casket, trembling. My knees felt as if they would give at any moment. Just before I thought I couldn't stand up straight any longer, my two older brothers each grabbed an arm and held me steady.
The horn player finished his sad melody, and, as we paid our last respects to our mother's father, all three of us turned around and walked away from the cemetery, together.
I am fortunate in that I grew up the youngest of three and the only girl in my family. While many of my friends may have wanted an older sister to look up to, I was content with Matt and Andy, who are nine and six years older than I am, respectively. My childhood was filled with comic books and video games, action films and adventures and the constant reminder that "if you want to hang with the boys, you have to act like one of the boys."
The things they loved became the things I loved, too. Andy taught me to live and breathe Metallica. Matt introduced me to late-night cartoons on Cartoon Network. And they both slipped me alcohol at football tailgates and Fourth of July celebrations when I was underage. Together, we navigated creeks behind our house in Georgia and beat the top levels in Perfect Dark.
Our family moved around a lot when we were young because of our dad's job, so we formed a wall to the outside world that few people could break down.
Despite our close bond, though, my relationship with my brothers is anything but perfect. Like most siblings, we fight, and we used to fight a lot.
When I was about 11 and Andy was 17, we got into a screaming match about something pointless, and it ended with me spitting in his face and him pouring a giant glass of water all over my bed. Matt got so mad at me when I was a high school junior that he decided not to talk to me for a month. I caved after about a week and taped an apology note on his bedroom door.
We also have different interests and different goals for the future. Matt and Andy are both engineers. I study journalism, English and art history. Andy is already married and a father. Matt and I are a bit less traditional and probably won't settle down for years.
In reality, the three of us sort of leave each other to our own defenses. Andy and his wife Erin spent the last year living in Germany, and I only talked to my brother on the phone three times while he was gone. Matt and I barely call, too, except for a drunken text message every now and then. The three of us lead completely separate
lives, and, at times, it seems like we would be just fine without each other.
My grandfather's funeral in October 2006, though, was one of the rare instances in which Matt, Andy and I relied on each other for support. After the viewing the night before the funeral, my brothers and I went to Piccolo's, a favorite Omaha restaurant that we often ate at with Grandpa.
Sitting in the disco-ball-lit room, we reminisced about our grandfather a bit, but avoided the real issue at hand: his death meant that our family dynamic would change drastically. Who would be responsible for our grandmother? And, more
importantly, how would our mom cope with her dearly loved father's death?
However, when the waitress came to take our orders, a feeling of comfort returned. She turned to each of us and received the same order: chicken parmesan with French fries, pasta and salad. And then Andy looked up at her and said, "One more thing. When you bring the chicken parmesan out, can you leave it in the little tins you cook it in? We like all of the extra cheese and sauce."
Something as simple as the three of us ordering the exact same meal made me realize that maybe things haven't changed so much, or, at least, maybe everything would turn out all right.
I had the same feeling the following morning when we stood, arms locked, in Evergreen Cemetery. True, as the years have gone by, Matt Andy and I have grown apart. As our lives head in three different directions, though, we've reached a mutual understanding. If one of us ever truly needs support, the other two will be there, grabbing an arm and holding the other steady. JP
15
10
29
09