I rotate writing this personal column with a senior in the college, Peter Hamby. He is my closest friend at Georgetown. Last spring, his brother Patrick died in a car accident.
Peter’s never written a column about what happened. That’s because what he has to say is too overwhelming to fit into half a page. What I have to say is more manageable—what it’s like watching your best friend go through the biggest loss of his life, and not knowing what to do.
Our senior year wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be outdoor barbecues, shared radio shows and hot babes and party times, interrupted by only the occasional serious thought of making sure we had a job or a grad school to go to next year. But when I got that e-mail when I was in Chile and he was in South Africa, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. When I called home to ask my Mom if I should fly back to the States for the funeral, she told me that the funeral wasn’t when he was going to need me. It would be months later, when he didn’t have all those people around, that’s when I had to be there.
When we came back to school last fall, I felt very protective. I may be tiny, but I’m scrappy, and while I make fun of Peter all the time, if anyone hurts him, I’d be the first to step up. The problem was, people were hurting him unintentionally. At parties, people who he marginally knew usually felt compelled to say something, and it usually went horribly, like, “Hey, man, I heard about your brother. That sucks. Where’s the keg?”
So it became easier to just stay at home. We were both tired anyway; me from my internship, school and job and him from the thoughts that wouldn’t ever let him get a decent night’s sleep. So we watched a ton of dating shows, ordered a lot of food, and didn’t hang out with other people that much. It was just easier that way. He didn’t have to explain to me why he was in a bad mood, and he didn’t have to pretend like everything was great.
But sometimes, it’s really tough being one of the few people that knows that things aren’t great. On the surface he seems like a normal, happy guy, and a lot of the time he is. Sometimes, though, when we go out he’ll have a couple of beers and then sulk in the corner. I used to immediately go over and make sure everything was OK, and if he wanted to talk, we’d leave. But sometimes, I’ve just wanted to stay at the party and pretend like I didn’t notice, like I was everyone else there who didn’t notice. I just wanted to be two normal seniors having a good time at a party. It’s those times that I feel like the worst person on the planet.
I never met Patrick, but I’ve spent a lot of time with Peter’s family. Sometimes I wonder what hanging out with him would be like. I’d probably make some joke to Peter about how hot he was, and Peter would push me, and I’d push him back, and we’d keep teasing each other in our fifth-grade way. We’d sit in the Hambys’ living room, watching Andrew McCarthy movies on TV and eating nachos and triple-meat sandwiches, and there’d be someone else to blame for sticking that used Band Aid on the cover of an issue of Newsweek. I’d tell Patrick that jam bands were stupid, and he’d probably first yell at me, and then explain to me how truly awesome a Phish show really is.
When I think about how things would be different if Patrick were around, I think of them in terms of Peter, how there wouldn’t be such a giant hole in his life. I think of how I would have never had to notice that ever time he talks about his brother he always uses the present tense, because grief that you can’t comprehend just doesn’t move to the past tense.
While I think about the months that have taken us to where we are now, sometimes I get so frustrated. I get frustrated because he’s depressed and I understand why. I get frustrated because I can’t fix the situation. I am his friend, I am supposed to make him feel better and I feel like I’m failing. I get frustrated because I don’t know what to do.
So I make sure I’m always around. When I’m with him, at least I can be a distraction. While I know he’s going to name his first child Patrick, I tell him he’s going to name it Gina, because I know that will make him laugh. And maybe, if he’s laughing, for that second he’s not thinking about how much it hurts. And for that very same second, I feel like I haven’t let him down.
Gina Pace is a senior in the School of Foreign Service and senior writer of the Georgetown Voice. This one goes out to her own brother. She doesn’t tell him, but she loves him very much.
