A Life Cut Short: Reflections on Loss and Grief
I last talked to my brother, Asa on the evening of February 1st. It was a celebratory call for his 40th birthday. Through facetime, I could see that he, my sister and their friend Sandra were busy preparing the ingredients to make jambalaya for the first time. It was lots of chopping and hours of stirring, but my sister said he loved it.
It was the last birthday he would celebrate.
On May 15, 2025, as I was driving home, I received the devastating news that my brother had committed suicide after a lifelong struggle with depression and autism. I pulled over to take the call. As my world stopped, frozen in time on the shoulder of 95 South in Virginia, the world continued whizzing by me.
Grief has an unusual way of skewing time. Your frame of reference in life changes. Things get delineated into two parts – before and after the tragedy. It’s been just over four months and the loss still feels surreal to write, to say aloud, to even think about it. And yet, time faithfully continues.
About Asa
While the circumstances of my brother’s passing are tragic and incredibly heartbreaking, they surely don’t define who he was during his forty years of life.
Asa Michael, as we affectionately called him, was the baby of the four Hayes kids. Born 2 years and 7 months after me, he rounded out our rambunctious family. We grew up in Tillamook, Oregon, sandwiched between the coastal range mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Our house was in the middle of the Tillamook valley on a busy road next to cow fields and residential houses. I resented the isolation and remoteness of Tillamook as a teenager, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the summers we spent outdoors, swimming in the rivers and watching the sunsets at Oceanside beach. Now, I appreciate it even more because it was one of my brother’s favorite places, he once noted it was like a resort with all its natural beauty. Now, whenever I think of Tillamook, I think of him, and vice versa.
As the youngest Hayes kid, Asa was known for his dry sense of humor, penchant for punchy one-liners and funny stories about his daily adventures and happenings in Portland.
He was a talented artist, and as a child spent hours drawing intricate scenes of dragons, battleships, castles and other fantasy scenes from his imagination. In adulthood, his passion for art translated into avid video gaming. You could often find him riding his bike throughout Portland, walking through Irvington neighborhood, listening to science fiction audio books, and trying out new flavorful recipes in the kitchen while never straying too far from our mom’s classics. Deeply imbedded in the Hayes genes is a love for food, and the occasional hanger if we’re late for a meal. Both were true for Asa. Perhaps it was being one of four children, or perhaps it really is just genetics. Food was Asa’s love language and so much of our love and care for him was expressed this way.
He would often join our family on outdoor adventures and had a special eye for spotting and identifying different species of birds, and pointing them out to those around him, rivaling national geographic with his bird knowledge (or so he made you think).
Despite my brother’s challenges, he demonstrated tremendous empathy for others including his neighbors and family.
What I’ve learned from grief
I’ve learned an incredibly amount from my brother’s death.
I’ve learned there is a sacredness to death and the process of grieving. It’s a time of emotional rawness, vulnerability, connection and deep sorrow. My family and I had concentrated time to connect, grieve and eat all the food people brought us. We were surrounded by so much love and I remain eternally grateful for people who brought food, gave gift cards, helped with funeral arrangements, and co-workers who sent flowers.
I’ve learned suicide is an incredibly complicated grief. There are no goodbyes just a relentless desire to change the outcome. It’s easy to find yourself in what I call the grief loop – endless questions without answers, a bottomless pit of regret, thoughts of what you could or should have done differently, only to arrive at the exact same place every time – a life that ended much too early.
I’ve learned that the pain doesn’t really ever go away, you just build your life around it. Like a boulder in a stream, the water has to figure out a way to flow past it.
I’ve learned deep empathy for the pain of others, and how better to support others who are going through loss.
I’ve learned that the way you view the world completely changes, so too does the version you once knew of yourself. That different version of yourself will inevitably change and challenge your relationships. Some relationships may end.
I’ve learned death can be incredibly awkward to talk about. What does one even say? “How are you?” feels quite trite when everyone knows how you’re doing. Shitty with puffy eyes. Instead. I’ve opted for “How are you today?” or “I’m thinking of you” and at all costs try to avoid “Your love one is in a better place.” The better place is here on earth with me.
I’ve learned that how you talk about suicide matters. I’ve often heard commentary from people on how suicide is a selfish act, but instead, I think it’s a blinding act. Someone who was blinded by intense and enormous pain and was deeply suffering.
I’ve learned that no one gets through life alone. That when you’re anchored in love, you can weather any storm.
Lastly, I’ve learned that whenever you eat a Tillamook ice cream cone you should always think of Asa.
