It’s Saturday. You give me a ring to say hi. But then you spill coffee all over the kitchen floor. So you hang up. Then you try me again twenty minutes later. It goes straight to voicemail, so you’ll try me again soon.

You call a third time and leave a message, asking if I want to go with you to see the Back to the Future trilogy on The Montalban Rooftop Theater. I most definitely do, but let’s set that aside.

Now I come home from my four-hour hike… eh, who am I kidding? I’ve been playing Tabletop Simulator with friends for four hours… and I finally look at my phone. 

I see Missed Call. You (3).

I’m now in the middle of a complete panic attack. It’s totally not your fault. It’s me. We all have our thing. I know someone, you can’t touch the back of her head without a violent reaction. Another friend hates with a passion when someone calls him “kid”. Another who hates being trapped in an elevator shaft during a power outage…okay, maybe we all have that one.

But, for me, it’s not that you called, and I missed it. It’s the (3) that causes so much anxiety. When I see (3), I assume someone’s died. Because I’ve gotten that phone call way too many times.

My neurotic conditioing was born on February 26, 2001. That morning my phone read Missed Call, Mom (7). It was a Monday morning, and back then Monday was my day off, so I’d been up late the night before and had slept in. By the time I woke up, it was probably 10:00am PST, 1:00pm EST in New Hampshire, where someone had stabbed my brother Brian to death the night before.

I had heard of shock, naturally. I'd seen it portrayed in books, movies and television. But until that Monday, I had never experienced it full-faced as I did that morning.

I listened to the sickening messages from my mother a few times. They’re burned into my memory permanently. I can recall, nearly 20 years later, her shallow breathing, the desperation in her voice, and the way she begged as she whispered, “Come home, Bren. You need to come home.”

Shock makes you act goofy. Even though she had said in her messages that Brian had been stabbed, he was in critical condition, and that she was getting on the next plane from her home in Florida to get to Brian in Massachusetts, I actually got pissed at her and furious with him.

My first thought was, “Come home? Is she nuts? I can’t just jump on a plane. What the hell does she expect?”

My next thought was, “Jesus Christ, Brian. Of all the fucking things. Of course this is happening to me.”

Of course this is happening TO ME. Like I said, shock makes you act goofy. Shock also made me, like an emotionless cyborg, ask my roommate to tape the Sopranos for the next few Sundays. I didn't know how long I'd be gone.

I felt the worst for my Uncle Eddie—one of my favorite human beings ever. He's who I got a hold of. And on that morning he had to get it through my head that no, things would not be okay. No, that Brian would not make it. No, in fact, that he’d already passed.

I fell into the abyss.

To this day, I wonder if it’s worse to race home on a flight, praying you make it on time, like my mother had, or to race home on a flight, knowing it’s too late, and praying you’ve just had a bad stroke and this is all just a cosmic fucking nightmare. I really don’t know.

A little side story: In the aftermath months of my brother’s murder, I had a conversation with a woman I worked with. I'll keep her anonymity. So let’s call her, let's see—Vapid Jones. Our chat went like this.

Vapid: So your brother was murdered?

Me: Yeah, back in February.

Vapid: Oh My God. That must have been devastating.

Me: It was. It is.

Vapid: How did you find out?

Me: My family called.

Vapid: And your brother was already… deceased?

Me: Uh huh.

Vapid: Wow. Can I ask…I mean...what was that phone call like?

Me: … … … the phone call?

Vapid: Yeah.

Me: What was the phone call like?

Vapid: Yeah. Like, I really would like to know. As an actress, I think it would help my work.

Now, look, I love SoCal like it’s my own, little, adopted blonde child. But, Dear Los Angeles, real folks don’t talk like this. Hey, I’d like to know how much I can cheat on my taxes without raising a red flag—but some things are better left un-asked, you know what I’m saying?

So February 26, 2001 has made me, in a word, psychotic with missed multiple calls. My body has a trauma response the second I see my iPhone screen. I’m completely powerless over it.

When I call back in a panic and you’re all, “Oh, hey. It kept going right to voicemail. I thought something was wrong with my phone, so I kept trying.” —You did nothing wrong. But it’ll take me a good thirty minutes to stop shaking.

The near-enemy to this is the flat-tone message. I have a friend that does this. He leaves monotone messages like, “Brendan. It’s Bill. [sigh] Call me back. Bye.”

“Bill, it’s Brendan. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just haven’t talked to you in a few days.”

Don’t worry, Bill. My health insurance covers Cognitive Behavior Therapy. $20 co-pay.

It doesn’t help that my fears have occasionally proved true. Sometimes the multiple missed calls have meant someone’s died. Just last month my cousin Diane called three times. When she finally got a hold of me, she had to tell me our sweet, 27-year-old Nick was gone.

But here’s some good news. Those calls—when the unimaginable became real—they used to be all about me and my Missed Call (3). This terrible thing happened to me, threw my whole life into a Vitamix, and now I’m going to let you watch me fall apart. 

Today, it’s different. I know how to take those calls because I’ve learned how to make those calls. Yes, the aftershocks of my past still live in me—I still see my phone’s screen and have my panic attack. But it’s a familiar panic attack and I can work with it. 

What does this mean? It means when I call you back, you and I are in this together. Whether I’m breaking it to you, or you’re breaking it to me—we’re going to grieve and then we’ll get through this together.

Today I remember to ask if I can help you. I can experience my grief, but I also know what’s needed on those calls. I’ve been on the phone enough to know that often what’s needed is a boat in the storm. Someone to cut through the shock and tell you to get on a plane or get in the car. Someone to tell you the things you’re worried about don’t matter right now. What matters is that you get your black dress, bring the dogs to the neighbors and come be with your people. Someone that reminds you it's not your job to figure it all out in that moment. Just come.

Believe me, when the person on the other end of the line is someone who’s of strong faith, or positivity, or maximum generosity, or someone who just takes charge—it’s helpful. It doesn’t fix what we’re going through, but every bit helps.

I wish I had control over my reaction to the phone. And I wish I never had to take another one of those calls. But I know it’s unrealistic. I may always have an aversion to several missed calls. I know I will receive and make more life-altering calls. It’s part of our experience here together. It’s unfortunate… but it can also bring us closer together if we stay open to the pain and hold it collectively.

So please don’t worry if you’re trying to get a hold of me because you’re the bearer of bad news. You and I will help each other get through it. We will be okay. 

And if you’ve called me twice to tell me they’re out of orange soda at the grocery store and to ask if I'd rather have root beer or cream soda? 

Maybe instead of the third call, you shoot me a text. :)

How about you? Anything hair trigger responses, easily traced or otherwise? Any trauma-responses? I’d love to hear about them in the comments below.

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