Sympathies, OP. There’s not a lot to be said that can make you feel better, but I guess you maybe don’t want to feel better yet.
My MIL died last year due to drinking. Wasn’t quite as sudden as your BIL, but still devastating to everyone who knew her. One thing my wife struggled with, and I think made it harder for her to come to terms with losing her mum, was the guilt she carried for feeling relief that it was “all over”. I’m no psychologist or grief counsellor, but I think it’s OK to feel that relief. The past few years will have been testing for all involved.
I’ll leave this here. The local Reverend had it written down on a well-worn bit of paper, and he read it for my wife. I asked for a copy.
Some people say they wish they could get used to people dying, but I don’t. It tears a hole through us whenever somebody we love dies, no matter the circumstances. But we shouldn’t want it to “not matter”. We shouldn’t want it to be something that just passes. Our scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that we had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that we can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that we can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a place, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or visiting their favourite spot. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
Hope that helps. Im sorry for your loss.