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| Waxing poetic. |
Editor's Note: Many thanks to Bruce Bravo for agreeing to let me share his story. I am grateful for his candor, vulnerability, and friendship.
Friend and colleague Bruce Bravo eschews the term "death," at least when talking about his wife and son. He never really thought about it, and doesn't know why. "Passed," "lost," "went to heaven," are naturally, more palatable. But also, not as permanent sounding -- or as fatalistic. This makes sense for the affable eternal optimist
.
You wouldn't blame him for
being otherwise. Consider that he lost his ten-year-old son 17 years ago, his youngest brother shortly thereafter, his wife just months ago, and his dad just before that. When Bruce Bravo needs people the most, the 64-year-old Cajun can't be near them because of this pandemic. But for us, we need stories like his to give us perspective and lessons in true grit.
When his wife, Elvira got sick around Memorial Day in 2017 and was diagnosed with cancer thereafter, she and Bruce had the same thought: "Not again." They had traveled this road before when in 2001 their son Evan was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Mother and son, as with many cancer patients, followed similar paths: Diagnoses, surgeries, treatment, recurrence, quests for alternative treatments, steps forward, steps back, bad news, more bad news, and death. Similarly: Shock, fear, fight, hope, acceptance, frustration, anger, and grief.
When Evan was told by his doctor that there was nothing more that could be done, he asked his parents to take a trip to the beach. On the way they stopped at the Crazy Cajun Restaurant, so Evan could have his favorite fried shrimp. When met with the sign that said "no fried shrimp today," he told his parents that's just the way it is. He would be gone three weeks later, but he told his parents this beach trip had been the best ever. Likewise, when Elvira received her diagnosis she and Bruce went out for Mexican food as planned. Just the way it is.
When Bruce talks about losing two of the most important people in his life he uses the term "smothering" as an adjective when discussing the sadness surrounding his losses. He met Elvira when he was working as a Food Service Director in Wichita Falls, Texas when she came in as a customer. She caught his eye but she was dismissive at first. She came in with her mother one day and Bruce told her "I'm going to marry your daughter." He was the only one who believed it. But he did.
Elvira would work a number of jobs throughout their marriage. After they lost Evan she retreated into her grief for months and then began working at a residential treatment center she had learned about from a friend she met during Evan's illness. She would further her education and dedicate herself to children and teens at risk and spit out by the foster care system. She was beloved for her compassion and quiet resolve.
Evan was quirky, funny, and athletic. He was diagnosed just as the family moved to San Antonio where Bruce would work in campus food service at various locations across the city. He passed away at home. His dad would return to work almost immediately. While Elvira retreated, Bruce threw himself into his job. He did it again when she passed away last fall. After working food service, including a successful stint as the Director of Campus Dining at Trinity, Bruce would eventually end up working for Trinity and ultimately become the Senior Director for Conferences and Special Programs. In that role he manages major campus speakers and the day after he lost Elvira he was on campus working to pull off a major program. People couldn't tell when he teared up behind his glasses while bustling around Laurie Auditorium, working his grief.
Bruce Bravo is one of the best sports you will ever meet (shout out to TUPD chief Pete Perez who endures the steady diet of doughnut jokes at my hands). I have made fun of Bruce, or "Bravo Sua-vay" as I call him for his meandering musings when he "waxes poetic" on any number of subjects. He puts up with jibes, never takes himself too seriously, has an enthusiastic laugh, and is warm, sincere, super good-natured, and focuses on others. One would never know the grief he has and does endure. Even I forget, recently in a Zoom call mocking his photo, asking "what grade were you in?" when that picture was taken. I should know better, and filming him in HEB covertly as he shopped with a mask, one glove, and fogged glasses shows how much I act like everything is the same. I just can't not give him grief, ironically.
It's not an act. The thing about getting sick and about grieving, is that there is no strong or weak. People just get along the best they can, anyway they can. You can orchestrate your feelings or how you cope in front of others to an extent and for a while. But as Bruce well knows and says, it will catch up to you.
At Elvira's wake, Bruce was comforted by his beloved daughters Monique (29) and Latina (28) as well as his siblings. He talks to his brothers by phone daily. His group of friends, some going back to elementary school is a group made up of nine men of various professions. I was there when they descended on the funeral home and swallowed Bruce up not so much by love but mischief. It was as much fraternity party as memorial as they smothered Bruce with the friendship, goofiness, and comfort that he needed.
All of this matters. Bruce is surrounded by lots of people to support him. He spent the holidays with his family in New Orleans and they exhausted him with activity. He had trips planned with some of them early this spring, all of which got cancelled. Before that he got to spend some much-needed time alone as well, though an annual retreat was scrubbed because of the pandemic. This included a camping trip that featured long, private reflective hikes at a favorite place of his and Elvira's. It was on one of his hikes, there, that out of nowhere a dust devil blew up before him while everything else was still in that moment, he felt a presence as the wind moved in front of him. A sign? He doesn't know.
He does know that his son Evan said that he knew that God was with him during his illness as he could feel his presence as a warm wind that enveloped him. Perhaps this is why he was at peace, worrying mostly about how his parents would handle what was to come.
How many deaths will it take? How much can one person endure? It's hard to imagine losing a child. Excruciating. Smothering. It's hard to imagine losing your partner and best friend of over a quarter of a century.
If you were to see Bruce on campus at work before his wife died you would never have guessed the pain in his life from his losses. He was the same after. That's the way it is with him. He teaches us a lot about perspective and resilience. And while the phrase "uncertain times" swirls around us until it means almost nothing, one thing is certain: We don't need to look for answers impossible to find. We have a path that Bruce Bravo has shown us. If he can survive, so can we. We just need to keep our heads up, smell the air, and move forward. Into the wind.
If you are moved by Bruce's story you might appreciate these posts on colleagues Jennifer Reese, Jimmy Roberts, and Rick Roberts.
