Excerpt from "What My Brother Knew: A Memoir"
Befriending Death
by Kristina Amelong
When Kristina Amelong was only seventeen, her little brother Jay predicted the accident that would cause his death, down to the color of the car that hit him. "I will die young, while riding my bike," he told friends and family repeatedly. "It won't be much longer. I want you to be prepared." These were baffling words to hear from the mouth of a content thirteen-year-old. She and her mother tried to ignore him. But when Jay’s death unfolded exactly as he said it would, Kristina’s life changed forever. Propelled down a self-destructive path of drug addiction and reckless sex, Kristina spent much of her young adult years wanting to die. Once or twice she came close. Always, Jay's bizarre story and his inexplicable acceptance of death lived in her body. More than thirty years later, Kristina embarked on a journey of discovery, seeking truth about herself, her brother, and the universe. The result of her investigation is a memoir that defies belief. Charting a life path from loss and abuse to healing and spiritual awakening, What My Brother Knew demonstrates the transformative power of facing the mystery of death head-on and the incredible human ability to do so. The following is a chapter from What My Brother Knew, which starts when Kristina is in her forties and on the hunt for answers about Jay and the universe.
Befriending Death by Kristina Amelong, from What My Brother Knew: A Memoir
I continued to point my attention toward facing death head on, with a goal of having the deepest relationship possible with its mystery. I attended Death Cafes, unstructured discussion circles for people interested in exploring and processing death. We would meet and drink coffee. Everyone was invited to share freely on any topic related to death and dying. After attending a few meetings, I decided they weren’t for me (a little too stiff), but at one of them I learned about an evening workshop: Death 101, taught by Reverend Bodhi Be. I was immediately drawn to the idea of “befriending dying, grieving, and death as allies to deep, sacred living and strong community.”
The following Thursday, I showed up at Unity of Madison, a modest, modern brick church. A few minutes late, as usual, I tiptoed into a large sanctuary with pews full of people and found a spot near the back, joining in with the applause as a woman introduced the speaker. A man who looked to be in his 50s walked onstage. His skin was tan and wrinkled, as if he had spent a lot of time in the sun, and his long gray hair was tied in a low ponytail. He began by inviting us to be grateful that we woke up again today, as many did not. I inhaled, focusing on my aliveness.
Bodhi’s next words crashed over me like an ocean wave: “I want to invite you to notice death. Death is always with us, everywhere we look.”
Around the room, people turned to their right and left. Some were tearing up. The expressions of relief and awe mirrored what I felt.
“We tend to ignore death, or make it something that’s out there, over there,” he pointed as if referring to some place far away. “But I encourage you to invite death in.”
I began to relax.
“Everyone is grieving,” Bodhi said. “Everyone has experienced loss. Part of facing death is facing grief.”
I saw nods around the room and experienced profound comfort in large-scale mirroring. Maybe the grief I’d felt all these years from losing my brother wasn’t weird or outsized. I wished my mother was here.
When Reverend Bodhi Be said, “Does anyone have a story of death that they want to share?” This was my chance, but I couldn’t move. There must have been over 100 people in this room, maybe 200! I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken in front of such a large crowd—if ever.
Before I could stop myself, I threw my hand up in the air.
“Please.” Bodhi gestured to me.
I tried to keep my voice loud and clear as I summarized the story of Jay’s death and premonitions, how I was left alone to grieve, and how I was looking for healing and meaning. Finally I sat down, trembling, staring at my lap. The shame of sharing publicly drowned out all the voices around me until I heard a woman’s voice coming from somewhere in the crowd say, “That story she shared about her brother really moved me. So beautiful, so magical.”
I craned my neck to see who had spoken, but my view was blocked. Instead, I looked up at the high ceiling of the sanctuary and drifted in and out during the reverend’s closing words. I felt a residual tightness in my chest. What had I said? Did it make sense? After the applause, people began milling around, a rustle of murmurs filling the large room. I stayed seated, my mind floating high above. A short, pale, friendly man with a beard and a green, yellow, and red yarmulke came over and shook my hand, thanking me for sharing Jay’s story.
“You’re welcome,” I said shyly.
“I agree with what Julie said,” he continued. “The way you told it was so moving.”
“Who?”
“Oh, Julie’s the woman who just spoke at the end.” He pointed at a small cluster of people deep in conversation.
I felt a flutter of excitement. “Which one is she?”
“Come on.” He led me toward them. “That’s her,” he said, pointing to an older white woman who looked to be in her 70s, wearing a pastel floral shirt.
At first, I stood awkwardly outside the circle, waiting to be noticed. When one of the women looked at me, I spoke. “Excuse me.”
All eyes were on me again. Something awakened along the edges of my bones. I narrowed in on Julie. “Can you tell me why my story moved you?” Like a movie on fast-forward, the sensation sped along my neurons. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Then Julie smiled. “Hi!”
I was able to take a deep breath. Julie sat on a beige metal folding chair between two other women. She had long, gray-blonde hair and merry blue eyes.
“Thank you so much for what you shared,” Julie said.
“Thank you,” I responded. “If you don’t mind, what did you like about it?”
“Well,” she began, “I was sitting here, feeling all the pressure I put on myself, picturing that my death would come before I did many, many things that I thought I should do.”
I nodded, familiar with such concerns.
“When I heard the story of how your brother was at peace with dying so young, I started to think that maybe I’ve been too fixated on what I haven’t done. Clearly your brother…” she raised her eyebrows.
“Jay.”
“Jay. Clearly Jay can’t have made this up. He knew what most of us do not: that we are perfect as we are, no matter how messed up we may be.”
I started to feel goosebumps on my arms.
“This story is so important, so magical. It’s just healing, you know?”
I nodded again, beaming at her.
“So keep telling that story. Tell it over and over again.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m actually thinking of writing a memoir about it.” I felt my cheeks burn.
Her smile broadened. “That’s great!”
“For so long, I’ve been afraid to talk about Jay’s death. I’ve felt totally shut down and abandoned by my mom, and by anyone else I might have grieved with.” I looked at my feet.
“But look at you now,” Julie gestured around us. “Look at all the people you’ve connected to!” I felt her tossing me a life jacket.
“You’re right!” I said.
“You’ve come so far! And you have a ways to go, probably. I don’t think you are going to die before you write this.”
“I hope not,” I laughed.
“And Jay’s on your side.” She laughed too, but her eyes were solemn.
“I hope so.”
“He’s given you a gift. You had to feel both sides, or it wouldn’t be any use to you.”
“Right,” I said, still somewhat unclear.
Julie patted my arm. “I’m grateful to have met you.”
I grabbed her hand. “You too, Julie! Thank you.”
We parted ways and I walked out of the church, my body buzzing with possibility. I wrestled with the contradiction of a loss becoming a gift. The argument played out internally:
I paid such a heavy price, but maybe it was worth it?
No! I would rather have my brother than spiritual enlightenment!
But it wasn’t your choice.
Do you really believe that?
I believe in Jay. I believe in his life, in his story. I believe death can be more than trauma.
At that moment, a memory eclipsed my inner dialogue, so strong and clear that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it in over thirty years.
I am 17. My brother is dead. It feels difficult to breathe, like I’m in a cave with no air.
My friends take me to Devil’s Lake State Park to get stoned, climb boulders, and swim in the lake. I stare at the ancient rock outcrops. A friend says, “Kris,” and I burst into tears. I don’t want to swim. I’m afraid I’ll close my eyes under water. Every time I close them I see Jay’s head, bloody and swollen. I keep them open, inspecting the boulders that form the valley.
“The water’s great!” one of my friends calls to me. “If you get tired of staring at rocks, come find us!”
I no longer see rock. I can see 1.6 billion years of sand being compressed by water, heat and gravity. I imagine the glacier that passed through here, rerouting ancient rivers and depositing dams of earth at the two open ends of the Devil's Lake Gap.
A rumble begins in the distance, a train on the tracks below me. My losses pour back into my body like sour whiskey, and the pain throbs. I feel poisoned. From my perch on a boulder, I crane my neck, smelling juniper on the air. I run to the start of Balanced Rock Trail, a steep, boulder-strewn 500 foot climb to the top of the quartzite bluffs. I take off my shoes and socks and watch a green dragonfly hover over a batch of jewelweed flowering blood orange. Barefoot, I head up the narrow rock path built into the side of the boulder-strewn hillside like a long, winding staircase.
The soles of my feet meet smooth stones and I worry I might slip. But my toes grip the ground and send strength throughout my whole body. The screaming emptiness quiets when I notice how the sparkling sun quilts the rocks in patches of amber, red, yellow, and orange. I stop and pick up dead pine needles with my toes, grab a handful, and toss them over the sheer edge. I want to jump.
How did Jay know he would die?
I reach the last part of the path that rises to the top of the bluff. Through the cool, worn stone, I sense the footfalls of thousands of others who have journeyed this path. Crows fly over the black waves below me. For a moment, I hear a million voices telling their stories. I lower my body, stretching out on a rock that’s been warmed by hours of sunlight. I want to be closer to the voices. I let the sunshine burrow into my face.
A man comes by, bursts into laughter, and says, "With that purple sweatshirt, you blend right into these rocks."
Without knowing it, this man gives me permission to be ancient, to be rock.
Can I live forever?
Two turkey vultures drift overhead, hungry and patient. I remember a dead raccoon in the road on the drive to the park. In my mind, the bloody animal morphs into a dead boy, red and glistening. I shake the image away and stand to walk toward a stretch of giant boulders hanging on the edge of even larger boulders. As I climb higher, I marvel at the ancient balance of purple-gray rocks, carpeted with greenish-white lichen. I study the patience of the path and the hundreds of boulders that create the bowl to hold the lake far below. A blue jay shoots up out of a rock as purple as the darkening hue at the bottom of a rainbow.
I study the weight of my grief by taking the stone into my heart. I hear the far-off voices of people laughing and splashing in the lake. Something both old and immortal inside myself, beyond me and beyond death, works its way toward the steadiness of these rocks. I study a fly, its boldness, its ability to alight, come and go, and leave me behind. I listen to the flies’ conversation. Voices break into my experience.
Man: "We’re almost there!”
Woman: "You sure?"
Man: "Yes, you are doing a good job.”
Woman: "I’m scared!”
Man: "I’ve got your back.”
Not noticing me where I’m standing, they continue on to the top, huffing loudly. Clouds stand like snow-covered mountain tops above the southern ridge of the bluffs. I long for someone to say to me: I’ve got your back.
I peer closely at a few rocks that are fully clothed with dirty lime-green lichen. Green and gold sweat bees land on my arms. I flick them off. I hike upwards again, touching the soft, white bark of the birch trees, trying to engage in a process of making meaning without a brother.
I study silence and its interruption. The breeze through the trees… The voices rising and falling… The distant roar of a motorcycle muffler… A tongue-loose dog panting up the rocky trail… The “Whoa, that's slippery!” from someone coming down the trail. “Be a long way down if you slipped.” Laughter.
I look out over the edge. Vultures soar in circles against a blue sky, defying the gravity that for me is deadly.
I reach the top of the East Bluff and stare off the cliff. The wide-open space again calls to me. I step closer to the edge, dangle one foot. I want to die. Instead, I become the turkey vulture.
As I fly over the lake, my eye is drawn to the changing blue of the water—navy to white to brown to black—and the wind rippling across. When the wind eases, the lake becomes smooth, then puckered again. The temporary patterns on the water mirror the seemingly permanent patterns on the stones. I learn the lake as a She, as a mother I do not understand, as a God of the open future. Staring at the water feels like watching an ancient sea. I hear poetry rising off the waves in sprays.
Someone passing by calls out, "Is it easier to go barefoot?"
I step back from the edge.
I close my eyes until the retreating footsteps have faded. I stretch out my toes, take one step, then another. I feel every pebble, every speck; the contrast between rock, pine needles, sand. Then I start back down the path, my awareness still in the soles of my feet. The ground shifts: one step on smooth stone, the next rough sand, followed by cool dirt. I move slowly, steadily, muscles prepared for sharp or uneven ground.
Sweaty and fatigued, I reach the bottom. I see my friends lying on their towels beneath a white pine, laughing, wet from the lake. I think about how the trees found themselves a home here after the glacier melted. Each moment goes on forever.
I beg for the courage of this place to stay with me as I throw off my clothes and wade into the cold water.
Kristina Amelong lives on the east side of Madison, Wisconsin, just a few miles from where she grew up. From a working-class childhood filled with abuse, addiction and loss, she has overcome addiction and chronic illness, raised four children, and founded a successful holistic health business, Optimal Health Network. She’s developed natural protocols which have helped thousands heal from a wide range of digestive and other chronic issues. She is the author of “What My Brother Knew” (She Writes Press, May 27, 2025), an emotional, eye-opening memoir about her journey from loss and abuse to healing and spiritual awakening. Her first book was “Ten Days to Optimal Health: A Guide to Nutritional Therapy and Colon Cleansing.” Find out more about her at www.kristinaamelong.com.
For more information or to purchase the book visit Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/What-My-Brother-Knew-Memoir/dp/1647429080
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