My brother, United States Capitol Police Officer Brian Sicknick, collapsed after defending the Capitol Building and everyone in it from pro-Trump insurrectionists on January 6, 2021, and died in the hospital the following day. He suffered two strokes, we learned. In the aftermath of his death, I thought my family would be united in our grief. I didn’t see until later that politics — some of the same on display at the Capitol the day Brian reported for what would be his last shift — were already dividing us.
After the Medical Examiner finally released his remains for burial, my family returned to Washington, D.C., to pay our final respects to my kid brother. Brian was one of the few American citizens to lay in honor at the United States Capitol Rotunda, the same building he gave his life to protect. After the public services, we met President Biden, who expressed heartfelt condolences for our loss. The President and his wife came without the press in tow, without photographers. Several other high-ranking officials also quietly paid their respects. Rep. Dan Crenshaw, a Republican from Texas and one of Brian’s favorite people on the Hill, gave the eulogy at Arlington National Cemetery the following day.
That was the last time we were all together as a family. While I blamed Trump’s followers for the violent clashes that preceded Brian’s death, one of our relatives — I’ll call this person True Believer — blamed President Biden and his political allies, telling me after the ceremony that Biden and high-ranking Democrats were responsible.
I was still in shock, from the overwhelming media attention on top of seeing Brian, a former Air National Guard Security Police officer and United States Capitol Police officer of 12 years, reduced to a small wooden box on top of an American Flag. True Believer’s words, while disturbing in the moment, did not sink in fully.
January 7, 2021, was the day everything changed. Between the relentless media pursuit that started before we even knew he was dead — punctuated by my little brother’s last breath — and the mind-numbing sense of grief that overwhelmed every member of our family, we went into our own little worlds. After, I could barely reconstruct the events between Brian’s death and his funeral, which now feels mostly forgotten by the country, including by some protected by Brian and his fellow officers at the Capitol.
After our family’s procession in the early morning hours of January 7, from the hospital where Brian died to the Medical Examiner’s office, I spent the night in Brian’s home with other family members. The next morning, in shock and realizing I could do nothing in D.C., I drove home to New Jersey, worried about my wife, who’d already had to deal with reporters camped out on our lawn, snapping pictures. They tried to interview her when she made the mistake of going outside to see what was going on.
True Believer made the return trip with me. On the long ride to New Jersey, we discussed what we had seen in the hospital, how the events at the Capitol could have happened, and what the next steps might be, all through a fog of grief and pain. That conversation is when True Believer first recounted the various wild conspiracy theories, echoes of QAnon and other dark rabbit holes: Biden was a clone, Nancy Pelosi uses the blood of babies to stave off the aging process, even that Brian was not really dead, but would return after Trump reclaimed the White House. The riot was the fault of Antifa and Black Lives Matter activists working for the Bidens, according to True Believer. At the time, I didn’t register how far apart we were in our understanding of what had just happened. I simply couldn’t believe my brother, whom I remembered my parents bringing home from the hospital 42 years ago, was dead. I chalked the wild theories up to being in shock, as we all were.
Before Brian met his fate, we were a small but close-knit family who kept in touch with each other by email, text and phone. We are a non-traditional family, a blend of Jewish and Presbyterian, and I have fond memories of putting up a Christmas tree topped with a Star of David every holiday season. We had our occasional arguments, and rare temporary silences, sure. But my mother had a giving heart, my hard-working father his matter-of-fact practicality, my other brother a wry sense of humor and Jersey attitude. Brian, the youngest of us, had the most even temperament and was usually stoic, which helped him immensely with the stress of being a police officer. Despite our differences, we always listened to one another.
True Believer was nothing like my parents, offering a distinct point of view that often helped us resolve sticky problems. If I needed advice on cooking, taking care of a social issue, or how to connect with one of their large networks of friends, I called my parents. But if I required an effective cure for a problematic colleague, for example, or a cantankerous neighbor, I used to call True Believer. As a family, our problems were never overwhelming before Brian’s death. We worked together to turn them into opportunities instead.
After the funeral, every interaction became awkward. I spent the next few weeks alternating between a zoned-out state and a pained reality, trying to stay in touch with my family. That included True Believer. Our conversations were short, curt, and mostly focused on how Biden, Antifa, BLM and Pelosi were responsible for Brian’s death, and how I was apparently an idiot for being skeptical of these claims. True Believer’s rants became simultaneously more numerous, less believable, and more noticeable, and I began distancing myself. My parents went dark for a time. Despite our efforts, our once-reliable family communication system went dead.
My wife Nicchi, who hails from a broken family and has experienced her share of treachery and loss, admitted she couldn’t understand what happened. Who can make sense of that insensitivity, I wondered?
“I dunno, people don’t act like themselves when they’re traumatized,” Nicchi tried. While looking for ways to help improve the situation, she kept her own distance but remained purposefully communicative about it, letting me and others know when the need for space was critical.
After one last rambling phone call from True Believer, I decided our relationship was over. I stopped taking the calls and stopped trying to explain it to others. I ignored requests by other family members to try to patch things up. I had mental healing of my own to do, and I didn’t have the energy. One by one, more rifts happened between True Believer and other family members. Looking back, the signs of True Believer’s beliefs were visible for years but were downplayed as quirks. After all, we were family.
Since Brian’s death, I’ve learned to be careful of who I trust with my inner thoughts. They may not be the people I think they are. Engaging in cult-like behavior, like clinging to such outrageous theories in the face of mounting evidence, can ruin relationships. I am curious to see if True Believer reaches out to me after whatever fate finally takes Trump out of public life. As of now, I think my response will be silence.
This family rift made our tragedy that much worse; our hole of grief deeper, our road back to “normalcy” — whatever that would be — that much longer now. My family will never recover fully from losing Brian, but we will find a new balance.
I do not know if I can say the same for our nation. The smoke and debris have been cleared, the razor wire and fencing removed, and Brian rests now in Arlington National Cemetery, interred among heroes. But the political malaise remains strong. Some MAGA proponents call the people arrested for their roles in that day “political prisoners.” Some politicians who claim to support those convicted and imprisoned for their roles in the insurrection are likely using them as pawns in their own game. I have no sympathy for them. After a few years, most who were found guilty and sentenced will be released. My family will never see Brian’s smile again, or hear his voice, or read his texts.
Many have tried to discredit Brian, his fellow officers, and those who sought to find out the truth of how and why the riot at the Capitol occurred. Many still deny the overwhelming evidence that the insurrection was not simply a “peaceful protest.” But denial will not lead us to stability. If we refuse to denounce a movement that brought us to the very brink of our destruction as a representative republic, we will never recover as a nation. Can we heal the wounds inflicted on our nation on January 6? I hope so. But I have deep doubts now.
