I’ve usually written on this particular subject and person every year at this time, so I’m going to do something that’s reasonably out of character for me… I’m going to apologize for being repetitive. For those of you who are recent followers, hopefully you learn something from the post. Granted, last year I made an intentional point NOT to write about this particular topic in the hopes of finding a different way to cope and remember… As with most things in life, everything comes full circle and since a colleague of mine recently experienced the very thing I’m about to write on, today’s date has come stretching from the depths of memory. Today is the anniversary of my brother’s death.
First and foremost, and just a touch embarrassingly, I learned a couple of years ago that my brother’s death took place on April 5th, not April 4th. My mother turned over a folder of medical and personal records for my brother some time ago that revealed the correct date of death. I attribute that oversight to the length of time that’ elapsed mixed with the skewed and grieving perspective of a twelve-year old boy. It also didn’t help that this took place in the early morning hours, long before the sun had come up. But in an effort to share my thoughts and experiences, I usually write something about my brother. This time, I’d like to write about my experience on that night and how it changed me forever. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that today is a Friday, as was the fateful April 5th when I would see my brother for the last time. Here’s what went down…
It had been a pretty typical week for our household. Every Monday morning, my brother would be brought to the local hospital for routine bloodwork. Routine for everyone else but given all the health conditions he was afflicted with, the results of that blood work would determine whether he could live out the week at home or be rushed to Montreal to attend the children’s hospital. This week saw his blood work clear; at least, as clear as it could be for him. However, he felt ill and couldn’t shake the exhaustion that seemed to plague him. Living with essentially a non-existent immune system, getting sick was a big deal for him, even when it was something simple like a cold. By mid-week, my mother had admitted him to the hospital for breathing difficulties and to help get over whatever bug he may have caught.
People often read things online about how someone may do something or see someone for the last time and not even realize it. I experienced this firsthand as I visited with my brother earlier in the week. He and my mother spoke and like the average pre-teen, I was antsy and fidgeting to leave. With time and the maturity of adulthood, I like to think that if I’d had known that it would be my last time seeing my brother alive, I would have clung to his bedside like a drowning victim to a life preserver. But I didn’t. Instead, we left the hospital that day with “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows” and made our way home; confident in the fact that this was status quo and he would be out of the hospital in a few days as usual.
Friday was a pretty normal day for me. I went to school, came home, had a bite to eat and my mother would be headed to her weekly bingo game at the Lion’s Club. This was my mother’s one and only outing that she ever went on. She had a three or four women that she had known for decades and their evenings would usually include a couple of hours of bingo games followed y a small snack at a local restaurant. On this Friday, and given the fact that cell phones weren’t a thing yet, I was pretty confident that my mother had gone out to her game. After all, everything felt routine, as I mentioned earlier. My brother being admitted to the hospital was right on the ground floor of normal for us. So I fail to understand how what happened next came to be…
I was awoken suddenly by a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. My room was quiet and all I could hear was a soft crying, coming from the living room. I assumed it was coming from whatever show or movie my father might have been watching. I glanced at my alarm clock to note that it was a few minutes past midnight and it only took a few minutes more to realize that the crying was coming from my mother. A heightened sense of fear mixed with what I can only describe as that feeling when an elevator goes down after expecting it to go up, was nestled deep in my gut. I stayed motionless, afraid to move and bring about whatever had caused my mother to cry. After several minutes, she came to my bedroom and sat on my bed, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was awake at this hour. She explained in short, forced words that I needed to get up and get dressed. We had to get to the hospital to say goodbye. Today was the day my brother would die.
Having grown up in hospitals, both for myself and for my brother, I considered myself something of a knowledgable person when it came to death. I understood the processes of life far better than my counterparts, which I’m not saying is a good thing for a kid at my age but I knew what was coming and none of it was good. At only 18-years old, my brother rightfully should have had decades of life ahead of him, if not for a cruel twist of fate that had him start life with a number of his organs unsuited to support life. I threw on whatever clothes I could grab, oblivious of what the garments were and trying to get it all on through blinding tears.We stepped out into the night’s chill and piled into the family car and I sat silently as we drove the short distance to the only hospital we had in town.
We rode the elevator up to the floor that housed the ward my brother was staying on. When we stepped off the elevator, two things happened; our family doctor, Dr. Furlong, met us at the landing. The second is I could hear the low, pained sounds of my brother’s moans floating down the hallway. our doctor took a few moments to explain that there was nothing to be done, he wasn’t in pain, despite the sounds coming from his room and that this would be our opportunity to say our goodbyes as he would never wake again. We walked to the room and found him lying there. Tightly covered in white, starched sheets to keep him warm. Machines and tubes attached to his arms, legs and face. And every few minutes, a low moan escaped his mouth, which was the only indication we had that he was still alive.
After a short period, other family showed up. My mother soon arranged for nursing staff to take me to a different room so I could “get some sleep.” I remember thinking that sleep was the last thing I would be doing but knew enough to keep my thoughts to myself and followed the nurse out into the hallway. I was brought to the other side of the hospital, which was only a short distance away (our hospital was a pretty vanilla, small facility. Google St. Jospeh’s Hospital in Dalhousie, New Brunswick, and you’ll see what I mean). I was given a bed and I was essentially out of earshot of my brother’s voice. As I lay in the bed, crying and contemplating what life would be like without my brother, I was visited frequently by my father, my doctor and some nursing staff. A few were even glib enough to suggest I needed to get some sleep as it was the middle of the night. Idiots.
Oddly enough and something that I’ve never been able to explain since, is it took a couple of hours but I suddenly found myself drifting off to sleep. I had a nurse at my bedside and my father came in shortly thereafter and woke me. It appeared that my brother had passed away. What was odd, is that according to the nurse and my family, I had apparently fallen asleep at the same moment as my brother’s life ended. I was walked back to his room where, my mother was sitting in a chair with him cradled tightly in her arms. He was still and quiet. I could almost understand how people associated death with peace. He showed no signs of pain, no signs of illness. He looked like he was in a deep sleep. In the moment that it took for my brother’s life to end, my whole family’s life had changed forever.
The days that followed were a blur. The wake, the funeral and the sympathetic words from others who either couldn’t or shouldn’t understand. My parents and I took a brief trip up the coast afterwards in an effort to “get away” from everything. But the reality was firmly in place; my older brother was dead and nothing would change that fact. I remember thinking that my return to school was more tedious than difficult. At some point, having everyone tell you how sorry they are and asking you how you’re doing causes more damage than good. It took some time but life began to slowly move back to some level of normalcy, albeit with some noticeable changes. My mother now had an abundance of free time, due to the lack of medical appointments and acre for my brother. One would assume this would be a relief but when one is grieving, free time can be a horrible thing.
I always say that I learned more from my brother than from any other person in my life. Despite how sick he was, always standing at the threshold of death’s door and with the end of his life always hanging in the balance, he had a love of life and others, a smile that never faltered and an appreciation for all the people and things in his life that made it so wonderful. The irony is not lost on me that it always seems to be those whose life is slated to end so soon that appreciate and love everything far more than those with a full and healthy life do. It’s the latter that should ultimately appreciate the gift of life and make the most out of it. My brother wasn’t so lucky. I often believed that to be in his shoes, I would have been angry and bitter at the world, resentful of the fact I would die, knowing that others who appreciated it less would go on. But not him. He loved everyone. He loved everything. He lived life to its fullest for the short 18 years that he had it.
It’s hard to believe it’s been 33 years since he died. One thing about one’s brother’s dying is the wound never closes. And I don’t think it’s meant to close. It’s up to me to remember him and everything he stood for. Knowing how hard he fought to keep living the life he loved so much is what motivated me to fight so hard to preserve mine. He would be turning 52 years old, this year. I can imagine him playing with my kids, spending time with my family and continuing to enjoy life. He wouldn’t know how to do otherwise. The world could take a lesson from him. That’s probably why I’ve grown to have so little tolerance for bullshit and people’s petty squabbles and entitlements. Rest in peace, brother. ☯️
The Blogging Buddhist 