I'm still searching for "normal" people. Still searching for what I know exists, but have never experienced. I guess it's because I'm afraid - afraid that I will never have peace, afraid that I will never be fully accepted, afraid that my life will go by without me being able to live a life I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. That dream was where I escaped to during some of the most traumatic times I've experienced, and I had company. My brothers. My first loves, the ones I cared for, cooked for, told stories too, disciplined, the brothers I fought for. And no, they too, are not normal.
Two years ago, I was in between jobs, at home with my husband. It was a beautiful July day and we were goofing off. My phone rang. . .my phone rang, I thought it might be a recruiter so I interrupted my day of nothingness. I thought it might be a job. It was almost 2pm, and my phone was ringing. When I picked up, I was confused. It was a doctor, and he was saying that my brother was in the hospital. He had a motorcycle accident and it was serious. My breathe was gone. I felt light-headed, I felt nauseous, I felt scared, I felt nervous, I felt anxious, I felt WRONG - like I was in bizzaro land. I admit, this tragedy is truly owned by my brother, but it felt like mine too.
My husband and I took a cab to the hospital. We held hands on the way, I was struggling to breathe, and I was struggling to live. Things were passing by so slowly in my mind - we weren't moving fast enough, but inside, thoughts were flying like a barrage of arrows. I couldn’t keep track of them. What did I say the last time I saw him, what did we do, why don't I tell him really and sincerely how much I love him, why am I so superficial?
When we arrived we raced to the 2nd floor, the ICU, the place where many die. When I first saw my brother I was outside of the "containment unit" and could see wires and tubes and wraps and machines and bags of fluid - and I could see that he wasn't awake. I couldn't go in, I didn't know if he could hear, but I didn't want him to hear me crying like some giant baby. It took me a few minutes to compose myself.
Stepping inside of the room, with its transparent folding glass front wall, I felt exposed. Exposed to grief and pain. No doctor explained to me the injuries he suffered at that point, but it was as though my foot had been crushed and rubbed out like an eraser on the head of a pencil. It was as though my spleen had burst, my ribs broken, my femur splintered, my arm cracked, my unconsciousness. and i was terrified. and i prayed.
My mother entered the room with me, I could barely see her through my watery veil, I could barely speak through the emotions in my heart flowing up through my chest choking off the words. But I watched, I watched as she gently stroked his head and called his name, and the miracle was - he opened his eyes.
The doctors had a conference with us a few minutes later detailing his injuries. They were particularly concerned with his foot. It had been stuck under the motorcycle and dragged along the asphalt. There was a great deal of flesh missing and crushed bones. They wanted to try to rebuild it, but they would not promise that he would be able to walk again. They explained that he had been in the hospital since the early morning hours and it had taken them a while to get into his blackberry and call us. All I could think was - he's been here all alone. My heart had nowhere else to sink - it hit bottom.
We came up with a loose schedule of people who would stay with him over night. I stayed the first few nights, we had him moved to a room with a view of the river. His second night in the hospital we watched together and alone the 4th of July fireworks. Their reflections dancing on the water, so prettily, while inside we stared. I held his hand, I spoke to him, though he couldn't say much in return. I sensed that he was frightened, when he slept he had nightmares - he would try to scream. My vigil was sleepless. I wanted to remember everything and I wanted to be awake when he said my name.
Every day there was a new surgery. Screws and rods to place, a foot to re-build. Every day there were medications to administer, fevers and infection to stomp out, blood to be drawn. He was getting stronger though, and I was there helping him when he made his first attempt to stand up. Supporting his weight firmly, and securely. Watching his diminished frame straighten into an upright position. Most days, while he was sleeping I watched him and thought how gaunt he looked, I thought, "where did that spark go?", that spark that made my brother who he was.
When he was awake he smiled, he asked us not to cry, he tried to laugh and make jokes with us. It was an exercise in strength of spirit for him.
Sometimes my husband and I pulled the night shift together, particularly when my brother was transferred to the step-down unit. But as the weeks went by I needed to be home more, to prepare for interviews. He asked for me, I felt so guilty - after a few months, my husband had spent more time with my brother than me, and that hurt. I started visiting during the day, watching the small progressions back to health. Thanking God for the things we take for granted every day, thanking Him for allowing my brother to regain the use of his body.
Soon he moved to physical therapy, surgeons had transferred stomach muscle to his foot to try to rebuild it and he could start to walk on it again. There would be revision surgeries to correct the look and function; at the time the transplanted muscle almost looked like a grapefruit attached to the side and top of his foot, but he kept going, he kept fighting for mobility, and today, fully clothed, no one would ever know he was in an accident. No one would ever know that he nearly lost his life.
Tomorrow, the death of an uncle. . .
