Brother

7-19-14

Tom died today, five years ago.  It was early in the morning, after

a very long, fitful night.  It was clear and sunny, and we all felt

some kind of relief that we’d all made it through another grueling

night.  It didn’t feel like ‘the day’.  It just felt like day. 

I was getting Tom’s medication ready, and making snarky comments

about the ridiculous packaging Hospice uses for meds.  Kate was

wringing out warm wash cloths.  The room was filled with the

rhythmic, labored, grasping sound of his breathing.

And then it wasn’t.

It took us a moment to realize what had happened, this sudden

stopping of his life.  It wasn’t dramatic.  All of us weren’t sitting around

holding his hand, talking to him, easing him over.  Crying.

We were all over the house doing what we did in those last days –

anything that we could to make him more comfortable and us more

functional.  It was stunning how efficient we all became, working with

and around each other.  I thought of us as survivors of a disaster,

called upon to utilize skills we never thought we had.  Everyone became

a nurse, doctor, caregiver, cook, counselor, lawyer, advocate, peacemaker.

It was survival for all of us and we knew it.  

I just wish it had been survival for Tom.

I looked at the clock.  7:55 AM.  We called out to Jeanne and gave her time alone with him.  Then we all went into his room, held hands and sang to him.  No person could have had a more loving send off.  In fact, I doubt

that many people go through the illness and death process with the

amount of love and caring Tom received …and gave. 

You’d think that the world would stop when a person dies.  But it didn’t.

There was too much to do.  And we did most of it that day.  His house

went from hospice to home again, as we removed the hospital bed

and put all of the furniture where it had been for twenty years before.

Calls were made – business and personal.  Ramps removed.  All of the

paraphernalia of the end of life returned to be used by someone else.

Grief warred with relief.  His suffering ended.  Ours just beginning.  And

so the days went until the funeral.  What a celebration of love that was,

a room overflowing with memorial artwork and candles.  People literally

standing in line to be there.  Family members singing, honoring him with

poetry and words. 

I realized that his entire illness and death had been that way.   An explosion

of love, from the Sisters of Mercy who took him to chemo to the parade of

lifelong friends dropping by to say goodbye.  It was stunning.  Moving.

Surreal.  Heartbreaking.  Inspirational.

So, on this day five years ago, Tom left.  In a way, he flipped the switch

when no one was looking, really.   Just like him, I guess.

Breathing.  Not breathing.