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I remember the day my brother died. Of course I remember, but sometimes I just feel the need to relive it all again. To write of it, or talk of it. My mom and my dad stood on each side of his hospital bed. I looked at just the three of them and it reminded me of when he entered the world. Just him and his parents. I think that was one of those moments when I thought he was dying. We had such hope for him to recover. The doctors thought we were crazy. I don't blame them. We knew that God could do anything, but more than that we had been praying in Morgantown that if God was going to save his life or take him home to Heaven that he would do it quickly. After that things just seemed to roll quickly into place. He was suddenly being airlifted to Pittsburgh. We thought this meant that God was working quickly to save his life, because we thought that's where he needed to be to be healed. Looking back I see that God still answered that prayer. We just didn't understand. He was moving him to Pittsburgh to die quickly.
It was during the night. We were losing him. None of us really slept or showered or ate regularly. The waiting room for the ICU was the shape of a U and we had overtaken one whole side of the U. We were laying on the couches, not sleeping. My sister-in-law might have dozed, but she woke with a start, half out of it, sat up and said, "He's going." She went into the ICU to see Danny. You know he's in pretty bad shape when the doctors and nurses just let you walk in at any time. There was a mostly naked man having medical personnel perform some tests, but no one tells us to leave. It's just one big room separated by curtains. Machinery everywhere. My brother was the youngest one there.
I will never forget his eyes. I cannot even write it yet. Maybe someday I can. My dad didn't want anyone taking pictures of him. I wish I had a camera. Not that I really wanted a picture, but my sister never even saw him. The last time she saw him was about 8 months earlier when the family came up for a visit. Then he was cremated and so she never saw him at the funeral. She couldn't be there before the death, because she was nine months pregnant. (She was actually in the hospital the day he died having a baby.)
Some say that it is a bright spot in the midst of all the pain to have a new life. But I don't see it that way. It feels like her birth is overshadowed by this darkness. This pain that is brutal. Her birthday will come and no one will feel like celebrating -- or they will, but feel like they can't.
Danny kept getting worse that night. I went in with my mom and Liisa. I knew this was the last time with him. I told him to hold Ian and tell him we love him, then I told my brother I loved him and said goodbye and walked out. He was losing circulation -- causing more organs to fail, limbs to die. He wasn't getting oxygen to the brain. They suspected brain damage and then the eyes...
When they finally turned off the machine that morning, my husband said his heart rate was all ready at zero. It was so silent. (Except for crying.)
Then my mom touches him (she was probably already touching him, my mind is fuzzy at times, and says, "We'll see you again, Dan."
She was on the other side of the bed beside Liisa and the pastor and his wife. I was between my dad and my husband. They closed the curtains around us.
Then Eric says, "I'm still holding out -- God could raise him even now if he wanted to."
Liisa says, "God will hold you by his righteous right hand, He will strengthen and help."
I just cried and cried and cried and cried. I wanted to collapse on the floor. I wanted to run away and run and run and scream. I know God will help -- I've seen it. But I think there is a time for grief, not lack of faith, just not needed to fit everything into neat answers. (I am not saying that was what they were doing -- they were sharing their hope with us all, but for me, I just needed to cry.)
Then the kids came. It was so soon, right after almost. I don't think they even knew their daddy was dead yet. They are so young, so precious. I hate death!
We left the hospital. It was cold and snowing. My brother's change of clothes for his hospital recovery were in the car still. We didn't have to pay for parking -- I guess that's a perk when someone dies.
We arrived at the home where we were staying. It was like a small hotel/home for people that had family in the hospital and needed an extended stay. The lady in charge met us in the entry and put her arm around me. She said, I know you're hurting a lot... She was balm to my soul. The pain was so tangible. Like my whole body was bruised or sore. We went to our room. I'm not sure where my boys where. Maybe my aunt still had them. She met us in the room. I remember her, but I can't remember much else. I took a shower and then I did collapse. The water poured over me. I couldn't stop the ache, it felt so real. Like my body was physically beaten. I cried broken, half-hearted, pitiful noises. Then we slept.