It has been a year of change. A year ago today I was blissfully unaware of how drastically my life was going to fall down around me, tragedy raining from the sky and my helpless hands hugging my head desperately to shield me from the chaos.
I have cried more in this past year than I have cried over the course of my entire life. I have broken down, I have fallen to my knees and wrapped my arms around my body while it shook with pain and betrayal. Yet I have also walked down the streets of Berkeley, singing softly to myself while admiring the sun shining through the trees. I have laughed and I have loved and I have never felt more alive and awake and aware and alone.
It's been a rough year.
The week my brother spent in the hospital before he passed away is a period in my life I rarely speak of. It simply hurts too much. But I need to. I can't keep living my life in fear of letting people in, of exposure, of vulnerability.
In some ways it was the best week of my life. I stayed at my sisters house in Sacramento and spent every single day in the waiting room of ICU with my family. I spent a week holding Bryan's hand and talking to him and reading to him from his favorite book (and mine too), Lamb by Christopher Moore. My family made each other laugh with stories of Bryan, held each other while we cried with pain, and made heart-breaking decisions as a family. My wonderful housemates from Hip House called me to check in and offer their support, and gave me love and comfort during and after this experience. Although I was dying inside, I spent that week feeling loved and supported.
On February 21st 2011 my brother was found unconscious on the floor of his bedroom. His heart had stopped. CPR was performed and the paramedics were able to get him on life support. He stayed on life support for a week before the doctors determined that Bryan was brain dead. His body was being kept alive by machines but my brother was gone.
I have difficulty accepting this. It's no secret that Bryan and I were very close. We had a close connection, a bond that we couldn't really explain but was always there as background noise. And my week spent in the hospital with B proved to me that our connection couldn't be broken, it was still lingering.
On the first day that Bryan was hospitalized, I was in Berkeley trying to figure out how I was going to get home to Sac. I called my parents for an update and my parents happened to be in Bryan's room when I called. My dad set his ringtone for me as the song "Michelle" by The Beatles, and when they started singing my name Bryan's blood pressure spiked. It may have just been the noise, but I like to think he knew it was me.During the week that Bryan was on life support, the doctors tried to determine the extent of his brain damage and assess any possibility of recovery. Unfortunately, B's body was wracked with seizures that entire week, which made it difficult for the doctors to run their tests and significantly affected his body's ability to heal itself. However, there were a few powerful moments in which Bryan responded to him. And those moments made it impossible for me to agree with the decision to turn off B's life support. I was the sole 'no' vote in my family for two reasons.
The first and most important is that Bryan and I had made a promise to each other, that we would never give up on the other person or allow the other to give up on themselves. I feel as though in some ways I am guilty of breaking that promise, but I refused to so blatantly do so by allowing him to die. Besides, it still felt like Bryan was there somewhere, trapped inside his body but begging me not to let him go. And I feel this because even though he didn't respond to the doctor's tests most of the week, he did respond for me. I was in his room alone, reading to him from Lamb. I wanted so badly for Bryan to laugh with me, to be able to hear his favorite words spoken in his sister's voice and to know that I once again swooped in with laughter in his moment of need. But B couldn't respond. And I knew it was my fault. I leant him the money he used to go out on his final night, the money used to pay for that which killed him. I left him in Sacramento when I moved to Berkeley and I allowed him to distance himself from me, to push me away and close himself off. And rather than march my ass over to Sacramento and force him to face me, I chose the easy way out and responded in kind. And I apologized over and over for letting him down, for letting him give up on himself.
I started to break down. As my body shook tears fell onto his standard issue hospital blanket, Bryan's blood pressure and heart rate started to spike. I knew that was bad, because his body can't heal under those conditions and he needed to stay calm. I immediately started lightly rubbing his arm, I forced myself to calm down and talk to him peacefully. I told him it was ok, that I knew above all else he loved me and he knew I loved him. That I was sad because I hated seeing him like this, I was scared that I was going to lose his love in my life, that I needed him to stay here with me. I told him all these things and I begged him to calm down and let his body heal. And he did calm down. I continued to read to him and hope that somewhere inside he heard and was laughing.
Later that day his doctor came in to test his body's response to stimuli. I asked if I could stay in the room with him and they let me, so I held Bryan's hand and ran my fingers through his hair and whispered encouragement. For the first time all week, B responded to the stimulus tests. His eyes fluttered when they brushed his eye lashes, his toes curls when they tickled his feet. Test after test and Bryan responded. But in the end, it wasn't enough. I completely understand my family's decision to turn off life support, and I supported them even as I disagreed with them. And thankfully, my family understood and was still capable of making the right decision, when I couldn't. I know that I didn't give up on Bryan, I just wish he knew that.
I don't know what I believe, which I suppose means I don't believe in anything. But I like to thank Bryan is finally at peace, and maybe watching over his little sister like he did when he was alive.
- Michelle
And though you're dead and gone, believe me, your memory will carry on. We'll carry on.
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