12-28-1984 – 1-19-2017
Three years ago today, I lost my oldest brother. My father lost his first born child. It still feels as surreal today as it did that Wednesday night when my aunt came and woke me up as I was asleep on my Dotmama’s couch. (It was my weekly night to stay with her.) She told me Blake was in critical condition and my parents would pick me up on their way from Littlefield to Wichita Falls.
I start shaking. I put on my shoes and awaited their arrival. That was the predominant activity of the night. Waiting. My bothers and sister and I rotated from Blake’s hospital room to the waiting room. I don’t remember my dad being in the waiting room with us. I don’t know that he ever left Blake’s room.
Even though it was the middle of the night, family from both my father’s and mother’s side came to visit, and possibly to say goodbye. It was comforting to see their faces and feel their support, but it also added weight to the situation. It made me realize even further how serious the situation truly was.
Without going too far into detail, going into Blake’s hospital room was not for the faint of heart. He was practically unrecognizable. His hair was one of the few decipherable features. It always was. Whether it was his “flare hair” or his gelled, spike front hair, he always had it styled. (It’s odd. The random memories that stick out in your mind.)
I couldn’t stay in the room long. Seeing him lying there with all those tubes… I can still see him. And writing this now, I can still feel the guilt I felt then.
That may strike you as odd, so let me explain. My brother struggled with addiction for most of his life. This led to some uncomfortable encounters when I was in college. I was living in the same town as Blake, so any time I would get a message from him, I’d ignore it for as long as I could. I would avoid meeting up with him in person. I was afraid he’d be strung out or ask me for money. I tried to stay away from him and any awkward situation that might accompany meeting with him.
The guilt makes sense now. Doesn’t it? Who avoids their own brother?
I felt awful about it three years ago and I still haven’t forgiven myself for it today. When my parents sent me into Blake’s room to say goodbye, I didn’t have anything profound to say. All I could think to utter as I looked at him was, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Partially I was apologizing for my distance, but I was also apologizing because he was losing everything and there was nothing I could do. He was losing the chance to see his sons grow up. He was losing the chance to meet his daughter. He lost the opportunity to be the man I know he could’ve been.
And maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference, but I wonder sometimes if I had had those awkward conversations, if I had been someone he could count on, someone he could turn to, would it have made a difference.
I’m writing this because I think it would’ve made a difference. I’m writing this because maybe someone will read who is in a similar situation now, but still has time to make a difference.
So answer the phone calls and messages. Have the hard conversations. Create stronger relationships. Love more.
I wrote a poem the night we sat in the waiting room. I’m not a writer, but I needed to get these thoughts out on paper (well, the notes app on my phone)
The waiting room
The waiting room is a wonderland.
So disconnected from mundane happenings of everyday life.
People laugh in grief
People cry in joy
People love more than they usually do
The waiting room is a slap in the face
“Get well soon” balloons float by when your brother has breathed his last breath
A lifeless body, bloated like a balloon
Lies on the bed
Unrecognizable
But in the waiting room,
Time stands still
People reminisce on times past
People beg for more time
Time moves too quickly
Walk out of the waiting room
Still waiting
See how life will be
Missing a piece
Life goes on
Outside the waiting room
I wish you had more time here with us, Blake. I wish you could meet Allison and hear her sing. I wish you could see how goofy Brendon is and how much he looks like you. I wish we could all see you smile again or hear you play one more song. You are missed and you are so, so very loved. And I am still so, so sorry.
