Our New Hell

 

In the days since my brother's tragic passing, there have been things we've had to deal with that people wouldn't believe. It's as though the grief for the loss of your loved one is temporarily put on hold while you deal with trivial red tape consisting of family drama, funeral/burial details, and the hoards of people that seep out of the woodwork. Most of these people are there for comfort and support but not all. Before I was the person experiencing this type of horrific loss that all people dread, I always assumed that those in my current position were met with nothing but respect and kindness from people who are doing their best to comprehend and empathize. It never occurred to me ask them for detailed accounts of the horrific stories they probably had to tell years down the road; after it was appropriate to ask. I guess it never occurred to me to ask because it wasn't me. Therein, lies our problem. You see, I've been guilty of this way of thinking, myself. I've always heard it said that those around a person struggling with a loss give their grief an unspoken time limit. The world will mourn with you for a few weeks and then people begin to drop off one by one and no longer wish to be mired down with your unrelenting tale of woo. You're a bummer, a downer, and nobody wants to get down and roll around with you in it for as long as you intend to. I can't really say that I blame them. I do my best to suck it up, put on a normal face, and get back to my daily duties as always. I ache inside, tears stream out that I wipe away, and hope no one saw. I'm angry and I'd like an apology from the world I know will never come. I'm disgusted at those who haven't been there for me and those who've only served to make the devastation worse. 

It was Friday September 5th at 3:30 in the morning. My phone was plugged in on my nightstand and I got 2 back-to-back calls from Ryan's cell phone. The first call I was asleep and thought I was dreaming. When it rang again, it became clear it was late and there was probably a problem. I had no idea how hard my world was about to come crashing down. It was a friend of Ryan's who was at the hospital. I listened as his voice cracked and I could tell something was really wrong as he explained he was with Ryan at the hospital. Because he was not family they wouldn't tell him anything. Ryan had been brought in by ambulance vomiting up blood. I had to call the hospital and explain that I was his sister and all his family lived in different states and they were going to have to break policy and tell me what was going on over the phone. The male nurse was blunt and explained Ryan was in critical care on a ventilator and it didn't look good. He had upper GI bleeding and he was bleeding out faster than they could put it in. His blood pressure had crashed so they couldn't get him stable enough to go in to perform surgery. I will hear these words for the rest of my life, "I'm going to be honest with you, ma'am. It's not good and he could pass." I remember my arms and legs turning to ice. I couldn't feel my body. I had to call my mother but my fingers wouldn't work. How do I do this? How do I tell her what I just heard that not even I, myself, can comprehend? 

 

Mom and I began scrambling to make arrangements to get to L.A. Our cousin Wayne, who also lives in L.A., went to be with Ryan until we got there. Wayne kept us updated from the hospital and I could tell by Wayne's voice it wasn't good. He was being strong but I knew what he was trying to tell me. I knew I would never see Ryan alive again. I'm glad for shock. Our body sends us into shock to be able to deny everything going on around us for a reason. If it weren't for shock, I never would have been able to get on that plane. I desperately needed to get a sooner flight and my plan was to make a plea to the woman at the counter. Jason tried to explain for me that we had special circumstances and really needed an earlier flight. They weren't helpful and I was in no state to fight. I walked away and they called me back on the intercom. I approached her again and she said, "Now, explain what's going on again…." I didn't think, I just said, "My brother is dying and I need to get there now". As the words left my mouth, I felt my soul leave my body. She gave me that look of pity, I've gotten very accustomed to. All it means to me now is "I'm glad I'm not you." She bumped up my flight. Getting on that plane, I knew the news awaiting me once I touched down.

The flight to L.A. is a blur. There were loud women next to me laughing the whole time. They didn't notice me but I'll remember them forever. I wondered how many people have I passed that may have been feeling what I was feeling that I had no idea about. Did I casually walk by laughing and talking without a care in the world? Maybe I'm part of someone else's annoying blurred memories on the worst day of their life. My thoughts rambled and I kept thinking about Ryan laying there and wondering if he was still breathing. Wondering if my brother was gone and I was in the air so no one would tell me. Wondering if my life was already ruined and people were waiting to hit me with it once I was on the ground. I landed and started the journey straight to the hospital. I knew mom was already there. She hadn't called and I knew what her silence meant. I was about 10 minutes away when the call came in. It was over. He was gone. I remember a sound like an animal came out of me. It came out of my gut and I thought I was going to be sick. Then shock kicked back in.

I arrived at the hospital and Wayne met me out front. I was issued my bracelet and we went up to the CICU. We got off the elevator and took a right and there were double doors. I stopped in my tracks and had no intentions of going any further. Wayne went to get mom for me and I paced in the hallway until she got there. I saw my mom and fell into her arms like I was a child. My mother is strong but she was in shock and I knew she wasn't fully present either. She asked if I wanted to see him and I said no. I chose not to remember him that way. I know what he looks like. I didn't want that image burned into my memory forever. Mom had to go back into the room and I slid down the wall and laid in the floor of the hospital corridor letting everything fall out. People passed and looked at me and looked away quickly so as to not feel guilty for observing the worse moment of my life. Immediately there were people in my face and they just sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher -- "WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH". It felt like a person in particular was overstepping their bounds and talking to me about my brother as though I didn't know him. It was far too soon to be such an outlandish presence. All I could think was "Who the hell are you?" Nothing was real and my fog was dense. I wanted to be left there on that floor. You think about sick things. I didn't want to see him but I wanted to go grab him and leave with him screaming that they've made a mistake. If I don't accept it, it isn't true. I felt that if he heard my voice, he'd wake up. If he just heard how much I couldn't live without him, he'd rally. Something would change. He'd never do this to me. He'd never leave me to fight this world without him. I wanted to crawl into that bed and die with him.

I stood as low talking went on and went in whatever direction I was ushered. I clung to my mom as we left the hospital. There was nothing more to be done here. We went directly to Wayne's house where mom and I sat on the couch staring into space like zombies. There was no life in us, it had just been stolen. Everything we've ever known had been altered. Ryan had just been ripped from us without fair warning. We went to bed and slept maybe 2 hours. We would wake up intermittently to talk, cry, and argue. The next few days are a haze. We had to go to Ryan's apartment the next day to go through his things. His room smelled like him. I touched things as though I was touching him. His shirts, his shoes, his sunglasses still not he nightstand. On the nightstand was imodium. I thought, "Really, Ryan?" I knew things weren't there but nothing was registering. Mom, in usual form, cleaned his kitchen -- that's her way and how she coped. She hadn't processed anything yet. She wiped the counter and his hair was in her hands. I know she probably wanted to shove it in her pocket. You want to keep everything. Every little shred of them that's left. His guitars had his fingerprints on them, (still do). We picked out what he was to be buried in. I made that call. His burgundy Gucci shirt, slacks, and his favorite pair of ugly boots. We packed what we could carry and what could be shipped and went on to the hopsital. We had to get our little wrist bands put on as we did the night before. I don't really remember doing it that first night. We had to discuss transporting him to Arkansas and the details are just revolting. It's like talking about luggage or freight. They refer to him as "the body" without the slightest bit of guilt. Mom signed papers and handled it, I don't know how. I stared into the hall and wondered if he ever knew he'd been there. I hope he didn't know a damn thing.

We made all the arrangements we could locally and went home to wait and sit in our newfound hell. It would take a week and half to get Ryan home. The funeral commenced and faces upon faces would pass, say kind words, and hug us. I was outside my body. I was somewhere else at whatever party even Ryan himself would rather be attending. I sat as Ryan's videos played and as both sides of my family awkwardly tried to be in the same room for the first time in an eternity. I sat between my parents for the first time since I was a baby. They never spoke a word to one another. I watched my dad look like a wounded little boy with shaky hands. I watched my husband, son, and cousins carry Ryan to his final resting place. I held my son as he sobbed and got his first taste of life's ultimate cruelty. I kissed Ryan's casket and told him I loved him. I had to walk off my family's farm and had leave him there. There is no eloquent ending to this. Me walking away was by no means the end of my hell. The hard part had just begun and every day it gets harder, not better. My mom and I feel as though we should be quarantined by ourselves to wallow around in our misery without judgment or advice. We died, too. I would like to reserve the right to bow out for a while. To not participate in things for a while. If there's such a place where I could do that, I'd love to hear about it. We tread water as the world asks, "Are you over it yet?" The answer is no. Not even close. Everyone else begins to avoid you because as my mom says, they think "Here she comes again with her sad face". Our sadness is to the bone and shows no signs of easing.