Tomorrow, 11/23, 12 weeks will have passed since my brother's death.
Since returning to work, I find that I am more emotional when dealing with a patient who is transitioned to comfort measures only. From just this past weekend, one of my patients who desperately needed an organ transplant was never going to receive one for various reasons. This patient was transitioned to comfort measures, and it was my understanding that the patient's family understood what would happen in the next few hours. When my patient passed away, his/her spouse began screaming, wailing, throwing his/her self to the floor in total disbelief. I stood shocked by this behavior and eventually had to excuse myself from the room because I found it too upsetting.
Once I left the room, I began to reflect on why my patient's spouse acted in such a manner. He/she had known for sometime that it was coming to this; there was ample time to prepare. My patient passed away within several hours of the transition, quietly and appearing to be at peace. This was not a drawn out horrific event, like others that I have been witness to. I simply do not understand his/her behavior--it made no sense to me and it still does not.
I then began to think about my brother's passing. I believe Maurice had a good death; he was made comfortable and passed surrounded by family. I took the night watch, with my brother that is closest to me in age (Noel), and we sat with Maurice talking about his past exploits, all the while laughing and remembering better times. When Noel would take a break, I propped my feet up on the sofa next to a sleeping Maurice, and I worked on Sudoku by candlelight. I believe that when you sit with someone who is dying, it is ok to talk and laugh about life. We are celebrating and remembering that life.
When my life comes to an end, and if my family has a chance to be present, everyone please surround me with stories of our life together. Do not wail or scream, and no throwing yourselves on the floor--that is just ridiculous. Honor me with your smiles and laughter.
I miss you my brother.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Life Lost?
Tonight, after receiving grave family news, I have started to reflect on my life and wonder how I will be remembered. We are given a very short time on this earth to make an impression, to do something good, and to give back to the world. That is how I believe life should be remembered. What good deed did this person do in his or her life?
Looking back on how my brother, Maurice, lived his life and how he should be remembered is very difficult. If there is such a thing as a "black" sheep of the family, ours is Maurice. There are so many events in his life where I believe he deeply wronged someone. I have been trying to push all those depressing events to the side, in an attempt to remember the good times. Those good times were few.
I remember the brother who was my mother's prodigal son. When I was approximately 13yo, I was the one who asked her, "Why don't you want to see your own son." Driven by the guilt that I laid upon her, my mother allowed a then 25yo Maurice to move into her home. In the late 70's, Maurice was a Vietnam veteran and a hippie with a thick Italian accent. My hippie brother introduced my ears to Cat Stevens, Jim Croce, and Ted Nugent. He was going to "stick it to the man." Unfortunately, at times, his family was "the man." During this time, Maurice indulged in street drugs and alcohol, and he served as my cautionary tale. I made a note-to-self, "never try street drugs or become an alcoholic."
In rolled the 80's, with Maurice's continued dizzying wild-child ways. Sometimes I attribute my stubborn ways to him. I wanted to be wild like him, but I would not dare do things that he had. He and my mother would have sternly corrected me (beat my ass.) He married, but never "settled down." I remember the brother who could have a wicked sense of humor. I, too, can be just as wicked. Maurice was the type of person who could charm or bullshit his way through many things. I envied this skill of his. I could not bullshit my way through anything--still cannot. Maurice liked to cook, and at times, was an excellent chef. I detested cooking and wanted no part of it, though deep down, I envied this skill too.
After the death of our mother, in 1998, we eventually stopped communicating with each other. It would take years and his poor health for me to even make an inquiry into his life. Even with several more inquiries, I kept Maurice at a distance. Maurice never stopped indulging in street drugs and alcohol; his life had become a mess and I wanted no part of it. I find myself asking was I being selfish?
Now Maurice is dying. No medical treatment can help him and I remain shocked that his end will come when he is only 57yo. I know how it has come to this, but it is still hard to understand how my brother could have allowed this to happen. Years of neglect and living wild have caught up with him; his body has given up.
It is very hard to lose a family member. I keep struggling to remember the good times with Maurice. I want to remember him as more than a difficult person, contradicting and manipulative. An ass when he was drunk, and funny when he was high. I want to remember him as the big brother who looked out for his baby brother and sister, and eventually taught them a thing or two about life. The only thing that I keep coming back to is my note-to-self so many years ago. There just has to be more, but I cannot see it.
Looking back on how my brother, Maurice, lived his life and how he should be remembered is very difficult. If there is such a thing as a "black" sheep of the family, ours is Maurice. There are so many events in his life where I believe he deeply wronged someone. I have been trying to push all those depressing events to the side, in an attempt to remember the good times. Those good times were few.
I remember the brother who was my mother's prodigal son. When I was approximately 13yo, I was the one who asked her, "Why don't you want to see your own son." Driven by the guilt that I laid upon her, my mother allowed a then 25yo Maurice to move into her home. In the late 70's, Maurice was a Vietnam veteran and a hippie with a thick Italian accent. My hippie brother introduced my ears to Cat Stevens, Jim Croce, and Ted Nugent. He was going to "stick it to the man." Unfortunately, at times, his family was "the man." During this time, Maurice indulged in street drugs and alcohol, and he served as my cautionary tale. I made a note-to-self, "never try street drugs or become an alcoholic."
In rolled the 80's, with Maurice's continued dizzying wild-child ways. Sometimes I attribute my stubborn ways to him. I wanted to be wild like him, but I would not dare do things that he had. He and my mother would have sternly corrected me (beat my ass.) He married, but never "settled down." I remember the brother who could have a wicked sense of humor. I, too, can be just as wicked. Maurice was the type of person who could charm or bullshit his way through many things. I envied this skill of his. I could not bullshit my way through anything--still cannot. Maurice liked to cook, and at times, was an excellent chef. I detested cooking and wanted no part of it, though deep down, I envied this skill too.
After the death of our mother, in 1998, we eventually stopped communicating with each other. It would take years and his poor health for me to even make an inquiry into his life. Even with several more inquiries, I kept Maurice at a distance. Maurice never stopped indulging in street drugs and alcohol; his life had become a mess and I wanted no part of it. I find myself asking was I being selfish?
Now Maurice is dying. No medical treatment can help him and I remain shocked that his end will come when he is only 57yo. I know how it has come to this, but it is still hard to understand how my brother could have allowed this to happen. Years of neglect and living wild have caught up with him; his body has given up.
It is very hard to lose a family member. I keep struggling to remember the good times with Maurice. I want to remember him as more than a difficult person, contradicting and manipulative. An ass when he was drunk, and funny when he was high. I want to remember him as the big brother who looked out for his baby brother and sister, and eventually taught them a thing or two about life. The only thing that I keep coming back to is my note-to-self so many years ago. There just has to be more, but I cannot see it.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Life's Tragedies
It is odd how the news of something that seems irrelevant at first, will make me ponder and reach a dreadfully gnawing truth. When I saw the flash headline news of the death of Amy Winehouse I thought, “I saw that coming.” When I saw her age, 27yo, I then began realizing the tragedy of the situation and how this tragedy could very well happen in my own family. Set aside the fact that Amy Winehouse was a star, and instead look at her addiction to illicit drugs and alcohol, her failed rehab attempts and eventual return to vices that would shorten her life.
To be a family member or close friend of someone who cannot admit there is a problem, or have the person admit the problem but be unwilling to change the bad habits is devastating to observe. I liken it to watching someone you love commit suicide; you watch as your loved one walks closer and closer to a high ledge. You are able to talk, yell, and listen to this person, but nothing ever sways him or her away from the ledge. And then there is the fall… the devastation that is left is heartbreaking.
I currently lay witness to a loved one walking closer and closer to a ledge. I talk to him, telling him what I observe; I listen and watch as he tells lie after lie, he ignores advice and careens carelessly closer to the edge. Will his end come sooner, like Amy's? He will be 21 soon; will he actually make it to 21? Will he ever admit there is a problem?
It is easy to pass judgment on others, so I try not to do that. Bystanders to tragedies like to lay blame on close family and friends; “Why didn’t someone step in and make her..." do this or that. Truth be told, you cannot make an addict do something he or she is unwilling to do. I cannot make my family member enter rehab. I cannot make him quit his vices. He has to do be willing to change and commit to the change. I am sure Amy’s parents and friends reached this same realization.
My biggest fear, after pondering on Amy Winehouse’s death, is that I will be the family member who gets the late night call telling me my loved one is dead. I will be the one who will have to be strong enough to face other family members and say, “Yes, he had a problem. Yes, I tried to help him. No, he never cared to change.” Why is it that he will not show this same strength in defeating his vices? There is but one of life’s great tragedies.
I feel deeply for Amy’s parents; the grief they must be experiencing I imagine is overwhelming. It is but a tragic end to what could have been a promising life and career. I remember watching Amy perform the year she swept the Grammy Awards, and I thought, "Here is a woman who is going to show the world that she can overcome anything and become stronger. We will hear her roar in song!" I now think about my family member and hope that he will overcome his problems and show his family that cares about his life. I will continue to carry hope for him; as a parent sometimes that piece of hope is all our children will allow us to have. When that hope is gone, there is only heartbreak, devastation.
To be a family member or close friend of someone who cannot admit there is a problem, or have the person admit the problem but be unwilling to change the bad habits is devastating to observe. I liken it to watching someone you love commit suicide; you watch as your loved one walks closer and closer to a high ledge. You are able to talk, yell, and listen to this person, but nothing ever sways him or her away from the ledge. And then there is the fall… the devastation that is left is heartbreaking.
I currently lay witness to a loved one walking closer and closer to a ledge. I talk to him, telling him what I observe; I listen and watch as he tells lie after lie, he ignores advice and careens carelessly closer to the edge. Will his end come sooner, like Amy's? He will be 21 soon; will he actually make it to 21? Will he ever admit there is a problem?
It is easy to pass judgment on others, so I try not to do that. Bystanders to tragedies like to lay blame on close family and friends; “Why didn’t someone step in and make her..." do this or that. Truth be told, you cannot make an addict do something he or she is unwilling to do. I cannot make my family member enter rehab. I cannot make him quit his vices. He has to do be willing to change and commit to the change. I am sure Amy’s parents and friends reached this same realization.
My biggest fear, after pondering on Amy Winehouse’s death, is that I will be the family member who gets the late night call telling me my loved one is dead. I will be the one who will have to be strong enough to face other family members and say, “Yes, he had a problem. Yes, I tried to help him. No, he never cared to change.” Why is it that he will not show this same strength in defeating his vices? There is but one of life’s great tragedies.
I feel deeply for Amy’s parents; the grief they must be experiencing I imagine is overwhelming. It is but a tragic end to what could have been a promising life and career. I remember watching Amy perform the year she swept the Grammy Awards, and I thought, "Here is a woman who is going to show the world that she can overcome anything and become stronger. We will hear her roar in song!" I now think about my family member and hope that he will overcome his problems and show his family that cares about his life. I will continue to carry hope for him; as a parent sometimes that piece of hope is all our children will allow us to have. When that hope is gone, there is only heartbreak, devastation.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Nostalgic Memorium
The passing of Sargent Shriver, saddens me greatly. Though I was a child of the 60's, I was much too young to remember Camelot and the assassination of one of my heroes, Bobby Kennedy. With Sargent Shriver's death goes the passing of a great man from a great era; an era that I wish I had been old enough to experience and remember. While reading the many tributes to Shriver, I came across this posting by a man who was a child during the Camelot years. He remembered...
http://www.politicsdaily.com/2011/01/18/sargent-shrivers-death-severs-the-last-major-link-to-the-kenned/
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